Mister Moneybags(5)

“I’ll take care of it.”

Needing to make the most of those forty-five minutes, I first had to find me a f*cking bike. What good was a bike messenger without one?

“One more thing, Josephine. Can you please Google the nearest Manhattan bike shop located closest to our building?”

She gave me the name of a place about ten minutes away. My driver wasn’t in range, so after my phone was delivered, I cabbed it over there and purchased a bike that the salesperson swore would befit a bike messenger, except I doubted a messenger would need the tandem version I’d purchased. I’d figure out how to explain that to her when the time came.

Wearing my newly purchased helmet, I anxiously waited outside my building. When I saw her emerge, she looked downright pissed.

“What happened?”

“The * stood me up.”

“He didn’t give a reason?”

“Nope. They made me wait only to tell me he had to cancel. He’s supposedly going to reschedule, but I don’t buy it.”

Handing her the second helmet I’d bought, I said, “You know what? Fuck him.”

And I do mean that literally and figuratively.

“You’re right. Fuck him.”

“Do you have to be back to work?”

“No, I’m blowing off the rest of the day after this crap,” she said.

I nudged my head. “Get on the back.”

She examined the bike. “Why do you drive a double-seated one?”

“I have multiple bikes. This is for when I need a helper. Luck just had it that my normal bike blew a tire, so I happened to be using this one today. Seems like fate to me. Because today you’re my helper, Bianca George. Now put that helmet on.”

She positioned herself on the back, and we began to pedal away in unison.

I spoke behind my shoulder. “First stop, Cronuts.”

She spoke through the wind, “What’s the second stop?”

“Wherever the day takes us, Georgy Girl.”





“Did you see that?”

“What?” I was having difficulty focusing on anything but the erect nipples peeking out of her thin shirt, if I was being honest.

“Those two guys,” Bianca pointed to two suits sitting on a park bench along the paved walkway about forty feet from where we were sitting on the grass. It was the first time I’d stepped foot on the Great Lawn in Central Park since I was a kid. Although I had a spectacular view of it from my apartment, on most days I didn’t find the time to look out at it.

“What about them?”

She lifted her chin in the direction of an old lady who was several feet on the walk past the two men. “That lady almost tripped and fell on her face.”

“And it’s their fault?”

“The one on the left has his legs stretched so far out, there’s barely room to pass. That walk is only about three feet wide, and his legs are taking up thirty inches of it.”

“He’s tall. I doubt it was his intention to trip an old lady.”

“Maybe not. But that’s the trouble with that type of guy. He doesn’t have common courtesy for the people around him. He’s only aware of things that have a direct impact on him. I bet if a woman with tight yoga pants and a big rack walked by, he would’ve moved his legs because he was interested in the view.”

“I think you might be a bit pessimistic of the entire suit-wearing population.”

“Nope.” Bianca unwrapped her lunch as she spoke. We’d picked up burgers and fries at some deli I’d passed a million times and never stepped foot into before today. “There is a direct correlation between the net worth of a man and his manners. The higher the tax bracket, the worse his etiquette.”

“I think you’re exaggerating. Where’s your research to support such a bold conclusion, Ms. Finance Times?”

She reached into her cardboard cup of fries inside a small white bag and pulled one out. Waving it at me, she said, “I’ll show you my research. You up for a bet?”

“That depends on what I stand to lose?”

She took a bite of her fry and smirked. “You already know you’re going to lose, huh?”

“I didn’t say that. But I like to know all the facts before I jump into anything.”

“Sure you do, chicken.”

I laughed. “What’s the wager, smart ass?”

“I bet I can make that suit move his legs without even asking.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“Is it a bet?”

I was intrigued. “Tell me the prize.”

She thought for a moment. “If I win, you have to drive me back to my apartment on the back of your tandem bike with my feet up.”

“And what happens if you lose?”

“I’ll pedal, and you can sit in the back and relax.”

I was six foot one and a hundred and ninety-five pounds. She couldn’t have been more than one-ten soaking wet. There was no way I was going to let this woman pedal me around town. “I’ll tell you what, if you win, I’ll drive you wherever you want to go with your feet up. But if you lose, you have dinner with me. And I’m taking you to a nice restaurant filled with men in expensive suits.”