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A short while later Cook and Parker came back in, walked across to the far side of the dance floor and then up the steps to the second level, heads upright, shoulders square.

Couple of squared-away guys.

Frank watched them slide down to the far end of the service bar on the right side of the upper tier and take a seat on either side of an unaccompanied female. The boys acting like they thought no one could see them. Girl had dark hair and hoop earrings and was cute.

Possibly of Mexican heritage, Frank thought.

He watched Parker say something to the girl while Cook grinned wide on her right.

In his years behind the bar, Frank was always protective of a woman alone. You didn’t get many unaccompanied women at the Metro, a few a year maybe, and when you did, they were rarely a looker like the babe on the screen.

But shit, you still had to look after them. Too many predators lingering in the American night.

A woman alone was vulnerable.

And a target.

For guys like Clayton and Bryce.

Shit.

Frank saw them turning on the charm, watched the girl laughing, matching them shot for shot, flirting.

Seemed like she was holding her own but Frank couldn’t help but wish for the young lady’s friends and companions to show up.

If she had any.

Which she didn’t seem to.

Yeah, Frank had a good idea what was going on up there and he didn’t like it one bit.

Then he saw Larry’s black-and-white image coming up behind him on a screen. Frank swung around on the barstool as Richards wedged in next to him.

Frank said, “Your boys happy now that they’ve got their blow?”

“I don’t know if they’re ever happy, per se. But at least they’ll be off my ass for a while.”

“What’s the matter, Larry? You’re not pursuing the ladies tonight. Lady killer Richards off his game?”

“Bad choice of words, Frank, bad choice of words. I just got some bad news. Really bad news.”

“On the radio in the car?”

“No, from fuckin’ Clayton. We’re out in the Lincoln and I put some lines out on the visor mirror and Clay snorts his and then he casually says there’s something he forgot to tell me. Goes on to say that before he left Denver there was a story going around about Arturo Reynold’s wife being found dead in an alley in the Mexican section of Denver, her tits cut off, eyes cut out and her snatch filled up with cement.”

Larry’s eyes were dead.

“Jesus Christ, man. Was he serious or just fuckin’ with you? Doubt they’d put that kind of graphic information on TV.”

“Serious as cancer, Frank. Clayton probably heard the street version of the story, had to be all over Denver. But those two don’t know I was involved with Katrina;so don’t say anything. They don’t need to know about it.”

“My lips are sealed, but goddamnit, man, that’s fuckin’ crazy.”

“Asshole cut her beautiful breasts off, Frank. Filled her sweet pussy with cement. Makes me fuckin’ sick.”

“Can’t blame you, Larry. Definitely takes the shine off the evening, to say the least. Think Reynolds’ll go down for it?”

“I’m sure he has an airtight alibi.”

Frank didn’t know what else to say. Part of him felt sorry for Larry. But he couldn’t help but think, That’s the kind of shit that happens when you fuck around with a gangster’s woman.

Larry probably knew that already.

Larry caught the eye of the bartender, ordered another double Jack and stared down at the black bar top.

“Your buds from Rancho Deluxe don’t seem overly affected by the news,” Frank said. “Or affected by it at all, really. I’ve been watching them on television.” Pointing up at the screen. “Looks like they’re really working that girl, giving her the double team.”

Larry looked up at the TV, Bryce and Clayton and the girl on display. They were all laughing, highly animated. “Those two can be very persuasive when they put their minds to it,” Larry said. “They, ah, shall we say, have created some amazing situations in the past. Women seem to respond to those two quite favorably.”

“Respond quite favorably? What exactly does that mean?”

“Well, the women they hook up with often become generous with the sexual favors. Face it, Frank, chicks dig coke and money. And those two usually have plenty of both.”

“You talking about professional ladies?”

“On occasion. But the amateurs have also put on some shows. One time Bryce brought out a video camera—and the chicks were cranked up to perform, let me tell you. Something about seeing yourself on screen, y’know… They were—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Frank said.

He looked up at the screen and watched Bryce move his head in close to the girl’s. Saw him put his hand on her shoulder and begin saying something in her ear.

Whispering sweet nothings….

Then he saw Cook drop something into the lady’s drink while Parker held her attention.

“Did you see that, Larry?” Frank said, anger surging through him like hot battery acid.

But Larry was staring into the crowd on the dance floor, searching for something he couldn’t find if it was dropped in front of him. “What?” he said, above the din of the band now hitting the crescendo of “Gold Dust Woman.”

