by Gary Ruffin
It did.
I drew two eights and another deuce. That’s literally almost impossible, but I was sitting there with another winner, barring a miracle draw by Cherry.
“Whatcha got?” I asked, but she was having none of that.
“Oh, no. It’s your turn to show.”
“Why do I hafta show? You didn’t show yours.”
“I think I showed plenty,” she said with that same sexy smile. “Come on, now. Let’s have a look.”
I laid down my full house, and she showed me her pair of sixes.
“Looks like I lose again,” she said, and pulled up her dress to repeat the silk stocking show on her left leg.
It was magnificent. And excruciating.
Great googley moogley.
She dealt the next hand, and this time I threw away a pair of kings, and got back nothing. It was her turn to show her cards, and luckily, she had made two pair.
“You lose, Cooper,” she said.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, and quickly pulled off my jacket.
“Hey!” she said. “No fair. We’re playing strip poker, remember? Now, put it back on, and take it off slowwwlllyyy.”
I did as she ordered, and she whistled and clapped. I felt like a stripper must feel. I gotta admit, I didn’t mind.
Even though I threw away two pair on the next hand, Cherry managed to lose, and she did something that I’ve seen in the movies, but never in real life: she took off her bra under her dress, pulled it out from the front, and waved it around like a burlesque queen before tossing it on top of my head. What is it with women and throwing their clothes on men?
Whatever it is, it was working. Seeing her tiddly from the wine, and braless, was, well—intoxicating. I needed to buckle down and lose, or there was going to be trouble.
After a couple of more hands, it was obvious we were both trying to lose. Me, so that I could keep her dressed and un-tempting, and Cherry so that she could strip and be tempting. What’s the word I’m looking for to describe how I was feeling? Oh, yeah: Conflicted.
When neither of us even had a pair for three hands in a row, it was even more obvious that we were both trying to throw the game. But I was doing a better job of it, because I managed to lose all three hands, and keep her in that black dress. I knew if that dress came down, all bets were off, in a manner of speaking. I also knew that I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to take advantage of a drunk woman, or not.
But a man’s only made of flesh and blood.
Ten minutes and several losing hands later, Cherry was still in her dress, and I was down to one sock and my boxers. I said, “Okay, boss lady, I give up. You’re clearly the better poker player. Time to close this game down before the local cops come in and bust us. We need to sleep off the wine, anyway, right?”
“Wrong. You still have a couple more hands to lose before we can quit.”
I stood and said, “I just can’t do that, Cherry. If I lose two more hands, I’ll be completely naked and highly vulnerable.”
She said, “Really? I hadn’t noticed. Tell you what. I have a splendid idea.”
Trying to look as cool as I could standing there in my boxers and one black sock, I took the bait. “And just what is your idea?”
She stood up slowly and almost fell over before I caught her in my arms. She looked me in the eyes, hiccupped, and said, “One hand, double or nothing.”
I held her up and gently pushed her back a few feet until she was once again steady on her feet. Trying to talk some sense into her, I said, “Double or nothing won’t work here, Cherry. What if I win? Do I put my clothes back on?”
“No, silly-goose Cooper,” she said with the same sexy-drunk smile she’d been laying on me ever since we got back to the suite.
“Then what would happen?” I asked.
She put her hands on her magnificent hips and said, “If you win, I pull off all my clothes. But if I win—you pull off all my clothes.”
74
IN EVERY MAN’S LIFE, THERE ARE DEFINING MOMENTS, TIMES THAT HE remembers forever, times that shape him.
Like the first time you kiss a girl. I mean, a real kiss. With tongue involvement.
For me, that happened in the sixth grade. Monica Moser had a party, and me and her ended up alone in the cabana by her backyard pool. It was about nine o’clock at night, and the party was in full swing. Well, as full swing as you could get in the sixth grade back in those days.
