Bubba Goes for Broke
Copyright 2011 by David H. Bawdy
Today he’d prove them all wrong. He wasn’t, as The Boss had said on more than one occasion, “the second or third dumbest fuck in the universe.” Bubba Winslow didn’t think he was even in the top twenty.
With a gloved hand, he tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the Beyoncé tune on the SUV’s radio. His .38 revolver and a rubber skinhead mask rested on the seat beside him. The stolen SUV sat parked on the side of a vacant, tree-lined street facing the mouth of a cul-de-sac on the left. Sprinklers squirted jets of water—whish, whish, whish—across immaculately groomed lawns separating widely-spaced houses.
The dim early morning light slowly brightened. A car pulled out of the cul-de-sac, but not the silver Porsche. A Mercedes. Bubba drummed some more on the steering wheel.
A familiar pressure built within his bowels, as predictable as death, taxes, and waking up with a boner. Building and building until…
Gripping the steering wheel, he lifted his right butt cheek and let one rip, loud and long. He sank back in the seat and breathed a sigh of relief.
He sat up and groaned. “Oh my God.” Grimacing, he rolled down the window. Fresh air rushed in, clean and pure. He fanned the air in front of him. Thank God it was almost June and he didn’t have to freeze his ass off just to be able to breathe.
Sadly, it was like this before every really big job. His partner Ralphie, who’d timed one that had lasted over ten seconds, said that Bubba’s police dossier recorded his flatulence right beside his fingerprints, the one as conclusive evidence as the other, though presumably not in a court of law.
Bubba doubted this. He’d never seen anything like that on CSI or Law & Order. Ralphie had probably just been busting his balls, but Bubba could never be sure.
Well, Ralphie could make his wisecracks and The Boss could call him a dumbass to beat all dumbasses, but after this score Bubba T. Winslow would have the last laugh. What had Shakespeare said? He who laughs last, laughs last.
Bubba waited. Still no Porsche. The pressure in his gut built. And built.
This time, he lifted his left cheek and let loose. That’s how he did it; switch cheeks each time. Right, left. Right, left. It gave him a sense of balance.
Finally, at 6:38 a.m., the silver Porsche with its XLR8ME license plate flashed past, no doubt on its way into downtown Boston. Bubba fluffed his hair, then pulled the skinhead mask over his head. He looked in the rear view mirror and adjusted the fit, smoothing out the wrinkles on the neck. He hated how the mask clung tight to his face and smelled of rubber. But what he really hated was that it mussed his hair, flattening its natural texture. He had great jet black hair. Broads loved it. Some of them even ran their hands through it while he was banging them, which was A-okay with him.
He pulled out of the side street where he’d been waiting, turned left and then right into the cul-de-sac. Trees lined the roadside on both sides, interrupted periodically by mailboxes and long freshly-paved driveways leading to huge, lavish houses, some barely visible through the thick growth of trees in the early light.
At the end of the cul-de-sac, Bubba turned into a rock-wall-lined driveway and headed up the slight turning incline that opened onto the Stapleton estate. The mansion, an immense edifice easily the size of four or five regular houses, greeted him, its lawn thick, green, and wet with dew. Bubba pulled up to the four-car garage, swerving to avoid a skateboard. A hockey stick stood propped against the far garage door. Bubba peered into the garage bays and saw three of the four filled, a good sign.
He grabbed his .38 off the passenger seat and climbed out of the SUV. He clicked off the safety. He had no intention of actually shooting anybody. The next time he did would be his first. But it gave him a sense of power, a sense of confidence. It calmed his nerves.
Though he’d intended to move fast, he couldn’t help but stop and stare at the backyard. The smell of chlorine came from a huge swimming pool and hot tub on the left. Beside it, a golf hole two hundred yards long extended to a green backstopped by a forest that encircled the estate. Two tennis courts ran down the far right side, their surfaces freshly painted green with white lines. A portable basketball hoop with a glass backboard had been wheeled off to the side.
