Falling in the latter category, my waitress was in a white blouse and black slacks, a curvy button-nose redhead too cute for her own good, and we’d struck up a relationship based on silly smiles and her leaning in to my booth, trying to talk over the band and take my order and me doing the same trying to give it.
Now that I’d finished my food, and the Marshall-amp-driven band was on break, she came around and was easily heard over the jukebox, which merely blared.
“Well, now, honey,” she said, just a slight Southern lilt coloring her pleasant second soprano, “you jus’ hated that, didn’t you?”
The only thing left on my plate were a few smears of ketchup, like blood trails of the dying. “Sucked.”
She laughed with more music than that band could ever muster, a busty girl threatening to pop the buttons on her blouse. “You want another Coke, honey?”
“Better not.”
“Oh, had enough of the hard stuff, have we?”
“I don’t want to be up all night.”
“Is that so bad, sugar?”
“What?”
“A man who’s up all night?” And she winked and went off with my dirty dishes.
Cornball flirtation maybe, but the head of my dick woke up and started looking around. So did I, or anyway I kept my eye on her. I was just wondering if she teased all the guys she waited on like that. Upon observation, she seemed to, those not paired off with some chick, at any rate.
That struck me as a little dicey. That hint of a Southern accent said she probably wasn’t originally from St. Louis, maybe even a recent arrival, and a friendly country girl could easily get herself in some big city trouble.
Not my business. Anyway, most guys were just smiling back at her, like I was, and probably leaving nice tips, so what the hell. But there was this one long-dark-haired, droopy-mustached dude standing at the bar — sporting light-blue denim slacks, a red shirt with tiny white polka dots, and (I swear) a little matching denim hat — who was getting out of line.
The waitress (her name tag said BECKY) was taking an order at one of the little tables between the bar and the booths along the wall. He put his hand on her ass and kind of rubbed, like he had a chamois and her rump was a fender. She glared over her shoulder at him and shook her head; he stopped, raised surrender hands, and she gave her smiling attention back to a couple at their table.
The denim-cap jackass leaned against the bar next to another winner, a shoulder-length blond guy in a tailored black shirt and black-and-white plaid bell bottoms. Both had pointed shoes and looked like they fell off an Osmonds LP.
The latter guy grabbed Becky by the arm as she walked by, and jerked her to a stop. I don’t know what he said to her, but his upper lip curled back and he gave her the kind of leer that made bad records like “I Am Woman” happen.
She pulled away, frowning, maybe a little scared.
Again, none of my business. I was finished with my food and there would be no more Coca-Cola tonight. The check was five-something and I left her a ten, hoping that might make up for some of the indignities she’d suffered at the handsy hands of my gender.
I let myself in and Boyd was still up, watching Johnny Carson.
“Get any?” he asked, with that same kind of leer. Like he was interested in pussy.
But I just shook my head and went on into my bedroom. I was still in the windbreaker. On the nightstand was the Louis L’Amour paperback I was in the middle of — The Daybreakers.
“Fuck it,” I said to nobody, and got the nine-millimeter Browning out of my suitcase. Brown walnut grips, blued finish, thirteen-shot magazine. I stuffed it into my waistband and zipped the windbreaker over it. Boyd was right that I wasn’t naturally a shoulder-holster type.
My booth was still empty, though the ten was gone and the table had been wiped off, and I slid back in. The band was still on break and the jukebox was playing Three Dog Night — “Family of Man.” Some couples were dancing on the small dance floor.
She noticed me and came over. She leaned in closer than before and I got a better look at her — rounded oval face, freckled nose and cheeks, lush lips sticky with pink lip gloss, green eyes with green eye shadow, and an explosion of fiery, shoulders-brushing curls.
“Are you back, honey, or are you still here?”
“I stepped out for some air. Getting kind of thick in here.”
“Hell, I don’t even notice it no more.” She shook her head. “Been waitressin’ since high school. I inhaled more cigarette smoke than a Marlboro man.”
Of course I hadn’t been talking about cigarette smoke.
She pulled away a tad, asking lightly, “Change your mind about that Coke?”
“No. Am I taking up valuable real estate?”
“We’re pretty slow. Don’t worry about it.”
She hipped it to the waitress station toward the end of the bar. Two others were working the floor and it was overkill. The denim-cap dipshit and the plaid-pants idiot were next to her. When she leaned forward, her bottom tipped up and the denim-cap could not resist. He petted her ass like a puppy. She glared at him and brushed his hand away like an insect. A big one.
The bartender — the only guy in the place older than 25, a burly slug — saw this go down. He was polishing a glass to pretend he was working — as she’d said, it was fairly slow — and all he did was smile. Boys will be boys. And it was a nice ass, I had to admit. Full. Ripe. Jesus, men are shit.
She collected a tall glass of something from the slug and came back over to me. Turned out the drink was for me.
“Ginger ale,” she said. “No caffeine. So you won’t be up all night. Shame.”
I thanked her, sipped, said, “I’m kind of partial to ginger.”
“Are you, honey? I get off at midnight. Scheduled till two, but Lou said I should take off early.”
I shrugged. “Sure. I have nothing on.”
“Maybe later,” she said, smiling her pink sticky smile, “I can say the same.”
Okay, so she was an outrageous flirt. Maybe even borderline slutty. But I didn’t care if she was the biggest tramp in St. Louis, I didn’t want those bastards manhandling her.
She started away and I touched her sleeve. Just touched it.
“Becky,” I said, “do you know those two characters at the bar? Are they regulars? Maybe one a boyfriend or an ex?”
She shook her head and her hair was like strawberry cotton candy a kid was shaking on its paper cone. “Never saw ’em before. I don’t know whether they’re passin’ through or from some privileged part of town.”
“Well, their privileges shouldn’t include playing grab ass with the help.”
She touched my sleeve. But then she squeezed. “You’re nice. What’s your name?”
“Jack,” I said.
“So is it a date, honey? I know somewhere we can go.”
“It’s a date.”
She smiled and made dimples, emphasizing the kind of apple cheeks that make a boy long for the girl next door. Long for fucking her, I mean.
She swiveled off and I watched her deposit her tray at the end of the bar. She was heading toward the back of the place just as the band was starting up again. Without premeditation, they murdered “American Woman.”
And the American woman I was watching was heading into the cubbyhole to the right of the stage off of which were the men’s and ladies’ rooms.
I sipped my ginger ale and let my eyes drift to the bar. Would Heckle and Jeckle be watching her? Yes. They were watching her. Would they follow her to have some more fun? Yes. They would follow her.