Free Tumblin' Dice by John McFetridge Page A

the boys want. You don’t know what you want.”
    She said, “Oh yeah?” wondering if she knew any better what she wanted now.
    â€œYeah.”
    She stood up and found her blouse hanging over the armchair by the little table with the phone on it and looked around for her skirt saying, “Don’t you guys peak at nineteen?” She buttoned up her blouse, pulled on her short skirt and the matching jacket, and she was Angela Maas, big boss lady, again.
    Ritchie said, “Honey, I’m still nineteen.”
    â€œThat something to be proud of?”
    â€œYou sure liked it ten minutes ago.”
    She said, yeah, that’s true, and he said, “And twenty minutes ago and a half hour ago you thought it was great.”
    â€œIt was okay.”
    He laughed and said, “Shit, you bullshit like a manager. Frank taught you good.”
    â€œFrank never taught me a thing.”
    â€œI believe that.”
    She walked around the room, the Junior Suite, every room in the hotel a suite of some kind, needing to get ready to see Felix but in no hurry to leave Ritchie. She really had planned to just run into him, just say, hi, how’ve you been, good to see you, but as soon as she saw him . . . “Way back when, maybe, back in Niagara Falls when Frank was still interested, but since he’s been here, he doesn’t give a shit anymore.”
    Ritchie said, what, “Are you going to tell me with Frank it’s all about the money?” and Angie smiled, almost laughed, and said, “He used to want to make money from music, at least.”
    â€œWhat’s he make money from now?”
    She was looking right at him then, thinking, is he still a kid, playing his guitar in a rock’n’roll band, or is he a fifty-six-year-old man, a grown-up? She really couldn’t tell. She wanted to tell somebody about Frank, about how she was worried about him, and then that sounded stupid in her own head. Why should she be worried about Frank? Why should she give a shit?
    She said, “Well, you know, he’s a gangster.”
    â€œOh yeah?”
    â€œWell, he’s not really. I mean, he’s mostly the front.”
    Ritchie said yeah, not making a move to get up, looking right at her, listening.
    She said, “You know, when he hired me here, he’d already been running the Showroom in Niagara Falls — not the big place, the new casino downtown, the old one up the hill.”
    Ritchie said, “The one that used to be a bingo hall?”
    â€œIt’s bigger now — they added onto it a lot,” and Ritchie said, “Yeah, I know. I played there a couple of times with LeAnne Barclay.”
    â€œIsn’t she a little country for you?”
    â€œShe’s all right.”
    Angie said, yeah, sure, still in no hurry, looking at Ritchie waiting for her to tell her story. She couldn’t think of any guy she’d ever been with so patient after she slept with him. She said, “I don’t really know anything about it, the business — the real business.”
    Ritchie said, “I bet you do, Ange. I bet you know all about it, but hey, you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. It’s none of my business. Anyway, you want to get something to eat? I’ve got a fifty buck per diem burning a hole in my pocket.”
    â€œI’ve got to meet someone.”
    She was pretty sure he looked disappointed for a second, his rock star cool slipping a little, and she said, “Sorry. Maybe another time?”
    She walked into the bathroom thinking she had a lot more bottled up inside than she realized. If she didn’t watch out, she’d tell Ritchie everything, and then it felt good to think that, the idea of talking to somebody. No, talking to Ritchie. There wasn’t any reason to be in the bathroom — she didn’t need to go, she’d just wanted to get away from him for a minute, but she didn’t want him to leave.