Page 52 of Blame it on the Bet
I’m not sure what I was expecting the surly older man to say, but that certainly was not it.
“I’ve seen a lot of guys like you come through here and other parts of the state,” he continues in his gruff manner. “Usually they want to get in and get out. It’s just about the money to them. They don’t care what they do to the community, or what happens to the people who live in it after they’ve built their latest monstrosity.”
“I am that guy,” I assure him, with some measure of shame.
King takes a deep breath before flipping the board over so we’re facing Iowa again.
“No, I think you were that guy.”
I’m about to comment when Barack Obama comes tearing through the room making an ungodly noise. He’s a red streak as he dives under my desk. An instant later, Michelle flies in after him, sporting a very elegant cream- colored cowl neck. Which reminds me…
“Hey, King? What does one wear to a polka mass?”
Chapter Twenty-One
HENNESSY
“I can’t believe you did that,” I say for the hundredth time as we walk into the pub.
“Will you stop it already? Please. I was just being polite.
I felt bad after what Jackson did…”
“What did the Red Menace do now?” Walker inquires curiously from where she’s wiping down the bar.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“Oh, he called Bryan Truitt a…” She stops so she can whisper the next word so the kiddo won’t hear it. “A douche. And he threw a bagel at his nose.”
Walker looks at me, then at Jameson, then down at Jackson. She literally hops over the bar in one fluid motion and drops down to her haunches so that she’s face-to-face with our nephew.
“Dude! Outstanding job. Gimme five,” she demands, holding up her palm. Jackson chuckles with delight and smacks her open hand.
“Oh, for goodness sake, please don’t encourage him,” I grumble.
“Why not? He did good! Who’s the douche?” Walker coos at him. “Is Bryan the douche?”
“Brybry doooooshhhhh!” The toddler squeals with delight and bangs his chubby fists on the tray of his stroller.
“Johnnie Walker Black O’Halloran!”
For a split second, we freeze—it’s as if Jameson is channeling our dearly departed mother, who loved to spew our full names anytime we did something to displease her.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Walker mutters sheepishly and gets back to her feet.
“But that’s not all…” I begin, and Walker’s brows go up. “James invited him to Sunday supper after Mass.”
“You…what? What the hell were you thinking?” Walker hisses with shocked dismay.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Jameson complains to the room at large, raising her palms toward the ceiling in exasperation. “Doesn’t anyone realize that this kid repeats every. Single. Thing. He. Hears?”
We all glance at Jackson, who appears to be happily involved with his sippy cup at the moment. Close call. Douche is bad enough. If the kid starts dropping the word “hell” now, he’ll probably discover the f-bomb by next week. And then Jameson’s head is really going to explode. And that won’t be good for any of us. Once we’re satisfied that he hasn’t noticed Walker’s expletive, we return to the matter at hand.
“Why would you invite that”—Walker stops to consider
her next word—“mother trucker?”
I snort and am met with a glare from Jameson.
