“Tossed your cookies, huh.”
Dade was naïve enough to buy the tone. Jones put out his hand, said,
“Lemme give you a hand there, son.”
Put out his hand.
Later, when they finally extracted the nightstick from Dade’s ass, Jones said,
“Hey, I was looking for that.”
The judge, with an equally friendly, warm voice, asked,
“First offence, eh, partner?”
Dade had done a week of lockup, the nightly visits from the deputies, and he was no longer buying warmth. He glared at the judge, who continued,
“Don’t see why we should ruin a young life over a youthful prank, you listening to me, son?”
And Dade had dared to breathe.
Got a five-year jolt.
Served every day, came out with a brown paper bag, prison tats, a passion for Tammy Wynette, and a simmering ferocity he’d learned to put behind a smile. Dade had great teeth.
State issue.
First week of the term, a black guy had knocked out his teeth, going,
“Don’t need ’em for blow jobs.”
Six months later, Dade, a leading light in a white supremacist gang, had taken the guy’s eyes out with a spoon. No one fucked with him again.
He’d gotten a queen for his cell, a sissy out of North Carolina, and the bitch had been heavily into Tammy, played her all day. When Dade traded the cow for a piece, he’d kept the Tammy albums.
Speedway Avenue was where the students boogied. Dade, dressed in black 501s, a black T with a red lightning zag, felt it accessorised his scar, reading, “Metallica.”
Figured the students’d dig it. He let the T hang over his jeans, not as a fashion statement but to cover the Walther. No way he was rocking without weight. Last item, the boots, he studied the heels, stacked, getting worn, needed refit, said,
“Fuck it.”
Pulled them on, studied himself in the mirror, he’d a toke earlier, chill him out. Liked what he saw, a dude in black, easy smile and crinkly lines round the eyes. Pass for Clint Eastwood’s son. Maybe he’d score a college chick, give her a touch of the hard country. The baseball mitt was on the bed, he picked it up, smelled the old leather, made him sigh. Been a shame to waste the kid, he’d an arm on him and catch, shit, that kid had eyes in the back of his skull. Then he giggled, feeling the gun buck in his hand, giving Ben, the kid, a third eye. He put the mitt in his satchel, the maids, wetbacks, they’d steal anything. He raised his palm to his reflection, asked,
“Give me five, bro?”
He slapped his hand against the glass, then made a clicking sound with his tongue, said,
“Let’s boogie.”
The glass guy winked.
“Sherry was juicily conceived, but Marie squeezed
even more out of her, flirting coyly with Sterling
Hayden, conniving with Vince Edwards, snidely
blowing smoke up Elisha Cook’s aspirations.”
The first bar, Dade lucked out, scored a few tabs of E from a student who said,
“Like the shirt.”
He was cruising, on his third bar he switched from long necks to Wild Turkey, tried a line on some girls but they blew him off. He shrugged, the night was young.
Moved on to Fourth Avenue, the bars had live music, he pushed through the crowd, asked the lead singer of a country band.
“You do Tammy Wynette?”
The guy was sweating, his cowboy shirt soaked, and he stared at Dade, said,
“Get fucking real, pal.”
Dade’s mood switched, he went to the barren area of his soul without a change of expression, nodded, moved away. The guy, emboldened, shouted,
“Wynette is so, like, yesterday.”
The use of her surname inflamed Dade’s building storm, he took up a position against the wall, drink in his fist, murder in his heart. The place was hopping, people having themselves a time. The singer launched into a Garth Brooks song:
“Friends in Low Places.”
Dade fucking loathed Brooks, wondered what next? Thinking, Vince Gill?
Sure enough.
Some dirge about a gold ring. Dade drained his glass, felt the Turkey hit his gut like acid, he hailed a passing waitress, dressed in cowgirl mode, asked,
“Yo, hon, get me a tequila sunrise.”
She glared at him, snapped,
“I’m not your hon.”
His barometer hit top, Def Con 1, he’d have backhanded the bitch but he’d registered the bouncers.
Apes.
Not to be fucked with. Across the room, he felt eyes on him, his paranoia, always cooking, was at max. A blond woman but older than most of the patrons, staring at him. He was distracted by the return of the waitress, who pushed the drink at him, he asked,
“You’ll be wanting a tip?”
Her freeze thawed a bit and she nearly smiled. He added,
“Watch your mouth.”
Gulped the drink, then looked across the room, no sign of the blonde. Shit. So back to monitoring the singer. Three numbers, the guy was chugging Buds, he had to piss, right? Two Reba McEntire numbers later, the guy hopped off the stage, headed for the restroom, Dade moved. The head was outside, across a car park, Dade hung back, let the other cowboys exit then followed. The singer was zipping up, whistling. Was it Elvis’s “American Trilogy?”
Dade crushed his skull with the butt of the Walther, pulled him into a booth, rifled his jeans, a roll of twenties, two joints and a tab of acid. Dade popped it, then smashed the guy’s nose, muttering,
“Nobody, and I mean fucking no one, disses Tammy.”
He got outside, took a deep breath, saw the blonde woman at the door of the club, staring at him, a half smile playing the corners of her mouth, then she went back inside, he muttered,
“The fuck’s going on?”
And went after her. Found her at the bar, asked,
“I know you?”
She was ordering tequila shots, had the salt and lime at the ready, she asked,
“We won’t be seeing Garth Brooks for a while, am I right?”
The smile on her mouth, so he asked,
“You like Tammy Wynette?”
The woman laughed, said,
“The beat of my heart.”
Then sang the opening line to “Honey (I Miss You).”Slid a shot glass towards him, he asked,
“You wanna chow down?”
A raised eyebrow, then,
“What had you in mind?”
He went for it, said,
“Navy beans with ham over corn bread, collard greens, stewed turnips on the side, redneck cuisine.”
He leaned on the cuisine. Make-or-break-time.
She downed the shot, asked,
“The hell we waiting for?”
Linked his arm going out, he curtsied to the bouncers, said,
“Y’all have a good one.”
They gave him the steel face. He asked her,
“So hon, you got a name?”
She was right in beside him, her perfume doing jigs on his head, said,
“Sherry.”
A large bankroll consisting mainly of singles with a
hundred on the outside is called a “Michigan Roll.”
A sporting spectacle of real violence was spreading through America. Named “Toughman,” it was started by a Michigan millionaire fight promoter. Ordinary men and women, with no training, no experience, pull on gloves, headgear, climb into a ring and go for it. The prizes are not the lure, never amounts to more than fifty bucks, this keeps it at amateur level and thus free from government monitoring.