She ventured, “Maybe a wheat beer?”
“Delightful. Which kind,WeizenbierorWitbier?”
Flicka smiled because he knew the difference between the German and Dutch kinds of wheat beer. “I likeWeizenbier.I don’t like coriander or orange in my beer, but you might.”
“Weizenbiersoundsperfect.” He smiled at her, happy lines crinkling around his pale eyes.
“I’ll be right back.” She scrambled to put the order for the beer into the bar.
Dieter caught her on the way back. “Beer?”
“Sure,” she said.
“I think I’ll take it over at the Texas Hold’em table,” he said. “This table isn’t lucky for me.”
Which meant he was losing money at blackjack.
Money that they didn’t have.
Flickaplastered a smile on her face and nodded.
When she went back to give the guy his wheat beer, he tapped her arm with one finger. “Yes, sir?”
“Your name is Gretchen?” he asked her with a glance at the name tag pinned to her boob.
Oh, Hell, no,but she smiled. “Yes. It’s a family name.”
“It’s unusual in the States.”
“I’m originally from Germany,” she told him.
“You have an extraordinary accent,”he said. “Mostly British, but with some German and Swiss thrown in.”
She stopped and turned back to him. “Most people would have thought it was French, not Swiss.”
“I’m from Geneva. I recognize a Swiss accent.”
This European man was recognizing too many things. “I’m just a typical German peasant. I suspect living in the US for so long has changed my accent.”
“That must be it,” the man agreed.“I thought I was talking to a fellow Helvetian.”
She smiled her most brilliantly, hoping he would tip a fellow Helvetian more. “That’s so sweet.”
He presented his hand. “My name is Bastien.” The accent sounded more lilting French than steady German.
“Nice to meet you. I have to get back to work. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
Another guy—now forever cemented in Flicka’s head as BourbonGuy—ordered a top-shelf whiskey, a Maker’s Mark 46 Bourbon, and was going to pay out-of-pocket for it because the pit boss hadn’t comped him yet.
Flicka leaned in and told him, “Try the Buffalo Trace Bourbon. It’s a quarter of the price, and it’s made in the same distillery from the same mash. It’s highly underrated.”
Bourbon Guy drank that and was really happy about the cheaper booze. Whenthe pit boss finally comped the poor man, she whispered to him, “The bartender has set aside a bottle of Maker’s Mark Bill Samuels Private Select under the counter. It’s the same finished bourbon as the Maker’s 46, but it’s cask strength. You should try that.”
Bourbon Guy was even happier and tipped her a green chip.
The crowd closed around her as she hustled off to other tables.
At the TexasHold’em table, Dieter asked, “Another beer?”
His hoard of chips had grown, Flicka noticed, and there were definitely more there than they had scraped together that morning. He even had a small stack of black chips, which were worth one hundred dollars each.
She looked back at the Swiss guy Bastien who was sitting at the Five-Card Stud table, just to point him out to Dieter because it was kindof weird that another Swiss guy was sitting just five tables away, but his back was toward them.
“I’ll bring that beer right away,” she told Dieter.