Today’s sixth-grade partying is another story; kids clearly grow up a lot faster now. It may not have been as wild as it would be today, but I’ll never forget that first smooch. I wonder sometimes if Monica remembers that night. For all I know, she may have already been experienced in kissing, but I wasn’t. Anyway, it’s a good memory, and one of those defining moments I’m discussing here.
Then there’s the first time a guy hits a home run, or scores a touchdown in a real game. By “real,” I mean an organized game. My first home run came in a Little League game when I was ten. Mom was there watching, but my joy was tempered a little bit by the fact that my father missed it. But then, he missed pretty much everything in my life.
My first touchdown in high school was a twenty-four-yard run from scrimmage in the third quarter after taking a pitch on a sweep to the weak side. Touchdowns were few and far between if you played for Gulf Front High. Being such a small school, we only had nineteen players on the entire team. Obviously, a lot of us played both ways, and we usually lost by a wide margin. But, as long as I live, I’ll never forget how good it felt to score the first time in a school game.
Another defining moment can be when you take a stand of some kind. Standing up to a bully, for instance. I drew a line in the sand waiting at the bus stop on the morning of the last day of school, fifth grade.
Dick Ingle, a big husky guy who was sometimes ornery and liked to pick on smaller boys, had taken Robbie Woodall’s Brady Bunch lunchbox, and was keeping it away from Robbie, threatening to eat the contents right there at the bus stop.
Robbie was whining at him to give the lunchbox back, and trying to get it back, when Dick pushed him down hard on the sandy ground, laughing as Robbie tore the knee of his pants.
For some reason, I decided to get involved, something which was out of character for me at that age. Mostly, I just wanted to live and let live in those days, but something about Robbie’s bloody knee made me take a stand. I firmly told Dick to give Robbie his lunchbox back. Dick stopped what he was doing, then came close, and towering over me, said, “Make me.” So, I punched him hard in the stomach, “right where he almost had his operation,” as he said later. Dick moaned, doubled over, and gave Robbie his lunchbox back, and I had another defining moment.
Then there was last night.
I wish I could tell you who won the double-or-nothing hand of strip poker, and which one of us undressed Cherry. I’m sure you’d like to know what the cards were, and how I played them, and all that stuff.
I wish I could give you a detailed description of how Cherry did a leisurely, sexy striptease, handing the two pieces of clothing to me as she slowly undressed, and how I felt sitting there watching in my boxers and sock.
I wish it was possible for me to accurately describe how her naked skin looked in the lamplight of the suite at the Ritz, the only light coming from a floor lamp in the corner. How her skin was creamy white, with a golden glow, and how her hair blazed red when the light caught it.
I wish I could tell you exactly how many minutes we spent in the parlor on the carpeted floor, exploring each other’s bodies before we moved into the bedroom without saying a word. How we just went in there as if it was destiny, or something, and how she went into the bathroom as I waited on the bed.
I wish I could tell you about how quickly she sobered up after taking a short, cool bath, a shower being out of the question in her condition.
I also wish I could tell you how it felt to finally be entwined with her on that big bed of hers, the bed that had been nothing more th
an a really expensive sleeping bag up to that point. How it felt to see those famous green eyes up close, the way they flashed in the dim light of the bedroom, locked with mine.
I really wish I could tell you what happened between us on that bed. What I did to her, what she did to me. The sounds she made, the way she did things I didn’t expect because of her lack of experience, and how she surprised me with her willingness and desire to please.
And, I wish I could tell you how it felt to be with someone as beautiful and famous as Cherry, how her fame actually made a difference, for whatever reason. And how easy it was to be with her in that way, how natural it felt, and how Penny never once entered my mind after Cherry’s dress was off and in my hands.
Finally, I wish I could tell you what we talked about afterwards, the things she said, the things I said.
But like I always say: a gentleman never tells.
75
SUNDAY MORNING TURNED UP BRIGHT AND SUNNY, BUT I WASN’T AWAKE to see it, and neither was Cherry.
