sat on the edge of the bandstand. One eye was swollen almost shut; blood, black
in the half-light, black like his face, blotched the front of his shirt. His guitar lay in pieces before him. The bass player
stood backed against the wall, hugging his Fender. The drummer, still seated, twirled a stick in each hand.
"Come on, you son'va'bitch! Stand up and fight like a goddamn man!" This from a stocky guy with his back to me.
I put a hand gently on his shoulder and he came around swinging, then grunted as I tucked one fist in his armpit, grabbed
his wrist with the other, pulled hard against the latter and leaned hard into the former. When he brought the other hand around
to strike, I gave his wrist a twist. What must have been a buddy of his started towards me, saying "Hey man, you can't—" only
to have a drumstick strike him squarely between the eyes. He staggered back. The drummer, who'd thrown the stick like a knife,
wagged a finger in warning.
"You okay, Eldon?"
"Yeah."
"How about you?" I asked the stocky guy. "You cooled down?"
He nodded, and I let go, backing off. Watching his eyes. I saw it there first, then in the shift of his feet. Stamped hard
on his instep, and when that knee buckled, I kicked the other foot out from under him.
"Don't get up till you're ready to behave." Then to Eldon: "What's this all about?"
"Who knows? Guy starts hanging around the bandstand, has something to say every minute or two, I just smile and nod and ignore
him. So he starts getting louder. Tries to get up onstage at one point and spills a beer on my amp. So then he stumbles getting
down and starts yelling that I pushed him. Next thing I know, he's grabbed my guitar and smashed it."
"You want me to take him in?"
"Hell no, Turner. Not like I ain't been through this before. Just get his buddy there to take him the fuck home and let him
sleep it off."
I helped the man up.
"Your lucky day," I told him. "Give me your billfold." I took the driver's license out. "You come pick this up tomorrow and
we'll have a talk. Now get the hell out of here."
I waited at the bar while Eldon borrowed a towel from the bartender and went in the bathroom to clean up. He came back looking
not much better.
"Shirt kinda makes me homesick for tie-dye. Buy you a drink?"
"Tomato juice."
"And a draft for me," I told the bartender.
The jukebox came back on. I looked hard at the bartender and the volume went down about half.
"He wanted you to fight him."
"Sure did."
"But you didn't."
Eldon looked off at the bandstand, where drummer and bassist were packing up.
"Must be about six, seven years ago now. Club down in Beaumont. I's out back on a break and this guy comes up talkin' 'bout
You shore can play that thing, boy. Gets up in my face like a gnat and won't go away."
He finished off his juice.
"I damn near killed him. Vowed that day I'd never take another drink and I'd never fight another man. You ever killed anyone,
Turner?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I have."
"Then you know."
I nodded.
The bass player had scooped up what was left of Eldon's guitar and put it in the case. He brought the case over and set it
at Eldon's feet.
"Talk to you tomorrow," Eldon said.
"Don't call too early." An old joke: they both grinned.
Out on the floor, four or five couples were boot-scooting to Merle Haggard's "Lonesome Fugitive."
"Back when I played R&B, I always had half a dozen or more electric guitars," Eldon said. "Have me a Gibson solid-body, a
Gretsch, one of those Nationals shaped like a map, a Telecaster or a Strat. Ain't had but this old Guild Starfire for years
now. When I bought it, place called Charlie's Guitars in Dallas, it had the finish torn off right above the pickup, where
this bluesman had had his initials glued on. Guess he slapped it on his next guitar. And guess I'll be heading up to Memphis in the morning to do some shopping."
Val hadn't gone home after all. She lay on the couch with one bent leg balanced across the
in the half-light, black like his face, blotched the front of his shirt. His guitar lay in pieces before him. The bass player
stood backed against the wall, hugging his Fender. The drummer, still seated, twirled a stick in each hand.
"Come on, you son'va'bitch! Stand up and fight like a goddamn man!" This from a stocky guy with his back to me.
I put a hand gently on his shoulder and he came around swinging, then grunted as I tucked one fist in his armpit, grabbed
his wrist with the other, pulled hard against the latter and leaned hard into the former. When he brought the other hand around
to strike, I gave his wrist a twist. What must have been a buddy of his started towards me, saying "Hey man, you can't—" only
to have a drumstick strike him squarely between the eyes. He staggered back. The drummer, who'd thrown the stick like a knife,
wagged a finger in warning.
"You okay, Eldon?"
"Yeah."
"How about you?" I asked the stocky guy. "You cooled down?"
He nodded, and I let go, backing off. Watching his eyes. I saw it there first, then in the shift of his feet. Stamped hard
on his instep, and when that knee buckled, I kicked the other foot out from under him.
"Don't get up till you're ready to behave." Then to Eldon: "What's this all about?"
"Who knows? Guy starts hanging around the bandstand, has something to say every minute or two, I just smile and nod and ignore
him. So he starts getting louder. Tries to get up onstage at one point and spills a beer on my amp. So then he stumbles getting
down and starts yelling that I pushed him. Next thing I know, he's grabbed my guitar and smashed it."
"You want me to take him in?"
"Hell no, Turner. Not like I ain't been through this before. Just get his buddy there to take him the fuck home and let him
sleep it off."
I helped the man up.
"Your lucky day," I told him. "Give me your billfold." I took the driver's license out. "You come pick this up tomorrow and
we'll have a talk. Now get the hell out of here."
I waited at the bar while Eldon borrowed a towel from the bartender and went in the bathroom to clean up. He came back looking
not much better.
"Shirt kinda makes me homesick for tie-dye. Buy you a drink?"
"Tomato juice."
"And a draft for me," I told the bartender.
The jukebox came back on. I looked hard at the bartender and the volume went down about half.
"He wanted you to fight him."
"Sure did."
"But you didn't."
Eldon looked off at the bandstand, where drummer and bassist were packing up.
"Must be about six, seven years ago now. Club down in Beaumont. I's out back on a break and this guy comes up talkin' 'bout
You shore can play that thing, boy. Gets up in my face like a gnat and won't go away."
He finished off his juice.
"I damn near killed him. Vowed that day I'd never take another drink and I'd never fight another man. You ever killed anyone,
Turner?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I have."
"Then you know."
I nodded.
The bass player had scooped up what was left of Eldon's guitar and put it in the case. He brought the case over and set it
at Eldon's feet.
"Talk to you tomorrow," Eldon said.
"Don't call too early." An old joke: they both grinned.
Out on the floor, four or five couples were boot-scooting to Merle Haggard's "Lonesome Fugitive."
"Back when I played R&B, I always had half a dozen or more electric guitars," Eldon said. "Have me a Gibson solid-body, a
Gretsch, one of those Nationals shaped like a map, a Telecaster or a Strat. Ain't had but this old Guild Starfire for years
now. When I bought it, place called Charlie's Guitars in Dallas, it had the finish torn off right above the pickup, where
this bluesman had had his initials glued on. Guess he slapped it on his next guitar. And guess I'll be heading up to Memphis in the morning to do some shopping."
Val hadn't gone home after all. She lay on the couch with one bent leg balanced across the
Similar Books
![Her Three Entrepreneurs [The Hot Millionaires #8]](https://fs.ageofbook.com/619855/thumbs/152x264/her-three-entrepreneurs-the-hot-millionaires-8.jpg)
