"Yes."
"What's a guy think in those last few seconds?"
"He begs."
"I wouldn't do that. Would you?"
I don't answer.
"Would you?" he says again.
I tell him to hit me again. He refills my schooner and pours another shot of Beam on the side.
I empty the jigger into the beer and raise the schooner to my mouth. In the bar mirror the cloud of whiskey floating in beer is the color of blood that has dried in the sun, that has been burned with an electric arc. I can feel the glass begin to boil in my hands. Lightning explodes in the shell parking lot outside, illuminating the battered cars and pickup trucks and racist bumper stickers. The air is filled with a wet sulfurous smell; my ears ring with a sound that is like a scream muffled under a black cloth.
It was two in the morning when I awoke from the dream and sat listlessly on the side of the bed. What did the dream mean? Was it simply a replay of the electrocution that I had in fact witnessed when I was a newly promoted detective with the New Orleans Police Department? Old timers at AA would probably say it had to do with fear, which they believe is the cause of all the problems of alcoholics. Fear of mortality, fear that we'll drink again, fear of the self's dark potential. And for an alcoholic, fear is the acronym for Fuck Everything And Run. Clete had had his hand on it. I had loved bars and bust-head whiskey with the adoration and simple trust of a man kneeling before a votive shrine. That kind of emotional faith and addiction dies no less easily than one's religion.
The phone rang at one the next afternoon. It was Kim Dollinger.
"I want to talk to you," she said.
"Go ahead."
"No, come down to your buddy's place. I'll buy you a drink."
"What is it you want to tell me?"
"What's the matter, your social calendar all full?"
"No, I just-"
"Then come on over, hotshot."
"I'm not up to nicknames today. My name is Dave. To tell you the truth, Kim, you sound like you got started a little early today."
"Then buy me a cup of coffee. You have that paternal quality. Are you coming or not?"
Ten minutes later I was at Clete's Club. Clete and his black helper were filling the beer coolers, and she was at the far end of the bar. She wore black stockings, a denim skirt, and a sleeveless orange sweater, and she had had her hair cut so that it was short and thick on her pale neck.
"I want to tell you something before you leave," Clete said to me as I passed him.
"What is it?"
"Later, noble mon."
I sat on the stool next to Kim. She had a gin gimlet wrapped in a napkin in front of her.
"You want one?" she asked.
"No, thanks."
"You don't go to a whorehouse to play the jukebox, do you?"
"I joined the Dr Pepper crowd a few years ago."
"Too much. You want to be in the candy business, but you don't touch the juice?"
"How about holding it down?"
"You sure you're not just a big put-on?"
"What do you mean?"
"I think somebody shook up your puzzle box, that's what I mean."
"How about I buy you some gumbo?"
"I think you're weird. Do people in the bayou country grow up weird and think they can make big money in the city dealing with somebody like Ray Fontenot? Are you that dumb?"
"What is it you want to tell me, Kim?"
"I don't know what I want to tell you." She looked away into space. The green and purple neon tubing on the bar mirror glowed on her face. "You don't listen to people. Back there where you come from, don't you have something better going than this stuff in New Orleans? You want to risk it for a score with a bunch of dipshits who wouldn't take a leak on you if you were burning?"
"Why all this concern for me?"
"Because you didn't try to put moves on me. Because there're things about you that are nice. Also, because I think you're a fish."
"I look like a fish?"
"I know you're a fish, hon."
She finished her gimlet and signaled the black barman for another. He took her glass away and filled a fresh one from the blender. The color in her green eyes deepened when she sipped from the glass.
"Is there something I should know, Kim?" I asked.
"You're a big boy. Make up your own mind. Look at the flamingos."
"What?"
"Painted on the edge of the mirror. The pink flamingos. When I was a little girl we lived in Miami. My father was the guy who took care of the flamingos at the Hialeah racetrack. Before the seventh race he'd chase them with a broom in the center ground and make them fly high above the stands. That was his job. He thought it was a real important job."
She drank again from her glass and closed and opened her eyes slowly. Her mouth was bright red.
"I see," I said.
"One morning he took me to work with him and told me to sit on this wood bench by the finish line while he picked up paper from the track with a stick that had a nail in it. But I wandered out in the center ground and started feeding the flamingos. There was a bucket of ground-up shrimp by the lake, and I was throwing handfuls of it at these big, beautiful pink birds. I didn't see or hear him come up behind me. My hair was long then, and he twisted it in his hand and jerked it against my scalp like you'd snap a rope. He pulled me back to the bench and told me if I cried any more I'd get it again when I got home.
"Then this horse trainer walked up and shook his finger at my father and said, 'Don't you hurt that little girl, Bill. She didn't mean no harm.' He picked me up in his arms like my father wasn't there and carried me to his car. 'She don't belong out here. I'm going to take her to the zoo. You go on about your work,' he said. 'I'll bring her back to your trailer later. Don't be giving me any trouble about it, either, Bill.'
"He drove me down to Crandon Park to see the flamingos. He said my father wouldn't hurt me anymore, not as long as he was around. Then he bought me some ice cream and parked the car in some palmettos and sat me in his lap. Then he unbuttoned my blouse. I've always thought of it as my morning for flamingos."
"That's a bad story, Kim."
"You learn early or you learn late. What difference does it make?"
"Are you really that hard?"
"No, I just like hanging around people like Ray and Lionel and the raghead for kicks. You'll see. It's a great life."
She finished her drink, went to the women's room, and came back. I could smell mints on her breath. The Negro barman started to pour her another gimlet from the blender but she shook her head negatively. Somebody had put an old recording of "Please Don't Leave Me" by Fats Domino on the jukebox.
"Dance with me," she said.
It was dark and the vinyl booths were empty at the back of the dance floor. She felt light and small in my arms, and her head rested against my chest. I felt her hair touch my cheek.
"Look, Kim, let me buy you some gumbo at the Golden Star," I said.
She didn't answer. I could feel her stomach and breasts against me, and I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
"Hey," I said, and looked at her and smiled. "I'm an over-the-hill guy who doesn't deserve the kindness of a pretty young woman."
"Tony lets me use his beach house in Biloxi. Come with me there today."
"It sounds like a good way to end up in an oil barrel."
"He won't hurt you. He likes you. I don't think Tony's going to be around much longer, anyway."
"Why not?"
"People in Miami and Houston want him out of the way. He keeps breaking all their rules. Sometimes I feel sorry for him. Will you come with me?"
"I'm involved, Kim. You're sure a big temptation, though."
Her feet stopped moving and her hand rested on my arm. She looked out at the light from the opened front door. A lock of her hair hung down on one eyebrow. Her face had the same wan expression on it that I had seen when she had been staring out at Tony Cardo's empty tennis court. Then she touched my throat with her fingers.