Every face turned.
“Who owns that white pickup truck with the black tailgate?”
Noise broke out.
“Looks like we got ourselves a girl,” someone said.
“A fag is more like it.”
“Hey, baby, you want to choke on a big one?”
River gave the closest guy a warning look.
“I said, who owns that white pickup truck with the black tailgate?”
Eyes turned to two men in the back standing next to the pool table with cues in hand.
One of them said, “Why the hell do you care?”
“Is it yours?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
River hopped down and headed for him.
The bodies separated in front and closed in behind.
River got face to face with the man.
Their eyes were the same height.
He was a lot bigger close up.
“Is that your pickup truck?”
“Maybe. What’s your problem, girlie?”
“You forgot to do something,” River said.
He looked around. The faces were quiet. “I forgot to do something,” he told everyone. Back to River, “So what did I forget to do exactly?”
“You forgot to cut your dick off,” he said. “That’s the proper etiquette after you rape someone. You cut your dick off and give it to ’em for a souvenir.” He tossed the broken bottle onto the pool table. “You can use that.”
Someone said, “Jesus, Jackson. Did you rape someone?”
“Hell no. He’s making it up.”
“Do it,” River said. “Do it now. Do it now or I’ll do it for you.”
The man stepped back, slowly with a confused smile on his face, as if pondering the next thing he would say. Then he exploded in a motion that brought the thick end of the cue swinging with full force at River’s face.
River jerked.
He was fast.
The stick was faster.
34
By most people’s score, Wilde was Denver’s best drummer, hands down, end of story, next subject please. He could land a seat with any band in its right mind as well as a few that weren’t. He didn’t do that though. Instead he filled in at clubs when regular drummers couldn’t make it, for pay of course; that, and he did studio work-also for pay, also of course.
He was particularly effective in the studio.
He could keep a constant beat throughout the song.
He didn’t speed up.
He didn’t slow down.
He didn’t get up halfway through to go to the restroom or spit-shine his wingtips.
He’d sat in with Mercedes Rain twice before, once when her regular drummer got arrested for murder, and the second time when her next drummer got arrested for murder.
“This probably means I’ll get arrested for murder,” he told her.
That was last year.
Now, tonight, he got Secret as composed as he could during the break.
In two minutes the break would be over.
Wilde worked the drumsticks on his knee, getting the speed up.
“Here’s the main thing to remember,” he said.
“What?”
He tilted his head and softened his voice.
“Even a lot of established singers don’t know what I’m about to tell you,” he said. “But if you remember this one thing, you’ll always be tops.”
“Okay.”
“Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“Whenever you sing, be sure you sleep with the drummer after the gig.”
She punched him on the arm.
“You’re awful.”
“Thank you.”
Then they were up.
Mercedes introduced them.
Secret took the microphone.
She was shy, uncertain, looking down.
Wilde got his frame comfortable on the throne.
Then the band broke into the greatest Lady Day song ever. Wilde altered his eyes from Secret’s backside to the crowd.
Just as Secret was about to let the first word loose, something happened that Wilde didn’t expect.
A familiar face appeared by the bar.
It was Alabama.
She wasn’t work-Alabama, not at the moment, she was sexy-little-thing Alabama, wearing a short red dress that was strong on color but short on coverage.
She looked into Wilde’s eyes, saw she had his attention and pointed discretely to her left.
He looked that way.
About four steps down, leaning against the bar, was a tall, good-looking man in a white suit and a matching hat.
For some reason he looked familiar.
Wilde couldn’t put his finger on it.
Secret started singing.
Her voice was incredible.
Wilde hardly heard her; he was more focused on the man. Suddenly he realized why the guy looked familiar.
It was Robert Mitchum.
35
