Down at The Hot Spot
by W. E. Turner
Chapter 1--The Bar
For as long as anyone could remember, the nondescript, two-story, red brick building on the edge of the city’s industrial district housed a bar. In the old days, it was just a neighborhood tavern; a place where workers could meet for a beer or two before taking the trolley or bus home or where people living in the neighborhood could stop in for a quiet drink and, depending on the discourse, some good or some bad conversation. By the 1960s, though, when evening tavern-goers became more enamored of solitary drinking in front of television sets than social drinking in bars, an attraction other than a cozy atmosphere had to be found. Since most of the tavern business came from men the attraction was, of course, women. At one time they were called “Go-Go” Dancers, but that label has been long passe’. Now, they were just Dancers—exotic and otherwise—though many wives and girlfriends insisted they were nothing more than sluts and whores.
The bar had been called, at various times under various owners: The Bunny Club, Les Girls, The Fox Den, The Jack-in-the-Box, The Silver Slipper or (its present incarnation) The Hot Spot. The name, though, was just the latest of a dozen labels owners had conjured up to give its would-be patrons an image of excitement, sophistication, charisma or glamour. Inside, even though almost every owner might remodel it a little, it was always the same old bar.
The high-ceilinged main room ran the length of the building back toward the drink preparation area, which was under the second-story mezanine where the dancers’ changed.
Four barstools sat in front of this bar, flanking the waitress station, and behind it long refrigeration units held mixers, wine coolers, bottles and cans of beer; all easily accessible to the bartender’s hand. On the back wall were various bottles of liquor, stacked in tiers and three draft spigots, each dispensed the same brand of beer. Beer glasses proferred for refill or pulled from the stack beside the draft heads were quickly filled; the absence of a thick foam head attesting to the expertise of the bartender. Empty beer and wine cooler bottles crashed atop one another in the plastic-lined trash can; beer cans, though, could be recycled and were tossed into different receptacles.
Gnats and fruitflies buzzed drunkenly above the trashcans behind this bar, attracted by the yeasty, rotten smell of their contents and feasted on the leftover mixers and booze in the bottoms of discarded plastic drink cups or in empty beer cans and bottles.
Along the north wall, a raised area held a row of booths; each with a good view of the stage. On the south wall, only the first booth afforded a good view, the others receded into the darkness of the alcove beside the door; trysting places where many promises were made, but few kept. Tables and chairs crowded into the remaining space and a pool table was squeezed in between the Lazerdisk Jukebox and the west wall.
The stage was made of particle board, unfinished and raw-looking except for the tiled stage itself and the laminated top of the low bar that ran around its edge. Low chairs at this bar awaited customers who wanted to sit close to the action: Pervert’s Row; that’s what the older, more experienced or less horny patrons called it.
In the middle of the stage, a chrome-plated steel pole ran from an anchor socket on the floor to disappear into the ceiling tiles. There, dancers could swing or spin around the pole’s slick, cold surface or use its upright statement to split the patrons’ view of their breasts or thighs or buttocks; anything to try to heighten the enticement or sensation that the dancers were, indeed, performing just for you.
This Friday night in early June, business was brisk.
Chapter 2--Vinny Vendetti & Barbi Jemmison
Air Force Master Sergeant Vincent "Vinny" Vendetti looked out from his booth toward the other patrons of The Hot Spot.
Same-o, Same-o, he thought, using the serviceman’s Pidgin English expression he’d picked up while on duty in the Phillipines and Japan. You ain’t no different than they are, Vanduzzi, his mind went on. Just because you got a little College behind you, don’t make you any better than they are. He remembered a little snatch of song lyrics.
I am he
and you are me
and they are we
and we are all together.
The pronouns of the nearly-ancient song ran through Vinny’s mind like a Lennonesque litany: meaningless until some drunken fool like himself gave them a significance that seemed profound at the moment but which would, he knew, appear hopelessly inane in the hangover-filled pain of morning. So Vinny didn’t even bother to write any of the thoughts down. As if he could remember what they were, anyhow. He couldn’t remember back that far. But Vinny knew he should remember what he had just been thinking about... What was it? ...because he knew, just knew, it was significant. He knew a thought like that would help him get an “A” in the philosophy course he would take at night at the University that summer. He was sure of that; certain in the self-deluded manner of all drunks. He’d get an “A” because college Assistant or Associate Professors were really impressed by anything that came even remotely near the definitions of “profound” and “erudite” whether the idea was really significant or not. Especially, Vinny thought, if the thought comes from an old fart like me.
“Aw, fuck it,” Vinny said, drunkenly, into the noisy air of the bar where no one was listening to him, anyway, and went back to watching Barbi dance. He had already forgotten what the profound thought was. All he could remember was that he’d had a profound thought. That was all that was significant, anyway.
The words of “I Am The Walrus” that Vinny heard in his mind had absolutely no relation to the Garth Brooks song playing on the jukebox at that moment. Barbi Jemmison had played the song because she liked Garth Brooks and his sad, drawling voice. Besides, she was pretty sure she could dance well to the rhythms of this song. Dancing well might even get her some more tips from the drunks there in The Hot Spot. Not that it really mattered how well or how poorly she danced. She knew that. The crowd of factory workers, airmen from the Air Force base and motorcycle bums would still tip her. After all, they always did. They would tip her because she was vaguely pretty and they could all dream of going to bed with her tonight. Fat chance. They would ignore the stretch marks on her hips that showed up so well under the black lights surrounding the stage and they would ignore the tatters in the sequined bikini top she wore over her stretched and sagging breasts. They would ignore the burn and bruise on the inside of her left thigh caused by the still-hot iron falling off the ironing board two nights ago when Barbi and her live-in Lesbian lover wrestled together on the floor as Barbi’s two-year-old son sat and watched, his training pants full of shit. They would ignore all that and still tip her and still dream. And Barbi would smile at them and pour their beer from the plastic pitchers into their plastic glasses and make promises with her eyes that she had no intention of keeping.
Chapter 3--Jeff Bonin and Yvonne Gutierrez
Jeffrey Bonin stood up from his seat at the low bar beside the stage and took three steps on his short, dwarflike bowlegs toward the Lazerdisk Jukebox. Jeff’s man-sized torso swayed wildly from side to side on each alternating step and his stubby arms waved through the smoky air as he fought to maintain his balance. As Jeff came up beside Yvonne Gutierrez, who was peering shortsightedly at the selection list on the jukebox, he placed one cool hand on the smooth, sweaty skin of her back, just above the leopardskin-pattern swimsuit.
The woman jumped at the touch of the little, misshapen man but she smiled quickly when she turned and saw who it was. Yvonne had seen the hurt in Jeff’s eyes and she didn’t want to make him feel bad. After all, he was a good tipper; known to sometimes give out fives dollar bills instead of the usual singles. Then, too, he sometimes bought her a drink so she’d sit and talk to him a while. She knew he was just seeking to buy his way past his physical limitations and into some woman’s heart and bed and she allowed him to think he was succeeding, whether he really was or not.
Jeff smiled back at Yvonne, his pock-marked, guileless face aglow because the woman smiled at him, assuring him that at least someone cared how he felt.
“What’cha gonna play, Vonnie?” Jeff asked.
