"Carr, if you're calling to tell me you're not coming in today, that your aunt is sick, or that you have a doctor's appointment in Manhattan...you're fired. I don't care--"
"I'm playing with Mr. Vick. I'm surprised he didn't tell you, you being Sales Manager and all."
"Bullshit, Carr. Vick's right here."
Rags is such a numb-nuts. No wonder he's a bad gambler. Wish I could get invited to one of his poker games.
He comes back on. "Vick says you don't tee off until twelve."
"Ask him if he wants me to hit two buckets of balls, use the putting green for an hour? Or if he wants me to play these five-handicappers from Bayonne cold?"
I can hear my dickhead Sales Manager--Mr. Vick's son-in-law--thinking. It's a grinding squeak.
"We're playing for fifty bucks a hole, Rags. Automatic presses."
Finally he says, "Have your butt in here EARLY tomorrow."