What can YOU say in six sentences?
As seems a monthly occasion these days, the heat in the Big Easy has all the burners on high, so I’m cooling it down on the seaside porch at the Silver Slippery Casino in Waveland, just across the Mississipp.
“How’s your balls, son?” I ask Ray Ray, ‘cause while I’m gazing into the sleepy endlessness of the Gulf tide washing the cheek of the shore, Ray Ray’s scratching at his skin like he was making the bed for a case of mange.
It takes the space of a long pull of my complimentary Bourbon and a couple bites of my jumbo-scale, 99 cent shrimp cocktail before Ray Ray comes back, “We doomed for sure this time, Stagg.”
“How you figure that you can see doom from here, Ray Ray?” I say, kicking up the loafers—no socks, mind you—on the back of the chaise lounge in front of me, and really liking the feel of those casino coins rolling like coolness itself against my thigh.
“Got the cops running felony arrest warrants,” Ray Ray scratches away, “the lawyers all hungry for billing hours, the pipelines to Jamaica drying up and every thug on the street smelling the blood in the water.”
I think on this for a time, just enough to pull in the musty Casino stink with the fresh sting of Gulf water brine, and I tell him on the way to another free drink, “Well, they might got all that, but I got comped bourbon and an all-you-can eat buffet for the price of sitting at nickel slots ‘til I keel over, so who’s laughing now?”