“I still don’t know how to operate everything,” said The Boss, getting out of her late-model luxury car.
Right, and Bill Gates can’t operate his computer either.
I guess I live in the past. They sure don’t make them like they used to. Luxury used to mean a Cadillac and 12 miles to the gallon if you didn’t run the air conditioner. I never ask questions about their finances. I can look at their heels and know the score. The Boss had it in spades.
Jolie’s was a fancy joint that took itself very seriously. White tablecloths and art surrounded a big open bar, while off to one side was a private dining alcove presided over by a nude painting. Impressive, but still a bar.
There was one thing you could say for The Boss, she had presence. All of the men turned to look at her. Most hoped she’d notice them and those who’d wronged her hoped she wouldn’t. We ordered drinks. “To fast cars and fast men,” I said. She liked that and I liked her. I get tired of talking man-to-man with men.
She’d had a dust-up with The Puerto Rican and was back from a private jet trip to Houston where one of her pals had gone missing. “She took it well,” said The Boss. “Not everyone would.”
Then one by one they started to file past—judges, businessmen, doctors, the hustlers.
“How are you, Sharon.”
“Buy you a drink, Miss Moss?”
What is this, a class reunion? Whatever it is, it’s a long way from Waynoka.