Dark End of the Street

“How would that work exactly?” she asked. She turned away from the television and wiped off the angry head of the dragon carved into the cherrywood bar. The bartender’s eyes were deep blue and the whites had the clarity of someone who didn’t drink.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I bet it could be done.”

“You want to tell me what you want, or do I just introduce you as the funny guy at the end of the bar?”

“The funny guy works.”

I smiled. She smiled back.

The song ended and the naked woman plopped off stage and took a seat next to me. She was sweaty and out of breath and played with the pearls around her neck like a rosary.

“Hey, cowboy,” she said.

“Ma’am,” I said, tipping my imaginary hat.

The girl behind the bar disappeared and I watched her jeans as she did. I took a sip of the burned coffee and watched the rain beat on the worn streets outside. The thunder growled in the distance as the naked woman sighed and disappeared. A moist print of her butt stayed on the vinyl seat after she was gone.

More Ann Peebles played on the jukebox. I sipped the coffee and watched some bikers play pool in a back cove. All but one stripper had stopped dancing and she seemed to be doing her act completely from a lone brass pole.

The woman inverted herself into a handstand against the pole and a couple businessmen clapped and high-fived each other.

As the rain drummed harder the coffee felt even more comforting in my hand.

I can’t stand the rain. Against my window. Bringin’ back sweet memories.

“He said give him a few minutes,” a voice called out.

I turned back to the bartender. She’d tied her undershirt up high on her stomach and was cleaning the bar again.

She wrung the cloth into the sink and soapy water twisted down her lean brown arms. For a moment I could feel my lungs tighten. She noticed my glance and smiled to herself and continued to wipe down the bar.

“I’m Nick,” I said when my voice came back.

“Good,” she said.

“You want to arm wrestle?” I asked. “You have great arms.”

“Nope,” she said, going back to twisting the dirty cloth. Some of the soap brushed across her stomach and she raised her tight shirt even more to wipe it away. Her abs were tight with a small waist and perfect rounded hips.

“I was wondering…,” I began.

The dancer with the pearl necklace walked behind the bar laughing to herself like drunk women sometimes do and latched her hands around the bartender. She kissed the nape of the woman’s neck and I felt my face flush with embarrassment.

“What were you wondering?” the bartender asked with a cocked eyebrow. The gesture sort of reminded me of my occasional girlfriend, Kate.

“Nothing,” I said, feeling for the warmth of the cup. “Nothing.”

A few seconds later, I heard a toilet flush over the slow, grinding funk coming from the jukebox and out walked a muscular man with gray hair holding a stack of newspapers. He looked to be in his fifties with the build of an avid weight lifter. His clothes were Italian and tight. Ribbed black T-shirt. Pleated trousers. Tassled loafers. He threw the papers onto the bar and took a seat next to me.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asked. His face was craggy with lines around his mouth. His teeth were yellowed and he wore thin oval glasses that were popular with effeminate yuppies back in New Orleans.

“You Cook?”

“No, I’m the fucking Easter bunny,” he said, shaking his head and watching one of the strippers in a Catholic school-girl outfit. “Hell, yes, I’m Cook. So what? April said you wanted to see me.”

“I want to talk to you about Bluff City Records.”

“Sold that in ‘seventy-four,” he said. “I guess you’re shit out of luck.”

The bartender had pried herself away from her friend and was running the blender in between eavesdropping. She poured a pink slushy mixture into a tall beer mug and laid down a handful of pills by Cook.

He swallowed them all and gulped down half the drink.

“Amino acids. Vitamin B, and yohimbi bark. You want the rest of my shake?”

I shook my head.

“April? April?” he yelled. “Shit, go get Lola, would you? Goddamn it. I left her back in my office and she’s probably shittin’ all over everything.”

“Women,” I said, shaking my head again and finishing the last of the coffee.

“So, you gonna tell me what the fuck you want?”

“I’m looking for Clyde James.”

Cook belched. “He’s dead. Shit out of luck again.” He smiled. “You’re oh for two, fella… What are you, one of those crazy collector types? Had this British guy come in here once and offer me two thousand dollars for some of our recording logs. Now, that’s just fucking sick. Or is it sad? April? Goddamn it.”

April walked back to the bar tugging on the leash of a Boston terrier wearing one of those inverted-lampshade looking things that kept them from licking themselves. Didn’t help the dog’s looks any. The dog was just plain ugly with a severe crooked underbite and low-hanging tits.