"Did you ever think of settling down?" Oliver asked.
"I'm trying, man. Who do you like in the NCAA's? Duke?"
"No way. Robots," Oliver said. "Smug. Bred to win from birth."
"I got a hundred on them." Mark made money helping executives scale the
job ladder. He was amused and ironic about it. They knocked themselves
out; he got the dancers--for a time.
"Hey, Richard!"
"Mark . . . Oliver . . . The boss let us out early." Pleased with
this statement, Richard O'Grady, who acknowledged no boss but "The Man
Upstairs," shuffled to his customary place at a long table on the other
side of the bar. He was bright eyed, slight, and stooped, a survivor of
diabetes and severe arthritis.
"Amazing smile!" Oliver said.
"A world authority on blood chemistry," Mark said. "You'd never know
it--in here every night drinking scotch."
"Every night but Sunday," Oliver said. "I asked him, one time, where he
got that smile. I thought he'd say something like: it was his mother's.
He said, 'Don't know.' Then he said, 'Use it!' It was like a command
he'd been given."
"Not too many around here that haven't had a drink on Richard," Mark
said. "I'm outa here.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25