Dive bartender flowers i.., p.9
Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, page 9
Or at all well lighted.
But it did have good-looking women taking off their clothes on a raised platform in the middle of a huge oval bar, and a live rock band providing the tunes so the ladies could gyrate.
And over-priced alcoholic beverages.
So it was mainstream, anyway.
Frank had never seen a live band in a stripper bar. Always a sound system at the places he’d been to. This place had a rough feel to it, but the band, three skinny, longhaired white guys and a heavy-set Hispanic lead guitar player, were pretty damn good.
The group was currently grinding out a hard-edged rendition of that old Donovan-sixties-classic “Season of the Witch,” as a twenty-something bottle blond peeler moved half-heartedly on the platform.
Rabbits running in the ditch, indeed.
A sizable bartender in a dark blue button-down shirt came over to take their orders. Frank requested a Budweiser, having abandoned his quest for Dos Equis. Larry asked for a double Jack on the rocks and went off to find the payphone. The youngsters both ordered double shots of Johnny Walker Black.
“All that excitement really got me horny,” Clayton Cook said, eyes on the dancer.
“And you weren’t before?” Bryce Parker asked, his voice rising. “Dragging us all into the heart of darkie town for a one-legged whore is not horny beyond reason?”
“Don’t criticize what you don’t understand, Bryce. I’m telling you, man, you’ve never really been fucked until you’ve had the stump banging against your thigh.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Frank was already halfway through his beer when Larry came back wearing a proud-of-himself grin. Frank overheard him tell Parker that he’d located some coke. The man would meet them at a bar in Scottsdale, some ritzy club Larry said he’d been to once before.
Frank polished off the beer and shrugged internally. At least they’d be heading in the general direction of Rancho Deluxe.
As he walked out of the stripper bar Frank heard the band start up with another souped-up, fuzz-toned oldie, this one from way, way back. He smiled as the old familiar lyrics hit his ears.
Roll me over in the clover; do it again; do it again.
Roll me over in the clover; do it again.
Those guys were good.
25
With a name like the Neon Cactus, Frank figured the club had to have a country band. Or did they call them Western bands out here? The whole country-western deal could be confusing at times.
Larry had said they played the classic hits at the Neon Cactus. “Totally upscale club,” he insisted.
Whatever kind of music the club featured, they were drawing the crowds, closest parking space a block and a half away.
Walking from the Lincoln to the club in the still-uncomfortably- warm-for-a-Minnesota-boy nighttime air, another old song was going around in Frank’s head.
Hot town, summer in the city... back of my neck getting dirty and gritty.
Further along in the song there’s a line about something being hotter than a match head. Which seemed appropriate at the moment. But Frank wasn’t sure about the lyrics. People were always singing the wrong lyrics to pop songs. Like that tune “Blinded by the Light,” where everyone thinks the line goes Wrapped up like a douche in the middle of the night, and they sing it that way.
The actual line is: Wrapped up like a deuce in the middle of the night.
Whatever the hell that means.
Crowd at the Metropole used to get a kick out of singing douche.
Cheap thrills.
First look at the Neon Cactus brought a Las Vegas casino to mind. Big flashing sign featuring a neon cactus on the second story of a building that definitely fit the description of upscale. The bar’s impressive facade was glistening in the glow of four spotlights pointing up from the pavement.
Definitely a few steps up from the Metropole, Frank was thinking as he followed the three stooges inside.
Inside was just as fancy as the outside. Air conditioning blowing cool and hard. Hundreds of drunken revelers dancing and shouting pickup lines above the bombast of a live band blasting out a cover of The First Edition’s “What Condition My Condition Was In.”
Song was at least ten years old but still invoked plenty of sing-alongs during the chorus.
The Four Horsemen of Rancho Deluxe, which Frank had decided was an appropriate name for the foursome, had to stand among the throng that was lingering near the main floor bar, because all the barstools were taken.
Frank surveyed the room.
Fancy jewelry twinkling in the flashes of a mirror ball spinning slowly overhead on the expansive dance floor.
Lots of attractive women with expensive clothes, perfect hair and suntanned skin.
Frank’s lack of interest in meeting any of these chicks took him by surprise. His recent past was coming back at him and messing him up. That stripper bar had got him thinking about Nikki again, and his mood had gone downhill from there.
This whole scene put a large rock inside his head.
Just beyond the dance floor, Frank could see a set of carpeted stairs leading up to a second level. There was a big video screen up there on the back wall, the picture shifting between various images of bar patrons dancing, drinking and staring blankly.
Bookended by two smaller service bars, the upper-level dance floor was currently filled to the max with twisting, bouncing young people.
Young people, Frank thought. You know you’re getting up in years when you start calling twenty-five-year olds young people.
But shit, they were so far removed from his reality.
Reminded him of the crowds they used to get in the heyday of the Underground Lounge in Zenith, the meat market bar underneath the Metropole. Betty’s pet project, and the scene of Frank’s going away party.
Betty should get a look at this place, Frank thought, as he turned around to see Richards and Parker shuffling up to the front of the bar and joining Cook at four now miraculously vacant barstools.