“Well, I was going to play that Garth Brooks song,” Yvonne said, nodding toward the stage, then turning back to the jukebox. “But Barbi beat me to it.” The woman placed the cigarette in her hand between her lips, peering past the smoke that wafted up into her eyes as she used both hands to punch two numbered buttons. “There,” she said. “‘Something to Talk About’. Bonnie Raitt.”
Over the noise of the bar, Jeff couldn’t really hear what Yvonne said, but he pretended he did. “Is that Country or Rock ‘n Roll?” he asked.
Yvonne shrugged her dusky shoulders. “Little of both, I guess,” she said. “I like her, though. Don’t matter. Long as you like someone’s music, it’s OK.”
Jeff was looking at the brown skin of Yvonne’s face and neck. “You an Indian?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Yvonne lied. “Apache. From Arizona.”
Actually, Yvonne’s father was a dark-skinned Puerto Rican and her mother was Vietnamese but the resulting mix of genes made Yvonne look like an American Indian, so she swapped two or three minority heritages for one. Besides, she reasoned, this ugly little dwarf would never know the difference.
“Thought so,” Jeff said. “I’m part Cherokee, myself.”
Which part? Yvonne asked in her mind. The legs? But she only smiled at Jeff and he returned it with genuine affection. Almost immediately, Yvonne regretted her thoughts. She knew the little man didn’t deserve her cynicism any more than he deserved his misshapen body, or any more than she deserved her own nigger-spic-gook heritage.
Yvonne, embarrassed by her thoughts, looked around the bar to see if Donnie had arrived yet. She squinted through the smoke, trying to see. I ought to wear my glasses, she thought, I can’t see past the end of my goddamned nose, anymore.
“Vonnie,” Jeff asked, expectantly. “There’s something I want to ask you....”
“Why don’t you ask me later, honey,” Yvonne said as sweetly as she could. “Go sit back down, now. I gotta go dance.”
Chapter 4--Mike Emmerich and Lori Middleton
Mike Emmerich lined up the eight ball calmly, but he could feel his heart racing in his chest. After all, he reasoned, five-dollar bills don’t exactly grow on trees. The eight ball was partially hidden behind the yellow one ball, but Mike knew he could make it. It was a scratch shot, though, if he cued the cue ball directly, so he gave it some lower right side english as he stroked the ball. The eightball ran directly into the pocket and the cueball ran softly over and hugged the rail.
“Good shot,” Mike’s opponent grunted. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill and tossed it onto the pool table.
Mike reached out quickly to grab the bill, palm it and shove it into his pocket. Didn’t want some cop to see it and bust him for gambling. Being in a bar and underage was bad enough; if they caught him gambling, too, Mike knew he’d probably get locked up at the County Farm for a long, long time. He didn’t know if his ass could stand that. Not after last time.
“Same stakes?” the next opponent in line asked as he shoved four quarters into the pool table and shoved the keeper in.
Mike listened to the rumbling vibration of the balls rolling into the hopper below the pool rack. “Fine with me, man,” he said with a shrug as he chalked his cue.
This, he thought, just might turn out to be a very profitable evening.
------
Lori Middleton was by far the most beautiful dancer at The Hot Spot. She wasn’t the best dancer, though; Didi Fewin was. But even though Lori knew she could never match Didi’s ballerina-like grace, Lori’s long blond hair, winning smile and centerfold figure more than offset the horse-faced Didi’s superb dancing. That made Lori the most popular feature in the bar.
As she listened to the punchline of a lurid joke told by one of the bikers at a back table, Lori’s teasing grin showed she appreciated the effort, if not the substance of the humor.
“Oh, you’re terrible,” she told the biker, punching him playfully on the upper arm.
“You guys want another pitcher?” she asked the table full of motorcycle riders. She picked up the plastic pitcher and poured the last of its contents into the joke-teller’s glass. The bikers nodded their assent and Lori started toward the bar with the empty, feeling a playful slap on her bottom as she turned. “Assholes,” she muttered under her breath without losing her smile.
Keeping a smile on her face was an effort for Lori, though. Her son was dead. Nothing could change that. At times, when thoughts came to her that she couldn’t stop, the corners of Lori’s mouth would begin to droop a little and her shinning eyes would become a bit mistier. She could often picture the little white coffin that didn’t quite fill the back of the hearse and the lonely grave among strangers over in Hillside Cemetery, but she took pains to make sure no one noticed their effect on her. Sniffles she attributed to allergies and red and watering eyes were said to be the result of the smoke-filled environment.
She told herself, time and again, that it was foolish for her to keep dwelling on it. After all, it had been more than ten months since her son, Mike, had died of heat convulsions brought on by being locked in the trunk of a junked car in a salvage yard near their apartment. Mike’s two older cousins, aged ten and twelve, had shut the three-year-old up in the trunk as a lesson for bothering them, then turned to other play and forgot about Mikey for a couple of hours. About that time their mother, the aunt who was supposed to be baby-sitting, inquired about Mike’s whereabouts.
Though the car’s trunk was quickly opened by the owner of the salvage yard, the ninety-five degree heat of August had done its work. Mike was unconscious when they pulled him out of the car. The temperature inside the trunk had soared to 130 by that time. Mike’s body temperature was 110 and he was barely breathing.
At the hospital Lori, who never had much use for religion, prayed fervently, making all sorts of promises to all sorts of Gods and Saints to let her boy live, but it did no good. Mikey died within two hours of reaching the hospital without regaining consciousness.
“Lori?” Jody, the short, fat bartender, asked. “You OK?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Lori said, displaying her best smile—the one she usually reserved for friends or tipping customers. “Just daydreaming,” she said, unaware of exactly how long she had been standing at the bar, remembering. “I need a JB and water and Walker Red, straight up, too. Water back.”
Lori picked up the pitcher of beer. “I’ll be back for those in a couple of minutes,” she said and started back toward the bikers’ table.
Chapter 5--Didi Fewin and Randy Detwiler
Didi Fewin and her boyfriend were arguing again. She motioned for him to get up and follow her back, away from the other customers, to the short hallway that led to the restrooms and the back door. She stood there, fuming; left arm crossing her bikini-clad breasts, the hand meeting the right arm at the elbow, the right hand raised to elegantly hold a cigarette. On the tiled floor, the toe of Didi’s spike-heeled shoe tapped out her irritation as she waited for Randy to come to her.
Randy Detwiler approached her languidly, almost as if he was only doing it as a favor. “I told you,” Didi said acidly, as the long-haired man approached, “I need that money for Sarah’s leg brace. The doctor told me she was going to have to wear it all summer. Get that leg straightened out and maybe she’ll be able to walk like the other kids next fall when she starts school.”
“Well, I need that new gear box, too,” Randy said, defensively. “Bike won’t go without it. Can’t win no money if I don’t race.”
“Well, how about if you get a job, instead.”
“I got a job. At Dave’s.”
“I mean one that pays you money. Regular money. Not just commission on repairs.”
“I’ll make some more money this summer. Racin’,” Randy said. “Just like I did last year. Hell, I done got fifty for finishin’ third at Hallet two weeks ago, even with the broke gear box. Wouldda finished first if it hadn't broke. An’ didn’t I make us a lot o’ money racin' last year?”
“It wasn’t that much.”
“More’n you made, workin’ in this shit hole.”
