Lucky says, “A Franklin the bartender’s got a Grant in his pocket.”
Eddie says, “I’ll take the under.”
“Done.”
The two of them head for the bar, leaving Gwen and me alone at the table.
“Is this a typical dinner for you?” I ask.
“Degenerate gamblers’ll bet on anything,” she says. “It’s not about winning or losing. They crave the action.”
“Who’ll win this bet?”
“Can’t say. The odds favor the under, but a bartender this time of night could easily be carrying more than fifty.”
“Guess it pays to know the odds, huh?”
She laughs. “You wouldn’t believe the odds these idiots can recite.”
“Like what?”
“You want me to quiz you?”
“Go ahead.”
“What are the odds of a woman dating a millionaire?”
“Ten thousand to one?”
“Two hundred fifteen to one.”
“Really?”
“Yup. What are the odds a celebrity marriage will last a lifetime?”
“A hundred to one?”
“Three to one.” She laughs. “You really suck at this.”
I shrug. “Hit me again.”
“Addicting, isn’t it?”
“Give me another.”
“What are the odds of being on a plane with a drunken pilot?”
“Five hundred to one.”
She laughs.
“What?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“That bad?”
She nods.
“Tell me.”
“One hundred seventeen to one.”
“I may never fly again!”
“I tried to warn you.”
“Try me again.”
“Odds of an American speaking Cherokee?”
“A hundred thousand to one.”
“Fifteen thousand to one.”
“Are you making this up?”
“Nope. Odds of becoming President?”
“Three hundred million to one.”
“Ten million to one. Odds of winning the California lottery?”
“Five million to one.”
“Thirteen million to one.”
“Wait,” I say. “Are you telling me I’m more likely to become President of the United States than I am to win the California Lottery?”
By way of answering she sings a sexy version of Happy Birthday that ends in “Happy birthday, Mr. President…”
“Marilyn Monroe?”
“Everyone knows that. But here’s a good bet. Marilyn Monroe’s dress size: under or over size 6.”