Frank stepped around some patrons and filled the last available stool, next to Cook. “Okay, how’d you manage this, Clayton? You have these reserved?”
Clayton grinned a confident grin.
Approaching arrogant, Frank thought.
Clayton said, “Nah, I gave these four college dicks a hundred dollar bill in exchange for the chairs. Money talks, Frank.”
And it’s speaking loud and clear, Frank thought to himself.
This was not his scene. He felt trapped. Imprisoned by the attitudes and the addiction to everything “upscale” and “name-brand” and “top-of-the-line.
The shit that had the three stooges playing the one-upmanship game at dinner.
You went to Florida? I went to the Caribbean. You bought a Cadillac? I got a Benz. You caught a nice trout in Colorado? I caught sailfish off the coast of Costa Rica.
Ad fucking nauseum.
Beefeater’s. Johnny Walker. Lincoln Continental. Courvoisier. Gucci. Rolex...
You name it.
This growing absorption with consumption and status seemed to be taking over the country.
Blue-collar values appeared lost and gone forever.
Dreadful sorry, Clementine.
As he reflexively ordered a Bud and declined Clayton’s offer of a shot of Cuervo, Frank felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. All of a sudden he was bone tired and just wanted to get back to his car and escape this shithole they called the Valley of the Sun.
But Clayton had been generous—paying for damn near everything—and so far, it really had been an adventure worthy of Kerouac. So Frank figured he owed it to the boys to remain a participant in the night’s escapades. At least until Cook—and of course the gracious host, Parker—had their fill of what this particular American night was providing.
As he nursed his beer, Frank saw Larry’s eyes perk up. Lawyer was looking at the front entrance. He watched Larry get off his barstool and weave through the mingling hordes toward the entrance. Watched Larry greet a pony-tailed, ear-stud-wearing guy and exchange a few words.
Which meant, Frank surmised, that before too long the three consortium members would be bouncing around the club like electrified pin balls.
No problem, Frank thought. He knew how to pass the time in a bar. Had ten long years of practice. One thing he’d learned was that last call comes to everyone, eventually. And hearing the words in his head, smiled to himself, realizing he’d unintentionally created a metaphor for death.
The last call for alcohol: A moment that seemed to be a mini-death for many of his customers over the years.
He ordered another Bud from the fast-moving bartender, Frank thinking the speed business had to be big at the Neon Cactus. Seemed like everyone working here was on some kind of stimulant, judging by the tight jaws, the pinned eyes and the rapid, non-stop motion swirling around him like a sandstorm.
Any bar person knows that amphetamine is the lifeblood of a club like this.
He took a sip of the fresh beer and looked up at the TVs stretching along the bar back. They were all closed circuit, showing various sections of the club on a changing, seemingly random basis. Cameras set up all over the place so people could see themselves on television.
What would be next, Frank wondered, TV shows with regular people doing mundane, everyday things?
God help us all if it comes down to that.
Still feeling tired he had another unsatisfying swig of beer and returned his gaze to the screens.
He saw Larry walking out of the bar with the ponytail guy.
Another screen captured Bryce and Clayton on the second level chatting up some women. Who, judging by the body language, weren’t buying into the young heirs’ line of bullshit.
But it’s only a matter of time, Frank thought. Those guys’ sweat smells like money for Christ sake. And there’s always someone willing to climb on board the money train, if only for a short ride.
It was another part of our celebrity-worshiping culture—people seemingly craving to get close to something above their own stature in life.
Frank didn’t have that problem. At this moment his lowly stature was comforting,
But he did kind of wish he was back in Minnesota.
But shit, California beckoned ahead of him like a sparkling oasis.
And that was worth waiting and perhaps suffering for.
Good things come to those who wait.
That’s what they say, anyway.
Then the band started up with one of his favorite songs, “Honky Tonk Woman,” and he went back to scanning the screens, hoping to be a voyeur into the antics of the Rancho Deluxe Trio.
He’d cut himself out of the herd like a maverick steer.
A few minutes later he saw Larry come back in alone, his jaw set in that familiar cocaine-goin’-round-the-brain angle.
His eyes jumping from one screen to another, Frank followed Larry’s path up to the Gold Dust Twins on the second-level.
He watched Clayton and Bryce follow Larry outside.
Gonna be a long fuckin’ night, he thought.
He had another swallow of beer and wondered what time the bars shut down in Scottsdale.
Closing time.
Hotel-motel time.
You-don’t-have-to-go-home-but-you-can’t-stay-here time.
Get-the-fuck-out-of-Scottsdale time.
But staring at the television screens would have to do for now.
A short while later Cook and Parker came back in, walked across to the far side of the dance floor and then up the steps to the second level, heads upright, shoulders square.
Couple of squared-away guys.
Frank watched them slide down to the far end of the service bar on the right side of the upper tier and take a seat on either side of an unaccompanied female. The boys acting like they thought no one could see them. Girl had dark hair and hoop earrings and was cute.
Possibly of Mexican heritage, Frank thought.
He watched Parker say something to the girl while Cook grinned wide on her right.