Didi didn’t have a comeback for that statement, since it was true, even though tips made up for the difference in income. Now, confronting Randy directly, she found she was having a hard time maintaining the hard edge of her anger.
“Well,” she said, “I won’t be working here much longer.”
“You gonna take that sales job?”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
Randy snorted. “Shit. You ain’t no salesman.”
Didi glared at the man, her anger returning.
“OK, salesperson,” Randy corrected himself, striving for the political correctness that he thought might make Didi happy--or at least happier. “But you ain’t a salesperson, Dee. You ain’t tough enough.”
“Oh, yeah? And I suppose you know all about it,” Didi said.
“Hell, my dad worked sales all his life,” Randy said. “Insurance and Real Estate, both. I saw what it done to him. Saw how hard he always worked.” He shook his head. “Job ain’t as easy as it looks.”
Randy watched the look of disgust on Didi’s face slowly fade to one of worry. Worry about money. Worry about her daughter. Worry about Randy himself and his intentions toward her. “You’re just too kindhearted, Dee,” Randy went on. “People tell you ‘no’ and you believe ‘em. You ain’t no closer. You don’t know how to close a sale. Ain’t got enough of the killer instinct in you.”
He reached out for her and Didi allowed herself to be drawn into his arms. “But I ain’t sayin’ that’s bad,” the young man went on. “I don’t want you to have no ‘killer instinct.’” He raised the girl’s head and smiled at her. “Hell, if you did, you might use it against me.”
Didi put her arms around Randy’s waist, wondering why it was she could never stay mad at him for long.
Chapter 6--Brad Comanger
Brad Comanger felt like a kid again. He could feel himself grinning and he knew that the grin had been there on his face for a long time. Brad was certain he’d worn it all through the ride on the motorcycle. He was even fairly sure that if he ran his tongue over his teeth, he’d even find bugs splattered there.
Hell, he thought, I haven’t been on a bike since ’72. Not since California and the Army. Not since the day I rode the Sportster from Fort Ord out to Big Sur; the day Ed Milligan ate the bumper of that truck.
With a sigh, Brad shook off that thought and turned to the members of the El Forasteros who had ridden with him that day. He grinned at them, looking at their studded denim vests, loops of chain, leather wristbands, bandanas and crushed caps with Harley Davidson emblems on the front, leather knee-length boots, massive forearms and shoulder-length hair. Brad knew his Polo shirt, slacks, neatly-trimmed hair and white mustache offered a stark contrast to their appearance.
Hell, Comanger, he thought. Sixty-year-old computer programmers aren’t supposed to wear colors and ride motorcycles. They’re supposed to wear sensible shoes and drive a Prius. You’d think you’d have more sense than that. Wife and a mortgage and four kids, two of 'em in college.... He tried to bring the earlier smile back; but Brad knew his smile was probably gone for good, now. Just like his youth.
With a little laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, Brad wondered whatever possessed him to visit that motorcycle salesroom that day; what made him tell the Forasteros who were there about how he used to ride; what made him accept their offer to let him come along on the borrowed chopper for the ride across town to The Hot Spot. But he knew the answer to that question. Tomorrow would be Brad’s Sixty-First birthday.
Chapter 7--Barbi, Vinnie and Yvonne
“You tippin’ tonight, honey?” Barbi asked Vinny Vendetti as he poured another beer from his pitcher into his glass.
Vinny’s non-committal grunt gave Barbi no indication of the man’s intentions.
“You wanna tip me for my dance?” the dark-haired girl asked, moving closer, placing one knee on the bench of the booth where Vinny sat.
“For your dance, huh?” Vinny asked. He looked up at her as she smiled expectantly at him. He debated with himself a few moments. “Sure, hon,” he said at last.
Vinny knew Barbi didn’t really deserve a tip. The few languid turns she had taken around the polished-steel pole and the two or three desultory undulations of her hips the girl had performed during her two-song stint of “dancing” did not warrant a reward. As Vinny pulled out his wallet and extracted a one dollar bill, Barbi leaned closer to him. With one hand, she pulled the middle of her bikini top forward for the man to slip the bill between her breasts. Vinny caught a glimpse of a dark aureole and erect nipple as he placed the dollar. He was certain the exposure was intentional but he did not find the sight in any way alluring. With a quick kiss on Vinny’s cheek, Barbie continued on to the next table to seek more tips.
Vinny, meanwhile, turned his attention back to Yvonne. That, he thought, is the way it ought to be done.
What Yvonne might have lacked in skill as a dancer, she more than made up for with exuberance. Unlike some of the other girls who worked at the Hot Spot and other bikini or topless bars around town, Yvonne actually enjoyed dancing. She felt the music and allowed it to guide her movements. Though she was not as graceful as Didi or as sexy as Lori when they danced, Yvonne’s enjoyable and joyful movements made almost everyone who watched her feel good. Yvonne was a cheerleader, too, exhorting applause from the collection of outcasts that made up her audience; giving life to that often-sullen crowd of society’s rejects. She had a knack of drawing smiles from the even the gloomiest of faces.
Most of the songs Yvonne danced to were Country and the style of music was reflected in her dancing. A hint of Two-Step, a little bit of Cotton-Eyed Joe, some Country Stroll and other moves were performed as Yvonne sang softly along with the music. But even though she seemed totally immersed in each song, the quick smile she gave or the wink she might award one man as she caught his eye drew that spectator into the dance with her, allowing that man to share in her joy; her life.
Vinny felt it. He made up his mind that when Yvonne came around to his table soliciting tips, he would tip her double what he had given the other girls. She was worth it.
Chapter 8--Mike Emmerich and Taylor Pachourek
“Heeeeeey, Mikey!”
The cry from the large, straggly-haired man dressed in jeans, denim vest and tattoos stopped almost all conversation and all movement in the bar for an instant. Lori Middleton looked up with heavy-lidded, sad eyes on hearing the name. Yvonne Gutierrez paused in the midst of a sideways waggle of her left calf. Barbi Jemmison looked up from the drink the old man in one of the booths along the wall bought her. Mike Emmerich looked up from a two-ball combination he was aligning to try and sink the twelve ball in the side pocket.
“Ah, shit,” Mike muttered under his breath. “It’s Taylor.” Mike tried to maintain his concentration but he found his eyes continually glancing furtively to the side, watching Taylor’s progress as his old cellmate moved toward the pool table. Mike shot but the combination went wide and the twelve ball bounced off the edge of the pocket. It rolled away to bury itself against the rail on the opposite side of the pocket opening. A tough shot coming back, Mike knew, unless he lucked out on shape the next time his opponent missed.
Taylor Pacourek was almost as wide as he was tall and nearly as ugly as he was unkempt. The hairy, sweaty belly that protruded above his grease-stained, patched and faded Levi’s had grease stains on it, too, and a navel that receded from the belly’s globular surface like a black hole, absorbing all light. Taylor was 19, now; too old to be tried as a juvenile, but looking so much older he was seldom carded any more. Mike, on the other hand, had to use his older brother’s ID to get into bars to play pool.
“Hey, Mikey,” Taylor said as he approached the table. “How’s my sweetheart?”
“Fuck you, Taylor,” Mike snorted.
“Mikey, Mikey, Mikey,” Taylor said with a grotesque grin. “Is that any way to talk to your old lover?”
