Excerpt:
“You’re not taking us there are you?” Cheri griped.
“Sure…why not?” There was no room for debate; he had shut off the engine and removed the key.
“I don’t believe it!” Her dissent did not extend to remaining in the frigid car. The object of her disapproval was a corner bar slightly larger than a phone booth. ‘Lobo’s’ looked innocent enough, assuming any bar could look innocent. Cheri’s cause for alarm became evident. The place was wall-to-wall leather and tattoos. A sign at the door prohibited colors. One surmised rival Outlaws and Hell’s Angels could spot one another with or without a club patch. Management had bent over backward to promote public safety.
Hollis called to the bartender. “Where’s Reggie?”
“…Ain’t my day to watch him.” The zinger fluttered strands of the bartender’s handle-bar moustache. “Check in the back.”
“How’s his stick tonight?” Hollis put on.
“My mother could beat him.”
Cheri’s disenchantment was evident even to Hollis. “Trust me,” he assured her, “Ignore the attitude and relax. These folks are in uniform. Think of them as mailmen or the ice cream man. Contrariety doesn’t qualify as sport; we’ll put this under the heading, rencontre. Let’s just say, this isn’t as irresponsible as it looks.” Whatever that meant, we flocked behind him, walking a gauntlet.
A regulation pool table had squeezed into a tiny room. Its felt was immaculate; the only immaculate thing in the place. The grandiose table amounted to 9 feet of solid oak with ornate details in raised molding. The pockets were set in a rosewood rail with diamond inlay, mother of pearl. It was not a typical barroom table; no coin slot, no ball-return, the pockets: laced-leather. A mass of wood and slate, it perched on turned mahogany legs capped as Ionic columns. An equally massive beer gut sagged across the end of the table; its owner prostrate, lining up his next shot. The cue seemed flimsy clutched in his gigantic hands.
“Don’t miss!” Hollis shouted, “Could be your last chance to win back the money you owe me.” The hulk elevated his gaze above his cue. Squinting in our direction, a grin cleaved his face. “Owe you?” He turned to his minions, “Dipshit-here has me confused with some loser!” They stoked his ego with obedient laughter. “You’ve been tail-rider too long, Reggie,” Hollis retorted, “The fumes fried your brain!” The laughter ceased.
Reggie abandoned his game and lumbered around the table. A swag lamp illuminated the sway of his pendulous gut. Narrow hips demanded a belt to hold his pants up. More torture device than accessory, it crimped him like a garrotte. He headed our way, disposition obscured by harsh light. Emerging from the haze, he exploded a laugh that outdid the Lynyrd Skynyrd song on the jukebox. “Haven’t you heard? There’s this technicality: statute of limitations. …Gotta stay on top of stuff like that. ‘Course, long as you’re here, no reason you can’t lay down a little money.”
“…Playing for the whole enchilada?” Hollis lubricated, “or keep it simple- twenty bucks and you break?” With a grandiose sweep, the big man raked every ball on the table to the far end. He pointed at the rack hanging from a peg on the wall. Hollis removed the wooden frame from its place and gathered the balls. Reggie tried to rattle him, repeatedly hammering the cue ball against the cushion where Hollis racked.
Reggie’s break was ear-splitting. Hollis acted indifferent, sizing up cue sticks. He stole a peek when two, solid balls dropped in opposing corner pockets. The rest of the rack seemed glued to the table. Reggie calculated his next shot. Hollis chalked his cue.
The balls were in tight formation leaving Reggie few options. Scattering the balls would be to Hollis’ advantage. After consideration, he played safe, coming off the bank to dislodge the ball at the nose of the rack. The impact was so meager it barely moved the ball.
