The Bourbon Kings

That were as variable and stylish as a set of sugar and flour tins on a Formica counter.

Pulling into the staff parking lot, she got out, leaving her cooler, her hat and her bag with her sunscreen behind.

Jogging over to groundskeeping’s main building, she entered the gasoline- and oil-smelling cave through the open bay on the left. The office of Gary McAdams, the head groundsman, was off to the side, the cloudy glass panes still translucent enough to tell her that lights were on and someone was moving around in there.

She didn’t bother to knock. Shoving open the flimsy door, she ignored the half-naked Pirelli calendar pinups. “Gary—”

The sixty-two-year-old was just hanging up the phone with his bear-paw hand, his sunburned face with its tree-bark skin as grim as she had ever seen it. As he looked across his messy desk, she knew who the ambulance was for even before he said the name.

Lizzie put her hands to her face and leaned back against the doorjamb.

She felt so sorry for the family, of course, but it was impossible not to personalize the tragedy and want to go throw up somewhere.

The one man she never wanted to see again … was going to come home.

She might as well get a stop watch.

New York, New York

“Come on. I know you want me.”

Jonathan Tulane Baldwine looked around the hip that was propped next to his stack of poker chips. “Ante up, boys.”

“I’m talking to you.” A pair of partially covered, fully fake breasts appeared over the fan of cards in his hands. “Hello.”

Time to feign interest in something, anything else, Lane thought. Too bad the one-bedroom, mid-floor, Midtown apartment was a bachelor pad done in nothing-that-wasn’t-functional. And why bother staring into the faces of what was left of the six bastards they’d started playing with eight hours ago. None of them had proved worthy of anything more than keeping up with the high stakes.

Deciphering their tells, even as an avoidance strategy, wasn’t worth the eye strain at seven-thirty in the morning.

“Helllllloooo—”

“Give it up, honey, he’s not interested,” someone muttered.

“Everybody’s interested in me.”

“Not him.” Jeff Stern, the host and roommate, tossed in a thousand dollars’ worth of chips. “Ain’t that right, Lane?”

“Are you gay? Is he gay?”

Lane moved the queen of hearts next to the king of hearts. Shifted the jack next to the queen. Wanted to push the boob job with mouth onto the floor. “Two of you haven’t anted.”

“I’m out, Baldwine. Too rich for my blood.”

“I’m in—if someone’ll lend me a grand.”

Jeff looked across the green fleet table and smiled. “It’s you and me again, Baldwine.”

“Looking forward to takin’ your money.” Lane tucked his cards in tight. “It’s your bet—”

The woman leaned down again. “I love your Southern accent.”

Jeff’s eyes narrowed behind his clear-rimmed glasses. “You gotta back off him, baby.”

“I’m not stupid,” she slurred. “I know exactly who you are and how much money you have. I drink your bourbon—”

Lane sat back and addressed the fool that had brought the chatty accessory. “Billy? Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The guy who’d wanted to go a thousand dollars into debt stood up. “The sun’s coming up, anyway. Let’s go.”

“I want to stay—”

“Nope, you’re done.” Billy took the bimbo with the self-esteem inflation problem by the arm and escorted her to the door. “I’ll take you home, and no, he’s not who you think he is. Later, assholes.”

“Yes, he is—I’ve seen him in magazines—”

Before the door could shut, the other guy who’d been bled dry got to his feet. “I’m out of here, too. Remind me never to play with the pair of you again.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Jeff said as he held up a palm. “Tell the wife I said hello.”

“You can tell her yourself when we see you at Shabbat.”

“That again.”

“Every Friday, and if you don’t like it, why do you keep showing up at my house?”

“Free food. It’s just that simple.”

“Like you need the handouts.”

And then they were alone. With over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of poker chips, two decks of cards, an ashtray full of cigar nubs, and no bimbage.

“It’s your bet,” Lane said.

“I think he wants to marry her,” Jeff muttered as he tossed more chips into the center of the table. “Billy, that is. Here’s twenty grand.”

“Then he should get his head examined.” Lane met his old fraternity brother’s bet and then doubled it. “Pathetic. The both of them.”

Jeff lowered his cards. “Lemme ask you something.”

“Don’t make it too hard, I’m drunk.”

“Do you like them?”

“Poker chips?” In the background, a cell phone started to ring. “Yeah, I do. So if you don’t mind putting some more of yours in—”

“No, women.”

Lane shifted his eyes up. “Excuse me?”

His oldest friend put an elbow on the felt and leaned in. His tie had been lost at the start of the game, and his previously starched, bright white shirt was now as pliant and relaxed as a polo. His eyes, however, were tragically sharp and focused. “You heard me. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you show up here how long ago? Like, nearly two years. You live on my couch, you don’t work—which given who your family is, I get. But there’s no women, no—”