WHITE AGAINST BLACK KNIGHTS TANGO HOW TO
Just last week, Yugi-san had taught him how to crimp the dough around dumplings, fairly berating him with that no-nonsense tone of hers, saying she needed to be confident he wouldn’t starve to death in the event something befell her or her husband. ‘Surviving, if not thriving,’ was the phrase that came to mind. He threw the remains of it down onto the ground, deliberately grinding it out with the toe of his shoe as if to prove some point, though whether he was trying to prove it to Raymie or himself, he wasn’t sure. “I’m not a charity case yet, thank you very much,” Jack snapped, conveniently ignoring how readily he’d accepted a cigarette. “You know…” Raymie hesitantly said, interrupting his train of thought, “I could still talk to my granddad if you wanted. Honestly, who would have guessed? And then there was the girl-what about her? What kind of woman was capable of engendering romantic ardor in a hard-boiled, white-collar criminal? Perhaps there was some sentimentality swirling around inside the man, after all. Jack had quite reasonably assumed Eric Kendall was as cold as ice-a person would have to be, he argued, to do what he’d done and still sleep soundly at the end of the day-but perhaps he’d been wrong. There was something vaguely satisfying about the information-that one of the men responsible for his father’s demise was suffering a sort of grief-but more than that, it piqued his curiosity. “Indeed,” he said, with a slow, reflective lungful. Still, I figured you might like to know.” “Nursing as broken a heart as you ever did see, or so I hear. I guess she’s engaged to some rich businessman over there, now.” He shrugged. My understanding is that the feelings were returned, at least to some degree, but the girl went back home at the behest of her uncle.
Anyway, Kendall’s apparently smitten with her. Pauline? Paulina? Something like that, at any rate. Sounds like something out of a Hollywood farce, doesn’t it? A career crook falling for a society gal. Some pert, young thing from the east coast, over here on vacation. “Didn’t think men like him had the capacity for it. “I can hardly believe it, myself,” Raymie confessed.
“What?” The word came out on a plume of smoke. “Thought you might want to know.” Jack took a drag and waited. “Heard something interesting the other day,” Raymie said. Jack could have held it against him, but he knew it was merely a side-effect of how society worked, and anyway, he was well-aware of where his anger truly should have been directed. It wouldn’t do for Raymond Bartholomew III to be seen slumming it around a small apartment building in a distinctly modest section of town, and it similarly wouldn’t do for him to be seen hosting the son of a disgraced, dead investor. It was one of the reasons they were meeting there, in Alameda Park, as opposed to either of their personal residences. Raymie was one of the few friends who still kept in touch, but that didn’t mean he came calling often-friend or no, they moved in different circles now. “So to what do I owe the pleasure?” Jack finally asked. His remaining furniture was still good, and his bespoke suits were still holding, but so many day-to-day luxuries had fallen by the wayside. It was a ridiculous, trifling thing to get hung up on, especially after all this time, but goddamn it, he missed expensive cigarettes. “Thanks,” Jack said, and let the other man light the slim cylinder, forcibly restraining himself from sighing in bliss at the now-all-too-rare taste of quality tobacco. Raymie plucked a cigarette from the case, then held it open in a wordless offer. It had been a gift for his twenty-first birthday, and it was long gone now, pawned to help cover legal fees for a lawsuit that had maddeningly been thrown out before it could even get to trial.Ī lack of evidence, the judge had said. Raymie reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette case-gold-plated, where Jack’s had been solid, with platinum trim and adorable little diamonds studding the front. “Good to see you.” Generously, Jack chose not to question the sincerity of that statement. “Jack,” he said, turning at his approach. It had been a while since Jack had seen him, and he looked good-almost as lanky as the figure he’d cut when they were dorm-mates at university. Raymie was waiting near the fan palms like he said he’d be, in a light brown suit and a matching Panama.
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