274

Barry

Sitting cross-legged on the curb with his sizzling groin and Queenie hovering over him like that, Barry was feeling sheepish for the first time in his life and in no way inclined to argue money. Besides, his sensibilities weren’t wholly self-directed; he recognized and accepted legitimate obligations, and believed he did owe Queenie for the groceries some asswipe walked off with when she dropped her shopping bag and rushed to his rescue.

Whatever the case, had it not been for Queenie’s instant intervention, his motorcycle’s super-hot exhaust pipe might have totally toasted his almonds. And so with no little effort, Barry extracted his wallet from the pocket of his snake-skin jeans. He was shaking a little and hoped Queenie did not interpret this as fear.

“Twenty-three sixty-five, you say?”

He fished out some bills and thrust two tens and a five-spot towards Queenie’s looming form.

Queenie plucked the bucks from Barry’s tremulous fingers. “Danke shön,” she said. Then she reached down and snatched another five from the still-gaping billfold. “Let’s just call it thirty, Chuck. I gotta re-shop that stuff, you understan’, and time’s money.”

Barry watched Queenie stuff the cash in her bra and wondered where this Abyssinian goddess had been all his life. He could feel his whole body blushing as though irradiated by her aura. Slowly, without thinking, he began divesting himself of the trappings of his persona—the bandanna, the earrings, and finally the spurs.

Then, naked as it were before her, he haltingly posed a suddenly imperative question:

“How about ... Starbucks?”

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