It was everything the drunk at Paddy O’Reilly’s last weekend had promised. The guy, who had a real job as a postal carrier and was such an exercise freak he walked his entire route, had talked of the Stapleton’s wealth, confiding that the missus gave him a lavish tip every week to bring the mail to her doorstep instead of the mailbox at the end of the driveway.
Bubba had listened to the drunk, a grin on his face and a Budweiser at his lips, waiting for the guy to tell him about the tip, wink, wink. That the missus balled his brains out then sucked him dry the second time around. But it hadn’t been like that at all. The tip had been just a tip. Money without a hint of tits and ass.
Which proved that most drunks couldn’t tell stories for shit. What was the fucking point of a story like that? Even if he didn’t really ball the bitch, he should have at least made it up like most guys. A couple twenties in a small white envelope every Monday. Who gave a shit about that?
Until the light bulb finally went off beside Bubba’s head. Hey, if Stapleton had all this dough, how about sending some of it his way?
And to think The Boss called Bubba stupid.
Bubba hustled along the walkway toward the front door, his head ducked down. He rubbed his forehead, trying to cover as much of his masked face as possible in case anyone was looking out a window. Brightly colored petunias in freshly laid bark mulch ran along the walkway.
He got to the front door and stepped off to the side, flattening himself against the side of the door frame. He pushed the doorbell. Inside, loud chimes rang out.
Bubba swallowed hard. His hands felt clammy. He breathed in the smell of the mask’s sticky rubber.
He’d wondered if this part would work. The woman, or her kids for that matter, might not come to the door. They might have a way of seeing him and if they did, they certainly wouldn’t open the door for someone wearing a skinhead mask. Hell, even he knew that. They might have a security camera or an intercom and demand that he identify himself before—
A woman’s voice came out of the speaker just below Bubba’s shoulder. “Just a second,” she said, the sound clear without even a hint of tinny static. High fidelity even on the freaking intercom.
For what felt like a lifetime, though it might have been only ten or twenty seconds, nothing happened. Not a sound echoed from within.
Bubba got ready to bolt. The woman might have already called the cops and if so, Bubba knew what that meant. He knew how cops operated. They were never slow to respond in a neighborhood like this.
Bubba licked his lips. His heart hammered. Five more seconds, maybe ten.
He began to count down—ten… nine… ten. Bubba stopped, shook himself like a dog coming out of the water, and started over. One… two…
It was easier to count up than down.
Muffled footfalls sounded from inside.
“Sorry, Ginny,” a woman called out from inside, her voice ever so cheery.
Ginny? Who the fuck was Ginny?
The front door swung open and a petite, middle-aged woman with short chestnut brown hair ducked her head out.
Her broad smile froze. Her green eyes widened. Bubba pointed the gun at her.
She screamed, backing away.
Bubba charged into the doorway, realizing there was a step only after he missed it and tripped. The thickly carpeted floor came up to greet him. His arms flew out and with them went the .38. In a flash, Bubba saw a front room as large as some homes. Dark mahogany everywhere. A glittering chandelier. A fireplace at the far wall.
The .38 hurtled through the air, hit the chandelier, caught on one light, and fired. A deafening explosion rocked the room. Behind Bubba, the front door splintered. Shards of glass rained down from the chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides of the fireplace along the far wall shattered.
Bubba lay on the plush blue carpeting, for a moment unable to move. His ears rang. He could faintly hear the woman screaming. The smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils; it’s bitter taste flooded his mouth.
Then he saw the woman going for a button on the wall. A panic button that would bring the cops.
Bubba sprang to his feet and tackled her, as gently as he could, just short of the button. They fell in a clump, her landing sideways and him atop her, the pointed edge of her hipbone crushing his balls.