“Your good friend Clayton just dropped something into the girl’s drink. Now I can see why those two are so persuasive.”

Richards turned back to the screens. “Probably just one of my diet pills to keep the young lady from getting too drunk. Clayton can be generous. I bet she asked for it.”

“That why did he put it in her drink when she wasn’t looking?”

“I’m sure it’s harmless, Frank. You need to relax, man. Would Kerouac raise a stink about something like that? I think not.”

“Fuck Kerouac. And fuck you too.” Looking back at the screen, Frank watched Parker and Cook and the girl get up from the service bar and walk away together.

“You see,” Richards said. “They’re going out to the car to snort some blow. Friendly, happy—you can see it on the screen. Young people full of life enjoying the fruits of American prosperity.”

“Give me a fuckin’ break, Larry.” You and your friends are douchebags, he was thinking, but didn’t say. He gave Larry a long, pointed look and then thought, Fuck it, I’ll just have to wait these guys out. Stay close and see what happens.

And a shot of mescal always makes the waiting go easier.

He beckoned to the bartender.

(End of Chapter 25)

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As he nursed his beer, Frank saw Larry’s eyes perk up. Lawyer was looking at the front entrance. He watched Larry get off his barstool and weave through the mingling hordes toward the entrance. Watched Larry greet a pony-tailed, ear-stud-wearing guy and exchange a few words.

Which meant, Frank surmised, that before too long the three consortium members would be bouncing around the club like electrified pin balls.

No problem, Frank thought. He knew how to pass the time in a bar. Had ten long years of practice. One thing he’d learned was that last call comes to everyone, eventually. And hearing the words in his head, smiled to himself, realizing he’d unintentionally created a metaphor for death.

The last call for alcohol: A moment that seemed to be a mini-death for many of his customers over the years.

He ordered another Bud from the fast-moving bartender, Frank thinking the speed business had to be big at the Neon Cactus. Seemed like everyone working here was on some kind of stimulant, judging by the tight jaws, the pinned eyes and the rapid, non-stop motion swirling around him like a sandstorm.

Any bar person knows that amphetamine is the lifeblood of a club like this.

He took a sip of the fresh beer and looked up at the TVs stretching along the bar back. They were all closed circuit, showing various sections of the club on a changing, seemingly random basis. Cameras set up all over the place so people could see themselves on television.

What would be next, Frank wondered, TV shows with regular people doing mundane, everyday things?

God help us all if it comes down to that.

Still feeling tired he had another unsatisfying swig of beer and returned his gaze to the screens.

He saw Larry walking out of the bar with the ponytail guy.    

Another screen captured Bryce and Clayton on the second level chatting up some women. Who, judging by the body language, weren’t buying into the young heirs’ line of bullshit.

But it’s only a matter of time, Frank thought. Those guys’ sweat smells like money for Christ sake. And there’s always someone willing to climb on board the money train, if only for a short ride.

It was another part of our celebrity-worshiping culture—people seemingly craving to get close to something above their own stature in life.

Frank didn’t have that problem. At this moment his lowly stature was comforting,

But he did kind of wish he was back in Minnesota.

But shit, California beckoned ahead of him like a sparkling oasis.

And that was worth waiting and perhaps suffering for.

Good things come to those who wait.

That’s what they say, anyway.

Then the band started up with one of his favorite songs, “Honky Tonk Woman,” and he went back to scanning the screens, hoping to be a voyeur into the antics of the Rancho Deluxe Trio.

He’d cut himself out of the herd like a maverick steer.

A few minutes later he saw Larry come back in alone, his jaw set in that familiar cocaine-goin’-round-the-brain angle.

His eyes jumping from one screen to another, Frank followed Larry’s path up to the Gold Dust Twins on the second-level.

He watched Clayton and Bryce follow Larry outside.

Gonna be a long fuckin’ night, he thought.

He had another swallow of beer and wondered what time the bars shut down in Scottsdale.

Closing time.

Hotel-motel time.

You-don’t-have-to-go-home-but-you-can’t-stay-here time.

Get-the-fuck-out-of-Scottsdale time.

But staring at the television screens would have to do for now.

(To be continued)

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With a name like the Neon Cactus, Frank figured the club had to have a country band. Or did they call them Western bands out here? The whole country-western deal could be confusing at times.

Larry had said they played the classic hits at the Neon Cactus. “Totally upscale club,” he insisted.

