shoes on the asphalt parking lot.
The girl on stage whose name was Misty took off the pleated schoolgirl skirt at the start of the second song, and was spinning around the silver pole in a G-string with a crazy expression of liberation on her face. O'Clair watched from the bar. If he saw Bobby he'd wait till Bobby walked out and follow him. He'd locked the money he collected from T.J. in the glove box of the
Seville. He'd drop it by Samir's later, make his 15 percent, plus the twenty-five hundred T.J. overpaid.
Misty was crawling around the perimeter of the horseshoe runway in her G-string, collecting bills from drunks and fools. The G-string looked like some kind of carnival outfit with all the bills sticking out of it. O'Clair drank Early Times and water and scanned the crowd. He asked the bartender if he knew a guy named Bobby Gal.
The bartender said, "The country western singer?"
"No," O'Clair said, "the car salesman."
The bartender shook his head.
The house disc jockey said, "Give it up for Misty Rain."
O'Clair got up after Misty finished her set and moved down the bar past three guys in golf shirts, drinking Lite beer. They were trying to impress a young stripper who was wearing a G-string and high heels.
"Gaskets are my life," one of the men, a balding salesman in a pink golf shirt said, "and it's a damn good one."
The stripper didn't seem too impressed, like she entertained gasket salesmen all the time. O'Clair moved toward the bouncer. He was a big guy, with a beer gut, six three, must have gone two sixty. O'Clair stood next to him and felt small. Guy wore a leather vest over a Stevie Ray Vaughan tee shirt, ball cap on backwards, plastic tightener let out all the way. O'Clair watched him give people a hard time, ruling over his little area of authority. O'Clair said, "Seen Bobby Gal around?"
The bouncer said, "Who?"
"Bobby Gal, car salesman comes in here," O'Clair said.
"Preppy smartass, son of a bitch?"
That sounded about right.
"Never heard of him," the bouncer said.
O'Clair knew where he'd hit him first, step in, nail him in the solar plexus, see how funny he was then. "You know, with that wonderful sense of humor you've got, you should be on stage telling jokes not standing here giving paying customers a lot of shit." The wop bouncer stared at O'Clair for a couple of seconds, but didn't say anything, his brain working overtime.
"That's what I want to do," he said. "How'd you know? I've got a routine and everything," excited, trying to be friendly but still had the tough guy edge.
O'Clair tried to imagine this clown doing stand-up, coming across like a raunchier version of Andrew Dice Clay. If you didn't laugh, he'd jump down off the stage and kick your ass. O'Clair said, "What's your stage name?"
The bouncer said, "Justin the Bouncer. What do you think?"
Justin the Bouncer, was he kidding? O'Clair said, "I'll be looking for you on Letterman."
He said, "Want to hear my opening joke?"
"Another time," O'Clair said. "I got to find the car salesman."
"He lives with Colette. She's off today."
"Got an address?"
O'Clair woke her up, he was sure of it, one in the afternoon. He knocked for five minutes before the door finally opened and he saw Colette standing there in shorts and a tank top, a cigarette hanging down from the corner of her mouth, eyes puffy, voice gravelly as she talked about Bobby, stopping to inhale a Newport 100, blowing smoke through the screen door, coughing. She sounded sick, the coughs coming up from the depths of her lungs. She came out on the second story porch and sat on the railing, scratching her head where blond hair turned dark running along the part. She lived in the upper flat of a building behind an adult bookstore and a massage
The girl on stage whose name was Misty took off the pleated schoolgirl skirt at the start of the second song, and was spinning around the silver pole in a G-string with a crazy expression of liberation on her face. O'Clair watched from the bar. If he saw Bobby he'd wait till Bobby walked out and follow him. He'd locked the money he collected from T.J. in the glove box of the
Seville. He'd drop it by Samir's later, make his 15 percent, plus the twenty-five hundred T.J. overpaid.
Misty was crawling around the perimeter of the horseshoe runway in her G-string, collecting bills from drunks and fools. The G-string looked like some kind of carnival outfit with all the bills sticking out of it. O'Clair drank Early Times and water and scanned the crowd. He asked the bartender if he knew a guy named Bobby Gal.
The bartender said, "The country western singer?"
"No," O'Clair said, "the car salesman."
The bartender shook his head.
The house disc jockey said, "Give it up for Misty Rain."
O'Clair got up after Misty finished her set and moved down the bar past three guys in golf shirts, drinking Lite beer. They were trying to impress a young stripper who was wearing a G-string and high heels.
"Gaskets are my life," one of the men, a balding salesman in a pink golf shirt said, "and it's a damn good one."
The stripper didn't seem too impressed, like she entertained gasket salesmen all the time. O'Clair moved toward the bouncer. He was a big guy, with a beer gut, six three, must have gone two sixty. O'Clair stood next to him and felt small. Guy wore a leather vest over a Stevie Ray Vaughan tee shirt, ball cap on backwards, plastic tightener let out all the way. O'Clair watched him give people a hard time, ruling over his little area of authority. O'Clair said, "Seen Bobby Gal around?"
The bouncer said, "Who?"
"Bobby Gal, car salesman comes in here," O'Clair said.
"Preppy smartass, son of a bitch?"
That sounded about right.
"Never heard of him," the bouncer said.
O'Clair knew where he'd hit him first, step in, nail him in the solar plexus, see how funny he was then. "You know, with that wonderful sense of humor you've got, you should be on stage telling jokes not standing here giving paying customers a lot of shit." The wop bouncer stared at O'Clair for a couple of seconds, but didn't say anything, his brain working overtime.
"That's what I want to do," he said. "How'd you know? I've got a routine and everything," excited, trying to be friendly but still had the tough guy edge.
O'Clair tried to imagine this clown doing stand-up, coming across like a raunchier version of Andrew Dice Clay. If you didn't laugh, he'd jump down off the stage and kick your ass. O'Clair said, "What's your stage name?"
The bouncer said, "Justin the Bouncer. What do you think?"
Justin the Bouncer, was he kidding? O'Clair said, "I'll be looking for you on Letterman."
He said, "Want to hear my opening joke?"
"Another time," O'Clair said. "I got to find the car salesman."
"He lives with Colette. She's off today."
"Got an address?"
O'Clair woke her up, he was sure of it, one in the afternoon. He knocked for five minutes before the door finally opened and he saw Colette standing there in shorts and a tank top, a cigarette hanging down from the corner of her mouth, eyes puffy, voice gravelly as she talked about Bobby, stopping to inhale a Newport 100, blowing smoke through the screen door, coughing. She sounded sick, the coughs coming up from the depths of her lungs. She came out on the second story porch and sat on the railing, scratching her head where blond hair turned dark running along the part. She lived in the upper flat of a building behind an adult bookstore and a massage
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