He cried out in blinding pain, barely keeping himself from rolling off her into a fetal ball. The woman struggled beneath him, but he outweighed her two-to-one and his 210 pounds was all muscle. Howling, he held a forearm on her shoulder, pinning her down, while he struggled to breathe.
Then he remembered her kid. A teenager. He probably had the gun. Adrenaline shot through Bubba. He readied himself to dive in one direction or the other.
But he saw no one.
He groaned. “Fuck!”
“Don’t hurt me,” the woman said, panting beneath him. “I’ll get you whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me.”
Bubba struggled to his feet, tugging at his belt with one thumb to relieve the pressure. His balls were on fire. He could barely breathe beneath the mask. Slowly, the throbbing pain subsided.
He waved the gun at the woman, still lying on the floor. “Where’s your kids?”
She blinked, looking confused. “Kids?”
Bubba noticed for the first time how pretty she was, for a woman in her forties at least. Not even the hint of crow’s feet beneath the eyes, probably thanks to cosmetic surgery. A nice figure. Blue flowered blouse and black slacks. A glittering diamond necklace, had to be thirty or forty stones in the thing.
A bit old for him, but he’d do her. He thought about trying to charm her, sweep her off her feet, then next thing you know they’d be naked and she’d be moaning with the Big Bubba Meat Stick in her. That’s what they said about rich women. Their husbands were always at the office, working late at nights and weekends, leaving their wives home and frustrated.
This one looked like she could use a good time and Bubba knew he was her man. He went to run his hands through his hair to both make sure it wasn’t mussed and to emphasize its luxurious thickness. Its sexiness. No woman should be able to turn down a man with a head of hair like his, not to mention his irresistible physique. It amazed Bubba that women all over New England weren’t giving birth the Little Bubbas every day.
But his fingers didn’t touch a single hair, only the rubber of his skinhead mask. He’d forgotten. No wonder she hadn’t given him any encouraging glances.
Bubba tried to get his mind back where it belonged, on the job.
“I know you got kids,” he said. “I seen one of them this weekend.”
The woman gulped. “He isn’t here anymore.”
“That skateboard out there is yours?” He waved the gun toward the garage. “And you play hockey?” Bubba grew annoyed. “Do you think I’m stupid?
“No,” she said, eyes wide. “Those are Evan’s. He’s our only child.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s at school.”
“It ain’t even six-thirty.”
Still lying on he floor, the woman shrank back. “He’s at school. Away. At school. Honest.”
“Whaddya mean, away at school?”
“He goes to Andover. The prep school. Philips Andover.”
“He lives there?”
“Of course. It’s a boarding school, one of the most famous in the country. Some of the Kennedys and the Bushes, both Presidents, have gone there. Evan comes home most weekends but he lives there. Haven’t you heard of it?”
Bubba hadn’t. A boarding school. A fucking boarding school! What kind of shit luck was that? He couldn’t very well kidnap a kid who wasn’t the fuck there.
“Shit!” Bubba yelled. Now what was he supposed to do? “You got no other kids?”
She shook her head.
“When’s he coming home?”
“When’s he coming home?”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Are you deaf?” he asked. “When is your son coming home next?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m asking the questions!”
Her eyes widened. “So… so you can kidnap him? Is that what you’re asking?”
Bubba hated when people did that, made questions that he thought were sensible sound foolish.
She looked incredulous. “Are you, like, making an appointment?”
Well, when she put it that way, Bubba supposed it did sound stupid.
“You can’t have my son! He’s all I’ve got.”
All she had? Who was she kidding? This place was a fucking mansion. A four-car garage. Swimming pool, tennis courts. All she had? And to think people thought he said dumb things.
“I don’t have much cash in the house,” she said, “but I’ve got a Rolex.” She said, holding out her wrist for him to see. “But my son… you can’t…” She shook her head, wild-eyed.
Bubba waved away the Rolex. He had no way of fencing it or any other jewelry without The Boss finding out that he’d been freelancing. And he couldn’t very well pull off a kidnapping if there was no fucking kid, could he?
