Forget to Remember

you.”
    “Reminds me of what girls wore in the forties and fifties. Those were the days. Sweaters that gave a hint of what was inside, but you had to use your imagination to fill it in—or out.” He chuckled. “Now when most girls wear a sweater, it’s cut down to here, boobs spilling out all over the place. Leaves nothing to the imagination.”
    Carol had almost worn her v-neck top. Close call.
    Ault continued in reminiscing mode. “Back when my brain worked better, I used to write poetry. I bet you don’t believe that, Jake.”
    “No, Seb. I always thought of you as a hard-drinking sports nut.”
    “That’s a fair assessment, but there was a softer side to me that didn’t show up in the locker room. In fact, I wrote a poem called ‘Sweater Girl.’” He rang the bell, and when the woman appeared he said, “Send in Kyle.”
    The man in the suit came into the room.
    “Kyle, go and print out a copy of the poem called ‘Sweater Girl.’ I want to present it to the young lady.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Kyle smiled and disappeared through another doorway. He returned while they were eating ice cream with a choice of sauces. He handed the poem to Ault who bowed his head slightly, gave it to Carol, and invited her to read it.
    Carol put down her spoon and looked at the computer-printed page.

    I long for the days of the sweater girl—
    Those innocent days.
    In dreams she would haunt us,
    She'd tease us and taunt us
    In reds, whites and grays.

    Some say that today's is a better girl—
    A girl you can touch.
    She's strong and aggressive
    Or sweet and caressive;
    She's sometimes too much.

    For instance, when she is a wetter girl—
    Aswim at the beach
    In G-string bikini,
    So tiny, so teeny;
    It's all within reach.

    And then there's the case of the letter girl—
    A feminine jock.
    She'll kick, hit and chase balls
    Like soccer and baseballs;
    Watch out for her sock!

    I long for the days of the sweater girl—
    With figure supreme.
    She'd make us delirious
    But still be mysterious,
    And leave us our dream.

    “I like it.” Carol was impressed. It wasn’t Robert Frost, but it had a certain energy to it. It also rhymed, something the songs Beard had been playing on the radio didn’t seem to do.
    “Thank you. Nothing warms my heart more than praise from a lovely lady.”
    “May I keep this?”
    “Of course. That’s your copy.”
    Ault excused himself, citing a bladder problem, and wheeled out of the room. Carol looked at Beard. “What do we do now?”
    “Now we get to work. As I said, leave the talking to me.” Beard spoke uncharacteristically softly, as if the walls had ears, leaning across the table.
    “He’s such a nice man. I hate to—”
    “He’s a bastard and a crook. This is no time to start thinking. Just do what you’re getting paid to do.”
    Carol didn’t say anything more. There was no point arguing with Beard. She pretended to reread the poem. When Ault returned, he ushered them into a gigantic living room that also featured wall-to-wall windows. There was a card table in one corner. Ault positioned himself at the table, still in his wheelchair, with his back to the window. At Beard’s signal, Carol sat down opposite Ault. Beard sat to Ault’s right.
    “Well, Jake, I guess you came here to take my money. Since I won’t gamble with you anymore, you brought Carol to do the honors. Did you train her?”
    “I didn’t need to. She’s better than I ever was. She took money from me.”
    Ault laughed and turned to Carol. “How did you learn the game these guys play?”
    “I grew up playing shell games on street corners.”
    Ault laughed again. “I like a girl with a sense of humor.” He picked up a deck of cards. “If you had your choice, how would you set it up?”
    “Uh…how about 5-4-3-2-1 and I start?”
    “Okay, but if I lose, I get to call the next round.”
    That sounded fair to Carol.
    Beard said, “Let’s talk stakes.” He opened his purse and poured a stack of one hundred dollar bills onto the table. “How about five grand?”
    Ault didn’t blink an eye. “You want to risk it all on the first game?”
    “Yeah, I trust Carol.”
    “All right. It’s your funeral.”
    Ault dealt the cards in the way Carol specified and nodded to her to move. She took one card from the row of five. She already had the game won. If Ault knew this, he didn’t let on, but it soon became apparent. When she took the last card, he was unfazed.
    “Oh well, easy come, easy go. Now I