“Gentlemen,” Bronson stood after eating five abalone and raised a toast to Sturm. “That was about as fine a meal as I’ve had in a long time.” He pushed himself away from the table. “But…if you’ll excuse me. Believe I’ve got some urgent business that needs my attention upstairs.”

And with that, he escorted all three women into the house.

“He gets all three at once?” Chuck asked under his breath.

“Can you pay for all three at once?” Pine asked. “Then there ya go. Quit your bitching. You’ll get your turn.”

Cards were brought out. Cigars were lit from the candles. Frank was happy to sit back and watch. He didn’t have any cash on him, and card games moved too fast for him. He couldn’t count the diamonds or spades and with Jack dealing, he didn’t stand much hope of winning anyways. Besides, he had a plastic two-liter bottle of Coke mostly full of cheap dark rum that needed his attention.

Fairfax walked around barefoot in the cool grass, giving his feet a break from the new cowboy boots.

Sturm folded his arms across his chest and pursed his lips at the card players. “This ain’t gambling. This is luck. Gambling should hinge on skill, stamina, knowledge in some competitive test or challenge. Not random chance.”

“Aw, you’re just sore ’cause you got beat bad last time,” Pine blurted. He’d drank his way through a twelve pack. Out in the yard, Fairfax laughed, a quick little hiccup, but everyone else froze, watching the table.

Sturm snorted, then finally chuckled. “Shit. You might be right.”

The pimp with the mustache lasted five hands. Disgusted, he grabbed a drink and sat next to Frank. By that time, Bronson had come downstairs, face even redder than usual, grinning from ear to ear. “Whoooo-weeeee. I’m telling you, every one of them sweet young things could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch if you paid her enough. Deal me in, boys.”

* * * * *

By eleven, the table was littered with cash, cigars, beer cans, empty wine bottles, and tumblers full of ice and whiskey and tequila and bourbon. Bronson carried a bottle of some kind of Scotch that no one had ever heard of. He gave each of the men a splash but kept the rest of the bottle to himself.

The pimp was telling Frank about the screenplay he was working on. “It’s gonna be awesome, right? You ever see ‘The Mack’?” Frank had seen a total of fourteen or fifteen movies in his life. ‘The Mack’ wasn’t one of them. “No? It’s okay. Doesn’t matter. See, it’s about this fucking badass player, man, who has the baddest, finest women. Ten of ’em, you know what I’m saying? They’re hoes, right, but get this, they’re also these ultra-deadly assassins too, you know what I’m saying? Fucking international assassins, man. All over the world. Fucking and killing men. It’s got that whole sex and death thing going on. The girls, they fuck the boys, then, then the kicker is that, they kill ’em, man, they slay ’em. With guns and knives and shit. The money guys like that. I’ve already got a guy in Vegas ready to hook me up with a producer. It’s gonna be fucking awesome, with fucking explosions and shit, man, fucking sword fighting too, you know what I’m saying, man? And hard-core sex too, man. Gonna fucking go through the roof, you know what I’m saying?” He ambled over to the table. “You guys got any wine coolers?”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” Pine said.

Sturm asked Frank, “Feel like taking a tumble in the sheets? It’s on me. Theo’s up there right now.”

Frank said, “Maybe later.”

Sturm clapped him on the shoulder. “You take your time. Enjoy yourself. You earned it, by God.” He looked up at the dark windows. “Shit. I’d be up there myself, but this goddamn cancer, it’s like God squeezed out a big old turd and left it in my head. Fucks with my equipment. Makes me wonder sometimes if you can still be a man even if you can’t get your dick up.” He suddenly cracked himself viciously in the temple with his knuckles. “Maybe I oughta get myself one of them Viagras.” He considered it for a moment, then said, “Piss on it,” and went through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen.

“Hey Frank. Frank, right?” Bronson called out. He emptied the last few drops of Scotch into his tumbler. “Frank…Frank Buck. That’s it. Mr. Frank ‘Bring ’em Back Alive’ Buck. How’s the jungle these days? How’s the animal business? Them cats, they’re something all right, when you’re right up close. Sturm wasn’t shitting me. It’s not like watching ’em on TV, that’s for sure. These cats, take your face clean off. Just clean off. Of course,” Bronson said with a sly smile, “I certainly hope they put up more of a fight tomorrow.”

“Maybe even make it out of the trailer,” Fairfax said.

Theo came downstairs and was hailed with a drunken cheer. He ignored the men and stomped down the stairs into the darkness towards the barn and back fields.

“Well. Doesn’t appear to be his night,” Bronson said quietly.

“Shit, it ain’t his year,” Pine said, just as quiet.

“Wonder if he got the chrome sucked off his trailer hitch!” Fairfax said, a little too drunk, a little too loud.

“You got something you want to say?” Sturm said from behind the screen door, silhouetted from the kitchen lights.

Fairfax looked like he’d just swallowed an entire abalone, raw. “Ahhh, no disrespect intended, see, ahh, just having a little fun with the boys—“

“What? Don’t know if I heard you rightly. No disrespect intended, but you think you can have a little fun with the boys at my boy’s expense, is that it?”

Fairfax looked at Bronson, eyes wide and pleading, but Bronson just grinned and looked at the table.

In the sudden silence, they heard one of the hooker’s voices, low and scratchy from too many cigarettes, “—little fucker. Not my fault he came in his pants. I tried to be nice. I did.”

“Keep it down.” The pimp’s voice.

“Fuck you, pussy. You’re supposed to be here to keep an eye on things. Make sure shit like this don’t happen. Little fucker didn’t have to hit me.” The scratching click of a lighter, then a long exhale. “Rich little fucker.”

Suddenly Sturm wasn’t standing at the screen door anymore. The men heard his voice, clear as daylight. “Miss. I’m gonna ask you once. Put that cigarette out. No one smokes in this house. I mean it.”

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are you little freak, but I will not be treated like—” Her voice broke off suddenly in a faint crunch. And just as suddenly, it was back, twice as loud, “BATHTARD! You—”

Then a thud. A scream. Slamming doors. Sturm’s voice, calm, even. “Get this stupid cunt out of my house.”

A hooker came sliding into the kitchen on her face. Her mouth left ragged streaks of blood and fresh purple lipstick on the floor. Sturm followed, knotted her long, plastic, blond hair in his fist, and yanked her to her knees.

The pimp said, “Back the fuck off, dude. I will fuckin’ kill you.”

Sturm slammed the hooker’s face into one of the cabinets. “Do it then.”

The pimp didn’t look happy about it. He licked the sides of his mustache and mumbled, “Shit man. Now why did you do that for?”

Sturm did it again. The woman moaned, blood bubbling from her nose. “You got shit in your ears, faggot?”

The pimp took off his sunglasses, made a show of putting them in his pocket.

Sturm slammed her head into the cabinet a third time, this time cracking the wood.

The pimp popped his right foot at Sturm’s chest in the blink of an eye, but Sturm was faster. He swung the hooker in front of him and so the pimp kicked her in the side of her head. The pimp resettled himself, and was just about to launch a series of kicks and punches that must have looked impressive in the gym, but Sturm broke the pimp’s nose with his free hand. The pimp’s head snapped back and blood actually hit the ceiling.

“Like I said, get this stupid cunt out of my house.”