Whatever kind of music the club featured, they were drawing the crowds, closest parking space a block and a half away.

Walking from the Lincoln to the club in the still-uncomfortably- warm-for-a-Minnesota-boy nighttime air, another old song was going around in Frank’s head.

Hot town, summer in the city… back of my neck getting dirty and gritty.

Further along in the song there’s a line about something being hotter than a match head. Which seemed appropriate at the moment. But Frank wasn’t sure about the lyrics. People were always singing the wrong lyrics to pop songs. Like that tune “Blinded by the Light,” where everyone thinks the line goes Wrapped up like a douche in the middle of the night, and they sing it that way.

The actual line is: Wrapped up like a deuce in the middle of the night.

Whatever the hell that means.

Crowd at the Metropole used to get a kick out of singing douche.

Cheap thrills.

First look at the Neon Cactus brought a Las Vegas casino to mind. Big flashing sign featuring a neon cactus on the second story of a building that definitely fit the description of upscale. The bar’s impressive facade was glistening in the glow of four spotlights pointing up from the pavement.

Definitely a few steps up from the Metropole, Frank was thinking as he followed the three stooges inside.

Inside was just as fancy as the outside. Air conditioning blowing cool and hard. Hundreds of drunken revelers dancing and shouting pickup lines above the bombast of a live band blasting out a cover of The First Edition’s “What Condition My Condition Was In.”

Song was at least ten years old but still invoked plenty of sing-alongs during the chorus.

The Four Horsemen of Rancho Deluxe, which Frank had decided was an appropriate name for the foursome, had to stand among the throng that was lingering near the main floor bar, because all the barstools were taken.

Frank surveyed the room.

Fancy jewelry twinkling in the flashes of a mirror ball spinning slowly overhead on the expansive dance floor.

Lots of attractive women with expensive clothes, perfect hair and suntanned skin.

Frank’s lack of interest in meeting any of these chicks took him by surprise. His recent past was coming back at him and messing him up. That stripper bar had got him thinking about Nikki again, and his mood had gone downhill from there.

This whole scene put a large rock inside his head.

Just beyond the dance floor, Frank could see a set of carpeted stairs leading up to a second level. There was a big video screen up there on the back wall, the picture shifting between various images of bar patrons dancing, drinking and staring blankly.

Bookended by two smaller service bars, the upper-level dance floor was currently filled to the max with twisting, bouncing young people.

Young people, Frank thought. You know you’re getting up in years when you start calling twenty-five-year olds young people.

But shit, they were so far removed from his reality.

Reminded him of the crowds they used to get in the heyday of the Underground Lounge in Zenith, the meat market bar underneath the Metropole. Betty’s pet project, and the scene of Frank’s going away party.

Betty should get a look at this place, Frank thought, as he turned around to see Richards and Parker shuffling up to the front of the bar and joining Cook at four now miraculously vacant barstools.

Frank stepped around some patrons and filled the last available stool, next to Cook. “Okay, how’d you manage this, Clayton? You have these reserved?”

Clayton grinned a confident grin.

Approaching arrogant, Frank thought.

Clayton said, “Nah, I gave these four college dicks a hundred dollar bill in exchange for the chairs. Money talks, Frank.”

And it’s speaking loud and clear, Frank thought to himself.

This was not his scene. He felt trapped. Imprisoned by the attitudes and the addiction to everything “upscale” and “name-brand” and “top-of-the-line.”

The shit that had the three stooges playing the one-upmanship game at dinner.

You went to Florida? I went to the Caribbean. You bought a Cadillac? I got a Benz. You caught a nice trout in Colorado? I caught sailfish off the coast of Costa Rica.

Ad fucking nauseum.

Beefeater’s. Johnny Walker. Lincoln Continental. Courvoisier. Gucci. Rolex…

You name it.

This growing absorption with consumption and status seemed to be taking over the country.

Blue-collar values appeared lost and gone forever.

Dreadful sorry, Clementine.

As he reflexively ordered a Bud and declined Clayton’s offer of a shot of Cuervo, Frank felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. All of a sudden he was bone tired and just wanted to get back to his car and escape this shithole they called the Valley of the Sun.

But Clayton had been generous—paying for damn near everything—and so far, it really had been an adventure worthy of Kerouac. So Frank figured he owed it to the boys to remain a participant in the night’s escapades. At least until Cook—and of course the gracious host, Parker—had their fill of what this particular American night was providing.