“Forget it,” Bubba said. He had to get out of there. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“I’m getting the fuck outta here,” he said. “But I can’t have you calling the cops before I even get out the front door.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
He gave her a look. He hated it when people treated him like a moron. She’d have the cops on the way before he even got in the SUV.
“I gotta lock you in the bathroom,” he said.
She just stared at him.
She got to her feet, still looking confused, and hustled down the hallway.
A marble sink, gleaming golden fixtures, and a large Jacuzzi dominated the most extravagant bathroom Bubba had ever seen.
“Get in the Jacuzzi,” he said. It was empty.
She climbed in.
Bubba nodded. “Good.” He clicked the lock on the door and hustled back down the hallway and out the door.
He started the SUV and was halfway down the driveway when an alarm erupted from inside the house.
How, he wondered, had she gotten out so fast?
When Tiffany spotted the guy’s thick wad of hundred dollar bills, her smile grew wider and even more genuine. Well, hello. She leaned a little closer and bent over more to give him a better view of the surgically enhanced beauties that all but spilled out of her white Hooters tank top.
Along the far wall behind her, a bank of silent TVs alternately displayed a Boston Red Sox baseball game, a golf match, and a NASCAR race. The jukebox played an oldie by Peter Gabriel, “Sledgehammer,” which cut through the buzz of conversation.
But Tiffany knew that Thick Wad was oblivious to it all. His eyes had been locked onto her two bouncing moneymakers since she got to within five tables of his. He reeked of way too much cologne and stale cigarette smoke, but he was pretty good looking, probably in his mid-thirties, in really good shape, and kind of sexy looking in his black leather jacket and jeans. Although she had to admit the sexy looking part was probably just the thick wad talking, the thick wad that he’d been flashing seconds earlier—clearly just showing off—before shoving it back in his jeans pocket.
“What looks interesting today?” Tiffany asked in her huskiest voice.
A fatuous grin spread across Thick Wad’s face. He tapped the menu in his hands. “I know what’s interesting, darling. I just don’t know if they’re for sale.”
With any other customer, Tiffany would have groaned inwardly, thought, another one… dumb as a rock, and moved on to the next table as quickly as she could. Instead she felt all warm inside. Hook, line, and sinker. And dumb too. It didn’t get much better than that. There had to have been close to five grand in that wad. The more Tiffany thought about it, the more she liked Thick Wad’s strong cologne. She liked it a lot. In fact, she didn’t just like it. She loved it.
“I think we’ve got everything that’s on the menu,” Tiffany said, batting her eyelashes while ignoring his obvious reference to her breasts. Playing dumb worked for her. It let men like Thick Wad apply the platinum blonde stereotype. “Would you like a beer first while you decide?” She leaned even closer. “I’m also supposed to ask you if you’d like to buy a T-shirt. Would ya?”
A smug grin came over the mark’s face. “Only if you’re in it.” The fool looked pleased with himself.
Tiffany laughed and took a playful swat at Thick Wad’s arm. “You naughty boy! What’s your name?”
“Bubba,” he said. “Bubba T. Winslow.”
“What’s the T for?”
“The,” Bubba said.
Tiffany wasn’t sure if she was supposed to laugh or not. “The? That’s your middle name?”
“You’re serious?” she asked.
“My mother was a strange woman.”
“Huh! Bubba The Winslow,” Tiffany said, holding back an explosion of laughter.
Bubba spread his hands and grinning broadly. “The one and only.”
Bubba had briefly considered bringing the SUV by Jake’s garage for chopping up after his escape from the Stapleton fiasco, but that only would have raised questions. Where was Ralphie? Why a five-year-old SUV instead of the usual? And if it ever got ID’d as part of the attempted kidnapping, The Boss would be asking what the hell Bubba was doing freelancing. Bubba had learned long ago that you don’t shit where you eat.