I finally woke up at five after noon, and seeing how heavily my boss lady was sleeping, I quietly called room service from the parlor. I ordered two huge breakfasts in case she might wake up hungry, and then jumped in the shower. To my surprise, I had no hangover at all, not even a little one. In ten minutes, I was washed and dressed. Twenty minutes later, breakfast arrived.
I went ahead with breakfast, knowing that after the past week—and last night—Cherry needed sleep more than her favorite breakfast fare. I was glad to have some time alone to think about all that had happened between us, and all that might still happen.
My plan for the morning was to go shopping, buy souvenirs for Penny and my friends back in Gulf Front, and of course, to buy a gift or two for Cherry. I really wanted to surprise her, and also thank her for everything. No, I still hadn’t decided what to do about my situation with Cherry, and no matter what my decision was, I would have to go back to Gulf and face the music. Whatever the tune turned out to be, I owed it to Penny to do at least that.
As I ate, I looked through the brochures again, and found two shopping malls within walking distance of the Ritz: Phipps Plaza across the street to the left, and Lenox Square directly in front. I decided to go to Phipps first, to get Cherry’s gift, because the store Every Thing British is located there. There’s also a Tiffany’s, and I figured I could at least do some window-shopping until I made up my mind about Cherry. Neal’s office is there as well, and I wanted to take a look at it; after all, it was my idea for Neal to open an office there in the first place. Neal had said he was really happy with the location, and was glad he had taken my advice, unorthodox as it might be.
According to the brochures, of the two malls, Phipps Plaza has more high-end shops, like Tiffany’s, Gucci, and Armani. Lenox Square is more my kind of mall, with a Macy’s, electronics stores, and guy places where you can buy sporting goods and stuff. There was also a pizza place, and after all the walking I planned to do, I was sure to be in the mood for a good pie, so the shopping trip looked promising.
Ready to roll, I checked on Cherry once more, and saw that she was still dead to the world. I wrote her a note saying I would be gone for two or three hours and left it on the bathroom sink. I found my room key-card, placed the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, and headed down to the bank of elevators.
Instead of going out the back way, I decided to go out the front door and have a little fun with the press corps that was still assembled in front of the Ritz. As I got off the elevator and crossed the lobby, I accepted congratulations from the desk clerks, and shook the hands of two bellmen who were saying what a great job I’d done guarding Cherry, and whatnot. A few people hanging around the lobby gave me a round of applause, and I gave them my best theatrical bow.
Outside, there was a crowd of forty or so reporters, and they attacked as soon as I was through the door. They all yelled, “Chief Cooper, over here!” and “Coop, look this way,” and all that stuff, so I gave them the classic hands up in front of me to stop them in their tracks.
It worked, and they formed a semicircle around me, cameras clicking, and video cameras running. I pointed to a guy from CNN and nodded to him.
He asked, “How is Cherry doing?”
“Ms. Page is doing very well, and she can’t wait to get back to shooting Teaching English,” I said. Hollywood Coop, getting in a plug for the movie, even using the lingo of the cinema with “shooting.” I laughed inside as I heard myself say it.
Immediate onslaught of questions until I pointed to another guy and nodded.
“What are your plans, Chief Cooper?”
“I’m goin’ over to Phipps Plaza to buy some gifts for my friends back home.”
Laughter from the corps.
He tried again, “No, I mean what are your plans concerning your future? Are you going to continue on as Cherry’s bodyguard, or are you going back to police work?”
There was no way in hell I was going to let them know the truth about my indecision, so I replied, “I’ll be goin’ home to resume my duties as police chief. Ms. Page no longer needs a bodyguard. Next question?”
I looked to my left, and saw a familiar face.
“Kelly Ann, what in the world are you doin’ here?”
Kelly Ann Rogers is the only reporter for the Gulf Front Observer, our little bimonthly newspaper.
