Posted in Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, tagged #DiveBartender, #donwinslow, #elmoreleonard, #pulpfiction, Amazoncrimefiction, Arizona crime fiction, BluestonePress, book-review, book-reviews, books, crime, crime fiction, Crime noir, crime stories, Donald Westlake, fiction, Minnesota Noir, mystery, noir, pulp, pulp fiction, reading, short-story, T.K O'Neill, thriller, writing on May 28, 2024| Leave a Comment »
From The Chrysalis BREW Project: Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert by T.K. O’Neill takes us on a roller-coaster ride. The hair-raising action sequences, the breathtaking descriptions of the desert, and the uninhibited consumption of drugs and alcohol actually made me feel like I was living in the wild west of the seventies.
Frank’s head was on a swivel, searching the nearly empty, Old West-themed streets for cop cars, motels, all-night restaurants or anything that might provide an alternative to the present situation.
But mostly cop cars…
The local cops had a reputation for hard-ass behavior, the Gold Dust Twins had said earlier in the evening.
Not knowing what else to do, Frank kept cruising around, sweat dripping from his armpits one cold drop at a time.
And then Evelyn was pointing across the way at a grand old structure that looked like it’d been there since the fifties, Frank thinking maybe Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and the Rat Pack had comped suites for life.
Sign on the front said, Hotel Valley Ho.
“I could get a room there,” Evelyn said, the words struggling to come out. “Always wanted to get a look inside that place.”
Frank looked at the dashboard clock.
Nearly four a.m.
And the needle on the wagon’s temperature gauge was up way too high all of a sudden.
What the hell?
Must be a coolant leak, he thought. All the hot weather taking its toll.
And that fancy hotel had to cost two hundred a night, at least. And Evelyn would need another blast to go through the lobby and maybe want another when they got to the room and then Frank would be stuck in there listening to a bunch of coke-and-Tuinal-fueled nonsense until she could go home and Frank could get the fuck out of town.
So the Valley Ho wasn’t going to work, no matter how cool it looked.
Frank kept on driving, the Hater back front and center in his head and letting him know what he thought of all this.
Hater wasn’t very kind.
And then, just as suddenly as the lights had appeared upon reentering Scottsdale, the surroundings got darker and the buildings became fewer and farther in between.
Frank’s eyes were jumping from the temperature gauge—needle precariously close to the red line now—to Evelyn’s nodding head and then back to the dark streets. Repeating the cycle every few seconds
Then—hallelujah—he caught sight of what seemed to be a major artery. A north-south highway according to the compass mounted on the Ford’s dash, one of the former owner’s additions to the wagon’s accessory package.
His hands sweaty on the wheel; Frank approached the highway cautiously and was uplifted by the sight of a neon sign on a frontage road to his right.
Tru West Motel.
Icy AC.
Cable TV.
In-room phones.
A place only Norman Bates could love.
Frank swung in the lot, stopped in front of the Office sign.
Evelyn looked at him from behind her haze. “You gotta be shitting me,” she said, her lips slack. Then her head lolled against the car door and she was out.
Frank was grateful for the small favor.
He got out and went up to the office door, wondering if he’d be able to raise anyone at this hour. There was a button on the wall next to the door. Sign below it said Push for After-hours Service.
He pressed it and heard a faint ringing behind the door.
He shuffled his feet and looked back at Evelyn.
Still out.
He waited.
Time passed slowly.
Behind him a few cars went by, lights reflecting on the motel’s windows.
Feeling antsy, he pushed the button again and heard the bell.
“All right, I hear ya. Hold your horses,” said a voice.
The door opened.
Guy standing there in a thin baby blue robe over a white strap undershirt. