The Curious Friends You Make

Their first full day would end in a more sedate manner than the beer can warfare. Instead, it was steaks and more civil cocktails that were served in glasses and not in their bottles. But the guys were reliving very bad golf, the day’s memoriam.

“And when Marky hit that blistering worm-burner…” laughter interspersed with the less than sober telling, “…and it hits the tee-marker…” the hoots were making it hard to recount the events, “… and it rolled right fucking back at him…” the collective roar was growing, the chortling of a band of spitting camels “… And you, you little sonofabitch, do that little infielder pick-up, in perfect form, and turn the double-play…” Art was finishing in wheezing balky gasps, “… throws the golf ball into the lake…” The crew was rolling once again. Mark was loving the moment, because, as the one known as “the little marine,” his place of importance was, he seemed to be the sturdiest support character on the planet. The straight man to the heathen jokesters. This showtime felt good to the soon-to-be-divorced veteran. This moment was fun… it was worthwhile… and that was something he had not felt for a few years in his dilapidated marriage, the one that Teresa assured him that he, and he alone, was responsible for its failing.

Then he thought, “Yea, fuck Teresa,” and slipped back into the raging laughter at the turning of the double play, golf shot.

Then he saw the woman sitting at the bar. He was almost embarrassed… the seven-minute souffle that felt like a quick-drive into heaven the night before… and there again, by its own dastardly volition, he started getting a hard-on. He tapped Don Juan and pointed her out.

“Donnie. Look, it’s her!”

“Sure enough, Marky. Why don’t you go give her a kiss!”

“No, I couldn’t do that. She might be working.”

“Well, wouldn’t you be giving her some work?” He was chuckling at the proposal.

“Well…” the cumbersome lapse meant money, and Donnie knew it.

“Hey, brother, you don’t gotta worry about the money. I’ll front you the money if you need, but don’t forget you won! You’re up on the house, man. So, have some fucking fun!”

Mark had totally forgotten that he had won, pretty big too. His face lit up for the higher odds that came to him, but more importantly, the certainty that he could now give up on what was a failed marriage and step out of his guilt like a cleansed soul. And this evolved thought slipped out to Donnie, almost by accident.

“Yea, to hell with worrying about keeping something that she doesn’t want, right? If she doesn’t want to be married to me, then why should I feel guilty about feeling good?”

Donnie patted him on the back, “Exactly Marky, fuck that guilt trip. You did good by your girl. Sometimes things don’t work out. Take it from me, I’m on number three…” Donnie could move through such disclosure with ease and not an ounce of shame, because he knew what he was, a sentient twist of physiological yarn and libido – and that was it! “Now, go give Amber a kiss. If you need any help, I got the little blue pills for ya.”

Mark Denton was smiling, like a purposeful wolf, suddenly. “No, I won’t be needin’ any help with that. I could fucking bore a hole through cement right now!”

They were both laughing, lost in their own private tete de tete, while their mates were lost somewhere around a golf club twisting through the air like a Blackhawk chopper’s blade, landing in the middle of a lake. Marky liked his conversation much better.

“I’m gonna go.” He gulped down some cold water, hoping it would dampen his tent party he had going on. He pressed his slacks clean, with emphasis on the crotch, laying his homeboy low. He stood and looked at Donnie. “Does it look stupid?”

Chuckling, “No, my brother, you look ready.”

Mark Denton grinned and stepped away from the table and strode in that similar swag of the night before. His dick was talkin’, and he was walkin’, sort of thing. The rooster was near to making noise.

“Where’s Marky going?” Lazlo also saw the woman… the hooker… and his conscience gave rise… or was it his intrigue?

“You asking cuz you’re interested in what Marky’s doing? Or are you interested cuz you is interested, Padre?”

Lazlo was trapped somewhere between being called out and laughing because Donnie had him nailed. “You bastard. You got ESP or something?”

**********************

Mark walked up to Amber sitting alone at the bar, but when he arrived he saw there was another cocktail and keys sitting on the bar top – a real guy-thing to do. He stopped in stride, and in swag, he instantly retreated in spirit and was turning to make that long walk back to the table, mission failed. And he heard her voice.

“Hey soldier. Don’t stop now! I was just getting impressed.”

Marky was now looking at Donnie, who was frowning at his abandoning the objective – “always better to have tried and lost” is what Don Juan always said, always ignoring that cliché was appropriately, “loved and lost” not “tried”… the Polish lover then began waving him back like he were waving his anxious grade-schooler onto the bus. But Mark had his own incentive in Amber’s inviting words. He pivoted back to the bar.