She said, “First things first, Coop. I mean—Chief. I always wanted to say this.” She threw back her shoulders, and said, “Kelly Ann Rogers, Gulf Front Observer.”
Laughs from the reporters, then Kelly Ann said, “The world is dying to know, Chief Cooper. Tell us the answer to the big question.”
“If I can.”
“Was there any romance between you and Cherry?” she asked with a big smile.
I turned and looked right into a video camera that was about three feet from my face, and said, “No. There was no romance of any kind between Ms. Page and myself. As we Hollywood types like to say, ‘We’re just good friends.’”
More laughter.
She followed up by asking, “Nothing happened between you two while you were on the run?”
“All kidding aside, Kelly Ann—you know this better than anybody—I have a beautiful young woman in my life, and absolutely no need for another. Not even another as gorgeous and desirable as Ms. Page. Now go home and write what a fantastic chief of police I am. If I remember correctly, tomorrow’s the next edition?”
“Sure is. I have a long day and night ahead of me. I have to hit the road and get home in time to print tonight. Grandpa and me will be up all night, but don’t worry, we’ll make it. Let me get a good picture for the front page—smile!”
More laughs as I posed while Kelly shot me with a small camera she pulled from her purse. I was really feeling my oats as I pointed to a guy from an Atlanta station.
“Chief Cooper, your life has been through quite a few changes recently. How can you just go back to where you were before all this happened?”
“Easy,” I said with two faces. “It’s all I know. This whole deal was a fluke from the beginning. It wasn’t even supposed to be my job. It’s been exciting and interesting, to say the least, and educational in a lotta ways, but it was nothing more than a fluke after all is said and done. I doubt I’ll ever go through anything like this again. At least I hope I won’t. No, I belong in Florida. It’s my home, and I can’t wait to resume my life as a lawman in a sleepy little town.” I paused for effect. “Okay, one more question, then I need to get to my souvenir shopping. My fifteen minutes are up.”
Laughs from the mob.
I pointed to a guy from Fox, and he said, “There’s a rumor that Miss Page had met the killer. Any truth to that?”
I thought for a moment, and continued my exercise in mendacity, “No truth to that at all. He was simply a very sick individual who no longer matters, except maybe to the FBI profilers. Okay? Thanks guys—and gals. I hope I never see any of you ever again.”
Tha
t got me my biggest laugh yet, and I went over and hugged Kelly Ann as the reporters gathered around. We all shared small talk for a moment, then they watched, photographed, or filmed me as I turned and walked towards Phipps Plaza.
A nude Cherry Page was in the bathroom brushing her teeth thirty minutes after Coop had left, when the phones in the suite began to ring. She quickly rinsed, spat, and ran to pick up the receiver in the bedroom.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Page?” a male voice asked.
“Yes, this is Ms. Page.”
“Ms. Page, this is special agent John Carver of the FBI. I’m sorry to bother you. Is Chief Cooper there?”
“Oh, no he’s not, Agent Carver. He’s only just now stepped out to do some shopping. May I give him a message for you?”
“Well, his cell phone seems to be off—I can’t reach him. It’s not important, I just need to set up an interview. Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”
Cherry frowned, and said, “I’m sorry agent Carver, but I don’t expect him back for at least two hours.”
“That’s okay, I’ll call again in a couple of hours and see if he’s made it back. Until then, I can keep trying his cell.” He paused, and then asked, “Are you doing okay, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m doing very okay, Agent Carver, and I don’t mind you asking a’tall. Not only that, I’m awfully glad to have this opportunity to thank you personally for all you and your people have done to bring this nightmare to an end. I shall never be able to repay you, but please know that I’m ever so grateful, and feel free to call on me if you ever need anything. Anything whatsoever.”
“That’s very kind of you, Ms. Page. And it was our pleasure to bring this man to justice, as well as our job. Now that it’s all over, you just concentrate on making your movie, and enjoy the rest of your time here in Atlanta.”
