“You got it.” Abby went into the kitchen and got out a skillet, even though he was already snoring. She buttered both sides of four pieces of Randall’s favorite bread. She fried them in the lard their housekeeper brought from the Mexican grocery store and set them aside. Next she fried up the bacon and lined the slices of bread with it. Five pieces of bacon on each slice, ten per sandwich. Finally, she fried four eggs and set one on top of each slice of bread. She scooped up big globs of mayonnaise and put a tablespoon on top of each egg. She heated up some more lard and poured it over the top like gravy so it would be nice and hot. She then masterfully pressed both sides together, mayo-egg-lard slime oozing out the sides. She topped it off with a generous sprinkle of salt and garnished the plate with as many potato chips as could fit.
“Honey. Wakey wakey. Eggs and bakey.”
“Uhhh.” He awoke with a snort and sat up.
“I made you two sandwiches. One would have made you hungrier.”
He turned up the television, took the first sandwich, folded it as well as he could, given its massive height, into a greasy, drippy V, and shoved it into his tilted face. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and licked it clean.
“You okay if I go to sleep?” she asked.
He nodded. “Get me a little glass of that cherry whiskey before you go to bed. Top ‘er off with maraschinos and 7up. You know how I like it. No ice.”
One Shirley Temple, coming right up. “Sure, Honey.” Abby went over to the bar, filled an oversized tumbler with a layer of maraschino cherries three inches tall. She poured a couple of inches of 7up on top and then filled it to the top with cherry whiskey. She loaded a tiny plastic sword with a row of four squished together cherries and set it on top of the glass. She carefully carried it out to Randall. He was starting on his second sandwich. He took the glass from her hand, his eyes glued to the television. It was some documentary
about mobsters. He was enthralled.
“Nighty night,” she said.
He ignored her.
She fell asleep, half expecting to be awakened by a fist to her head once his show ended and he thought a little more about her behavior on the boat. To her happy surprise, she awoke untouched the next morning, the sound of birds singing outside her window and Randall’s heavy snores coming from the living room couch.
Chapter 34
“Did you bring the rest of that money?”
“No. I left it at home.” Abby stretched, letting her hair fan out on the pillow.
“You seem pretty relaxed for a change,” said Charlie. They were lying naked on his bed.
“I am. Randall and his friend Clark are golfing with this guy named Ernie Blankenship. He’s pretty much Randall’s hero. He comes to town once or twice a year and when he’s around, Randall’s obsessed with him.”
“I didn’t think Randall was obsessed with anyone but himself and you.”
“Ernie invented some kind of software that Randall’s really impressed by. He’s got an amazing yacht and his wife Marcella’s from Sicily. She used to model, and Randall says she’s connected to the Sicilian Mafia or whatever it is they have there, which is the kind of thing he thinks is really cool. So yeah, for all those reasons, Ernie Blankenship is Randall’s superhero.”
“So for now, you’re free.”
“Yeah. Although my time’s almost up. I have to meet them for lunch in a little while. But for another twenty minutes, I’m all yours.”
“So come over here and let me have my way with you.”
“I can’t again,” she said.
“You’re a woman. There’s no limit to how many times you can do it.”
“Funny. Hey, I have to ask you something.”
“What’s that?” asked Charlie.
“The twelve hundred dollars. Can I see it?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“Don’t you trust me?”