As
the red flush from his head subsided with a return to “normal”, for him, blood
pressure, William’s breathing settled into a rhythmic cadence causing his
thoughts to focus more clearly.
“I’ll
get that loan approval to make this deal work; just call Larry’s old man, he
has good business sense, not like that idiot kid of his. Should have dealt with
Charlie in the first place.”
He
shook his head, irritated, once again. “And, Antoinette…?”
“Ha!”
He laughed out loud, shaking his head, again. “She’s just like the I.R.S.; she
knows a lot, but she didn’t know---everything. Like his secret account in the
Cayman Islands! Ha! Ha!”
And,
certainly, William wasn’t lonely with a bevy of beauties at the office, a half
dozen gorgeous female agents and a plethora of seductive secretaries, each
ready, willing and able to please the rich boss; and, he kept special little
Betty-Lynn in a very nice condo on the beach!
Relaxing,
at last, he picked up the phone device and pressed a button for Charlie’s private
number; in less than ten minutes suave William had “silver-tongued” sweet-victory
from bitter-defeat. William smiled, pleased with his abilities; all he had to
do---was…Do! Wow! Easy!
Pressing
the disconnect prompt, William smiled. “Nobody ever gets the better of me!”
Ten
blocks from his swank office complex, William pulled his sleek convertible into
a 7-11.
Not
his usual haunt, but, he needed a lottery ticket; the jackpot was a quarter of
a billion dollars! “Get those numbers
right,” he mused, admiring his shiny auto, “and they can all kiss---!”
As
he entered the store through the glass door, a little boy about ten, or so,
sidled up to the counter in front of William; this annoyed the man as he was in
his usual hurry-up state.
“Why
wasn’t this kid in school? Anyway?” He wondered without verbal comment.
The
youngster had two Icees, one grape, the other cherry; he nearly dropped one,
struggling to get it on the counter as he clutched a hand full of two bills and
some coins. William shifted his weight, impatient with the urchin’s clumsy
manner; didn’t anybody teach kids anything?
Counting
out the two bills and various coins the child had deposited on the counter, the
kindly clerk, a middle-aged man, shook his head at the boy, saying, “Timmy! I’m
sorry, son, but you only have enough money to buy one of these drinks.” He
waited, patiently.
“Gee!
Mr. Sam,” he began, fighting back tears with a tremble in his voice. “Mom
really likes the grape, and cherry’s my favorite,” he seemed confused as
William became interested, watching this miniscule master salesman work his
prospect. The boy smiled; Sam frowned.
“Timmy?”
That little performance ain’t gonna work.” He pointed to a camera on the
ceiling. “The boss told me, no more credit! If I don’t collect, he’ll take it
out of my pay. Sorry! No money; no Icee! I just can’t do it. Not anymore.” He
paused. “I could get fired! I need this job!”
“Okay!
Mr. Sam.” The lad said, resigned to the clerk’s dilemma. Timmy glanced outside.
“It’s
about a hundred and ten out there,” he offered. “Mom’s home sick in the bed…”
Timmy glanced down at the Icees melting in their cups on the counter. “She sure
likes the grape…”
Timmy
paused, again, a forlorn plea of begging on his pale face and in his thin,
vacant, voice.
Mr.
Sam shook his head and spread his hands, palms up, formulating his argument.
Timmy
cut him off like an Arab trader bartering with a tourist in a horse-trade deal
on the far desert as a hot Sirocco blows sand against a shaky bazaar tent with
the boy’s final coup-de-grace.
“Mr.
Sam,” he rasped in a dry, crackling voice, “our air conditioner is broke, too!”
The
clerk rolled his eyes, exasperated, reaching into his own pocket in abject
surrender.
