Steve spun in his seat at the bar of a martini lounge in the Golden Dunes Casino decorated to look like a Moroccan Casbah. The decor resembled the North African state about as closely as Disneyland did Bavaria. Hookah smoke, the sweet scent of strawberries and some kind of flower filled the air. Next to him, sat Jeannie. Always the perfect lady, her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands folded on her lap. They each had fruity cocktails in front of them and even the way she lowered her head to sip from her straw was alluring in a weirdly old-fashioned way. A living Pinup poster.
He eyed her black dress, her stockinged calves, then the black stiletto heels she was tapping against a rung under her seat. He tried to phrase it in a way that she wouldn't take it for an insult, the way he stupidly had back in high school. "Still into all that 50s stuff?" Mm, still stupid.
Jeannie shrugged. He could read nothing from that shrug. The girl was a blank wall when she wanted to be. But that was the thing with walls; where some people were easily turned away by them, others grew determined to either climb over them to see what was on the other side, or break them down. "You're prettier now. Or maybe I never noticed before how pretty you always were."
"Thanks ..." Her eyes dropped to her lap. Always a shy one. Back when he was younger and dumber, he'd mistaken it for aloofness and disinterest. Now he'd just removed his first brick.
"You know, I still feel bad about that night," he said. She'd had a crush on him all through high school and he knew about it because every last friend of his and hers had told him at some point. He wasn't used to asking girls out; they'd always made the effort. To compensation for poor social skills he grew overly obsessed with his appearance. A strategy that worked for the most part. One night, as everyone was starting to leave the ballroom where their Prom had been held, she poured her heart out to him and he brushed her off, saying she wasn't his type. Back then he'd had a thing for blondes. He still did, but he had a thing for her too. If only he'd been honest when he'd had the chance and given her the real reason for turning him down: he'd just been shot down himself and took it out on the first person he could.
Jeannie shifted uncomfortably, looking hurt. Then she simpered. If there was one thing Steve was good at spotting over everything else, it was a fake smile.
"What did you do all this time?"
"After graduating, I started on Wall Street right as the dot com bubble was bursting. Got a crash course in short-selling. Kept me in the green ever since." Even though he knew better than to act like a braggart around her, it was instinct for him now, as if life on Wall Street had slowly poisoned his blood.
Jeannie sipped through her straw and widened her big blue eyes at him. Finance obviously hadn't been her major. He said, "It's hard to explain, but you make money when the price of a stock falls instead of going up."
"So it's like betting on red instead of black," she said doubtfully.
"There's more to it than playing the odds. For me it was like ... surfing."
"Surfing?" She gulped her drink and knitted her brows.
Hoo boy. He could have sworn she'd been in southern California for a bunch of years and would appreciate the metaphor. "That perfect wave. When you see it coming you have to catch it––but timing is everything. Right as that wave's about to crest you jump on board, and ride it all the way in."
She held her blank expression, like the face of a doll.
"Okay, it's not a perfect analogy. But Enron was such a rush. The adrenaline of watching that ticker falling further and further each passing second ... Of course, you win big, then you lose even bigger. All it took was this one shady deal that had to do with those mortgage-backed securities that have been making the news. If I sold to my clients, I figured they'd never do business with me again. If I refused, I'd get fired."
"So either way you'd lose."
"You got that right. Screwed, blued and tattooed six ways to Sunday." Steve threw up his hands and took a sip of his Tequila Sunrise. She was smarter than she let on. A lot smarter. In New York City he was used to women rubbing their brains in his face, even if they didn't have nearly as much as they thought. They were worse than the guys needing to prove something to everyone. It got old, real fast. Just like with 'nice' guys, smart women don't need to tell anyone they are.
They sat quietly for some moments. Silence always made him tense. It was something he needed to fill or it would send him crashing into a ditch, like a pothole in the road. At least he was starting to figure her out. "Let me tell you this. The guys in prison for armed robbery are more honest than any of the ones I was dealing with."
Jeannie looked askance at him.
"He doesn't pretend he's doing you a favor when he steals from you. Anyway, enough about me." Recently he'd re-read the book by Dale Carnegie called How to Win Friends and Influence People. Not that he was wanting to influence her, per se, but he was losing her attention fast. One thing the author stressed over and over again was to ask people about themselves. "You were in theatre, right?"
"Costuming. But since the Cirque I was working with finished up I'm ... there's nothing that really inspires me lately."
That advice was all well and good when it came to people who liked to talk about themselves. Unfortunately, he was now remembering Jeannie was one of the rare ones who didn't. The prettiest wallflower, all his friends used to say. A quiet one. "Business been slow here?"
She winced. "I work at a bar right now. So yes."
"Tips must be good. Players coming in wanting to–"
"It's the sort of place people go when they lose." She sighed, looking a little depressed.
Steve put his hand on her knee. She flashed her eyes at his fingers and smiled nervously. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she showed no sign of being uncomfortable with his advances. His heart fluttered. His hand inched up her thigh. She made no move to shift away. Hey, if all she wanted was a lay, fine by him. She had yet to mention a boyfriend. "Are you happy?" he asked.
"I should be. I have a great family, awesome friends."
"Friends. Yeah. There aren't many people like you in this world, Jeannie, there really aren't."
Another awkward silence. Her facial expression suggested she disagreed.
"So what are you doing later?"
"I'm supposed to go for someone's 30th birthday. You wouldn't mind coming with me, would you? It's a long story I'd rather not get into right now, but I could use some moral support. I don't wanna go. The thing is, my best friend is the one throwing it and her boyfriend is an old friend of his dad's. And it's his 30th. I can't really not go, if you know what I mean."
Steve squeezed her knee. "For you, doll? Anything."
Any other woman would have kicked him in the nuts for calling her such a thing. But not Jeannie. He was getting it now, finally. An old-fashioned girl, just like those retro clothes. A girl's girl who wasn't afraid to be one and the complete opposite of the power-suited cougars stalking the concrete jungle of lower Manhattan. Coy, gamine, sweet and shy. One who needed the guy to make all the moves, but she'd say "no" if he got too forward. Back in grade eleven she'd slapped Ryan across the face after he grabbed her ass. Underneath those bright blue eyes and dimpled cheeks, he bet she could eat those cougars for lunch if she wanted to. She just wasn't in an environment where that was necessary.