“You ain’t my fuckin’ lover, asshole.”
“But I’m your asshole lover, ain’t I?” Taylor laughed.
Mike said nothing else as a comeback, knowing Taylor would probably have some other smart-ass remark to follow it up with. Instead, he glanced at the other people in the area to make sure they were not listening in on this conversation. Except for his opponent, who was lining up a shot on the seven ball, everyone else was either involved in their own conversations or watching Yvonne dance to the Bonnie Raitt song.
Taylor stood for a few moments watching Mike’s opponent play pool. The man sank the seven ball but the cueball ran too far after it and he had no makeable shot left. He tried to bank the six ball into the opposite corner pocket, but the six rattled around the corner and then came out to the middle of the table. Taylor grunted and walked over to the bar to order a beer.
With a sneer of disgust, Mike watched Taylor for a moment, then set to work with a fervor. He quickly sank the fifteen, then the thirteen, then banked the relunctant twelve ball into the opposite side pocket. That set him up perfectly for the nine ball. By that time Taylor, beer in hand, was back at his side.
“Ya know, Mikey,” Taylor said as Mike sank the nine and drew back the cueball to set himself up for the eight, “I’m awful fuckin’ horny tonight.”
Mike chalked his cue and tried his best to give an air of complete disinterest. “So,” he said. “Sounds like a personal problem to me.” With his cue, he indicated to his opponent that he intended to sink the eight ball in the corner pocket, then bent over to align the shot.
“So, I was just wondering,” Taylor said, leaning closer. “You wanna give me a blow job tonight?”
Mike only paused imperceptably before shooting and sinking the eightball. When he stood up, he could feel himself trembling slightly; whether it was with rage or with fear, he was not sure. He looked at Taylor. The ugly young man’s sneer assured Mike that Taylor was serious.
Mike accepted the five dollar bill his vanquished opponent proffered and shoved it into his pocket. “Not only no,” Mike told Taylor, “but fuck, no.” He looked around to see who his next opponent was. There were no more quarters lying on the side rail of the pool table.
“Aw, come on, Mikey,” Taylor chided. “Ya know ya like it. I mean, it ain’t like you ain’t done it before.”
“You didn’t give me much choice, did you,” Mike said, his trembling becoming a bit worse. He hoped Taylor didn’t notice.
“Oh, I gave you a choice, all right,” Taylor said. “You coulda done it or I’da beat the shit out of ya. You chose to do it. An’ you enjoyed it, too, didn’t ya?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Coulda fooled me, sweetheart. You acted like you did.”
“I didn’t.”
Taylor continued to give Mike a self-confident, threatening grin. “Tell ya what, though,” he said. “I’ll give you the same choice tonight. Whatd’ya say, baby?”
“I’d say, ‘Get fucked.’” Mike’s trembling was becoming more noticeable, so he provided some action to cover it. He began breaking down his pool cue and putting it into his softsided carrying case.
“I rather get sucked,” Taylor said. “‘Long as it was you doin’ the suckin’.”
Mike started to zip up the carrying case for his cue, then stopped and pulled out the butt end. He turned the heavy end of the cue section down, where it was the first end to go into the case, leaving the brass end connection up toward the zipper so he could pull it out easily, providing a ready-made club. He only zipped the zipper part way.
“Leave me the fuck alone, Taylor,” Mike said through clenched teeth. “Just leave me alone.”
Mike started walking, as calmly as he could, toward the bar’s back door. Taylor followed him, just a few steps behind.
Chapter 9--Yvonne and Jeff
“That’s Bonnie Raitt, guys,” Yvonne told the lethargic crowd, where only sporadic applause occurred. “Come on,” she said, clapping her hands as the last strains of the song died away. “Let’s show a little life out there.”
Several of the men clapped their hands, dutifully. Others, such as the diminutive Jeff Bonin, cheered as they applauded. In his raised booth along the north wall, above stage level, Vinny Vendetti placed the thumb and middle finger of his right hand into his mouth to produce an ear-splitting whistle.
As Yvonne came off the stage, the first things she grabbed were a towel and her pack of cigarettes. She used the towel to dry the perspiration on her face and shoulders and then leaned over to one side, allowing her long black hair to hang down away from her sweaty neck. She dried her neck, then began drying her hair, which had grown damp and stringy from her perspiration as she danced.
“My God,” Yvonne said as she straightened up, “I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”
Jeff Bonin stood up from his seat at the low bar beside the stage to help dry Yvonne off. He took the towel in his stubby fingers and used it to rub down her back between the deep “V” of the leopardskin swimsuit fabric.
“Thank you, baby,” Yvonne said. “You’re sweet.” She pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it.
Didi Fewin moved between the two, making her way to the stage for her own two-song set.
“Just how old are you, Vonnie?” Jeff asked Yvonne.
Yvonne chuckled, taking the towel from Jeff and rubbing her face with it again. “Now, I was always told that was a question you never asked a woman.” She laughed, good-naturedly, at the embarrassment she saw on his face. “Guess,” she said. “Guess how old I am.”
“Oh, I donno,” Jeff shrugged. “I was never too good at guessin’ ages.”
He looked at her. She wore no makeup, of that he was sure; her perspiration would have washed it all off by now if she did. He saw the shine of the smooth skin below her eyes, the high cheekbones and her wide, oval face. No blemishes, no wrinkles, no gray in her hair. And he was well aware of the high, firm shape of her breasts, without sag, and the taut muscles of her buttocks. He shrugged again. “Oh. I’d say thirty, tops. Between twenty-five and thirty. Twenty-seven.”
Yvonne laughed. “Keep guessin’, honey. I’ll let you know if you hit it.” She used the towel to wipe the front of her neck all the way down to the top of her swimsuit. “You gonna tip me, tonight, hon?” she asked.
“I was gonna buy you a drink, if that’s OK,” the little man said.
“Sure, baby,” she said with a delighted lilt in her voice. “Give me the money and I’ll bring it back here in a minute. Gotta go visit some of the other tables, first.”
Jeff pulled out his wallet and drew out two fives, which Yvonne took and headed toward the bar. He watched her as she made her progress in that direction, stopping at the table next to the video game, then moving on to the patrons sitting on barstools back in the corner. At each stop, Yvonne collected more tips and bestowed on every tipper a soft, but lingering kiss.
Jeff turned back around to watch Didi dance. He couldn’t stand to watch Yvonne anymore. It was just too painful. She seemed to enjoy every other man’s company more than his.
Chapter 10--Didi, Mike & Taylor
Didi Fewin was feeling athletic tonight. As the tenor saxophone wailed out the first few bars of Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page,” Didi sprang up onto the pole in the middle of the stage. It was a strong leap and Didi spun once, twice, then grasped the pole more firmly to slow her spin, keeping with the rhythm of the song. A third turn, a fourth one. Her body descended gradually until her left toe touched the stage just as the saxophone player paused to take a breath.
In the next bar of the song, Didi stepped away from the pole and spun herself again, slowly, without holding onto anything. Then she arched her back; bending backward until her shoulder-length hair almost touched the surface of the stage. She kicked out of the back-bend with a predatory, desirous half-smile on her face; one finger extended as, spinning one more time, she caught each man’s eye.