The dilemma passed to Hollis. He reached in his pocket for the blinders he drolly referred to as ‘reality filters.’ Lining up a two ball combination, he sank the nine in the side pocket. The cue ball snapped back, liberating the eleven-ball. He pointed at the corner pocket and called a two corner bank. The cue caromed between adjacent cushions, striking the eleven-ball. The eleven hugged the rail and dropped into the corner pocket. Slamming the pack, the cue ball broke out his thirteen-ball. He circled the table, chalking his cue stick. Crouching low, he stroked his shot. Bottom-right English imparted a rotation guiding the cue ball, once more, into the mass of balls. His ten and twelve-ball were ejected, and he disposed of them, one in each side pocket.
“…Enough of that shit!” Reggie grumbled.
Hollis had three balls to shoot, counting the eight. He could ‘see’ the fifteen, though it wasn’t well positioned. He had to concern himself with missing. His attempt fell short but left the cue-ball wedged between the six and eight-ball. “Cute!” Reggie complained, “Playin’ jake on me.” He put away a cross-eyed bank, leaving the drop on the six. The ball found the pocket, and he paused to chalk his cue.
The population of the bar was crammed in the doorway. Hollis entertained himself, twirling his stick like a majorette. Cheri had discovered a hero, “Fuckin-A, he’s rockin’!”
The game was even-up. “A lot of green, Reggie!” His last ball, the four, hugged the rail on the extreme end of the table. Further complicated, it lay in the shadow of Hollis’ fourteen. Reggie had to kick off the bank at a shallow angle. A grimace crooked his face as he connected with the cue-ball; his execution tinged by the tell-tale stutter of a miscue. The four-ball went in. The cue ball ‘followed the car’ hanging at the pocket and dropping amid pathetic groans. I almost felt sorry for him.
His scratch left Hollis a clean shot on his fifteen. Applying side-spin, the cue ball arced behind the eight, setting up a shot on the fourteen. Sinking the fourteen, he turned his attention to the eight-ball. He had parked the cue in position for his favorite three-cushion finale. He snapped off the shot, exhaling audibly.
Reggie looked on as if his ’68 Sportster XLCH had been side-swiped by a garbage truck. “You and my probation officer... Two-a-ya could fuck up a wet dream.”
“Desk jockey?” Hollis burbled, “Did I prescribe a job?”
Reggie’s authority sagged. “I’m short the twenty; you’ll hafta collect from my old lady.”
“Forget that; I’ll be tied up all night! She’s scheming right now to rip-off your stash of meth and hustle a ride to Vegas. Just buy me a shot!”
“Bitch’d be doin’ me a favor,” Reggie muttered, draping his arm over Hollis’ shoulder, “Let’s have a drink.” The crowd stood back as the pair made their way. Reggie tossed a couple drink chips on the bar. “Pour two from the bottle that ain’t watered down.” The bartender placed shot glasses in front of them and yanked a bottle of Jim Beam from the top shelf. The bourbon had no time to breathe; they jerked the shots and drained them. The empty glasses touched down hard; I expected them to shatter.
Our next stop was the end of the line. Drive past The Arcade and risk ending up in the lake. Noting the marquee, a Cleveland powerhouse called The Down Boys was playing. It was two o’clock; the doorman guaranteed, “We got an extended license: booze ‘til four, party ‘til six.”
Balloons ranged the floor, skittering under people’s feet. The stage glowed in a wash of light framed by speaker boxes. The Down Boys were playing the trippy part of Zepellin’s ‘Whole Lotta Love.’ The audience heaved like an angry sea impounding the musicians.
Hollis insinuated himself among the crowd, pushing his way toward a huge bar with at least a dozen bartenders behind it. Patrons were lined up three deep, waiting for service. Garnering attention, he ordered two buckets and passed one back to me; in it, four 6½ ounce bottles of O.V. on ice.
