ignored the wet sounds that were coming from beneath the table and almost echoing throughout the quiet bar. I wished that the old man would have one of his coughing fits.
Rap music blared through the speakers a moment later. It was only marginally better than listening to the suck sounds the hooker had been making under the table. I figured the song was earlier rap, as there was still some semblance of a melody. Then I realized it was a bastardization of one of the songs from Saturday Night Fever .
I kept my eyes fixed on the bottle of Molson Canadian and tried to watch everything out of the corner of my eye. The skinny kid took up a position leaning against the wall with his back to Rolo. The bartender, who had been a statue except for popping my two bottles and stealing my money, suddenly began cleaning glasses with his back to the corner where Rolo was getting serviced. Only the old man remained unchanged, sitting still except to sip or puff or cough.
Rolo clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back, closing his eyes. I cast furtive glances at him in the mirror every minute or so, watching for the hooker’s head to pop up from under the table like a prairie dog.
The scratching and thumping rendition of the disco song ended and there was a painful moment of silence, punctuating by a low, growling moan from Rolo. I focused on the squeaking sound the bartender made as he cleaned the glasses behind the bar. Another song poured from the jukebox. This one I recognized as an older song, some classic soul singer from an eon ago.
I took another sip of beer, studying the bottle but not seeing it. A gnawing doubt was growing in my stomach, asking if this was really such a great idea. You’d think a beer or two would help shore up a guy’s courage and resolve any nagging doubts. But the longer I sat there, the more I worried and the soul singer’s smooth voice did little to sooth my concern.
Relax, I told myself as I read the import information on the beer bottle. He’s a pimp, not a gangster. That means he’s in it for the money. He’s a businessman.
I shrugged off my worries and took another sip of Molson. What else was I supposed to do? If I wandered up and down Sprague showing Kris’s picture to hookers, Rolo would c ome see me sooner or later, anyway. Except t hat meeting would definitely be unfriendly. Or I’d get stopped by a patrolman which was not something I wanted to deal with, either.
This might not be a great idea, but it was a better option than any other one I had. Other than maybe calling up Matt Sinderling and telling him I quit.
As the song faded, the ski nny kid appeared at my side. He flicked my shoulder with the back of his first two fingers.
“Yo,” he said. “The man wants to know who you are.”
I looked at him and then over my shoulder at Rolo. The hooker sat next to him rubbing her jaw and drinking water. He ignored her and stared directly at me. I couldn’t read his expression at that distance in the dim light.
The kid tapped me again. “Hey, you hear me?”
I returned my gaze to the kid and was suddenly furious at him. I hated his North Carolina shirt, his baggy pants and his floppy shoes. Most of all, I hated the smug look on his face.
“Yeah, I heard you,” I said in a low voice. “And if you tap me like that again, you’ll be finished using those fingers for a while.”
The kid looked surprised and before he could recover, I slid off the bar stool with my beer in hand and brushed past him. There was a rustle of movement behind me and Rolo’s hand rose up off the table in a “hold it” gesture. The rustling stopped.
The sounds of another rock song re-made as rap filled the bar. I put my beer on Rolo’s table. He stared at it like it was a giant turd. Then I slid into the booth across from him and looked him directly in the eye.
“I didn’t say you could sit there,” he said.
“I know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Bitch, you’d be making a big mistake if
Rap music blared through the speakers a moment later. It was only marginally better than listening to the suck sounds the hooker had been making under the table. I figured the song was earlier rap, as there was still some semblance of a melody. Then I realized it was a bastardization of one of the songs from Saturday Night Fever .
I kept my eyes fixed on the bottle of Molson Canadian and tried to watch everything out of the corner of my eye. The skinny kid took up a position leaning against the wall with his back to Rolo. The bartender, who had been a statue except for popping my two bottles and stealing my money, suddenly began cleaning glasses with his back to the corner where Rolo was getting serviced. Only the old man remained unchanged, sitting still except to sip or puff or cough.
Rolo clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back, closing his eyes. I cast furtive glances at him in the mirror every minute or so, watching for the hooker’s head to pop up from under the table like a prairie dog.
The scratching and thumping rendition of the disco song ended and there was a painful moment of silence, punctuating by a low, growling moan from Rolo. I focused on the squeaking sound the bartender made as he cleaned the glasses behind the bar. Another song poured from the jukebox. This one I recognized as an older song, some classic soul singer from an eon ago.
I took another sip of beer, studying the bottle but not seeing it. A gnawing doubt was growing in my stomach, asking if this was really such a great idea. You’d think a beer or two would help shore up a guy’s courage and resolve any nagging doubts. But the longer I sat there, the more I worried and the soul singer’s smooth voice did little to sooth my concern.
Relax, I told myself as I read the import information on the beer bottle. He’s a pimp, not a gangster. That means he’s in it for the money. He’s a businessman.
I shrugged off my worries and took another sip of Molson. What else was I supposed to do? If I wandered up and down Sprague showing Kris’s picture to hookers, Rolo would c ome see me sooner or later, anyway. Except t hat meeting would definitely be unfriendly. Or I’d get stopped by a patrolman which was not something I wanted to deal with, either.
This might not be a great idea, but it was a better option than any other one I had. Other than maybe calling up Matt Sinderling and telling him I quit.
As the song faded, the ski nny kid appeared at my side. He flicked my shoulder with the back of his first two fingers.
“Yo,” he said. “The man wants to know who you are.”
I looked at him and then over my shoulder at Rolo. The hooker sat next to him rubbing her jaw and drinking water. He ignored her and stared directly at me. I couldn’t read his expression at that distance in the dim light.
The kid tapped me again. “Hey, you hear me?”
I returned my gaze to the kid and was suddenly furious at him. I hated his North Carolina shirt, his baggy pants and his floppy shoes. Most of all, I hated the smug look on his face.
“Yeah, I heard you,” I said in a low voice. “And if you tap me like that again, you’ll be finished using those fingers for a while.”
The kid looked surprised and before he could recover, I slid off the bar stool with my beer in hand and brushed past him. There was a rustle of movement behind me and Rolo’s hand rose up off the table in a “hold it” gesture. The rustling stopped.
The sounds of another rock song re-made as rap filled the bar. I put my beer on Rolo’s table. He stared at it like it was a giant turd. Then I slid into the booth across from him and looked him directly in the eye.
“I didn’t say you could sit there,” he said.
“I know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Bitch, you’d be making a big mistake if
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