country band, talking to Sue Lynn, splitting a pitcher with Hollywood movie types who liked to float the Blackfoot and the Little Big Horn in safari hats and fly vests that showed off their suntans. Who knows, maybe he’d end up in the movies himself. Hey, look what happened to the Angels when they latched on to Leary and all these middle-class pukes who couldn’t wait to fry their heads with Osley purple.
There was Holly Girard over at the bar, her husband, too. Xavier was big shit with the writers’ community around here. Big shit in New York and Hollywood, too. European television crews interviewed him in lowlife bars, which Lamar couldn’t figure out, because why would a guy who owned a mansion above the river want everybody to see him on camera with drooling rummies?
Had Xavier heard about that rape beef? That doctor, the SEAL, was a writer or poet, too, wasn’t he? Man, that wasn’t good. Xavier had keys to the right doors and got an artistic buzz or something goofing with bikers and guys who’d been inside. Besides, the guy’s wife was a first-rate box of chocolates.
Lamar took the pitcher back up to the bar and stood next to Xavier, nodding at both him and his wife, blowing his cigarette smoke at an upward angle to show the right respect.
“Hey, my man Xavier,” Lamar said.
“Yeah, Lamar, what’s happenin’?” Xavier said. But his eyes were oblique, focused on the band and the dancers out on the floor, a swizzle stick deep in his jaw.
His wife was even worse, gazing out the door, chin in the air, like her shit should be bronzed and used for paperweights.
“I got some bad press. It was a bum beef, though. The sheriff knew it from the get-go. That’s why he cut me loose. I got no bad feelings against that doctor. The dude was in Force Recon. I went to Wal-Mart to buy his book but they didn’t have it,” Lamar said.
“I don’t read the papers a lot, so I’m not real tuned in on it. We’re about to boogie, Lamar,” Xavier said.
“How you doin’, Ms. Girard?” Lamar said, leaning forward so she could see his face.
“I’m quite well,” she said. But she didn’t turn her head toward him and her eyes were lowered, as though she did not want to see him even on the corner of her vision.
“I’m a big fan,” he said.
“Thank you. That’s very kind,” she replied.
He started to speak again, but she picked up her purse and walked past him to the rest room. She wore a silvery-blue dress that trembled like ice water on her rump.
“Man, she’s—” he said to Xavier.
“She’s what?” Xavier said, turning toward him.
“Real talented.” Lamar watched Xavier sip from his shot glass, then chase the whiskey with beer. The guy must have a liver the size of a football, he thought. How’s a drunk fuck like that end up with money and fame and educated broads falling all over him in bookstores?
He felt his irritability growing. “I’m starting to get a big chill here. I do something to you or your lady?” he said.
“No, I just have to go home and write.”
“You drink B-52’s before you write? … Look, I never went asking for no trouble. I’m not a bad guy. You want to see a badass? Check the cowboy in the corner. That’s Wyatt Dixon.”
“You need to let go of my arm, Lamar.” “I’m paying out thirteen hundred bucks for a new bridge. I didn’t press charges against your friend. But I end up on the front page of the fucking newspaper …”
“I know what you mean,” Xavier said, peeling Lamar’s hand loose from his arm. “Those news guys don’t know character when they see it.”
Then both Xavier and his wife were out the door, and Lamar’s face felt full of needles, his ears humming with sound, as though he had been slapped.
HE TALKED awhile with Sue Lynn at the table, even though she had come to the bar with Wyatt. You had to show Wyatt you weren’t afraid of him. Not head on, nothing confrontational, just a little signal you didn’t rattle. Then
There was Holly Girard over at the bar, her husband, too. Xavier was big shit with the writers’ community around here. Big shit in New York and Hollywood, too. European television crews interviewed him in lowlife bars, which Lamar couldn’t figure out, because why would a guy who owned a mansion above the river want everybody to see him on camera with drooling rummies?
Had Xavier heard about that rape beef? That doctor, the SEAL, was a writer or poet, too, wasn’t he? Man, that wasn’t good. Xavier had keys to the right doors and got an artistic buzz or something goofing with bikers and guys who’d been inside. Besides, the guy’s wife was a first-rate box of chocolates.
Lamar took the pitcher back up to the bar and stood next to Xavier, nodding at both him and his wife, blowing his cigarette smoke at an upward angle to show the right respect.
“Hey, my man Xavier,” Lamar said.
“Yeah, Lamar, what’s happenin’?” Xavier said. But his eyes were oblique, focused on the band and the dancers out on the floor, a swizzle stick deep in his jaw.
His wife was even worse, gazing out the door, chin in the air, like her shit should be bronzed and used for paperweights.
“I got some bad press. It was a bum beef, though. The sheriff knew it from the get-go. That’s why he cut me loose. I got no bad feelings against that doctor. The dude was in Force Recon. I went to Wal-Mart to buy his book but they didn’t have it,” Lamar said.
“I don’t read the papers a lot, so I’m not real tuned in on it. We’re about to boogie, Lamar,” Xavier said.
“How you doin’, Ms. Girard?” Lamar said, leaning forward so she could see his face.
“I’m quite well,” she said. But she didn’t turn her head toward him and her eyes were lowered, as though she did not want to see him even on the corner of her vision.
“I’m a big fan,” he said.
“Thank you. That’s very kind,” she replied.
He started to speak again, but she picked up her purse and walked past him to the rest room. She wore a silvery-blue dress that trembled like ice water on her rump.
“Man, she’s—” he said to Xavier.
“She’s what?” Xavier said, turning toward him.
“Real talented.” Lamar watched Xavier sip from his shot glass, then chase the whiskey with beer. The guy must have a liver the size of a football, he thought. How’s a drunk fuck like that end up with money and fame and educated broads falling all over him in bookstores?
He felt his irritability growing. “I’m starting to get a big chill here. I do something to you or your lady?” he said.
“No, I just have to go home and write.”
“You drink B-52’s before you write? … Look, I never went asking for no trouble. I’m not a bad guy. You want to see a badass? Check the cowboy in the corner. That’s Wyatt Dixon.”
“You need to let go of my arm, Lamar.” “I’m paying out thirteen hundred bucks for a new bridge. I didn’t press charges against your friend. But I end up on the front page of the fucking newspaper …”
“I know what you mean,” Xavier said, peeling Lamar’s hand loose from his arm. “Those news guys don’t know character when they see it.”
Then both Xavier and his wife were out the door, and Lamar’s face felt full of needles, his ears humming with sound, as though he had been slapped.
HE TALKED awhile with Sue Lynn at the table, even though she had come to the bar with Wyatt. You had to show Wyatt you weren’t afraid of him. Not head on, nothing confrontational, just a little signal you didn’t rattle. Then
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