Night Train

(9)

          I got my big inning with a quality woman in Brentwood, just like Tony, but in typical fashion, I fucked it up. It happened like this. I sold my wedding ring for 30 bucks, and then I went to Cole’s, where Jimmy D and I used to hang out. That’s where I met Papageorgopoulou.

          “Call me George,” he said. We were having a beer at the bar. I was watching my money because I wanted to be able to order a decent meal and not worry when it came to paying the bill. I wanted to feel like a human being, if only for an hour or so. At the same time I could have kicked myself because I should have known when I watched that scrunched-up little monkey behind the counter squinting at my goods through his loupe that he’d rip me off. Wedding rings don’t bring much these days on South Broadway.

          Papageorgopoulou, George, was a gigolo, the real thing. He told me how he’d trawl the Internet personals for rich skirts. He was handsome as hell, and there was something about his quirky mustache and the way he flashed his teeth at you. He had that ‘bad boy’ look. The cuties were nuts about him.

          “Say, what does a guy like you do for poon?” he asked me.

          “Poon?”

          “Quiff, quail, bush, ginch, coochie.”

          “You mean girls?”

          We ordered lunch. Papageorgopoulou got the Swiss steak and I got the beef stuffed cabbage with mashed potatoes and coleslaw. Papageorgopoulou paid. He said he had a prospect for me. He wanted to hand me down one of his Brentwood ladies.

          “She’s not exactly young,” he cautioned over dessert. “I want you to understand that from the start.”

          “George, I don’t know…”

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