As soon as Billy Constable’s elevator doors opened on the third floor, there was Sonny Lieberman waiting for him, arms crossed over his chest, a ferocious look on his face. Or maybe it was just his normal face.

“Billy, follow me,” growled Sonny.

Billy was embarrassed by Sonny’s order, issued like that in front of the other company employees on the elevator. You didn’t have to be a genius to know the skinny kid from Kentucky named Constable was in a whole lot of trouble.

Billy shuffled off the elevator wearing his hooded sweatshirt over a stretched-out sweater, baggy jeans, and dirty sneakers. He followed behind the tall, well-dressed boss’s son all decked out in his cashmere sport coat, yellow open-necked sport shirt with the blue vertical stripes, solid brown slacks, brown alligator belt, and brown wingtip Florsheim shoes. Billy noticed that Mr. Lieberman was limping. He hadn’t been limping last night.

Lieberman led Constable to the broom closet, stepping aside so Billy could walk in. Sonny followed Billy into the small space and shut the door. Billy sat on one side of Sonny’s desk. Sonny took a seat opposite Billy and began fumbling with the various things in front of him: pencils, pads of paper, interoffice memos. How complicated was it to say, “You’re fired”?

When Sonny Lieberman finally attempted to speak, he started, then stopped, cleared his throat, and started again. “Billy,” he said in a low voice so he wouldn’t be heard through the thin walls, “well, first of all, here’s your twenty dollars.” Sonny Lieberman opened his top desk drawer and produced a twenty-dollar bill that he had obviously placed there before Billy arrived.

“Thank you, sir,” said Billy Constable, smiling feebly. He took the bill and started to stuff it into his jeans pocket, then, thinking better of it, placed the bill on Sonny’s desk instead. “I was only fooling about the bet, Mr. Lieberman. Honest, I was.”

“Nonsense. It was an honorable bet and I lost. And now that the twenty’s yours I think I’m entitled to give you a bit of advice.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Billy Constable, quite sure the cow pucky was about to hit the fan.

“First of all,” said an extremely serious Sonny Lieberman, speaking in a voice that was almost a whisper, “in the future I don’t advise betting against your boss. He may not be as nice a guy as me. You may lose more than a twenty-dollar bill.”

“You’re right, Mr. Lieberman, sir. That was really stupid of me.”

Sonny smiled a sickly smile.

Billy matched him.

“I’m a great judge of character and talent,” said Sonny Lieberman (which he wasn’t; he was perhaps one of the worst judges of character and talent that ever lived), “if I do say so myself. I can see in you, Billy, trust, honesty, drive, ambition, initiative, perseverance, stick-to-it-tiveness…and uh…what else? Let’s see…sportsmanship. Ah yes, sportsmanship…and…and the desire to take a chance.”

“You do?” said Billy, sort of amazed.