him. We continued flying backwards down Walnut several blocks, side by side, staring at each other, until it hit him. He mouthed the word “Creed.” I gave him a thumbs up. Then we both had to swerve in opposite directions to let the angry black pickup pass safely between us. I motioned Quinn to follow me, and we continued driving in reverse down Walnut until we hit Rittenhouse Square. We screeched to a stop in front of the hotel and tossed the bewildered valet our keys.
“You ever try their crackling pork shank?” I said, pointing to the sign.
“With firecracker applesauce? They don’t serve that here.”
“Pity. In that case, I’ll have a strip steak.”
“I look like a waiter to you?”
“Not so much,” I said. “Want to join me for a steak?”
“I’d join you for rooster knees!”
“Well, who the hell wouldn’t?”
Smith and Wollensky was still the premier steakhouse in Philly. Like its cousins in South Beach and New York, the restaurant has a bank of windows that offers great people watching. We sipped some bourbon in the main bar and rated the women. It was mostly sevens and eights until we saw a Megan Fox lookalike who had it all going for her: high cheekbones, sultry smile, the impossibly toned abdomen she bared for those of us who appreciate such things. She wore designer jeans with rhinestone-studded back pockets. Every now and then we caught a fleeting glimpse of thong when she set her purse down or picked it up, which by my count happened twice. At one point, while I was distracted by the soulless bartender, Quinn caught a down-blouse.
“Real or fake?” he said.
“I missed the defining moment,” I said, “but you date enough strippers you get a feel for these things, pun intended.”
“So your answer is?”
“Definitely real. Without question, you are looking at a gift from God.”
“I agree. What do you give her?”
“For me it’s an eleven.”
“There are no elevens,” he said.
“Look again.”
He did.
“You’re right. We need to create a new category.”
I said, “Must have been a perfect day in Heaven, what, twenty years ago? This girl comes down the assembly line, God’s in the best possible mood, and, there you go.”
“So for you it’s a religious experience.”
“Some people see God in a potato chip.”
“How do you rank her against Callie?”
“Callie’s a twelve.”
Quinn was about to argue for a higher score, but two Asian girls walked past us wearing cut off jeans that showed half their backsides.
“Look at that ass,” Augustus said.
“Which one?”
“Both.”
“Okay,” I said, “but just long enough to make sure I can identify them in case someone called the cops.”
