start the engine.
— What’d you say? I asked delightedly.
— Fucking winkie dicks, she said.
Carmen gave her a hug and kissed her cheek and said, Ann Jeanette’s badass!
— I hate fucking winkie dicks. Ann Jeanette inspected her nails and appeared satisfied. Men suck! It’s true, they can be stimulating, but most of ’em are winkie dicks.
— We should go in, Carmen said. That guy runs the contest is a real pisser. We could lose our spot.
— The scrawny bitches they got in there, they can’t afford to lose us. Now if Louie here were competing, we’d be in trouble. Ann Jeanette planted a sloppy kiss on my mouth, startling me, and said, Maybe we’ll see ya after, doll.
They fluttered their hands in a wave and walked away arm in arm, wobbly in their high heels on the uneven ground.
I hopped up on the fender of a car and shut my eyes and thought about Sandrine. She’d be angry at me for not visiting her, but I was sick of being pressured and thought that when I visited her tomorrow night, the pressure would be off — no way I could bring her five live bodies in the next couple of days, so she wouldn’t pester me about it and we could relax. I heard a blast of music and crowd noise as the door opened and looked in time to see it swing shut. This blond guy had stalled in midstride outside the door and was staring at me. After a second he came over. He was too old for me, twentysomething, but he was way beyond cute. He had blue eyes with long pale lashes, and his mouth was so wide and beautifully shaped I wanted to touch it, to make certain it was real. He was almost pretty, like a gay guy, but he didn’t have that vibe. I thought I might expand my age limit for him. When he leaned against the fender, I felt the temperature go up a notch.
— I like the way you smell, he said.
— That’s because I shower regularly.
He nodded soberly, as if a daily course of hygiene was an intriguing concept, something he might one day consider. His conversational skills seemed limited, but I figured he was nervous, so I said, What do you mean, I smell nice? Do I smell springtime clean or minty fresh or what?
He appeared to struggle with the question.
— Where you from? I asked.
— Up north, he said. I have a job.
I scrunched around, brushing his arm with my hip. His skin was hot, but he wasn’t sweating.
— Is your job with the CIA? I asked. That’s why you’re being circumspect? Because you’re a spy and you’ve been trained to guard against the likes of me?
His mouth hung open — I thought his circuits might be fried. To test my theory, I asked his name.
— Johnny, he said. Johnny Jacks.
The notion of doing a moron with a retarded name like Johnny Jacks. it didn’t sit well. The last guy I’d gone with on the basis of his looks alone lay there afterward, thumping the side of my breast again and again, laughing to see it jiggle.
— Well, Johnny. I slid off the fender. I’ll catch you later.
He started to follow me toward the door, and I turned on him and yelled, Stay! Sit! Don’t follow me, okay?
I opened the door a crack and asked Wayne the bouncer if he cared to join me for a smoke and help fend off someone annoying. Wayne said, It’s too damn hot. You can sit inside.
The AC made me happy — my sweat beads popped like champagne bubbles. Ted Horton, the radio deejay who oversees the wet T-shirt contests, did his spiel, the microphone blatting and squealing. The crowd whistled and yelled. Wayne wouldn’t let me peek around the corner at the stage, and all I got to see were the geezers shooting pool at the rear. I played with Wayne’s ink stamp, pressing it to my wrists, imprinting several dozen blurry Cracker Paradise logos. He scowled and snatched it away. Ted announced the winners — I couldn’t make out the names — and the crowd turned ugly. They cursed Ted and he cursed them. “Fuck you” were the first words of his I heard clearly. Wayne shoved me back out into the heat.
The parking lot was empty, and I was both relieved and disappointed. I’d been modifying my position on Johnny Jacks, but it seemed he had lost interest. People boiled out of the club, several of them bleeding, escorted by Wayne and his colleagues. I spotted Ann Jeanette and Carmen beside a white SUV. Their soaked-through Tshirts drew lots of male attention, but the men who approached them hurried away as if scorched. I asked how they’d done.
— That muthafucka! Ann Jeanette had to take a breath, she was so angry. He give first prize to his Goddamn girlfriend!
— Ted Horton? I asked.
Carmen said, The bitch don’t have enough to fill a training bra and stands here shivering when they pour the water. and she won? Puh-leese!
I assumed they were talking about Sarafina, Ted Horton’s fiancee, a dark-skinned Cuban girl who was flat as an ironing board.
— I swear to God, I’ll kill her, Ann Jeanette said. I’ll kick the shit out of her.
I asked again how they had done.
— We come second and third. Carmen lit a cigarette. I thought there was gonna be a riot, people were so pissed.
She seemed ready to let go of her anger, and I explained that Sarafina had recently lost her job and like as not Ted was trying to help her out.
— Fuck her unemployed ass! Ann Jeanette scanned the lot. That don’t mean she can take money out of my pocket.
— We get this sometimes, Carmen confided. There’s a lot of jealousy, you know. We realize we’re not gonna win all of ’em, but this was fucking ridiculous.
— There they go! Ann Jeanette shouted.
Ted, a runty guy with a Mohawk, was hustling toward the rear of the lot, accompanied by a dark-skinned girl shrouded in a beach towel. They had their heads down and kept close to the wall. Ann Jeanette made a beeline for them, with Carmen at her heels. Ted turned at the last second, too late to prevent Ann Jeanette from spinning Sarafina around and decking her. Carmen leapt onto Ted from behind, riding him piggyback style to the ground, and Ann Jeanette began kicking him.
It was the first serious fight initiated by women that I’d seen, and I was impressed. A crowd closed in around them, cheering the girls on and blocking my view. Between bodies I caught sight of Ann Jeanette rifling Sarafina’s purse. The cops would be coming soon, and reluctantly I headed for the highway, hoping to catch a ride with someone pulling out of the lot. Somebody wrapped me up from behind. I squirmed about and saw Johnny Jacks.
— Let me go, I said.
Something surfaced in his vacant, beautiful face, a flicker of emotion gone too quickly to identify.
— Let me go, fucker!
I managed to wriggle free of the bear hug, but he kept hold of my wrist. His grip was tight and hot like an Indian burn. I tried to pull away and said, I’ll scream if you don’t let go.
— I like you, he said.
The idea that he liked me was suddenly scary.
— Let her go, dude, said a rumbly voice at my shoulder.
It was Everett, my favorite of Momma’s exes, a lanky muscular guy with a gloomy, bony face, gray hair tied in a ponytail, a motorcycle helmet in his right hand, a trucker wallet chained to his jeans. He planted his left hand, big as a frying pan, on Johnny Jacks’s chest and gave him a hard shove — Johnny released my wrist, but the shove didn’t move him as far as I might have expected.
— Yeah? Everett inquired of him. There something you want?
— I like you, Johnny Jacks said to me.
He walked off, his eyes on me, and merged with the crowd.
— What was that? Everett asked.
— Another Friday night at Cracker Paradise. Can I catch a ride?
