Jase paused at the open door and looked back. “Watch it, Gilliam. I could head drop you so hard your skull would crack open and what’s left of your brain would leak out.”
Bosque Bend’s favorite son retreated toward the far corner of the restroom, but not without getting in his final volley.
“You’re trash, Redlander! And as far as I’m c-concerned, you can have that Harlow bitch! You belong together! Two of a kind!”
Red flames erupted in Jase’s skull and he started walking toward Gordie, his arms hanging loose like Growler’s did when he was planning to take somebody down.
At the same time, the restroom door banged open and Craig Freiberg rushed in. “Let me handle this, Jase! He’s drunk!”
Jase watched in surprise as Craig grabbed Gordie’s arm, twisted it behind his back, and frog-marched him out the door. Then, breathing deeply for a minute, Jase willed himself to relax.
Who would have ever guessed Craig, the stereotypical ninety-seven-pound weakling, had it in him?
After using the urinal, he walked over to the sinks and looked in the mirror at his flushed face, realizing, not for the first time, that he looked like his father. He lifted his hands and looked at his palms. He, who’d played it so cool when swimming in Richard Simcek’s shark tank, had nearly gone ballistic when dealing with a prawn like Gordie Gilliam. God, he’d wanted to grind Gordie into the concrete floor, but even if Craig hadn’t appeared on the scene, he knew he wouldn’t have done it.
And that’s what made the difference between him and Growler.
*
Laurel settled Lolly on the davenport in the den, moved an ottoman between them, and shuffled the cards. Blackjack was a great way to pass the time—short, fast, and easy to learn. It was surprising Lolly hadn’t encountered it before, but she attended an exclusive girls’ school and, judging by what she’d casually let drop, had learned plenty of other things she shouldn’t have.
Lolly cut the deck and gave her hostess an apologetic glance. “I’m really sorry to be such a bother, Laurel.”
“That’s okay, honey,” Laurel said. She dealt a card to Lolly, facedown, then to herself, faceup. “Hey, I’ve got a ten, and I already feel lucky.”
“Don’t trash-talk me, Laurel Harlow. You’re just trying to get me rattled.”
Laurel placed a second card on the table in front of her. “Darn, the novice catches on quick. And here I had you pegged for an easy mark.” She slid a card off the top of the deck, a deuce, as Lolly picked up her cards and scrutinized them.
“Give me another card. I mean, hit me.”
“You lose ten points if you don’t get the lingo right.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Laurel gave Lolly a second card and drew a five for herself. It was iffy, but she’d hold pat. The deck was fresh, and it was anybody’s guess what would come up next.
Lolly’s forehead creased as she studied her hand. Laurel figured that meant her cards added up to somewhere around fifteen, so she was surprised when Lolly asked for another card.
“Hit me.”
“Are you sure?”
Lolly nodded.
Laurel handed her a third card, confident that her opponent would go bust.
Instead, Lolly spread her hand on the table—a six, a nine, a three, and another three. “Twenty-one!”
Laurel gaped at her. “Talk about beginner’s luck. I want a rematch.”
“Sure thing, sucker.”
Lolly’s eyes sparkled, and her color was high. Laurel smiled to herself. Who would guess that blackjack would do the trick? She picked up the deck and dealt Lolly a card, herself a card, Lolly a card, herself a card.
Looked good. She had a deuce on the table and a jack in her hand.
Lolly looked at her hand, then at Laurel. “How in the world did you ever, like, learn to play blackjack? I mean, your dad was a preacher and all.”
“You might say I fell in with low company. My friend Sarah taught me.”
“Sarah. She’s the one who wrote you that poem. I thought you said you’d lost track of her. Hit me.”
Laurel gave Lolly her third card and picked one up for herself too, a five. “I found her again. In fact, she’s the one who helped me get Hugo.”
The big dog looked up from his nap at the sound of his name. Lolly smiled at him and reached out a bare foot to massage his back.
“Dad has a big dog at the ranch.”
“What kind?”
“Doberman—well, sort of. He always gets his dogs from shelters.”
“Do you miss him?”
“The dog?”
Laurel laughed. “Your dad. Hit me again.”
“Yes.” Lolly picked up her card. “Oh, damn, an eight. That makes me twenty-five. What do you have?”
“Seventeen again. Would you like me to call him? You could talk to him on the phone.”