“I want you,” her look declared; but few men felt worthy, or even capable, of weathering the intensity of emotion Didi’s expression promised. The extended hand raised and the woman spun herself again. The face looked up at the ceiling, now, since no mortal seemed worthy of her acceptance. She straightened once more and spin followed spin, the arm extended again and again to beckon every spectator into the web of her allure. Every real man watching her was breathless, captivated.
Pretenders said they’d seen better, other places, but none offered any proof.
-------
“Hey, Mikey, don’t ya love me anymore?” Taylor Pacourek called out to Mike Emmerich’s retreating back.
Mike stopped, looking around in the small parking lot south of The Hot Spot. Shit, he thought. I forgot. I parked on the other side of the bar, tonight. But he knew this would be a better place for a showdown with Taylor. This parking lot was in the shadow of the building and off the street—away from the prying eyes of passing police cruisers or casual passers-by.
“Keep away from me, Taylor,” Mike told his pursuer. “I ain’t suckin’ your dick. That’s all there is to it.” He could feel himself trembling again.
The large young man stopped. He snorted, then a sardonic half-smile creased his ugly face. “Mighty uppity for a weak-assed little faggot, ain’t ya?” he asked.
“I ain’t no faggot,” Mike said with vehemence.
Taylor gave a short, chuckling laugh. “Yes, ya are. Me and the other studs done marked you for one. Give ya the tattoo an’ ever’thing.” Taylor held up his bare forearm. There, beneath the hair and dirt, surrounded by the tattoo of a raging dragon, was a blue heart.
Mike resisted the temptation to look down at his own forearm at the blue tattoo Taylor and three other older boys had etched on Mike’s arm that day at the county farm—the day the four of them raped Mike. As if the arm itself knew it was being considered, the skin under the tattoo itched.
“So,” Taylor went on, “are you gonna suck me off, or what?” Though he didn’t actually voice the threat, the implication of what the phrase “or what” meant was evident. “Besides,” he said, “you like it. That time at The Farm when you done me.... You liked that, and you know it.”
With tears of frustration welling up in his eyes, Mike realized that what Taylor said was true. He had enjoyed it. He hadn’t done it willingly, that was certain, but he had actually enjoyed it. Sort of. He’d enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him. The power to bring pleasure to others.
“But...,” Mike started to say, then stopped to clear his throat. “You know.... You could have been a little nicer about asking me to do it again. That ‘Hey, Mike. Suck my dick’ stuff wasn’t very...,” he stopped. His right hand slid toward the unzipped section of his pool cue case. “...very... romantic.” He used that word because he couldn’t think of a better one.
“Oh,” Taylor said, the teasing, sardonic half-smile still on his face. “You want we to,...” he paused, as if he, too, was looking for the right word. “...to court ya a little bit? Like you was a girl?”
Mike nodded dumbly, looking down at the ground.
“OK, baby,” Taylor said. He looked around the tiny parking lot. A trash dumpster was in the corner, next to a high fence. The shadows there were even darker than in the rest of the lot. “Why don’t we go back there, where it’s dark?” he asked, nodding toward the dumpster. Taylor reached up and placed a hand on Mike’s arm to turn him in that direction.
Though the touch made Mike want to recoil in disgust, he allowed Taylor to lead him back toward the dumpster.
Chapter 11--Yvonne & Vinny
“Hey, Sarge,” Yvonne said as she slid into the booth beside Vinny Vendetti. “How you doin’ tonight?”
Vinny shrugged. “OK, I guess. I thought ol’ Donnie might be down here, tonight.” Don Slusarski, Yvonne’s boyfriend, had been in Vinny’s unit out at the air base before the younger man was discharged two months ago.
“Ain’t seen him for two or three days, now,” Yvonne said. “He in some kind of trouble with the Air Force?”
“No,” Vinnie said. “I just haven’t seen him since he got out. Thought I’d come look him up. Look you up, too.” Vinnie looked intently at the pretty, dark-skinned woman, hoping she caught his meaning.
“Out slummin’, huh?” Yvonne chuckled. “Cheatin’ on your old lady, tonight? That it?”
Vinny looked away and tried to put a dispondent expression on his face. “Can’t cheat on my old lady any more,” he said. He held up his left hand, showing Yvonne the unadorned ring finger. “Ain’t got one.”
“You’re divorced?” she asked.
“Separated.”
“When did this happen?”
“Couple of months ago,” Vinny said. “She went to Florida to visit her folks. Never came back.” He took another drink of beer. Vinny looked over at Yvonne and sighed inwardly. She was the real reason he was there, but he didn’t know how to tell her that. Ever since Donnie’s “getting out” party, when he and Yvonne had kissed passionately in the back room of the NCO club, Vinnie had been enamored of this woman.
“So,” Yvonne asked, “what are you gonnna do?”
Vinnie shrugged. “I don’t know. She left the kids with me,” he said.
“Left the kids with you?” Yvonne shook her head. “Now, that’s something I couldn’t never do.” She paused, thinking. “You know, when Bill left me for that stupid bimbo he’s married to, now,... He asked if we could have joint custody of our kids. I told him there wasn’t any fuckin' way.”
“Did you ask the kids?”
Yvonne shook her head.
“Kinda usin’ them as weapons against him, aren’t you?”
The woman shrugged. “I guess,” she said. “He deserves it.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Vinny said. “They’re his kids, too, you know.”
“Not any more,” Yvonne insisted. “He gave up all rights to ‘em when he married that whore.” Yvonne got up to leave.
“Don’t you want your tip?” Vinny called after her.
The woman returned to the booth and stretched out the elastic on one leg of her swimsuit.
Vinnie shoved a dollar bill under the edge of the suit, then watched as Yvonne walked back to the low bar, where Jeff was waiting expectantly for her return.
Shit, Vinny thought to himself. Fucked that up, didn’t you.
Chapter 12--Jody Buczek
As “Turn the Page” ended and a new song began to play on the Lazerdisk Jukebox, Jody Buczek, the bartender, began looking around the bar for Lori Middleton. Lori was the dancer scheduled to be up next and should be picking out her songs now. Jody was the daughter of the bar’s owner and it was her responsibility to run the place tonight. She asked Jamal, the big black bouncer where Lori was, but he said he didn’t know for sure.
“I think I seen her go upstairs to change,” Jamal said. “But that was quite a while ago.”
Jody, still looking around the bar, spied Yvonne sitting beside the stage talking to the little dwarf guy who bought her that last drink. “Go ask Von to go upstairs and see if Lori’s still up there. Would you, Jamal?”
As Jody watched the bouncer moving toward the stage, Jodie smiled a little smile of satisfaction. I may be short and fat, she thought, but I can still get things done. I can make that big swartze do anything I need. Her eyes twinkled merrily for a moment as he bent over talking to Yvonne. I wonder if he’d like to go out with me, tonight? Her smile disappeared quickly at that thought.
“What the hell are you thinking about, Jody,” she muttered to herself as she turned to draw another beer for a customer. “With a name like Jamal, he’s gotta be a Muslim. There’s no way in hell he’d go out with a Jewish girl.” Unless, she thought, I didn’t tell him I'm Jewish.
“Shit,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m getting desparate. I just gotta lose some weight.”
