I found WMUC on Billy’s radio. They were just crashing into the intro to the Replacements’ “Seen Your Video.” I clockwised the volume as we pulled out of the lot and headed south on University, toward the entry ramp to 495.
TWELVE
The Maxima cut a swift southeast arc on the inner loop of the Beltway. We followed and then passed taillights of various geometric mutations, using the leftmost lane for the pass and then returning to the center. Billy seemed to be holding his booze fairly well, though the fact that he was driving did not seem to influence his rate of drinking. He was on a tear, and I was right there with him.
We exited at Route 5 and headed south, stopping at the first bar we saw, a strip joint named the Fourway at a traffic crossroads in Clinton, to cop a six of long-necks. I waited in the car and kept an eye on the movement behind the fogged car windows in the lot. Billy emerged from the bar, the thump of bass briefly chasing him until the door behind him swung closed, and hustled to the car. We popped the caps on two of the beers, swung back out onto the highway, and once again drove south.
The road went to four lanes with a wide, bare median, the terrain hilly at first and then flattened out. In the southeastern sky the bright yellow moon was full and large. We passed pickup cap depots and parts yards and outdoor ornamental pottery shops, broken by the odd stretches of undeveloped land. Ten miles of that, and the low lights of Waldorf appeared ahead.
Charles County’s Waldorf stood where Route 5 met 301. It had once been a gambling mecca for Washingtonians who had a taste for the slots, but that had ended by law sometime early in the sixties. Scattered remnants of Little Vegas remained-the Wigwam “casino” had been converted for a while into a bakery, and now the peaked structure was nothing but an empty glass tepee-but Waldorf had been reborn initially as a five-mile stretch of car dealerships, Taco Bells, and strip shopping centers whose tenants consisted primarily of liquor stores, electronics franchises, low-end clothiers, knockoff booteries, and convenience markets. Now the area had entered another phase, as its predestined growth pushed it into the league of Washington Suburb. A mall at the south end of town, anchored by two mildly upscale retailers, had opened to much fanfare, bringing with it the legitimization of a ten-plex cinema and a new Holiday Inn.
But all the swirling logos and white-handled shopping bags could not mask the fact that Waldorf was still Waldorf-the memory of the abandoned 301 Drive-In still loomed like a decaying gray ghost over the highway, and it still took fifteen minutes to get an ice-cream cone from the geriatric hair-netted help at Bob-Lu’s Diner. Then there was Reb’s Fireplace (the sign had two silhouetted swingers dancing the night away over the tag line LET’S PARTY TONIGHT!), aptly named since it had become a raging inferno one night three years earlier and had remained und nGHTemolished, a charred shell and unforgivable eyesore to the occupants of the Volvos who cruised by nightly on their commute home to the planned “city” of Saint Charles.
Billy pulled the car into the next lot down from Reb’s, where a nightclub called the Blue Diamond stood windowless and alone. The lot was filled with Ford and Chevy pickups, late-model American sedans, and Mustangs and Firebirds. We parked next to a black El Camino that had a blue tarp in the bed covering varying lengths of PVC pipe.
“What’s going on?”
“One of April’s haunts,” Billy said. “She used to stop here on the trip home, and usually on the way back. Maybe someone’s seen her.”
I patted the dog, who had instinctively lain down when Billy cut the engine. We locked up and walked across the lot. A couple of young men exited the club as we approached. They didn’t look at us, and they didn’t hold the door. The Top 40 rock coming from inside faded and then blared out as I pulled the door open once again.
The Blue Diamond had two circular bars on either side of the room and a large dance floor in the middle, with a live band playing on a barely elevated stage in front of it. The band was finishing up their set with “Glory Days,” the vocals buried somewhere in the heavily synthesized mix. A sea of acid-washed jeans, high-tops, and ruffled shirts moved on the dance floor. A glitzy banner behind the band announced that they were FRIDAY’S CHILD.
Two mustachioed bouncers, both twig-legged but heavy in the chest, checked our IDs. We moved to the bar and ordered a couple of domestics. I paid the tab and added a healthy tip, and the neckless bartender took both without a nod. Billy and I turned and leaned our backs against the bar.
No one spoke to us while we drank or even gave us a hard stare. Finally I turned to Billy. “Come here often?”
“I like it like cancer.”
“We’re way too old for this shit. Nobody even wants to kick our asses.”
“I know,” he said. “Let me ask around, then we’ll split.”
“That’s my job.”
“And you can do it. But I’ll do it here. I know some of these guys.”
“Go ahead.”
I grabbed my beer off the bar and walked into the men’s room. After I drained I washed up in a dirty sink and ran a wet paper towel across my face. When I walked out Billy was on the other side of the room talking to the barkeep. He was putting something back into his wallet while he talked. He nodded and headed back in my direction. I finished my beer and placed it on the Formica-topped bar as he arrived.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Any luck?”
Billy shook his head quickly. “These brain-deads don’t know a fuckin’ thing.”
›
We moved across the empty dance floor to the entranceway. I noticed the blue vein of determination on Billy’s temple, and I knew he was going to crack on the doorman, knew it like I knew the sun was going to rise, knew it from all the teenage years we had spent together in bars more dangerous than this. When we reached the door, Billy turned to the larger of the two bouncers and smiled.
“Thanks,” he said. “We had a great time. And oh yeah”-Billy whacked his own forehead thoughtfully-“I meant to tell you when we walked in. I really like those jeans you’re wearing tonight.”
“Yeah?” the doorman said with hesitance.
“Yeah,” Billy said, the smile turning down on his face. “My sister’s got a pair just like ’em.”
The doorman sighed and said, “You guys have a nice evening,” holding the door open for us as we walked out. I zipped up my jacket as we moved across the lot.
“What the hell you do that for?” I said.
“It’s his job to take shit.”
“You always had to do that, Billy. You always were a mean drunk.”
“Drunk?” Billy said, showing me his young-boy grin. “Man, I’m not even halfway there.”
We climbed into the car, and Billy started it up while I fixed him a beer. Maybelle’s nose touched the back of my neck. Billy caught rubber and tilted back his bottle as he pulled back out onto 301.
Waldorf ended abruptly, and then the highway was the same as it had been before-flat road and forest with the occasional strip shops, failed antique stores, and billboards. Billy kept the needle at seventy, and ten minutes later we hit La Plata, much like Waldorf only less. Past La Plata were last-chance liquor stores and low-rise motels with Plymouth Dusters and Dodge Chargers and Chevy half-tons parked in their gravel lots. Billy aimed the Maxima for a red-and-blue neon sign touting on/off sale as we both drained the last of our beers.
“You go in,” Billy said, cutting the engine. “I’ll pitch the empties in that can.” He nodded to a rusted oil barrel open on one end that stood near the bar entrance.
We were parked in front of a wide, noncurtained plate-glass window. The bar-it had no name-was cinder block painted white. Through the window I could see a small group of men in their thirties and forties shooting pool. “I’ll be right back.”
I left the car, walked to a glass door, pulled it open, and entered. It was only ten o’ clock, but the place was lit up like last call. I guessed they didn’t go much for atmosphere-a look around the place confirmed it. There were three scarred pool tables standing on the industrial-tiled floor, with some metal folding chairs scattered around the
