Chapter 20

 

Amy and I slipped onto a couple of empty seats at the end of the bar. We sat in those high captain’s chairs or whatever they’re called, the kind that seafood restaurants were so fond of a while back. The wide bar was highlighted with a strip of padded black vinyl and lots of cigarette burns. All in all, the decor felt a little bit Hugh Hefner, a little bit Hee Haw.

Like one would expect, the place was mostly filled with guys, but there were a few women sprinkled around which was comforting in a tribal sort of way. If you didn’t count the bare-breasted babe in the spangled cowboy hat who was dancing with a pole that ran from bar-top to ceiling, it all seemed tame enough. I was kind of hoping that the dancer wasn’t Charlene. I don’t know why, but I’d pictured Abbott with a woman who had a full set of teeth.

The bar maid came along and said, “What’ll it be, girls?” She was the same big-boobed blonde who’d hoisted Rick Rod onto the hood of my car, but I didn’t see any good reason to bring it up.

She eyed Amy and me in way that let me know she was trying to sum us up. Hmmm, a lesbian couple, or just a couple of chicks trying to get laid?

I wished her luck. I was still trying to sum us up myself. 

We ordered a couple of Little Kings and helped ourselves to a bowl of pretzels.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” Amy said as she tentatively eyed the half-naked Dolly Parton rip off who was two-stepping her ass off for tips at the other end of the bar. 

“Not quite the lounge at the Hilton, is it?”

Amy snorted. “Not quite.”

 

The blonde brought our beers and charged us about ten times what we’d paid for Little Kings at Sparkie’s Lounge. Of course, one had to expect to pay extra for ambiance.

“Say,” I said, nodding toward the Miss Nearly Nude, “is that Charlene?”

“Who wants to know?” she said, snapping open her traveling bank and making fairly measly change of my twenty.

I almost said Martina Navratilova, but thought better of it. “Me. I’m Abbott Claypoole’s cousin.”

This definitely caught her attention.

“That’s Charlene all right.”

“I’d like to talk with her.”

The waitress glanced at the Budweiser clock behind the bar. “She’ll be on break shortly.”

“Thanks.” I slipped her a twenty.

“I’ll let her know,” she said, folding up the bill. “And hey, sorry about Abbott. What’s this town comin’ to anyway?” She said it like she could give a shit and left us.

 

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Amy said. “Or shall I just continue to sit here and look stupid?”

Amy took a cigarette from her purse and lit it.

“You don’t look stupid.” I bummed a cigarette just to have something to do with my hands.

“Are you gonna tell me about the twisted candlestick now?”

“It was just an allusion to a Nancy Drew book.”

“So there is no twisted candlestick?”

“Not as far as I know.”

Then I proceeded to fill Amy in on what I knew in the detail department regarding Abbott’s love life.

“You mean her?” Amy said. I could tell that she was eyeballing Charlene in a whole new light.

“Apparently.”

 

Charlene was quite a sight, but maybe that’s what all topless dancers in mourning looked like.

“Whoa,” Amy said.

“That’s just what Ted said.”

“Whoa,” she said again.

Then I gave her the rest of the gory story.

“Oh great. So this is like a serial killer thing?” Amy furtively surveyed the barroom. “Swell. The killer could be right in this room.”

“Exciting, huh?”

“Lunatic is the word that comes to mind.”

“How do you say lunatic in French? It must come up all the time over there.”

But Amy ignored me. “Damn! I have to pee.”

“Want me to go with you?”

She put out her cigarette. “Forgive the unfortunate parallel to recent events, but I’m not a total weenie.”

“Tell you what, you’re not back in three minutes, I’ll come in after you.”

“Gee,” she said, sliding off her captain’s chair, “I feel better already.”

 

Amy was back from the ladies room in two minutes flat, just in time for break time at Jimmy’s. The jukebox kicked in, and Charlene hopped down from the bar. She slipped on a tight T-shirt and an eager young man in a John Deere cap lit her cigarette. He looked about sixteen. They visited amiably for a moment while the bartender poured Charlene a drink and set it in front of her. She seemed to have her order memorized.

“Man,” Amy said, “she does have one major set of booballabies.”

“Booballabies?”

“Well,” Amy said, sounding a little testy, “what do you call them?”

“Breasts?”

“Okay then, breasts.”

“And yes,” I said, finishing off my Little King, “she does have one major set.”

I could tell that Amy wanted to follow up on the breast thing. I ordered us another round of Little Kings and waited patiently. It didn’t take long at all.

“So,” she said, leaning on one elbow, “do you go for women with large breasts?”

This was going to be more fun than watching the Discovery Channel.

“I tend to go for women with large ambitions and I don’t necessarily recommend it.”

Amy said nothing. She just stared at me in a quizzical way.

 

But our girl talk was about to be put on hold. It was Charlene Time.