Chapter 13--Yvonne, Lori & Barbi
Yvonne Gutierrez found Lori Middleton upstairs, sitting in a stiff-backed chair in the changing room. Lori was still dressed in her dancing outfit; a red satin bikini with fringe across the seam of the cups on the bra and across the back of the bottoms. Her hair was still attractively coiffed in piles of golden ringlets accented with two small fans of red feathers. But the woman was rocking slowly, rythmically back and forth, her eyes focused on nothing. One hand held a cigarette that had burned down almost to the filter, the ash hanging precariously, threatening to fall at the least abrupt movement.
For several moments Yvonne watched as Lori sat there, completely oblivious to her surroundings; equally unaware of Yvonne’s presence.
“Lori,” Yvonne spoke the name gently, trying to get the girl’s attention. “Lori, honey, what’s the matter?”
For a time, Lori continued to stare straight ahead; then her eyes slowly focused. She blinked her eyes and glanced up at Yvonne’s face for an instant, then returned to their straight-ahead position, but actually seeing the far wall, now.
“Did you hear what... what that fat guy said when he came in a while ago?” she asked, slowly. “Mikey... He said..., ‘Mikey.’”
Lori blinked her eyes a couple more times. She became aware of the smoldering cigarette butt in her hand and dropped it to the floor where it joined two others, equally unsmoked after they were lit.
Yvonne had known Lori for a couple of years, now. They worked together at Daddy Albert’s, south of the city, just after Lori and her husband divorced; where Lori, like Yvonne, started work as a dancer because she had no other marketable skills. Yvonne was well aware of the portent of the name “Mikey.” She looked intently at the blonde woman; watching her. She’s crazy as a fuckin’ bedbug, Yvonne thought. Girl’s finally gone off her nut, for sure.
“I always told him that if he was good, nothing bad would ever happen to him,” Lori said, still talking slowly and again rocking back and forth. “And he was always good. But something bad did happen to him. Why?" She took and deep breath and let it out in a slow, quavering sigh. "Why can’t things ever turn out the way they’re supposed to?” The tears that had been welling up in Lori’s eyes for a such long time began running down her cheeks, now. “Why can’t good things ever happen to people like us, Vonnie?” she asked. “Why is it that if you’re poor or ugly or stupid..., you always get the shitty end of the stick? Why is that? Why is it that only rich folks have all the good luck and none of the bad?” She sniffed, wetly, and shook her head. “Why is that? Do the rich people bribe God to do that, or what? Why is it that a tornado always hits a... hits a mobile home park, where poor people live, and never goes through a neighborhood full of million-dollar homes?” She stood up, wiping her eyes and starting toward the door of the dressing room.
“I don’t know,” was all Yvonne could say. “I can’t tell you the answers to any of them questions.” The comment seemed totally inappropriate. Yvonne knew there must be something she could say—something she could do—to make things better for Lori, but she didn’t know what those things were.
Yvonne walked up to Lori and hugged her, gently, almost as if she were hugging her own daughter. “Lori,” Yvonne said, finally, knowing she had to do something to help snap Lori out of it. “I know there ain’t nothin' I can do or nothin' I can say to make it all better. I know I can’t take away your pain. I can’t feel bad for you, honey; but I can feel bad with you. Seein' you so sad makes me sad, hon. And maybe,” Yvonne paused and swallowed. She could feel herself starting to cry, too. “Maybe if we can share the pain.... Then maybe that can make some of it go away.”
Lori laid her head on Yvonne’s shoulder and began crying more earnestly, now. Not knowing what else to do, Yvonne simply stood there, holding onto the blonde woman. “There, there, honey,” Yvonne said. Again, she feeling like she was talking to her daughter. The blonde woman become limp in Yvonne’s arms as if now, with someone to hold onto, she didn’t need internal support any more. “It’s OK, hon,” Yvonne said. “You just go ahead and cry. Cry it all out. You been holdin’ it back too long, baby.”
Yvonne guided Lori toward the couch, placed in the dressing room by the manager in case any of the dancers became ill with cramps or other “female” maladies. Awkwardly, with Lori’s arms still hugging Yvonne’s waist, the dusky woman got the girl to lie down.
A snort sounded from behind Yvonne. “Some people have all the luck,” Barbi’s voice said. “I’ve been trying to get her on that couch for months, now.”
Yvonne stood up and spun around. “Oh, shut up, you stupid dyke,” she said.
Barbi gave Yvonne a sarcastic smile, then laughed. “Well, well. Look who’s callin’ who a dyke?” Barbi said, huskily, leaning on the dressing room's doorjamb. “Seems to me like you really enjoyed yourself when you, me and my roommate all got together for a three-way last winter. Or was that some other Indian girl who works here?”
Yvonne strode the few steps it took to cover the distance from the couch to the door of the dressing room, her fists balled at her sides. "I told you to shut the fuck up, goddam it!"
Barbi began backing through the door toward the stairs. “Whoa there, Pocahantas,” she said as she backpedaled. “I didn’t mean to imply you were....”
“I said shut the fuck up, bitch!” Yvonne said through clenched teeth. “Is that all you ever think about?” With her arm, she indicated Lori. “That girl over there is in pain, damn it. You got that? Pain! And all fuck you can think about....” Yvonne paused.
“What?” Barbi asked. “She hurt herself or something?”
Yvonne's thoughts returned to Lori and left her unable to maintain the anger. “No,” she said, sighing. “Somebody... Somebody just mentioned the name of her son.” Yvonne shrugged. “I guess that's what set her off.”
“You mean the one that died?” Barbi asked.
“Yeah,” Yvonne said. “She’s been thinkin’ about her son. And her daughter, too, probably.”
“Her daughter?”
“Yeah, she’s got a two-year-old daughter, too,” Yvonne said. “But her ex-husband took her away. Got custody. Said Lori wasn’t a fit mother. Said her lettin’ her son die like he did proved she wasn’t a fit mother.” Yvonne looked back over her shoulder at Lori and gave a derisive, snorting laugh. “You know what she was doin’ that day when her son got locked up in that trunk?” she asked. “She was taking a typing test... word processing test for some company she’d applied to. Lookin’ for a job. Lookin’ for some way to get out of this dump.”
“Don’t blame ‘er,” Barbi said. “I would, too, but....” She shrugged.
Yvonne just looked at the other girl. She knew Barbi really didn’t want to get a regular job, but didn’t say anything.
“Why did you come up here?” Yvonne asked. “Jody send you?”
“Yeah. Didi finished her set. We played one song to fill in.” Barbi nodded toward Lori. “She ain’t gonna be able to dance, is she?”
“Well, what do you think?”
“OK, OK,” Barbi said with resignation. “That means I’m up next, then. Guess I’ll go pick out my songs.” The girl turned and went down the stairs.
Chapter 14--Didi, Randy and Brad
“Guess what, baby,” Randy said as Didi made her way to the bikers’ table to collect tips. “Brad, here, wants to buy my old chopper.” Randy nodded toward Brad Comanger, who smiled at Didi and saluted her with his beer glass.
“Really?” Didi asked.
“Yeah,” Randy said. “He rode it over here, tonight. Test drive. I drove Brad’s car.”
The meaning of what Randy said slowly penetrated Didi’s thought processes. “How much?” It was the only thing she could think of to ask.