“Hey, Amber. I just saw you across the room, and I…”

“I saw you too, handsome, and I felt like finishing what we started last night.” In the lilting, comforting manner, it felt like the sex had already begun, and his dutiful effort at staying composed down there was losing ground. He bellied up to the bar to be discreet. Nothing worse than a wanton prick and billowing pants.

“I think I’d like that. But I see you’re with someone…” Just then, that “someone” came walking up.

“Oh, no, this is Mitchell, he’s a friend. Business partner you could say.”

Mark in his naivete and sloppy indiscretion blurted out, “You mean he’s your pimp?” The friend laughed. The little marine instantly knew he blew the shit out of the moment… but Amber eased it back into the lane without a hitch.

“Well, there’s other ways of having that conversation, but no, he’s not that. I’m a free agent, but Mitch helps me arrange things. Locations, a driver, some protection if I feel the need. He’s a sweetheart, but you don’t want to get on his wrong side.” Mitchell nodded, Mark followed in that narrow space of appropriate when talking around a hooker’s world of friends. She smiled a warm and forgiving smile, almost like she really had eyes for him… maybe a real heart… “But going forward, hon, why don’t we not talk about the business until it’s time to talk about the business? Because I love to fuck too. It’s not so mercenary as a person might think.”

Mark was staring at her moving lips, beautiful, lost in her voice, intellect and wit, and gentle forgiveness… Mark realized he was infatuated.

“I’m really sorry, Amber, but I’m not gonna be any good at this, it’s been years…”

She was just good enough that she came off as genteel and understanding, even loving if she tweaked her shtick some, and this was one of those guys. In reality, the whole conversation reviled her. The pompous misogynists, thinking it took no brains to bang for a living. She worked only three days a week, never walked away from her long weekends with less than $10,000 dollars, and she vacationed where she wanted and was desired everywhere she went, whether she was hooking or shopping. She stopped hearts and she knew it. But she was getting tired of the grunting pigs who thought intelligence and independent motivations weren’t at play here… just a man’s toy. Fucking idiots. But she never showed it.

“Aww, sweetheart, ain’t you the cutest thing?” She glanced across at Mark’s group and saw a couple of them were looking over at her – at Mark trying to pick her up - so she decided she would tease this one along… she knew the one of them at least was wealthy. She gently grabbed the back of Mark’s head and pulled him to her and kissed him deeply, her tongue probing and tasting and speaking in its own language… Mark almost ejaculated, and he threw his hands down there to hold the monster at bey. He was done, and she knew it. She then waved at the others who gawked and smiled.

“Listen, Mitchell’s got to take me to another venue…” Mark appreciated she wouldn’t say ‘client’ for some dumb reason… already wanting to be the one-and-only, feeling instantly the fool, “…but take Mitch’s card, and call him, he’ll pick you up if you want some tonight, tomorrow night. Bring a couple friends if you like. I’ve got some pretty friends. Or…” she turned precocious yet coy, the gift that needed to be opened, “… maybe we can just play together?” She caressed his cheek, leaving him with the image, knowing he was not one to “share”, but just as certain, that sense of the forbidden, and a beauty that would go there… yea, for money, but still… this dude was stone-cold sold.

“Yea, Mitch, please. Give me your card, I think later would be good. And my buddies might want to come along, for sure. If you got friends.”

She would leave him with only one requisite, “Bring no more than two, please. However you boys want to play, I still like to keep things as simple as possible. I like a little alone time with the cute one.” Again, she caressed his cheek and kissed him like she loved him. She still managed it, the good pro that she was.

**********************

Jack worked this side of things, scouring the casinos and strip clubs. He was sort of a talent scout. But he wasn’t looking for the “contractors” of the trades, he was looking for the customers. They were plentiful, overflowing, in fact; that’s why he had no compunction about processing the losers.

He saw the whore at work, Mitchell, and the sap. There was always that guy that drifted like lint to velvet… and Amber surely was the velvet. He wished they had her in their camp – for his own predilections if nothing else. But free agents, they have a fleeting existence in the business; three or four years, and they either get chased from the business or get dead because their casual assessments that a “Mitchell” has their back. The lazy assumptions are what kill.

He had been keeping a loose surveillance on the group of lean power drinkers. Noisy, boisterous, piggish to a charismatic degree, filling the casino floor with ambience enough, without raining chaos. Floor managers watch these guys closely, but appreciate them fully. That rapscallion nature of the legal-thievery industry never minded the imagery, the promise of an otherworldly experience, so they expected these kind of guys. They marketed to these guys. That counterculture where the libidinous pursuits, the kiss and no-tell underworld, are the cotton candy to the infants of avarice. Of course, they loved these guys. But it was a flashpoint away from exploding. And most of the casinos were gifted in the takedown of such trouble, with a fortified security force that dropped down like Navy Seals in the night, out of the rafters and broom closets to quell any such nonsense.

