“Slow down,” I said. “Lookit the size of that guy. We’re gonna need some decent odds here.”
“Five to one,” Jim-Bob said.
I laughed. “How ’bout ten to one?”
“You’re on.”
And we were. Jim-Bob, Barry, and Al were in for a hundred each. Pretty sporting, considering they’d only get ten bucks out of it if Earl won. Gill was in for two hundred. At that point Jeri and I were only in for fifty. Then Earl said, “Hundred to one, girlie. My ten grand against your hundred.”
Whoa. The world slammed to another halt, then started to spin again, slowly. The air in the room changed.
Barry said, “Earl, no.”
I said, “No.”
Jeri said, “No.”
Earl stared at Jeri, eyes bright. “Or,” he said, “maybe we could mud rassle, honey bun. Win or lose, that’d be worth ten grand.”
Honey bun? Mud wrestle? I took a step closer to save Earl a month in traction, but Jeri reined herself in and said, “Arm wrestle, buster. Our hundred bucks against your ten Gs.”
Buster. I liked that. Made me proud of her. Even working for the IRS I’d never called anyone “buster.”
“You’re on, sweet cheeks,” Earl said.
I drew Barry aside. “Any way to stop this stagecoach before it sails off a cliff?”
“Double shot of fast-acting Valium for both of ’em?”
“Got any on you?”
“Nope.”
“Not sure why you brought it up, then.” I put my hands in my pockets. “Guy’s a bulldog-terrier mix, huh?”
“Been that way long’s I’ve known him.”
“So’s she.”
“Yep, got that, too.” He looked at Jeri and pursed his lips. “I ever seen her before?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I sell insurance. I’m usually pretty good with faces.”
“Uh-huh. So—is Earl good for that kind of money or is this just talk?”
“Why? Think he’ll need it?”
“One never knows.”
“He’s good for it. Owns a company in East Texas that makes specialty valves.”
“Valves?”
“Gate valves, ball valves, valves for acids, sodium hydroxide, you name it, high-temperature and cryogenic stuff.”
“Rich dude.”
“You got it. More money than sense, ’specially stewed, out on the town like this.”
“You probably still oughta rein this guy in.”
“Trust me, that’s not happenin’. You shoulda seen what he did in Chicago two years ago. There’s a big-chain hotel there that won’t take Shriners anymore.”
Jeri touched her toes. Earl watched her for a moment, then “harred” and drained another Kamikaze, courtesy of Gill, their resident genius.
“Let’s have the barkeep hold the money,” Jim-Bob suggested.
Wallets emptied—five hundred bucks landed on the bar. Earl quit chuckling long enough to write a check for ten grand, signed it, left the pay-to line blank. O’Roarke put all of it out of sight and out of reach behind the bar.
Earl sat at a table. Jeri took a chair opposite him. Earl had a smile on his face the size of . . . well, Texas, but his eyes looked like ball bearings since his manhood was on the line. He plopped an elbow down on the table, arm up, waiting. Jeri put her arm up. Too short by five inches. She took his wrist, not his palm.
“Bad leverage for the lady,” Barry observed. “Might want to do something about that. Put a telephone book or something under her arm.”
“Yeah, well, Earl’s drunk. Let’s call it even,” I said. Fact is, I didn’t want Earl’s ten Gs or the five hundred. I figured we could afford a hundred fifty bucks if it came to that.
Barry shrugged.
O’Roarke put his hand on Earl’s. “Sudden slam don’t count,” he said. “Start slow or forfeit.” He looked over at me with a question in his eyes.
I gave him a head tilt, then said to Jeri, “Go get ’im, honey bun.” She shot me a look and I knew I’d catch hell later that night.
Earl grinned at Jeri. “Maybe you oughta roll up your sleeves, little lady.”
“Why? There’s only one of you.”
“Har, har, har.”
O’Roarke gave me another look, then took his hand away and said, “Okay, then. Go get ’em.”
Earl put on a little pressure and Jeri held him. Earl bore down a little harder. Jeri yawned. Earl’s eyes widened. Jeri smiled. Sweat glistened on Earl’s forehead. Jeri yawned again, audibly. Earl put his weight into it, then Jeri slammed his arm down so hard that Earl tumbled out of his chair and landed on the floor.
Hard.
A moment of silence ensued for the dearly departed.
Money, that is.
Then the groans started, and someone said, “What the hell, Earl, you shithead.”
Earl lay on the floor for a moment, then slowly got to his feet. Jeri went back to her barstool. “Another End Wrench, Patrick,” she said as O’Roarke went behind the bar.
“Third place,” Barry said to me. “Or was it fourth?”
“Huh?”
“Just remembered where I saw her. National power lifting championships last year in Miami, New York, someplace. She took third, right?”
“Fourth,” I said. “In her weight class. But she’s stronger now and Nationals are this weekend in Atlantic City. I’m thinking she’ll take it all.”
“Hell.” He looked at me. “You two’re engaged?”
“Uh-huh. Three weeks ago.”
“Well . . . good luck, man. Don’t ever piss her off.”
Earl didn’t have much to say once he was on his feet. He was too busy being called a shithead and a pussy and other terms of endearment by his fellow Shriners. I got the folding money from O’Roarke. Our fifty, their five hundred, gave O’Roarke a hundred, then Jeri grabbed Earl’s check and tore it up.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Earl said, sounding like Fat Albert. “You won that money fair an’ square, sugar plum.”
Okay, some guys are naturally slow learners, like me most of the time. To her credit, Jeri didn’t pick him up and body slam him. In fact, she said, “How ’bout that dance, Earl?”
For a moment his eyes got bright and happy, then they shut down. “Guess not. So, little lady, what’s your name?”
She smiled. “Jeri.”
“Jerry? Man, they’re doin’ wonders with that sex change stuff nowadays, ain’t they?”
I shut my eyes. Earl’s life passed before my eyes, which was eerie, but Jeri just patted his cheek, maybe a little hard, and said, “Let’s dance. I’ll let you lead.”
Earl shook his head. “Not till
