“Sherry was juicily conceived, but Marie squeezed

even more out of her, flirting coyly with Sterling

Hayden, conniving with Vince Edwards, snidely

blowing smoke up Elisha Cook’s aspirations.”

– EDDIE MULLER,

Dark City: The Lost World of Film Noir

THE FIRST BAR, Dade lucked out, scored a few tabs of E from a student who said,

“Like the shirt.”

He was cruising, on his third bar he switched from long necks to Wild Turkey, tried a line on some girls but they blew him off. He shrugged, the night was young.

Moved on to Fourth Avenue, the bars had live music, he pushed through the crowd, asked the lead singer of a country band.

“You do Tammy Wynette?”

The guy was sweating, his cowboy shirt soaked, and he stared at Dade, said,

“Get fucking real, pal.”

Dade’s mood switched, he went to the barren area of his soul without a change of expression, nodded, moved away. The guy, emboldened, shouted,

“Wynette is so, like, yesterday.”

The use of her surname inflamed Dade’s building storm, he took up a position against the wall, drink in his fist, murder in his heart. The place was hopping, people having themselves a time. The singer launched into a Garth Brooks song:

“Friends in Low Places.”

Dade fucking loathed Brooks, wondered what next? Thinking, Vince Gill?

Sure enough.

Some dirge about a gold ring. Dade drained his glass, felt the Turkey hit his gut like acid, he hailed a passing waitress, dressed in cowgirl mode, asked,

“Yo, hon, get me a tequila sunrise.”

She glared at him, snapped,

“I’m not your hon.”

His barometer hit top, Def Con 1, he’d have backhanded the bitch but he’d registered the bouncers.

Apes.

Not to be fucked with. Across the room, he felt eyes on him, his paranoia, always cooking, was at max. A blond woman but older than most of the patrons, staring at him. He was distracted by the return of the waitress, who pushed the drink at him, he asked,

“You’ll be wanting a tip?”

Her freeze thawed a bit and she nearly smiled. He added,

“Watch your mouth.”

Gulped the drink, then looked across the room, no sign of the blonde. Shit. So back to monitoring the singer. Three numbers, the guy was chugging Buds, he had to piss, right? Two Reba McEntire numbers later, the guy hopped off the stage, headed for the restroom, Dade moved. The head was outside, across a car park, Dade hung back, let the other cowboys exit then followed. The singer was zipping up, whistling. Was it Elvis’s “American Trilogy?”

Dade crushed his skull with the butt of the Walther, pulled him into a booth, rifled his jeans, a roll of twenties, two joints and a tab of acid. Dade popped it, then smashed the guy’s nose, muttering,

“Nobody, and I mean fucking no one, disses Tammy.”

He got outside, took a deep breath, saw the blonde woman at the door of the club, staring at him, a half smile playing the corners of her mouth, then she went back inside, he muttered,

“The fuck’s going on?”

And went after her. Found her at the bar, asked,

“I know you?”

She was ordering tequila shots, had the salt and lime at the ready, she asked,

“We won’t be seeing Garth Brooks for a while, am I right?”

The smile on her mouth, so he asked,

“You like Tammy Wynette?”

The woman laughed, said,

“The beat of my heart.”

Then sang the opening line to “Honey (I Miss You).”Slid a shot glass towards him, he asked,

“You wanna chow down?”

A raised eyebrow, then,

“What had you in mind?”

He went for it, said,

“Navy beans with ham over corn bread, collard greens, stewed turnips on the side, redneck cuisine.”

He leaned on the cuisine. Make-or-break-time.

She downed the shot, asked,

“The hell we waiting for?”

Linked his arm going out, he curtsied to the bouncers, said,

“Y'all have a good one.”

They gave him the steel face. He asked her,

“So hon, you got a name?”

She was right in beside him, her perfume doing jigs on his head, said,

“Sherry.”