The ramblings of the drunken were nothing new for him.
It came with the job; it was to be expected, especially when money and anger were involved. Accusations were slung left and right, the unruly words of the asinine were unending in their incoherent ramble.
This one he could tell had seen one too many crime movies; conspiracy theories were intermingling with the accusation to the point where reality and illusion were hideously bleeding as one. Luke still listened though, nodding adamantly as if the story seemed logical.
What worried him though, the reason he’d kept the two separated, was that he wanted to make sure the man hadn’t touched one of his employee’s. A special room in the basement was set up for customers of that variety— guests of the owing money variety also frequently stopped by.
Luke lit a cigar as she entered the room, shaking the match lazily before he dropped it into the ashtray. Warm remnants of Cuban smoke encircled them as he motioned to the chair in front of him. His head shook in denial as clouds breathed through chapped lips.
“Nah, this ain’t on you.”
The man had always made an effort to remember employee’s names, to instill a familiarity that worked against the tog in the machine mentality that came with hundreds of employees. As hard as Luke did try, he rarely succeeded. Not until they were veterans, at least. An honest tongue would admit that he didn’t remember her name; not until it flashed bold in red ink on the complaint card.
“Just tell me what happened, sweetheart.”
Well, at least he even agreed that this wasn't her fault.
Liv felt the tension that had started to gather in her shoulders ease, her back settling against the much more comfortable cushion of his chair. That statement alone diminished some of her anxiety, now knowing that there was less of a chance of the evening's little incident having an effect on her employment. After all, it wasn't like she'd hit the asshole back, as much as she may have wanted to.
But then again, one never knew what to expect from a new boss.
She knew damn good and well that whatever tale the drunkard had spun for him, it probably didn't even come anywhere close to the truth. Not that his words made much sense, between the slurring and constant need to yell over everyone else, but he seemed to have done a pretty fantastic job at convincing himself that there was no other reality.
“Well, I'm sure he's already painted quite the picture for you.” Liv replied, arms crossing over her chest. “But to put it bluntly? Guy's a sore loser --- and he sucks at holding his liquor.” She sighed, her foot beginning an anxious tapping.
“He was already pretty smashed when he got to the table; lost six times before some of the other players and myself suggested that he give it up. He told us to shove it, so I figured that if he wanted to burn through his bank account, that was on him.”
((…))
“But when he started coming up on eight losses, I guess he realized just how much money he was losing and that was somehow my fault. He got in my face and started on some tangent about how I was cheating and had rigged the system; I told him to back off or security would have to step in, and that’s when he snapped, I guess.”
She took a deep breath, reaching up to ran a hand through her hair.
“He tried to come over the table --- went for my neck, but a couple of officers grabbed him before he had the chance.”
