Nothing But Lint in My Pocket

Nothing But Lint in My Pocket

By Jack Rawlins

“That’ll be five hundred dollars, Mr. Waddy,” purred Silky Lavern as she slipped on her white cashmere robe.

I pulled up my pants, zipped my fly and reached for the fat wad of bills I always carry. Wallets are not my style. I like to impress folks with a flourish by pulling out a roll and pealing off bills. When things are slow and I need a little extra attention, I light my cigars with a ten spot. Oh, I know that’s wasteful, but it does impress people--with my stupidity. Some say I’m a little asshole.

So like I say, I reached in my pocket for my wad. It was gone! I was wad-less!
There was not a damn thing in my pocket but lint.

People in Reno know me. I come here often. They think I’m a little show-off. And that’s true. I’m a five-foot-two, ebony-skinned, balled, fat, thirty-year-old from Australia. And I am filthy rich. I can afford to show off.

But that’s not really why they call me Waddy. I come from a long line of aborigines who still carry a waddy—an all-purpose club -- to crush skulls, mash potatoes, and scratch their behinds. I am recognized as a waddy expert. You can count the number of waddy experts on one hand .There are only six of us in the world.

Now, I’ve done business with Silky for a long time. She is a high class lady, a marketing major, and a master at what she does. She would never roll a john. She understands customer relationship management and the life-time value of a customer.

“How come you came to cum without your wad?” she asked.

“I had it when I got on the elevator,” I said. And then it hit me.“Oh, oh. That’s when Lilly Litefinger got on with me and asked if she could feel my wad. I should have known better. She stood behind me and put a hand in each pocket and I kind of lost track of what was happening. When I got off at this floor she hit the down button.

“I should have suspected something, but I was feeling a little frisky.”

Now Silky has one weakness from my point of view: She will not extend credit to anyone –even her best customers. She is obsessed with getting paid promptly. Truly obsessed.

Her motto is: “You pay cash to get laid, or you don’t play.”

I knew if I didn’t pay up—and quickly—she would call her assistant, Romeo. Romeo not only books her clients, but he also breaks bones for her when necessary.

I said, “I’ll leave this three-thousand dollar diamond ring as a deposit until I can come back with the cash.”

“No way, Mr. Waddy,” she said reaching for her cell phone. “It’s cash or Romeo”

“”Hey, wait a minute!" I begged. “You know I’ve got the money. I just have to go and get it. You are being unreasonable.”

“Look, Waddy, “she answered. “It’s a matter of principle. I don’t tell you how to run your business. You don’t tell me how to run mine. I want my money—now.

“I have another client due in three minutes,” she said as she glanced at her watch. “I don’t have time for a chat session. Cough it up chum.”

“Silky, “I pleaded, “don’t let Romeo break my bones. I’ll leave you my ring and my Rolex Watch. “

When she flipped open her cell phone and hit the speed dial, I knew she was about to really spoil my evening. She said one word, “Come!” and flipped it shut.

Just then there was a discreet rap on the door. Silky opened it for her next client.

“Hey, pal,” I said to the second hitter. "Want to buy a nice Rolex for $500 cash?”

“Sure,” he said. And the show-off pulls out five, one-hundred dollar bills. I handed him my watch, and paid my debt to Silky.

As I slouched from the room, she purred a reminder: “It’s a business doing pleasure with you, Mr. Waddy."

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