And it had to be less than ten minutes later when Cook came storming back to the car, which prompted Bryce Parker to say, “Show the amputee your staying power, Clayton?”
“She took off with my hundred bucks,” Cook responded. “Disappeared out the back door after I took my pants off. Left me alone in the fuckin’ house, for fuck sake. I would’ve taken something if there were anything worth a hundred bucks. I looked out the back door but I couldn’t see a fuckin’ thing. Too goddamn dark. Could’ve been ten yards away and I wouldn’t have seen her.”
Frank figured a guy with all the money Cook had would just let it slide. Shine it on and be thankful it hadn’t led to something worse.
Like a beating from a mob of angry, honky-hating Black men.
But no.
Clayton insisted he had to pursue it “out of principle.” Which meant the speed and the machismo and the booze were talking, because any White man in his right mind would not insist on pursuing a one-legged Black prostitute into the heart of a Black neighborhood in 1977, a time when racial tensions were consistently near flash point in Phoenix.
And damn near everywhere else in the country.
It’s a well-known fact that the Japanese invented amphetamine. Also that they gave it to their Kamikaze pilots in World War Two. These pilots were known for their fanatical, suicidal runs during battle. Using the plane as a bomb, they would dive headlong into the target with no concern for their own lives.
So it was Clayton “Kamikaze” Cook who’d insisted on coming to this spot a little ways down the block from the small house.
Now they were parked across from Roxie’s Lounge, which, judging by the number of customers going in and out was the most popular dive in the immediate area.
Watching Clayton in front of the bar aggressively gesturing at the Black guy, Frank was thinking they were about to be caught up in a race riot. His spirits rose when he caught sight of a squad car approaching along the main drag. Surely when they saw a blonde White guy jawing with a Black pimp out front of Roxie’s, they’d stop and check things out.
Frank watched the cruiser roll on by, the two White cops like they were wearing blinders.
And Clayton must’ve thought he was bullet proof, because now he and the Black guy were walking right into the goddamn bar, a strict violation of the White Boys’ Rules of Conduct.
Frank looked across the seat at Larry, his friend a little stiff with fear but masking it to the best of his ability. Parker looked a little pale himself in the vague glow of neon filtering through the Lincoln’s windows.
“At least we’ve got the car keys,” Parker said. “In case we need to leave in a hurry.”
“We’re not leaving Clayton behind, Bryce, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” Frank said. “If he doesn’t come out in a few minutes we’ll just have to go in after him.”
“And get a fucking shiv in the back?” Parker said. “That’s what you want?”
Richards said, “I think shivs are more a Mexican thing, Bryce. These guys likely have guns.”
“Even fuckin’ better. Listen, man, Clayton got us into this and he’s a grown man, and as such, is responsible for himself.”
“We’re not leaving him, Bryce,” Frank said, apprehension causing the muscles along his spine to tighten up.
Five minutes later Frank pushed open the car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, walked around the Lincoln to Larry’s side. The window was down on this hot July night, the Lincoln’s engine and the air conditioning off. “Come on, guys,” Frank said. “We’re going in. We need to do this now before things have a chance to escalate.”
Parker, behind the wheel, said, “I think I should stay here and watch the car. We all know what happens to nice cars left unattended in these neighborhoods.”
“All right, Bryce,” Frank said. “You stay here and watch the car. Hate to have anything happen to a classic like this.”
Frank looked in at Larry then grabbed the door handle and tried to pull the door open.
Locked.
“Come on, Larry, get out here and get your public relations face on. We have to show these African-Americans that we mean no harm and are only interested in extracting our friend from their midst. And, at this point, I gotta believe they are very ready for Clayton to be gone.”
“Yeah, right. I’m sure if we smile and act nice they’ll just get out of our way and ignore us.”
In Frank’s experience, most bar patrons just wanted to be left alone with their drinks. It was just a few you had to watch when it came to starting trouble.
“We can challenge them if you’d rather take the aggressive approach,” Frank said. “Just walk right in there and punch the biggest, meanest-looking motherfucker in the face. That’s always an option. Now come on.”
Larry figured if he survived this excursion into the heart of darkness it would be good PR for his role in the consortium. Look what a friend Larry Richards is, boys. Willing to walk into a ghetto saloon to rescue his good friend Clayton Cook.
Larry got out of the car. “All right, Frank,” he said, “let’s go.” Looking at Bryce now: “If we’re not out in five minutes, get to a payphone and call the cops.”
They started across the street.
Adrenaline coursed through Frank’s veins. His heart was pounding and his gut was queasy. He didn’t think Larry would be much good if it came down to a fight, but what choice did he have?
Halfway across the street he saw Clayton and the Black dude pop out the front door of the bar onto the neon-drenched sidewalk, neither one bleeding or showing any signs of disarray.
Frank stopped and stared, watching Clayton and the pimp exchange a few final words before Clayton stepped away and started toward the Lincoln.
The feeling of relief was palpable.
Parker started the engine, looking limp as a laundered shirt on a clothesline.
Richards’ chest was out and he was smiling, acting all of a sudden manly and tough.
Frank just wanted a drink and to get back to his station wagon so he could get the hell away from these crazy bastards. He’d packed all his shit in the car before they left for the country club and if he was back at Sonora North now he’d just start her up and get on the road. No waitin’. No hesitatin’.
Clayton had a bemused grin as he ambled over. He tilted his head back and eyeballed Larry and Frank standing outside the Lincoln. “Coming to my rescue, boys?”
“Fuck no,” Larry said. “Just taking a piss before we drove off and left you.”
“What the hell went on in there, Clayton?” Frank said. “How’d you manage to come out unscathed?”
“Turns out that pimp is a pretty good guy—for a nigger. Calls himself Loverboy. He said the one-legged hooker was a junky that probably took off with the money because she was jonesing. I went in the bar just to see if she was in there, and she wasn’t, so Loverboy offered me a freebie my next time through.”
“Which of course, you’re going to take him up on, right?” Larry said. “He give you a receipt? Coupon?”
Clayton made a face like he was biting something sour. “You never know what the future will bring, Larry. But for now, let’s just get ourselves to a bar. I’m all jacked up and in dire need of liquid sustenance. And you have calls to make.”
(End of Chapter 23)
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