Can I borrow some money?

"Can I borrow some money?" Shouted the idiot who brought us to this filthy hole-in-the-wall. He had a mop of unwashed hair and dressed like the 1990's never ended. He even wore one of those woven Patagonia hoodies. And lots of patchouli.

Eileen had gone to the ladies' room and left me alone with him.

It was retro night at the bar. "Brick House" blasted, and every trashy girl on the dance floor strutted as if the Commodores wrote it just for her.

"Sure," I rummaged through my bag. "Here you go."

"Awww maaaan! Imports are at least nine bucks!" He watched me expectantly. I shrugged.

"That's all I got, maaaaan. You'll have to settle for $5 domestic."

"It's all good," He held out his fist, palm down. Reluctantly, I bumped it.

"You're welcome," I muttered, watching him cross the room. The nerve. He didn't even bother checking in his wallet first.

"Is he gone???" Eileen flopped into the booth, scaring the crap out of me.

I pointed towards the bar. "Went for more beer."

Craning her neck, she spotted him engrossed in a conversation with one of the Brick House dancers.

"Fantastic! Let's go NOW!" She said, chugging the rest of her pint and pulled me from the booth.

She ushered me down the sidewalk into a waiting Uber. I could barely keep up with her.

"Do you know who that guy is??" She asked, breathless.

"Yeah, some asshat who just borrowed my last five bucks and bitched that it wasn't enough," I said sarcastically. "Why?"

"Oh, my darling Robin, you'll get your money back." She grinned and handed me a man's wallet. "That was Granger Reynolds."

"The billionaire??" I stammered.

"Yep," she said, looking like the cat who ate the canary. "Shall we head to Virago for dinner?"