So he’d ditched the SUV at the Square One Mall in Saugus, ten miles north of Boston, leaving it in almost the same parking space where he’d taken it, then walked the mile or two to the Red Roof Inn on the other side of Route 1 where he’d left his own car. He tossed the bag with his gun, mask, and gloves into the trunk, drove to his apartment, and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Hours later, he awoke in a cold sweat from a nightmare in which his .38 caught on the chandelier and fired a few feet lower. Instead of blasting a hole in the front door, it shot his nuts and pecker clear off. Naked, as he often was in his dreams and nightmares, he looked down at where the Big Bubba Meat Stick so often stood at attention and saw nothing. Not believing his eyes, he groped for his previously prodigious package. Nothing at all. Gone. His scrotum and beloved schlong lay scattered across the plush blue rug in tiny pieces. Bubba got on all fours and frantically tried to collect what was left of his manhood. Certainly there would be a surgeon who would piece him back together. At Mass General or Brigham and Woman’s Hospital. Probably Brigham and Woman’s. Women everywhere would want the Big Bubba Meat Stick restored.
“You know, I found you very attractive,” the woman with the green eyes said as Bubba’s gathering became more frantic. “A real hunk. Those muscles. That hair. You scared me at first, of course, but as soon as I got a good look, I wanted you as badly as a Desperate Housewife.” A mournful look came over her face. “But now… you’ve got nothing for me.” She came to him and caressed his cheek. “And I wanted you so bad. I’d have begged for it.”
Bubba awoke, heart pounding, and grabbed for his balls, almost breaking into euphoric tears when he touched a diamond-cutter of a boner and his perfectly intact sack.
He breathed a huge sigh of relief. That had been a close one. He’d rather get his Big Head blown off than his Little One. Without the one, what was the point of the other? Although, he thought with a grin, in his case the two were almost the same size.
His thoughts drifted to the green-eyed woman and how in his dream she’d wanted him. Well, of course she had. He was about ten years younger than her and a stud through and through. She’d have loved a ride on the Big Bubba Meat Stick.
Come to think of it, he should have just taken her. Kidnapped the fucking wife. With the kid not there, he should have taken the next best thing. Why hadn’t he thought of that? She wasn’t bad looking. The husband might have paid to get her back.
Nah. Who was he fooling? A guy with that much money had to be getting plenty on the side. Probably some twenty-year old with big tits. He wouldn’t pay to get his wife back. A kid? Of course. A forty-year-old wife? Forget about it.
Bubba told himself he’d done the right thing. Gotten out while the getting was good. Lived to see another day. There were more fish in that sea. He’d just have to do a little more homework next time.
Homework had never been his strong suit back in high school. Fuck, he’d never done it at all. But this kind of homework he could do. Next time, he’d make sure there was no fucking prep school messing up his big score.
At 11:30, he climbed out of bed and after a shave and a shower was ready to take on the world. Or at least a Hooter’s waitress.
And had he ever found himself a juicy one.
He eyed her wiggling and jiggling her way to the table with his chicken wings, the botched kidnap attempt now only the faintest of memories. The objects of his attention bounced—boing, boing, boing, boing—in the most pleasurable way, almost bursting out of her tight-fitting white Hooters tank top. They had to be fake, but Bubba wasn’t holding that against her. It showed… what was the word?… initiative. Yeah, initiative. He liked that in a woman, especially a trashy one. It gave him a shot.
The waitress flashed a big smile and leaned over, giving Bubba an even more delicious view as she placed his wings on the table. “Here ya go, sweetie.”
Bubba was in love.
“Thank you, darling,” he said. He’d already forgotten her name so he quickly tore his gaze from the twin peaks inside her shirt to the gold name tag on her shoulder and read it aloud. “Tiffany.”
“That’s me.” She smiled brightly and raised her eyebrows, looking like the most perfect dumb blonde Bubba had ever seen. “Can I getcha another beer?” she asked in purring, sexy voice.
