Saturday found Horace and Grant at the pickleball courts. Grant worked the previous Friday night dance and stayed late to help clean up. He slept in until close to ten, and didn’t make it to the courts until noon. Friday night dances took their toll on Grant, especially when the band was hot and Gloria was in a dancing mood. Even though Grant worked, Gloria snagged him more than a few times to dance.

Between games, while waiting for open courts, Grant told Horace about the craziness of the previous evening. “Last night sure was busy” Grant said.

“I heard they set a record. This morning, Tim, the Dance Committee leader, told me he’d never seen so many people jammed on the dance floor all at once.” Horace replied.

“When the band played the booty scooty song, I thought a fight would break out between the regular dancers and those out-of-control line dancers. I was ready to lay down a wager on the line dancers. They sure did look determined.”

Horace smiled. “It’s worse on County and Western Night. I always say, ‘Don’t be messin’ when the bunkins are two-steppin’.”

Someone called Horace and Grant’s names and they trotted off to a court for a game. They lost to a couple of young guys and were back on the sidelines in ten minutes.

“Who invited those young punks to come play here?” Grant asked. “They should go play where they live.”

“Sorry to inform you, Grant, but they live here. And they’re in their sixties.”

Grant grumbled, and then changed the subject. “Back to the dance last night. Guess who showed up? Rich Cazayu. He was there with his wife, all dressed up real flashy and glitzy?”

“You mean the financial advisor?” Horace asked.

“You know him?”

“Not really. But he gave a talk for the Wander In Social Club a few weeks ago. It was all about how to protect your assets, in other words, your retirement savings, by giving it all to him.”

Grant nodded. “Yeah, him. I remember now. He was dressed up all rich and wanted us to think that if we give him our money, we’d all become rich too. Anyway, I dealt with him last night. I was selling raffle tickets and strolled by his table. I saw him sitting there looking all snooty and such. And his wife looked like she was getting ready to have an interview with Robin Leach.”

“Except Robin died a few years ago.” Horace interjected.

Grant continued. “I thought she was wearing the Hope Diamond, but when I looked closer, I realized it was way too small to be the Hope Diamond. Anyway, I asked him if he wanted to buy some tickets. I told him they cost five bucks for eight tickets. He opened his wallet and pulled out this huge ol’ wad of cash. But all he had was four one-dollar bills and a bunch of fifties and hundreds. And I didn’t have change for bills that big.”

“What did you do?” Horace asked.

Grant pulled a dollar bill from his pocket. “I had this dollar in my pocket. I took it out and handed it to him so he could buy eight tickets. He gave me back my dollar with his four and I peeled off eight tickets. He thanked me and shoved his wallet back into his pocket while Mrs. Glitz and Gliimmer grabbed the tickets.”

“That sure was nice of you.” Horace said.

“And guess what? He wins. Two hundred bucks. When Tim called his number, his wife, smiling like the Cheshire Cat, jumped up like a hen on a hotplate, sashayed up to the front waving her jewelry all around and grabbed the winnings.”

Horace remarked. “Well, I guess it was her lucky day.”

“Here’s the worst part.” Grant said. “A few minutes later, I strolled by again and congratulated him for winning. In my mind, I was thinking that since I gave him my dollar, and that my dollar could have bought the winning ticket, and that one in five is twenty percent, and that twenty percent of two-hundred bucks is forty bucks, that maybe he’d realize that, since he’s obviously a numbers person, and give me forty bucks.”

“Did he?” Horace asked.

“Nope. I don’t think we was going to give me anything. But his wife said he should give me my dollar back and he did. So they went home with a hundred and ninety-nine dollar profit, all from possibly using my money.”

“Well, that sounds about right for a financial advisor.”

“Yep.” Grant said. “I think I’ll keep my money right where it is. I’ve wisely invested it, and it’s safe and sound.”

Just then, one of the two young guys who beat Horace and Grant earlier called their names. “You ready to lose again?” he smirked.

Grant reached into the pocket and pulled out the dollar bill. “A buck says we kick your butts this game.”

Horace looked up and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s such wise investing. But it sure is a better bet than forty dollars. Let’s play.”