“Could I have a bigger chair please?” the redhead asked me. “Chrissakes,” I heard her whisper.

“Yeah, Paige,” the blonde said. “Drag in your sofa for Del’s bottom.”

After we’d played four hands, the brunette said, “I’m about wiped out. I got twenty-five, forty, a dollar. A dollar and a dime.”

The redhead—whose game was furious, with no wasted moves and a sense of time running out—told the blonde, “Lend your sister twenty.”

“Right, I’ll do that, sweet thing,” the blonde said. “The same day I eat tin.”

“Deal,” she said to me.

“Come on, come on,” said the redhead.

“I quit anyway, with this hand,” the brunette said. “With what I got dealt?” She fanned her cards. “Forget about it.”

“Anybody? Or is this my pot already?” asked the redhead. She scraped up the bills. She scooped change into her ringed hands and in four trips plunged it all into the patch pockets of her housedress. “Well, ladies,” she said to us.

“Look at her gloat. Can you stand it?” the brunette asked.

“I can stand it,” said the blonde.

“You lose your three dollars?” the brunette said. “Our hearts bleed. I lost grocery money.”

“Listen to her whining. Who stole the violins?” said the redhead.

Across the road, kids erupted from the elementary school and a few dogs arrived to bark the children aboard their navy-blue bus.

The blonde said, “So, potatoes. Where you goin’ next?”

“Call me potatoes, sure,” the redhead said. “But I jingle when I walk, lady, and it’s your dough. What do I owe for the beer?” she asked.

“Hundred and ten dollars,” said the blonde.

“A thousand dollars,” the brunette said.

The redhead dabbed her thumb on her tongue and wiped two bills from the stash in her pocket. “Schlitz beer was it?”

When she was gone, the blonde said, “God, I hate Del. I hate men more, though. Any and all men, including Robert.”

“Then you’re pig stupid,” the brunette said.

“No, it’s that I’m sick of pricks,” said the blonde. “Especially the men nowadays. Blah.”

“You lez,” the brunette said.

“You tell me, then. What are they after? First they hit you, then they cry. They got me in more trouble in my life and kept me more broke than everything else all put together.”

“They’ve messed me up,” I said, and surprised myself a little. I squinted at my Mazatlán beer.

The brunette, shuffling cards, nodded and shook her head alternately. Now and then she peered over at me, measuring whether or not I was serious. Finally she said, “I guess it’s true for me too.” Her lined face was all concern, though. She said, “But I still like my old man.”

“Flippo, we all like Andy,” said the blonde. “Andy’s one of the good ones, not who we’re criticizing. Though I bet even he has his moods.”