Bubba could tell Tiffany was getting as hot for him as he was for her. There was no mistaking it. He thought of the two of them together in bed. He usually liked to be on top, but what a waste of spectacular scenery that would be. No, she’d crawl on top of him and then he’d get to watch boing, boing, boing, boing—
“Well would ya?” Tiffany stood up and arched her back.
Would he what? Bubba didn’t recall the question and the only one he could think of was which of the two of them would be on top? He was pretty sure she hadn’t asked that. He’d remember that for sure.
“Would I what?” he asked.
“Like another beer.”
“Yeah, sure.” Anything to keep her wiggling her way back and forth to his table. “A Budweiser. I also have a business proposition for you.”
A pout came over Tiffany’s face. “Now don’t be a nasty boy. I can’t do that.”
“How do you know you can’t do it if I ain’t told you yet?”
“I can’t go out on a date with you.” She put her hands on her hips. “You’re cute, but it’s against house rules. I’d get fired.” She spun and over her shoulder said, “I’ll be right back with your beer.”
“Damn,” Bubba muttered to himself as he watched Tiffany’s ass wiggle inside her bright orange shorts. “She’s never gonna go for it.” Ralphie said the scam worked every time, but Ralphie also talked a lot. You could never believe half of what he said, especially when it came to getting women naked. For free, at least.
Bubba wondered if he should pull out the wad of bills again. That seemed to have caught her attention before. Maybe she wasn’t as dumb as she looked. He felt his heart sink. Not another smart one, he thought. He had the worst luck that way. Time after time his dates gave him that look that said he had the IQ of a turnip. It was the damnedest thing. What were the odds?
But that couldn’t be a problem with Tiffany could it? She looked like she’d needed a cheat sheet in high school just to spell her own name. Was it with one F or two? Come to think of it, Bubba wasn’t so sure himself. He just knew that “Bubba” was with three Bs and that was good enough for him.
He watched her take an order at another table, then wiggle her way to the station where she stepped on a wooden block, reached up and attached the order slip to a wire while stretching herself out so seductively, then sent the slip whizzing along the wire into the kitchen.
Bubba licked his lips and grabbed one of the chicken wings, its barbeque smell battling for supremacy with the remnants of Tiffany’s lilac perfume. He tried to rehearse the lines he’d use on her, looking over the notes he’d scribbled earlier on the back of an envelope, but he couldn’t concentrate. Other Hooters girls, almost as distracting as Tiffany, wiggled past in their tight orange shorts and white tank tops. He couldn’t help looking, lines to rehearse or no lines, as he wolfed down his barbeque chicken wings, each one getting his fingers even stickier than the one before.
So when Tiffany returned and set down his mug of foamy beer with a solid thud on the wooden table, Bubba almost blew his chance.
“Here ya go,” she said, looking at him expectantly.
Bubba’s mouth was full so he held up his hand in a stopping gesture until he swallowed. He began to speak but, seeing her look, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and came away with a smear of barbeque sauce.
“Like I said before,” Bubba began, “I got a business proposition for you.”
“Listen, sweetie, I told you before I can’t do that. I’m not that kind of girl.”
But Bubba thought Tiffany was exactly that kind of girl. He could read it in her eyes. And if he was misreading her eyes, those melons didn’t lie. Girls didn’t get melons like that without wanting them squeezed and licked and sucked and fondled. Melons like that wanted to be set free.
Tiffany looked at him expectantly. Bubba realized he’d meant to say something, say his lines, but with those… those hooters staring at him he’d forgotten every last one. And it was too late to pull out his wad of bills to recapture her interest.
