She rejected the drink outright and shook her head while, just behind her, Diamond Jim Brady stared, poised and intrigued. I flipped him off and mouthed fuck you. He raised a brow and stepped forward and I thought he was going to walk over. Instead he stopped short and, with an air of authority, whispered in the ear of a large man wearing a staff shirt I hadn’t noticed before, and in that moment it became clear that Daddy Warbucks either owned the bar or had some stake in it. The bouncer started my way, which in turn forced me into a furious race to finish my drinks. I slammed the Greyhound, made it halfway through the beer, when a hand slapped firmly down upon my shoulder.
“It’s time for you to say goodnight,” he said in a gruff, adamant voice.
“Fine,” I said.
I stood and turned. Through the endless clatter of voices and laughter, I raised my arm and launched the half-empty bottle across the room. I watched it sail through the air with ease, a thing of beauty if there ever was one. That is, until it missed Moneybags by a good six feet and exploded like a mortar shell against the exposed brick behind him.
I made to swing but another bouncer jerked me backward from behind. I hit the floor. Somebody’s drink fell into my lap. My hands were pinned behind me but I forced them free and threw errant punches that struck only the air while catching no less than four to the back of my head as they dragged me out. Just before we made it to the door I gazed back toward the corner, and there stood Daddy Warbucks, flashing teeth with a raised brow and his arm around Natalie, amused as though the whole charade had been staged for his enjoyment.
I was launched through the air in the way of cartoons. I hit the pavement and felt my phone break in my pocket. I rolled over onto my back and stayed down for a full minute, staring up at the night sky, surprised at how many stars I could see. A crowd gathered around me. A few asked if I was okay. I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure. Some offered hands but I didn’t take them.
And then who do I see? Why, Mr. Cashman himself, standing tall among the crowd, smiling his perfect smile down at me. He opened his jacket and removed his wallet, plucked from within it a fifty-dollar bill, and ever so casually let it slip from the tips of his manicured fingers. It twisted and fluttered in the air like a butterfly and landed directly in the center of my chest.
“Thanks for the drinks,” he said. “Now have a good night.” He turned and walked back inside. I reached up and clutched the crisp fifty in my right hand, thankful as hell to have it.