(To be continued)

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Bryce drove the Lincoln directly to the freeway. Did not pass Go, did not collect two hundred dollars.

The four occupants were collectively joyful to leave the neighborhood in the rearview. Parker and Richards were especially ebullient and talkative, the speed and the aftermath of the adrenaline combining to loosen their tongues, voices thick with relief.

Armchair heroes is what Frank called guys like that. Stay on the sidelines but still take credit for the victory. A year from now Larry and Bryce could be telling people how they heroically rescued their friend from a vicious, hateful, Negro mob. At the moment, though, they were looking for a bar as far removed from the hood as possible.

Something mainstream and clean and bright.

Not dangerous.

We’re looking for a clean, well-lighted place, Frank thought.

Larry directed Bryce to a stripper bar in Tempe.

It wasn’t clean.

Or at all well lighted.

But it did have good-looking women taking off their clothes on a raised platform in the middle of a huge oval bar, and a live rock band providing the tunes so the ladies could gyrate.

And over-priced alcoholic beverages.

So it was mainstream, anyway.

Frank had never seen a live band in a stripper bar. Always a sound system at the places he’d been to. This place had a rough feel to it, but the band, three skinny, long-haired white guys and a heavy-set Hispanic lead guitar player, were pretty damn good.

The group was currently grinding out a hard-edged rendition of that old Donovan-sixties-classic “Season of the Witch,” as a twenty-something bottle blond peeler moved half-heartedly on the platform.

Rabbits running in the ditch, indeed.

A sizable bartender in a dark blue button-down shirt came over to take their orders. Frank requested a Budweiser, having abandoned his quest for Dos Equis. Larry asked for a double Jack on the rocks and went off to find the payphone. The youngsters both ordered double shots of Johnny Walker Black.

“All that excitement really got me horny,” Clayton Cook said, eyes on the dancer.

“And you weren’t before?” Bryce Parker asked, his voice rising. “Dragging us all into the heart of darkie town for a one-legged whore is not horny beyond reason?”

“Don’t criticize what you don’t understand, Bryce. I’m telling you, man, you’ve never really been fucked until you’ve had the stump banging against your thigh.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Frank was already halfway through his beer when Larry came back wearing a proud-of-himself grin. Frank overheard him tell Parker that he’d located some coke. The man would meet them at a bar in Scottsdale, some ritzy club Larry said he’d been to once before.

Frank polished off the beer and shrugged internally. At least they’d be heading in the general direction of Rancho Deluxe.

As he walked out of the stripper bar Frank heard the band start up with another souped-up, fuzz-toned oldie, this one from way, way back. He smiled as the old familiar lyrics hit his ears.

Roll me over in the clover; do it again; do it again.

Roll me over in the clover; do it again.

Those guys were good.

(End of Chapter 24)

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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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Looking out from the backseat of the classic Lincoln, Frank couldn’t see another white person.

Anywhere.

Except for Clayton over there across the street in front of Roxie’s Lounge, Cook going jaw to jaw with a Black dude who was likely a pimp.

Guy probably armed and dangerous.

Not that Frank held any animosity towards Black dudes in general, that wasn’t the case. Back in Zenith, Johnny Beam was a friend of his for Christ sake. But Zenith didn’t have very many Blacks, and now it felt weird to be surrounded by people who might want to kick your ass just because of the color of your skin.

Sure, he’d had some trouble from Black guys in his ten years behind the bar at the Metro. But he’d also caught a lot of grief from white dudes over the years. Which made sense, given the large differences in the population ratios of northern Minnesota.

One of his favorite lines to people spouting nigger-this-and-nigger-that-shit: “Hey, some Polack kid comes in and starts causing trouble, I don’t condemn the entire Polish race.”

But, shit, this scene here was ridiculous.

They were smack dab in the middle of the Black section of Phoenix.

Did they still call it the ghetto or was it now the Hood?

Whatever you called it, it was a scary place if you were white as a lily and unarmed, which all four of them, of course, were.

And how did they get here?

It had all started a couple of hours ago at the restaurant.

Dinner was great.

Clayton had insisted they order whatever they wanted—price no object—and Frank took him on his word, getting the steak and lobster combo. Surf and turf. He liked that.

Fuck politeness.

Dinner was jovial, but later, over coffee and snifters of fine brandy and cognac, the vibe changed.

Had to have been the speed.

