The lower flat smelled like smoke, almost like smoke was syrup and Carson Ojler was a pancake.
Travis Richter had switched to really cheap cigars after he quit smoking.
No cigar was lit now, but Carson wanted Travis to light one to give him an excuse to leave.
The only reason he came over was because Travis had remembered an old pool debt and called Carson to collect.
The debt was three dollars.
Travis sprawled on his sofa, which looked like some sort of Kenny Scharf painting that was devouring him. It reminded Carson why he and Currian used to call Travis “Richter Mortis”.
“You still working at Bingham’s?” Travis asked.
Carson looked at the three splayed dollar bills on the coffee table, stains blending into moisture rings, distressed wood covered in ash and unidentifiable grime. His stomach clenched a bit from fear that Travis was going to ask him to get him a job.
“Sucks,” Carson said, trying to deflect any possible job request.
“Those two hot brunettes and that skinny black chick still work there?”
Carson sat up straighter, a preliminary move to leaving. He felt sorry for Travis a little bit, but not that much.
“Uhhh, yeah. I mean, we haven’t had much turnover. I’m guessing you mean…”
Carson stopped before he said his coworkers’ names out loud.
“…Yeah. Why?”
Travis rolled so that he could see Carson better.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Jimmy Doom's Roulette Weal to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.