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Casey retorted. The nicknames came from the stars of White Men Can’t Jump , since Casey was white like Woody Harrelson and Mose was black like Wesley Snipes. That movie was right up there with ice-cold ale and the best of Jackie Chan, as far as Casey was concerned. Maybe it was even right up there with sex.
    “Where’s your focus, man? Where’s your concentration?”
    “It’s focusing and concentrating on something other than b-ball,” Casey admitted, dribbling to his favorite spot, just to the left of the key, and lofting the ball toward the basket. It circled the rim, then rolled off.
    “You suck,” Mose said amiably.
    “No shit.” He crossed to the bench beside the court and dug in his pack for his water bottle.
    Mose joined him. A sheen of perspiration coated his skin and he pulled from his bag a bottle of turquoise Gatorade. Hideous color, Casey thought, but Mose undoubtedly needed the electrolytes and minerals. He’d actually been playing hard enough to work up a sweat.
    They gulped their beverages, lowered their bottles and snapped the lids shut. Then Mose stared at him. “So, what’s up?”
    “I’m thinking of starting my own catering business.”
    Mose threw back his head and laughed. When Casey didn’t join him, he stopped laughing and stared harder at him. “What are you, crazy?”
    “No. I’ve always wanted to have my own business, and now might be the time.” He paused, then added, “I need your help.”
    “ My help? No way.”
    “You’re a business consultant. You’ve got an MBA. You get paid to give advice to people like me.”
    “You gonna pay me?”
    At that, Casey cracked a smile. “What do you think?”
    Mose took another sip of Gatorade, then shook his head. “Okay, Woody, I’ll give you some advice and I won’t charge you a nickel for it. Don’t start your own catering business.”
    “Why not? I moonlight for that catering outfit on Queens Boulevard—”
    “The one run by that gorilla guy?”
    “Vinnie Carasculo. He’s not a gorilla.”
    “He’s got hairy arms. I wouldn’t wanna eat his catered food.”
    “Okay, so I should open my own catering business. Then you could eat my catered food.”
    Mose searched Casey’s face, amusement and disbelief warring in his expression. He had to look up slightly; even sitting, Casey had two inches on Mose. When they played basketball, the height differential never bothered Mose because, as he loved to point out, white men couldn’t jump. But when they sat, Casey’s height seemed to vex him. “You’ve got a sweet deal going at Bloom’s,” he reminded Casey. “They love you there. You’re in tight with the boss’s daughter—”
    “The boss’s sister,” Casey corrected him.
    “Whatever. You got a good deal there, Casey. They pay you well, you can leave at three in the afternoon and you get to invent weird bagels.”
    “What’s weird about them?”
    “Oh, come on. What was that new flavor you were telling me about last week? Scallion bagels?”
    “Chive.”
    “Same thing. What do you wanna leave that place for? They give you a nice fat salary to make chive bagels.”
    “I’m bored there,” Casey said. He hated lying to his friend, but he wasn’t ready to tell him his other reason—that if things were as bad between him and Susie as he suspected they were, he couldn’t continue to work for the Bloom family.
    Maybe things weren’t that bad. Maybe he’d misunderstood Susie when she’d said no. He’d asked her to move in with him, and she’d said no, but maybe she’d actually meant, “No, but I love you, Casey,” or “No, but ask me again next week and I’ll say yes,” or “I know what you mean.”
    Sure. There were so many different ways to interpret the word no .
    “Casey, my friend.” Mose leaned forward and adjusted his voice into a smooth baritone—the voice he no doubt used when he was in his office on Park Avenue South, reassuring a client while explaining to him that declaring Chapter 11