After-dinner mints were on the table in a white china dish the shape of a mint leaf, and as soon as the dinner plates were cleared away, Larry shook four of the orange pills into the dish and passed it around the table. Everyone but Frank swallowed a pill and followed it with a mint.

Frank had himself a mint but returned the dish with the pill to Larry. “I’m gonna pass on the zip,” he said. “I want to get at least some sleep before I hit the highway.”

Larry gave him the fish eye.

Frank thought it was some kind of awkward peer-pressure thing and squinted back his displeasure, watching Larry’s face snap back to indifferent, where it belonged.

Soon the conversations were more long-winded and the shots of barely disguised vitriol toward Larry became more frequent. All seemingly centered on the results of Larry’s frequent trips to the payphone.

Well, Frank didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. He’d heard the discussion back at Rancho Deluxe and knew what the deal was.

Peruvian marching powder. A substance that when ingested might lead you down some suspect path. A path that could easily take you someplace you didn’t really want to go. Someplace you shouldn’t go.

Recalling his own recent excursions with the powder…

Fuck, he didn’t want to relive that.

At the restaurant, it was Larry’s speed—and possibly the craving for cocaine—that had changed the feeling from loose and fun to edgy and sharp.

Tense.

Impatient.

Which somehow led to a one-upmanship match among the men, concerning whorehouses and prostitutes they’d sampled. A discussion that many young men may have had. Frank had heard a hundred of them in his years behind the bar.

What’s that, ten per year?

Sounds about right.

But tonight the discussion had descended into something else. At one point, Clayton Cook, liquored up and coming on to the sharp edge of speed, stated in a voice only slightly below a holler: “Nigger whores are better than spic whores, any day.”

Which brought numerous eyes to their table, as Cook continued: “Ever fucked a one-legged nigger whore?” Looking at the other three, in turn. They all shook their heads to the negative. “Nothing like that stump banging you in the thigh, I tell you. Get you going if nothing else will.”

And that was the impetus that had brought them to this really dark place somewhere in the inner city of Phoenix. They were parked directly across the street from a small bungalow set back in the darkness, about thirty yards from the curb.

Clayton had said he’d been here once before. Sometime last spring—April maybe…

Bryce had chimed in that it was probably the spring consortium meeting, because Clayton had disappeared for a few hours one night.

On this night, Frank and Larry and Bryce had waited in the car as Cook swayed up to the front door of the little house. Frank was glad the street was dark enough that their white skin didn’t stand out like landing beacons at Sky Harbor airport. He watched as Cook knocked on the front door of the bungalow.

Watched him stand there fidgeting for a minute before the door opened and he stepped inside.

(To be continued)

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Living on the edge was getting to Larry Richards. Seemed like he was constantly running just to keep up with yesterday.

Cook and Parker were never satisfied. Larry put them on deals that would make them money for many years to come and all they could do was bitch about cocaine.

Or the lack of it.

But hey, Larry could relate. He knew what it was like, the sinking feeling you got when the blow you’ve been expecting and fantasizing about doesn’t show up. Not quite jonesing, but close. It’s a hollow feeling, as the Eagles might say.

And now look at the two golden boys strutting back to the table like they own the place. Which they easily could. Shit, maybe they already do own it and that’s why they always want to come here. Cook had said he knew the owner quite well….

But Larry didn’t have time or the luxury to speculate. He needed to get on the payphone and see if he could rustle up a quarter ounce of coke for the young lions’ recreational needs.

So much of that shit around right now he didn’t think it would be a problem. Nineteen seventy-seven and the blow seemed to be everywhere. He’d contacted two of his old ASU classmates this morning and they’d sounded pretty confident they could come up with something.

He hoped it wasn’t bullshit just to get rid of him, because he wanted to keep Parker and Cook dependent on him for their drug of choice. It kept them—and their money—close. He was afraid to let them go elsewhere. They might never come back.

And Larry didn’t like it much that Frank and Clayton were getting on so well. Get a few drinks in him and Frank might start reminiscing, telling stories from the past. Stories that didn’t always put Larry in a favorable light.

Stories that might make the members of the consortium close their checkbooks.

Ah, but what the hell, he thought, as long as his projects made money, the consortium wouldn’t care a lick about what he’d done in the past.

Except for Cook and Parker.

Sometimes it seemed those two did things just out of spite. Some instinctive urge to bully and dominate caught hold of them and they would carry it too far. So they didn’t need any more ammunition from Frank.

(End of Chapter 22)

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