The old man scratched his stomach absently but didn’t make a move to the cigarette. “You here for a court date?”
“No,” Shane said. “Not today.”
“You need a lawyer, I’m right across the street, as I think you know.”
“How much for a murder defense?” Shane asked, but he laughed, a big joke, two guys at dawn, bullshitting.
“Less than you’d think.” Terry walked over to the butt, stepped on it, cocked his head sideways to get a better look at Shane’s foot up above him. “Looks like self-defense to me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shane said.
“I keep office hours at Cactus Pete’s.” He pointed at the bar attached to the Royal Californian. “Be there until at least six thirty. I’ll buy you a drink, we can talk about your case.”
“I’m innocent.”
“Yeah,” Terry said, “that’s what we’ll tell ’em.”
Shane couldn’t tell if Cactus Pete’s had a seventies kitsch design aesthetic or if it just hadn’t changed since that decade. He’d never been in a bar that had shag carpeting. The VIP area, set off from the tiny dance floor and deejay booth by an actual red-velvet rope, had high-backed booths that reminded Shane fondly of the Angus, Terry Kales sitting in the biggest one, sipping on a glass of something brown, papers spread out in front of him, a cell phone to his ear, another cell phone and his car keys keeping his papers from blowing away, the overhead fans working overtime to keep the room cool. He didn’t look up when Shane walked in, at least as far as Shane could tell, which was hard because Terry had on sunglasses, the bar’s windows flooding the room with bright light.
It was just before three. Tomorrow at this time, he’d be in the clear. That was the hoped-for result. He’d found a 99 Cents Only store two blocks away, limped his ass over there, his foot on fire, picked up a change of clothes, some sunglasses, a Padres baseball cap. Went next door to the Circle K, got his disposable phone. He was about out of cash now, but he’d figure that out. This old man? He’d probably had a good enough life.
On the dance floor, a woman was setting up for karaoke, and for reasons Shane could not fathom, there was a guy dressed as a clown sitting at the bar. Green hair. Red nose. Striped pants. Big red shoes. Stars-and-stripes shirt and vest. Back of the vest, embroidered in rhinestones, it said HERMIETHECLOWN.COM. He had a cup of coffee and a Desert Sun, the local paper, reading the sports page. Shane sat down at the bar but kept a stool between himself and Hermie.
“Get you something?” the woman setting up the karaoke asked. She was younger than Terry, older than the clown, somewhere on the plus side of fifty. She had on a tank top that showed off her shoulders — muscular, but lean — and a full sleeve of tattoos down her right arm. Shane saw two names — Charlotte and Randy — amid flowers, sunsets, and spiderwebs. She had a name tag pinned above her left breast that said Glory.
“Was wondering what time the show was,” Shane said.
“Six,” Glory said. “You sing?”
“Yeah.”
“We have a lot of regulars, so sign up early.”
“Truth is, I was wondering if I could warm up first.” When Glory didn’t respond, Shane said, “I’m staying here.”
“Room?”
“204,” he said. “On account of my foot. Gotta have surgery in the morning. Just trying to have one last good night before I get the knife.” He looked over at the clown. “Unless you’ve got first dibs.”
“He don’t speak,” Glory said, “or sing.”
The clown nodded in the affirmative.
Glory leaned over the bar and examined Shane’s foot. So did the silent clown, who blew lightly on a whistle he kept around his neck, which Shane found disconcerting. He slid his flip-flop off, wiggled his toes.
“You can’t be in here without a shoe on,” Glory said.
“Just letting it breathe,” Shane said.
Glory nodded solemnly, like they’d come to some agreement about life. “What’s your song?”
“I mix it up,” Shane said, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Terry slide his sunglasses down his nose, “but mostly Neil Diamond.”
Shane was midway through “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon” when Terry came over and stood next to the clown; Terry had tears streaming down his face. Terry and the clown swayed back and forth together, Shane digging down deep for the end, telling that girl, sooooooooon you’ll need a man, giving it some real soul, some real pathos.
“Again,” Terry said, and tossed Shane a fifty, so he did it again, Terry breaking down in full sobs this time, clearly going through some shit. When he finished, Terry said, “One more, your pick,” and then went and sat back in his booth, the clown following him. Shane went with “Song Sung Blue.” When he was finished, Terry motioned him over to his table.
“You really having surgery?” Terry asked once they were all comfortable in the sweaty half-moon banquette, Terry’s shit spread out everywhere, Shane eyeing his car keys, his plan coming into full focus, Hermie busy on his phone, answering texts. Popular fucking clown. “I heard you talking to Glory.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “At the hospital up the street.” He’d seen it in the brochure. It was named for John F. Kennedy, which Shane thought was some bad presidential juju.
“Good hospital,” Terry said. “All of my best clients have died there.”
“Like the girl this morning?”
“That was my daughter.”
“Really?” Really.
“Yeah,” Terry said, “I’ve got limited visitation at the moment, so I take what I can get.”
“Okay,” Shane said, not sure if he believed him. “What about you, Hermie? Any kids?”
Hermie looked up from his phone, shook his head no.
Thank God.
“Can I give you some legal advice?” Terry said. “Jew to
Jew.”
“Mazel tov,” Shane said.
“You’ve clearly been shot in the foot. In about two hours, when the courthouse closes? This bar is gonna fill up with off-duty cops, DAs, public defenders, judges, and expert-witness types. You should be gone by then.”
“That is good advice,” Shane said. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“When it all comes down,” Terry pointed at a television above the bar, the sound off, running Fox News, “they’ll take us both.”
“Apart from that.”
“You have the natural ability to make a person feel something, you know? That’s special.” Terry adjusted his sunglasses, Shane thinking maybe he was getting a little teary-eyed again, or maybe he just liked the Jim Jones vibe he was giving off. “Sometimes a song, sung by the right person, it’ll touch you. You touched me up there just now. I don’t know. Maybe I’m drunk.”
Hermie nodded vigorously.
“You saw my daughter? Her mother,” Terry said, “won’t have me in the house, which is why I’m in this situation over here. ‘Girl,’ that was our song. Our wedding song. Seems dumb, no?”
“People pick terrible songs for their weddings,” Shane said, and then told Terry about his job working weddings, all the times he sang “Wild Horses” for newlyweds.
“No one listens anymore,” Terry said. “Words used to mean something.” He looked over at Hermie. “No offense.”
Hermie shrugged.
“Anyway,” Terry said, “you seem like a nice guy in a bad situation. So. Maybe I can help you. Do you want help?”
“I could use a friend,” Shane said.
“I could be a friend.” Terry reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, slid a business card over to Shane. One side was in English, the other in Spanish, but both were for a dentist named Marco Degolado in Los Algodones, Baja California, right over the Mexican border, according to the thumbnail map printed on the card.