We tethered to a ceiling post ringed with a shelf for drinks. On stage, the keyboard player milked the sedate piano lead-in to ‘Locomotive Breath’ by Jethro Tull. Hollis took Cheri by the arm and led her into the mob. Cindy, who had been at my side, faced me, twining her arms in mine. I pretended to be removed from the 300 people buffeting us. Her hand cradled the back of my head, she drew me close and whispered words lost in the band’s sudden deluge. The guitar player had sustained an E minor, cranking the volume so the sound fedback and distorted. “I didn’t catch that,” I shouted over the onslaught. “I said!” she yelled, “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with tonight.” The sentiment survived her tone. “I take it tonight is working out according to plan?”
“Plans and Hollis don’t really go together, but I’m having fun, the two of us. You know,” she teased, “I actually missed you over Christmas.”
“No kidding.” I did the Joe Cool bit. “Didn’t you miss me,” she played along, “even a teeny, little bit?” My hands were at her waste; I kissed both halves of her lips. “I had this twinge on Friday,” I needled, “then remembered I’d be at Mom’s Saturday; she doesn’t mind doing laundry. I figured I was good for a week.”
“Is that how it is?” She pretended anger. “Our room has two beds, you know!”
Following a medley of Tull songs, the keyboardist dangled the opening bars to ‘Lazy’ by Deep Purple. My full bladder warranted listening while at the urinal. Appreciation of the band was complicated by a loudmouth barricading the doorway to the adjacent stall. He had trapped the occupant in a relentless harangue.
“You-fucking-scumbag! …Balls a-you showin’ up here! Vinnie’d fuckin’ kill ya. Yeah-you, psycho; he ain’t forgot. The first round got fucked by lawyers, but it ain’t over. Next time you don’t slide. ...Payback’s w-a-y overdue. For Mary Jean, what you done; you’re payin’ big!
“…And what’s with the beard?” the lambasting went on, “You can shave your ass and walk backwards- all the same to me. Nuthin’d be sweeter, just grindin’ that puss into the wall. But Vinnie’s got dibs. Eye for an eye, mutherfucker; your number’s up!”
My debate whether to stick around was nullified when a scuffle broke out. I heard a crash; the toilet paper dispenser skidded beyond the partition. “This is for shits and giggles, cocksucker!” The thud of a well-landed punch preceded chatter of the toilet seat disturbed by a collapsing body. A guy in a varsity jacket backed from the stall and made his break, clipping me with an elbow as he hurried by. Off-balance, I managed a glimpse; his skin was ruddy and hair, military short. ‘The Black Knights, Rome Free Academy’ was emblazoned on his black and orange jacket.
I peeked around the partition. Hollis was at rest on the toilet and pitched against the wall. Hand under his jaw, he looked up at me as blood trickled down his cheek. “Guy must have been wearing a ring,” he snickered.
“What was that all about?” An adrenalin rush took hold of me as he straightened himself up. “Damned if I know; his mistake, I never saw the guy before.”
“Are you kidding? He wanted to kill you!” A fool mix-up was hard to swallow. “The guy is drunk,” he insisted, “accused me of hitting on his buddy’s girlfriend.” He squinched blood between his thumb and fingertip, testing its tackiness. “Minor damage: a cut on the cheek; have a beer and forget it.”
“Hollis, that asshole isn’t done with you. He’ll wait-you-out in the parking lot. At least tell the guy at the door what he looks like. I can’t believe you’d just blow it off.” Hollis wandered over to the sink, moistened a paper towel under the faucet and dabbed at his cheek. “It’s superficial,” he asserted checking the mirror, “Nothing to it, won’t even scar.”
He went after Cheri while I tried to detect our guy in the varsity jacket. Winter tans and short-hair were scarce; if the creep hung around, he wasn’t calling attention. The band played ‘Rock Steady’ by Bad Company.
“What happened to Danny’s face?” Cheri must have been dissatisfied with his explanation; she was gaping at me. “I told you,” he emphasized, “Some drunk sucker-punched me.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense,” she contended, “You go to the bathroom, and somebody you don’t even know, slugs you in the kisser.”
