My Card Is Quick

What a group!  Shakespeare doesn’t seem to work at all.  Last month’s  Game didn’t even get a quorum (although it was an enjoyable evening of conversation).  So here, per the suggestion of one of the Brethren, is some faux Mickey Spillane.  Hope it gets a better turnout (and isn’t that a comment).

It was noonish – time for my first belt of bourbon – when the frail strolled into my office.  A face you could never rip out of your memory, with a set of gams that you’d never want to.  The Lucky almost fell out of my mouth as she sashayed onto the couch and crossed those pins.

“So, dollface, where’s the game?” she said, toying with the fraying hem of her décolletage.

I instinctively reached for my heater.

“I dunno, Sweetcheeks.  What’s it to you?”

“Plenty,” she cooed.  “The Big Man wants to know where he can get in on the action.  And so do I … if you know what I mean.”

She left that last one hanging in the air.  I was getting ready to make my move right then, but that’s when Muldoon busted in the door, his .45 up and ready.

Four slugs later – two of lead in Muldoon’s gut, and two of bourbon in mine – I had things back under control.  Muldoon wasn’t going anywhere and neither was the moll, anytime soon.

I kicked my feet up on the desk, my Smith & Wesson staring her gunhole-to-eyeball.  She re-crossed her legs.  I reached for my heater again.

“So what’s this about the game,”  I probed.

“Well I heard that it was an entertaining way to spend a few hours engaging in games of chance without risking enormous sums of money. The Big Man figured he could pull down eight or ten dollars a month.  Indoor work, no heavy lifting.”

“Could be,” I opined.  “But are you willing to abide by the rule that three of a kind beats a straight flush in a three-card game?”

The dame bounced off the couch, jerking herself to full attention.  “What, are you nuts?” she growled. “The Big Man won’t play that dopey sort of game.  And neither, frankly, will I.

“I don’t really like rules, Big Boy.  Change the rules,” she purred with a sly smile, “and … maybe I’ll be back.”

Stepping crisply over the sprawled body of Muldoon, she stalked out of my life, her stiletto heels clicking down the hall.  I heard the elevator door slide open.  “Floor, miss?”  Then it slammed shut.

So, with or without the moll, we meet Friday, June  5 at 8 PM, here at the Spillane Center for Really Cheesy Prose.

Best,

The House