A Hustler's Prayer (Final Chapter)

 

Went to Tom, told him everything. He stood expressionless. I didn't know if he believed me or not. He got up, went to the kitchen and returned with a new bottle of Chivas. Threw a pair of keys on the table.

"What's this?"

"He took all your money, but not mine. It's a little extra I've been saving, in case your new girlfriend was a bankruptcy like the previous one."

"I didn't know that angels looked like you."

"They don't."

Half a bottle later, we were both calm.

"So, what's next?"

"A honeymoon for sure."

"Easy there tiger, you don't have that much money left."

"We'll move somewhere warm. No winters. Jamaica, Barbados, I don't know, we'll see."

"And then?"

"I'll write a book, maybe a screenplay. We'll start something small, a bar, a cafe or something."

"You'll miss the game."

"I know, but it is what it is. What about you?"

"I'll find a new protégé. Does your new friend have someone in mind?"

"You could sell your soul and become a player yourself."

"I don't think I can take a second youth, I just want to get old with class."

Last cigarette.

"You'll miss me you old fuck."

"We had fun, didn't we?"

"Tons."

"Take care. Enjoy your little winning streak. I'll come visit when you settle."

It's been two days. She's not there. Did she take the money and run? Another illusion? The last debt? No, please not that. I was ready to walk, when she grabbed and kiss me. That kiss still lingers. She didn't have the money, she told me that Mr. Blink took it.

"He told me that there  was a price for happiness.  And if I wanted to be with you I must give him the cash."

"And what did you do?"

"You are not as smart as I thought you were."

She kissed me and leaned on me.

"Where now?"

"Does it matter?"

"No."

Four months later

I am writing something between a novel and a script. Who knows, maybe I'll run Mr Blink again, and sell my soul for a career in Hollywood. Nah, I don't care. It's really beautiful here. She's always smiling. Looks gorgeous in that gold bikini. She'll probably dump me for someone younger in four or five years. Or maybe not. We are here, and that's all that matters.

I do miss the game sometimes. But I'm happy. She made a believer out of me. Not in a religious way. She made me believe in myself and her. Happiness is not a religion, is art. Happiness is like music, jamming until you find the perfect rhythm, the perfect phrase, until you nail the G-spot of the perfect note, the perfect moment. That is magic, to bleed so much beauty, ecstasy and passion from the skin of time. It doesn't last, but you keep on playing.

I could watch her all day dance on the beach. Last call for drinks. Where are we going for breakfast...