“It… it isn’t like that,” Bubba said, fumbling for words. He felt like he was in high school, back before he dropped out, and Mrs. McGinnis or Mr. Shanahan or Miss Zinkfine had called on him while he’d been doodling pictures of naked women. Not only hadn’t he known the answers; he hadn’t even known the questions. Tiffany’s perfume settled over him, turning his brain even more into mush. “I, um…”
Tiffany cocked her head and drew in a breath, making her bosom heave even more. Bubba drew inspiration from those beauties and tried to clear his mind.
“Honest. I’m a…” Bubba shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He cleared his throat. “I’m a movie producer…” Ralphie’s line sounded so phony, but Bubba plowed on. “I’d like you to be… like, um, an actress in a film… a film I’m shooting.”
Tiffany frowned. “Are you serious?”
Bubba’s heart quickened and his confidence soared. She was going for it! “Of course I am. You’d be perfect for the role.” Trying to sound as smooth as possible—he’d tried smooth and sophisticated in the past but sophisticated gave him trouble—he said, “There are lots of gorgeous women back in Hollywood, but none that are quite right for this role. None like you.”
“Really?” She pointed to the spot between her twin peaks. “Me?”
Bubba congratulated himself for getting the line “back in Hollywood” right. The word back sold the whole package.
“You,” he said. “I could make you a star.”
Tiffany’s eyes bulged out. “Really?”
Bubba brushed away the bead of sweat forming on his forehead, then noticed the wet smear of barbeque sauce on the back of his hand. Tiffany was staring at his forehead now, where he must have just lathered some BBQ sauce, hot and spicy. Bubba grabbed a napkin and wiped it across his forehead, then took another napkin and did it again.
Bubba fought to get back his composure. “You’re a natural.”
“So… what do I do?”
“I’ll need you to audition, of course.”
“Yeah… of course. Where? In Hollywood?”
“We could set up something here, to make things easy for you, and if everything goes well… then fly you out to meet the director.”
“Really? I mean, you’re not kidding me?”
Bubba spread his arms. “Would I do that?”
“So where do I go? When?” Tiffany glanced around. “You can’t tell anyone. I’d get fired. Although…” She giggled. “If I get the part, that won’t matter, will it?”
“No it won’t,” Bubba said, his confidence as huge now as his erection. “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you… I mean, one of my people will call you with the time and place.”
Tiffany leaned close and whispered her number.
Bubba blinked. Only the area code, the same as his own, had registered. He fumbled in his pocket for a pen but found none.
“I can’t remember all those numbers,” he said.
Tiffany batted her eyelashes. “Really?”
Bubba thought he saw, for just a instant, the same look on Tiffany’s face he’d seen on so many others—how dumb can you be?—and felt his anger surge. But then it was gone and he thought it might have all been his imagination. He couldn’t be dumber than this broad.
“I’m not good at memorizing things,” he said.
She eyed him suspiciously. “That’s not good for someone in the movie business.”
“I’m not an actor. I’m a producer.”
“I guess you’re right,” Tiffany said, nodding. “Listen, when I bring you the bill, I’ll give you a napkin with my phone number written down. That way no one will notice.” She giggled again. “I feel like I’m a spy or something.”
“Or a Bond girl,” Bubba said in what felt like a stroke of genius.
“Yes! A Bond girl!” She squealed with excitement. “You’re gonna make me famous, aren’t you?”
She scampered away, her butt wiggling inside her tight orange shorts, to take other orders and bring other customers their food. Bubba hated to see her leave even though he loved her rear view almost as much as her front. But he couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t her only customer.
He began to reconsider the scam. Maybe he really could be a movie producer after all. And a director too. How hard could it be? You pressed the record button on a video camera. You zoomed in. You zoomed out. You pressed the stop button. He could use one of those remote gizmos so he could be also be the leading man, one who didn’t have to memorize any lines. Just say what came naturally.
Yeah, he thought. He’d do it. For Tiffany. A warm feeling came over him.
He’d make Tiffany’s titties the most famous pair in the wide, wonderful world of porn. And his hands would be all over them. Bubba felt his own nipples get hard.