In his years behind the bar, Frank was always protective of a woman alone. You didn’t get many unaccompanied women at the Metro, a few a year maybe, and when you did, they were rarely a looker like the babe on the screen.
But shit, you still had to look after them. Too many predators lingering in the American night.
A woman alone was vulnerable.
And a target.
For guys like Clayton and Bryce.
Shit.
Frank saw them turning on the charm, watched the girl laughing, matching them shot for shot, flirting.
Seemed like she was holding her own but Frank couldn’t help but wish for the young lady’s friends and companions to show up.
If she had any.
Which she didn’t seem to.
Yeah, Frank had a good idea what was going on up there and he didn’t like it one bit.
Then he saw Larry’s black-and-white image coming up behind him on a screen. Frank swung around on the barstool as Richards wedged in next to him.
Frank said, “Your boys happy now that they’ve got their blow?”
“I don’t know if they’re ever happy, per se. But at least they’ll be off my ass for a while.”
“What’s the matter, Larry? You’re not pursuing the ladies tonight. Lady killer Richards off his game?”
“Bad choice of words, Frank, bad choice of words. I just got some bad news. Really bad news.”
“On the radio in the car?”
“No, from fuckin’ Clayton. We’re out in the Lincoln and I put some lines out on the visor mirror and Clay snorts his and then he casually says there’s something he forgot to tell me. Goes on to say that before he left Denver there was a story going around about Arturo Reynold’s wife being found dead in an alley in the Mexican section of Denver, her tits cut off, eyes cut out and her snatch filled up with cement.”
Larry’s eyes were dead.
“Jesus Christ, man. Was he serious or just fuckin’ with you? Doubt they’d put that kind of graphic information on TV.”
“Serious as cancer, Frank. Clayton probably heard the street version of the story, had to be all over Denver. But those two don’t know I was involved with Katrina; so don’t say anything. They don’t need to know about it.”
“My lips are sealed, but goddamnit, man, that’s fuckin’ crazy.”
“Asshole cut her beautiful breasts off, Frank. Filled her sweet pussy with cement. Makes me fuckin’ sick.”
“Can’t blame you, Larry. Definitely takes the shine off the evening, to say the least. Think Reynolds’ll go down for it?”
“I’m sure he has an airtight alibi.”
Frank didn’t know what else to say. Part of him felt sorry for Larry. But he couldn’t help but think, That’s the kind of shit that happens when you fuck around with a gangster’s woman.
Larry probably knew that already.
Larry caught the eye of the bartender, ordered another double Jack and stared down at the black bar top.
“Your buds from Rancho Deluxe don’t seem overly affected by the news,” Frank said. “Or affected by it at all, really. I’ve been watching them on television.” Pointing up at the screen. “Looks like they’re really working that girl, giving her the double team.”
Larry looked up at the TV, Bryce and Clayton and the girl on display. They were all laughing, highly animated. “Those two can be very persuasive when they put their minds to it,” Larry said. “They, ah, shall we say, have created some amazing situations in the past. Women seem to respond to those two quite favorably.”
“Respond quite favorably? What exactly does that mean?”
“Well, the women they hook up with often become generous with the sexual favors. Face it, Frank, chicks dig coke and money. And those two usually have plenty of both.”
“You talking about professional ladies?”
“On occasion. But the amateurs have also put on some shows. One time Bryce brought out a video camera—and the chicks were cranked up to perform, let me tell you. Something about seeing yourself on screen, y’know... They were—”
“I’ve heard enough,” Frank said.
He looked up at the screen and watched Bryce move his head in close to the girl’s. Saw him put his hand on her shoulder and begin saying something in her ear.
Whispering sweet nothings....
Then he saw Cook drop something into the lady’s drink while Parker held her attention.
“Did you see that, Larry?” Frank said, anger surging through him like hot battery acid.
But Larry was staring into the crowd on the dance floor, searching for something he couldn’t find if it was dropped in front of him. “What?” he said, above the din of the band now hitting the crescendo of “Gold Dust Woman.”
“Your good friend Clayton just dropped something into the girl’s drink. Now I can see why those two are so persuasive.”
Richards turned back to the screens. “Probably just one of my diet pills to keep the young lady from getting too drunk. Clayton can be generous. I bet she asked for it.”
“That why did he put it in her drink when she wasn’t looking?”
“I’m sure it’s harmless, Frank. You need to relax, man. Would Kerouac raise a stink about something like that? I think not.”
“Fuck Kerouac. And fuck you too.” Looking back at the screen, Frank watched Parker and Cook and the girl get up from the service bar and walk away together.
“You see,” Richards said. “They’re going out to the car to snort some blow. Friendly, happy—you can see it on the screen. Young people full of life enjoying the fruits of American prosperity.”
“Give me a fuckin’ break, Larry.” You and your friends are douchebags, he was thinking, but didn’t say. He gave Larry a long, pointed look and then thought, Fuck it, I’ll just have to wait these guys out. Stay close and see what happens.
And a shot of mescal always makes the waiting go easier.
He beckoned to the bartender.
26
Frank ordered his third shot of mescal and stared up at the television screens. Quite a show the boys were putting on.