“Six large,” Randy told her. “More than enough to fix up the gearbox on the Yamaha--pay for Sarah's leg brace... Everything. Some left over, besides.” The young man gave the girl a reluctant, embarrassed smile. “Maybe even enough left for a... maybe... a ring, you know.”
This was much better than a tip. “But how you gonna get back and forth to work?” Didi asked.
“Oh, I still got the car. I don’t like drivin’ it much, but,” he shrugged. “Hell, a man’s gotta grow up, sometime, don't he?”
“Oh, don’t say that,” Brad said. “I’m just now gettin' started in on my second childhood.”
Chapter 14--Vinny and Yvonne
By the time Jody Buczek gave “Last Call,” Vinny Vendetti was quite drunk. He sat in his booth, nursing the last glass of beer from his last pitcher, trying to decide if he was too drunk to drive home.
He watched as the waitress-dancers emptied ashtrays, picked up glasses from deserted booths and washed down tables. Slowly, given only slight, glaring encouragement from Jamal, the customers finished their drinks and dutifully filed out of the bar.
Some of the dancers reappeared, dressed in street clothes and looking like normal people again. Lori Middleton came down the stairs, her eyes red and puffy but dry. She sat down at one of the tables and waited for the taxi that would take her home to her mother’s. Yvonne didn’t trust Lori to drive in her present state of mind and had called a cab driver friend of hers to make certain the younger woman got home.
Yvonne, dressed in blue jeans and sweatshirt and with her long black hair pulled up into a high pony tail, looked far younger than her thirty-six years. She came over to Vinny’s table.
“Time to go, Sarge,” she said.
“You know, ‘Von,” Vinny said, “you oughta shitcan ol’ Donnie.”
Yvonne smiled. “Now, why would I want to do that?”
“He’s too young for you. Just a kid.” Vinny tried his best to give the woman his most charming smile. “You need a more mature man.”
Yvonne’s smile turned into a grin. “You got anyone particular in mind?”
“Well,” Vinny said, “if the job’s open, I’d gladly put in an application.”
“You’re drunk, Sarge,” Yvonne said with a laugh.
Vinny put every ounce of effort into negating the effects of the alcohol. “Yeah,” he said. “But I’m also serious.” He locked eyes with Yvonne and managed to hold her gaze for a good while before the woman looked away.
“Well,” Yvonne said, “I’ll keep it in mind.” She looked back up at Vinny. “But, I tell ya. I don’t especially need another boyfriend right at the moment. Hell, I ain’t even sure I need the one I got.”
Vinny stood up.
Yvonne put her arms around Vinnie’s neck, stood on tiptoe and kissed him tenderly on the mouth.
Vinny felt the same passionate urges the woman aroused in him the first time they kissed. The same promises. The same longing for more, better things to come.
“You better go, now,” Yvonne said as they broke apart.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes,” Yvonne said. “You have to. I already got plans for tonight.”
Vinny just smiled at the woman, nodded and, with one hand trailing slowly across her arm as Yvonne turned to wipe down the table of Vinny’s booth, headed for the door.
Chapter 16--Don Slusarski
Don Slusarski stood outside The Hot Spot in the cool air of early morning, waiting for Yvonne. He lit another cigarette off the butt of the one he had been smoking and watched as the little, long-jawed girl—Didi, he thought her name was—left with her boy friend. Yeah, he remembered. It's 'Didi.' Small tits; great legs. Better legs than Yvonne’s.
He recalled that Yvonne told him once that the girl’s name was really “Udee.” An Okie name, if Don ever heard one. Yeah. He remebered, the full name was Udee Diane, but she had always been called just “Dee” by her family, then “Dee” and the middle initial of “D” were put together to make “Didi.”
Don chuckled inwardly, reflecting on how so many of the dancers used cutesy names that end with an “i” like Didi, Lori and Barbi — shortened from the mundane Udee, Lorraine and Barbara.
“You know what time it is?” the short, dwarf-like guy standing near Don under the streetlight asked.
Don shook his head. “After two,” he said. “That’s all I know.”
“No shit,” the little guy said.
Don watched as a taxi pulled up in front of the building. The driver got out and went into the bar; returning a few minutes later escorting Lori Middleton—the pretty one. The driver held the door as Lori got in, then went around to the driver’s side, got in and pulled away from the curb. Don saw a man leave the bar next. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the man looked a little like Sergeant Vendetti, from out at the base. He watched as the man walked, a little unsteadily around the corner of the building toward the west parking lot.
Chapter 17--Vinnie and Taylor
As Vinny Vendetti stumbled through the parking lot toward his car, he saw the figure of a large man rise up from the deep shadows beside the trash dumpster. Vinny was concerned, at first, that it might be a mugger there in the otherwise deserted parking lot. Then Vinny saw the man was holding his head and stumbling around even worse than Vinny was. Vinny thought he saw something wet and shiny on the man’s head.
“Where,...” the big man asked, groaning. “Where’d that little faggot go?” He stumbled out of the deep shadow and into the brighter area of the dark parking lot. Still holding one hand up his head, the man raised his eyes up high enough to look at Vinny, then lowered his head again.
“He hit me,” the big guy said. “That little faggot hit me.” Shaking his bleeding head, the large man stumbled on out toward the street.
Vinny knew it was time for desperate measures if he was ever going to make it home. He thought if he emptied his stomach of the beer it held, it might help sober him up some. He walked up to the front of the car and, supporting himself with one hand against the side of the building and stuck the fingers of his other hand down his throat. He gagged and vomited; huge spasms knotting his stomach, the convulsions spewing up all the vile-tasting liquid that receptacle held.
Finally, whey-faced and sweating, Vinnie stood up. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his face and got into his car. Before he started the engine Vinny pulled out his wallet, fished around inside it and found his wedding band. He slipped the ring back on the ring finger of his left hand and started the car’s engine.
Chapter 18--Yvonne, Don, Jeff and Barbi
When Yvonne left the bar, there was Donnie waiting for her; nonchalant, just as if he hadn’t been out of contact with her for the last three days.
“Just where the fuck have you been, asshole?” she greeted him.
“Kansas City,” the man said. “I told you I was goin’. Had a job interview.”
“Oh, yeah? What was her name?”
Don just glared at her, saying nothing.
“Vonnie?” Jeff said, stepping forward from his position beside the light pole. “You ready to go? My car’s right over here.” He indicated a late model Toyota in the north parking lot, the space nearest the bar.
Don looked over at the dwarf, then turned back to Yvonne. “You’re goin’ out with that?” he asked, pointing a derisive finger at Jeff.
“Jeff asked me out to breakfast,” Yvonne said, brushing past Don. “Since I didn’t have a date for tonight, I told him I’d go.” With the little man beside her, Yvonne walked toward Jeff’s car, all the while feeling Don following the couple, staring daggers into her back, she was sure.
She walked around the car and climbed in through the passenger’s side door, which Jeff held open. Jeff then waddled his way back around the back of the car to the driver’s side, where Don stood. Jeff climbed up onto the driver's seat, where hand controls compensated for his deformities. He shut the door.
Don stepped up beside the car and bent down far enough so he could see Yvonne’s face. He peered at her, angrily. “What are you doing, Yvonne?” he asked the woman. “You into mercy fucks these days, or what? Or are you just gettin’ desparate?”