It didn’t make sense to me either, and I was a witness. His explanation was plausible, but inconsistencies dangled like blond hairs on a dark-haired gentleman’s jacket. I wasn’t in me to question his word, but there were aspects of the incident that begged answers. What was that about lawyers? Like the pins mapping his past, evidence was insufficient.
Cindy pulled me aside. “What did happen in there?”
“There was a wall between us; I didn’t even realize Hollis was involved until it was over. I heard yelling; this guy threw a punch and left. Something about Vinnie and Mary Jean; they’re at the bottom of everything.”
“Where do they fit in?” she puzzled. “Vinnie has a vendetta against some Hollis look-alike over something that happened to Mary Jean.” It sounded ridiculous.
Cheri had her handbag open. Between kisses, she dabbed at his wound. The hook to Alice Cooper’s ‘Schools Out’ triggered a surge toward the stage. “Maybe it’s a love triangle,” Cindy proposed, “He doesn’t have much respect for boundaries.”
“The only two who know for sure,” I posed, “One didn’t stick around, and Hollis isn’t saying.”
Cheri’s need to administer healing was satisfied. The packet of tissues, key to her doctoring, had been put away. She waved to us giddily, body angled backward; thighs pressed against Hollis. He supported her with hands applied to dimpled buttocks, two appurtenances underscored by jeans that conformed like paint. Her tube top stretched across her chest, modeling her petit breasts. “Are we gonna dance or what?” she hooted.
The band moved on to Alice Cooper’s ‘Under My Wheels.’ She and Hollis bolted into the pandemonium. Cindy held out her hand, and I opened a path. The volume intensified nearing the stage; the bass drum pounded my chest. Cheri signaled us, and we zigzagged over to dance to ‘Billion Dollar Babies.’ They may have danced; I simmered under lights, pinned by sweaty bodies.
The Alice Cooper set screeched to a halt, the singer swabbed his face with a towel and scooped up a beer from the drum stage; “...Don’t know about you,” he postured, “but I need this!” As he tilted back the bottle, the audience howled and saluted with raised drinks. “Management has advised us…and this could be vital to you die-hards out there; last call for alcohol!” Hollis was a step-ahead. “So get your butts to the bar and load up, ‘cause ya know what? This party’s crankin’ ‘til dawn! How many Bowie fans we got in the house? This one’s for you… from Diamond Dogs- ‘Rebel Rebel!’”
Cindy and Cheri ‘chick-danced’ while I cooled off on the sidelines. ‘Rebel, Rebel’ had unleashed an appetite for Bowie; “Ziggy, Ziggy,” the crowd chanted. Coming back with ‘Jean Genie’ should have satisfied them, but they wanted more. The band had no more, so they went on break. The lights dimmed and merriment withered. I hooked up with the girls. They had claimed a patch of stage. Cheri wriggled her top back in place, thrumming, “‘the jean genie let yourself go!’” Hollis presented her with a bucket of splits.
“Are we sticking around for the band?” I’d been ready to leave since the fight in the men’s room. “It’s up to you,” he deferred, “I have another stop in mind.”
“Before we do anything,” Cheri interjected, “I’m going to the little girls’ room; you coming, Cindy?”
Hollis and I stood opposite the ladies room, watching a game of Foosball. He lit a cigarette. The flare from the match showed the bruise that had formed on his cheek. He was so blasé about the incident I didn’t bother to comment.
“Whew!” My breath escaped as a cloud. “Feels like 20 below.” Cindy dove into the back seat. Ours was the only car moving on the street. The sky was as black and blue as Hollis’ cheek. The surroundings mounded in white evoked T. S. Eliot. ‘Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow.’ Steam rose from storm sewers as if underworld denizens were having parties of their own.
“So where are we headed?” Cindy probed. “He’s got another guess comin’,” Cheri scoffed, “if he thinks we’ll get served this late.” Hollis waffled, “The key to after-hours clubs is who you know.”