But this group appeared to be too conformist for that sort of trouble. Ruffians? Yea, in their outdated way. Fisticuff shit when they were young brawlers. Probably ex-military. Lot of flat stomachs for a bunch of salt n pepper fun boys tipping towards their fifties. Noisy calamity, yes. Real trouble? probably a huge no.

That’s why they’d be good candidates. Appetites with dulled teeth. Very manageable and still enough testosterone that would lead them where the hosts wanted them to go. That secret garden where all thought evaporates.

Now, Jack just had to determine if there was money in the batch of shenanigans. That was the admission ticket he was looking for.

He saw the sap leaving Amber with one of those, “remember me” kisses, the kind Jack wouldn’t mind giving her, and the mark was on his way back to his table of friends with that zealous look of a conqueror… Jack chuckled… ‘If only they knew.’ He stood and started walking with the aim of intersecting the sap’s path, and about halfway to the tables, Jack clumsily bumped into the grinning man with fat pants.

“Oh, sorry, dude. Shit. Trying to see how much money I had left on my play-ticket. Sorry, man.”

“No sweat, really. It’s easy to be distracted around here. Any of these places, actually. You’re good.” Mark began pivoting back to his tables and Jack offered.

“Hey man, don’t mean to impose, but weren’t you over there talking to that beauty?” He was pointing back to the bar, but it wasn’t necessary as Mark had only been talking to one beauty.

“Yea, what about it?” The man was a bit defensive, they all are, like they have been caught with their hand in someone else’s cookie jar.

“No, nothing. Just, you got a sweet girlfriend there.”

Mark was stuck, his mind scrabbling for the adult way to handle this, but married, despite its rotting demise at hand, and a conscience that would not let him sleep well, he didn’t need any more help in dredging anxious, foolish recriminations. So, he had to deny.

“Oh, no, she’s not my girlfriend. Just saw her last night, thought I’d say hello.”

Jack’s insides were laughing, his outsides were understanding. “Yea, she’s a delicious cookie. No offense. One of the prettiest ladies in the hotel, no matter the day or night. And you seem like a really good guy, so thought I might just advise you, she’s famous for… don’t want to pop your bubble, but she’s in the business.” Any fool in Vegas would know what that meant – if this putz got defensive, there was no persuading him on anything else.

Mark did stiffen at the words, but maybe he was being forewarned by someone who knew much better than he. Nonetheless, it was unnecessary, he wasn’t smitten…

“Hey, bud, I’m a big boy. I understand what’s going on. I just said hello to the lady and her friend. Now, good luck on the slots.” He turned again to Donnie and the boys.

“Hey, man. No offense. I just wanted to make sure you knew where you was in Vegas. Not just Vegas, you know? And your girl there is famous. You know what I mean?”

Mark turned, ready to grab the guy’s shirt collar, “Man, I’m not sure what you’re all about here, but if you think you’re doing a stranger a solid, thanks. Nice of you. But I ain’t done nothing irresponsible, and if I did, that would be my fucking choice, mate. We good?”

Jack liked what he heard – a disciplined position, but the dude was going there… it would mean he would go to other places as well.

“Yea, no sweat, man. Sorry, I ain’t the conscience police.” His face went from the apologist to that persuasive campaigner for fortune. “I just wanted you to know there are… options.” With that he flicked his business card with an index finger. “Name’s Jack Smart. I do this for guys like you, intelligent, rugged, fun-loving. And I got girls like Amber all day and all night. Take the card, and if Amber’s dance card is full-up, I promise mine is not.”

Mark took the card, his eyes widening, then squinting to read in that mid-forties vision-fade. “The Zanzibar Club” with a tag line, “Your dream, your girl. Find them both.” He had this weird sense of being busted, almost as if Teresa were looking over his shoulder… a blowjob the night before, dreams of fucking the beautiful Amber, and now suddenly an invitation into a Minestrone of beautiful women… who would do anything for his aching heart.

Well, fuck Teresa. It sure would help. Before last night, he was in a swan dive to matrimonial cement… and today, he had options.

He eased into the thought. And tapped Jack’s card in his hand.

“Okay, Jack. Thanks. Not promising you got a client, but it might be something…” he left it unfinished.

“What’s your name – no last names, not interested. Just friends, stuff.”

“Name’s Mark. I’ll give this some thought. Thanks.”

“All good, Mark. All good. If you end up with Amber, no sweat. Say hi to her for me.”

As the men separated, Jack was chuckling inside, as he does, then muttered, “Mark. That’s damn funny. Mark the mark.”

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