Oil Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 4) by T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese
Authors: T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese
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simply being ignored?); and the simple and exquisite sense of self-reliance that, while probably illusory (because she did need love, did she not? And what about the ‘no woman is an island thing?)…was growing yearly more enjoyable…
…to speculate on all of these reasons why she would not have sex tonight or any other night in her future, when she was joined at the table by Annette, who undoubtedly would have sex tonight…
She wore a black dress bare on one shoulder, red hair glistening in whatever meager yellow light was dispensed by a precariously hanging single bulb, small cigar swinging at the end of an immensely long arm…
“The beer came,” Nina said.
“Good. Now…look across the room, over there, leaning against the bar. See that oily-haired on muscly guy?”
“I do.”
“That’s my boyfriend. Wait. I’ll go get him.”
Annette crossed the room, accosted the man she had been speaking about, embraced him quickly, laughed, embraced him again, kissed him lightly…
…and after two minutes or so, was back with him.
“This is Guidry,” she said.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
And so, for a time, Annette and Guidry talked about fishing while Nina simply listened.
Pierre Boudin, happy as a pig-clam, worked his hall. He brought them two more bottles of beer—ok, so they weren’t quite ready for more beer, but they would be––sat with them, agreed with them, laughed with them, folds of flesh rolling and tangled torso-growth sprouting in the warm, fetid air.
…until, the beer-clock above the bar inching its way to seven o’clock, they rose and made their way toward the dance floor.
It looked different now. The single melancholy saxophone player had disappeared, swallowed by the swamp upon which this entire precarious enterprise floated. In his place, still not attracting a great deal of attention, were scattered musicians, none of whom seemed to know each other, all of whom seemed unaware of their surroundings. A fiddle appeared, was scratched, then tuned, then set aimlessly aside. A bass joined it, huge, burnished, immovable, more like a piece of bedroom furniture than any possible musical instrument; and there, as much smaller as it should have been than the bass was larger…was the heart of the band, the box accordion.
Annette watched the Red Stick Ramblers set up like she would have watched a mother give birth.
Her eyes glittered, black and shining, star-scattered rhinestones on the strap of her dress.
“How long,” whispered Nina, “have you known Guidry?”
Annette stared back at her for an instant.
“What?”
“How long have you known Guidry?”
“Oh. What time is it now?”
“It’s seven o’clock.”
‘”Then—five minutes, I guess.”
Nina could find nothing to say for a moment, and finally stammered out:
“I thought you two were a couple.”
Annette nodded, impatiently:
“We are. Now. Remember how I told you I discovered men in my mid twenties…”
“…and never looked back.”
“That’s’ right, ma chere, that’s right.”
“And you’re not looking back now.”
“Not a bit of it.
Nina knew nothing to say.
Finally, she tried to stammer something out, but nothing came.
“What? What is it, Nina?”
“Annette—it’s just—it all seems so inappropriate. I mean—one of your classmates is dead.”
“That’s right, Babe. He is. He is dead.”
“I mean—how can you just go dancing?”
Then, from somewhere in the collection of half rooms that were nothing like an actual building, a clock started chiming.
Bong. Bong…
The Red Stick Ramblers belted out:
“GEAUX GEAUX GEAUX de GEAUX GEAUX GEAUX!
MEAUX MEAUX MEAUX de MEAUX MEAUX MEAUX!
And Annette shouted back at Nina:
“How can you not?”
The music pounded and throbbed and wailed and squawked and dipped and soared and cried and always tailed off in its plaintive syllables of “oh oh oh, de oh oh oh,” spilling out into the sweating air with five vowels and an ‘x’.
The dance
…to speculate on all of these reasons why she would not have sex tonight or any other night in her future, when she was joined at the table by Annette, who undoubtedly would have sex tonight…
She wore a black dress bare on one shoulder, red hair glistening in whatever meager yellow light was dispensed by a precariously hanging single bulb, small cigar swinging at the end of an immensely long arm…
“The beer came,” Nina said.
“Good. Now…look across the room, over there, leaning against the bar. See that oily-haired on muscly guy?”
“I do.”
“That’s my boyfriend. Wait. I’ll go get him.”
Annette crossed the room, accosted the man she had been speaking about, embraced him quickly, laughed, embraced him again, kissed him lightly…
…and after two minutes or so, was back with him.
“This is Guidry,” she said.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
And so, for a time, Annette and Guidry talked about fishing while Nina simply listened.
Pierre Boudin, happy as a pig-clam, worked his hall. He brought them two more bottles of beer—ok, so they weren’t quite ready for more beer, but they would be––sat with them, agreed with them, laughed with them, folds of flesh rolling and tangled torso-growth sprouting in the warm, fetid air.
…until, the beer-clock above the bar inching its way to seven o’clock, they rose and made their way toward the dance floor.
It looked different now. The single melancholy saxophone player had disappeared, swallowed by the swamp upon which this entire precarious enterprise floated. In his place, still not attracting a great deal of attention, were scattered musicians, none of whom seemed to know each other, all of whom seemed unaware of their surroundings. A fiddle appeared, was scratched, then tuned, then set aimlessly aside. A bass joined it, huge, burnished, immovable, more like a piece of bedroom furniture than any possible musical instrument; and there, as much smaller as it should have been than the bass was larger…was the heart of the band, the box accordion.
Annette watched the Red Stick Ramblers set up like she would have watched a mother give birth.
Her eyes glittered, black and shining, star-scattered rhinestones on the strap of her dress.
“How long,” whispered Nina, “have you known Guidry?”
Annette stared back at her for an instant.
“What?”
“How long have you known Guidry?”
“Oh. What time is it now?”
“It’s seven o’clock.”
‘”Then—five minutes, I guess.”
Nina could find nothing to say for a moment, and finally stammered out:
“I thought you two were a couple.”
Annette nodded, impatiently:
“We are. Now. Remember how I told you I discovered men in my mid twenties…”
“…and never looked back.”
“That’s’ right, ma chere, that’s right.”
“And you’re not looking back now.”
“Not a bit of it.
Nina knew nothing to say.
Finally, she tried to stammer something out, but nothing came.
“What? What is it, Nina?”
“Annette—it’s just—it all seems so inappropriate. I mean—one of your classmates is dead.”
“That’s right, Babe. He is. He is dead.”
“I mean—how can you just go dancing?”
Then, from somewhere in the collection of half rooms that were nothing like an actual building, a clock started chiming.
Bong. Bong…
The Red Stick Ramblers belted out:
“GEAUX GEAUX GEAUX de GEAUX GEAUX GEAUX!
MEAUX MEAUX MEAUX de MEAUX MEAUX MEAUX!
And Annette shouted back at Nina:
“How can you not?”
The music pounded and throbbed and wailed and squawked and dipped and soared and cried and always tailed off in its plaintive syllables of “oh oh oh, de oh oh oh,” spilling out into the sweating air with five vowels and an ‘x’.
The dance
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