A double click sounded as the slide of a .25 automatic pistol in Jeff’s hand was pulled back, then slid forward to put a cartridge in the chamber. The sound echoed off the wall of the bar and reverberated across the empty parking lot.
“Back off, asshole,” Jeff said. “I think the lady’s made it perfectly clear she don’t want to talk to you.”
By instinct, Don stood up and backed away one step. Then he stopped himself from retreating any farther.
“Well, well,” he said. “The little man’s got himself a gun.”
“That’s right, shithead,” Jeff said.
Don grinned; an action Jeff had never anticipated.
“My, my,” Don said, giving a derisive chuckle. “Guess the little man thinks he ain’t so little, now. He thinks a gun can make anybody ten feet tall, don’t he?” Don said. “Even a dwarf.”
"Jeff," Yvonne said, sharply. "Put that thing away."
Jeff glanced over at the woman, then looked back at Don.
"Give it to me." Yvonne's voice was calm, but firm. "Give it to me right now or else I'm gettin' outta this car."
Slowly, using both hands, Jeff lowered the hammer of the pistol, then clicked the saftey on. He handed the gun to Yvonne. "Are you...," Jeff started. "Are we...."
"I'll still go out to breakfast with you, honey," Yvonne said, as sweetly as she could manage around the quaver in her voice. "But you don't need no goddam gun to get me to go." Deftly, as if she'd been handling guns her whole life, Yvonne ejected the clip from the pistol, thumbed off the saftey and the pulled back the slide to eject the round in the chamber. She caught the loose round in mid-air as it ejected. She shoved all the parts of the pistol--the body, the clip and the loose round--into her purse. Finally, able to breath normally after what seemed an eternity, Yvonne sighed. "OK, Jeff," she said. "Let's go."
Don bent down far enough so he could see Yvonne’s face again. “Hope you have fun, bitch,” he said. He forced himself to hold his gaze steady as the woman stabbed a hate-filled glare in his direction.
Don straightened, turned and walked away. He made himself walk slowly, at each step halfway expecting to hear the sound of a gun firing, followed by the feel of a bullet slamming into his back. The only sounds he heard, though, were the starting of Jeff’s car engine, followed by screeching tires as Jeff peeled away from his parking stall.
-------
Barbi Jemmison was standing at the door of the bar when Don returned to his earlier station under the street light. He stopped and lit himself a cigarette with shaking hands.
“What was that all about?” Barbi asked.
Don took a long pull from his cigarette, then exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift away on the light air of the early morning breeze. He noticed he was short of breath, just like he’d been involved in some kind of heavy physical activity.
“Yvonne’s goin’ out with some little fuckin’ dwarf,” Don said.
“Jeff?” Barbi asked. “He’s a nice guy. Uglier than shit, but he’s a nice guy.” Barbi pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, extracted one and placed it in her mouth. She looked around in her purse for her lighter. “Got a light?” she asked after a moment.
Don grunted and walked over to the woman. He used his lighter to light her cigarette.
"How come you didn't come inside before we closed?" Barbi asked, using a thumb and forefinger to pick a fleck of tobacco off her tongue.
"I'm broke," Don said, shaking his head. "Lost all my cash over at the casino in Kansas City. Guess I didn't want to sponge off Vonnie, tonight." He looked up at he night sky. "Or, maybe I just didn't want her givin' me a ration of shit because I was gamblin'"
"Hell," Barbi said, "I woulda bought ya a drink, if that's the case."
Don just looked at the woman. "Don't you think that might make Yvonne a little jealous?"
"Who gives a shit about Yvonne?" She grinned at Don. "Maybe that's the whole point."
Don just looked at the woman, saying nothing. He saw that she wasn’t bad looking. A little long in the tooth, perhaps, and with a haughty, knowing expression; but not bad. Not bad at all. He shook his head and looked down at the ground. He took another drag on his cigarette and looked back up at Barbi through the smoke as he exhaled.
"So" Barbi asked, “what are you gonna do tonight? Morning, I guess it is. What’cha gonna do?”
Don shrugged. “I don’t know.” He sighed. "Vonnie took the keys to her car with her, and I don't have a copy. Guess I'll walk home to our apartment."
"Shit, that's ten miles, ain't it?" Barbi said, looking at Donnie with a twinkle in her blue eyes. “How about comin’ home with me instead?”
Don looked at her a long time, weighing the options. “But I thought you were... a....” He left it unsaid.
Barbi smiled at him. “A lesbian?” she asked. “Well,” she laughed, “maybe I am and, then again..., ...maybe I’m not.” She shrugged. “Or could be I just hit from both sides of the plate.” She looked at Don through heavy-lidded eyes. “Or maybe you can show me what I've been missin’.”
Don shrugged again. This is one weird fuckin’ night, he thought. “What the hell,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 19--Jody, Jamal and Vinny
Jamal Jamali waited sitting at the bar while Jody Buczek cleaned out the cash register, counted and stacked the money and put it into the safe.
He watched the little, chubby blonde woman; he saw how she filled out her too-tight jeans and the white sweater that accentuated her ample bosom. He knew Allah would not be pleased with his impure thoughts toward the woman, but he could not help himself. When she looked up at him and smiled, the ache and longing it caused him almost broke his heart. He sighed and shook his head, looking away, avoiding the temptation. He wished he had his worry beads with him, knowing how the prayers he offered as he held them would help ease his troubled mind.
“Well, that’s it, Jamal,” Jody said, retrieving her purse from inside the safe, then closing the door and spinning the dial. “Is the back door all locked up?”
“Yes, it is, Miss Jody” Jamal said, surprised that he could speak at all.
“Well, I’m flipping on the security system, now,” Jody said as she set the switch.
Jody grabbed her purse and jacket and headed for the door in Jamal’s wake. The man was so wide, she could barely make out the door. Instead, she used the exit sign above it as a target to walk toward. As she walked, she could feel the thighs of her jeans rub together with a “Scritch, Scritch” sound with every set of steps and she hoped, fervently, that she wasn’t waddling.
Outside in the early-morning cool and damp, Jody turned and locked both locks on the front door as Jamal stood guard, then both turned toward the north parking lot. Two cars waited there; her own two-door Honda and a big, maroon Lincoln. The plume of steam from the Lincoln’s tail pipe showed its motor was running and Jody thought she could see several dark faces looking out at her through the car's smoked windows.
“Friends of yours, Jamal?” Jody asked.
“Some brothers come to give me a ride home, Miss Jody,” Jamal said. He walked toward the Lincoln, where a door opened to allow him access.
Jody hurried to her own car, knowing full well she shouldn’t hurry. She unlocked the door, thankful she did not drop her keys or fumble with the electric keypad. Once inside, she hurriedly relocked the door. From inside the Lincoln, Jody thought she heard the laughter of several basso voices.
Within the darkness of the bar, the gnats and fruit flies resumed their vigil above the trash cans.
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Vinny Vendetti drove home slowly, one eye closed to keep from seeing double. Luckily, there was little traffic on the street and the only police car he saw was parked in front of a convenience store, its occupants inside the building.
By the time he got home, Vinny was very tired. He stopped the car in front of his house and laid his head on the headrest of the front seat for an just an instant, grateful to be home. He was still there in the car, asleep, when his wife came out of the house to get the newspaper that morning.
