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Show Bobbie's House of Furs 43 "Watch i t , " said an annoyed man in a Hawaiian shirt who looked away from the game only long enough to say the two words. Angela teetered on her spiked heels back into her original pose. No one clapped. No one whistled. No one noticed her at all the way she had planned as she had lain awake at nights during the past week, anticipating this occasion. She dropped her arms to her sides and watched the tourists bending and crowding over the oval table-their hands curling in claws over the wooden r a i l i n g , their feet arched into talons as they waited for the man with a long stick to throw the dice across the green f e l t and red numbers. Angela took a deep breath and sauntered as casually as she could in the three-inch heels and the crowd over to the 21 tables. The half-horseshoe tables were presided over by men in white shirts and green aprons whose eyes were hard-edged l i ke diamonds. Angela watched a player scrape the f e lt with the edge of his card, his eyes riveted to the deck in the dealer's hand. Hmmm, she thought. I expected a l i t t l e more than this for my f i r st time out in a b i k i n i , especially one with leopard spots. She brushed the tops of her oiled and shaved legs with her fingertips as she worked her way through the noisy crowd towards the coffee shop and Bobbie, the owner of the House of Furs and the moderator for the show. Angela fingered the mink that trimmed her see-through jacket. On an impulse, she decided to make one more sweeping turn before leaving the gaming floor and to do i t right this time. Bobbie's bikini should get i t s proper showing. Just as she began to step into the turn, a cocktail waitress rushed in front of her. |
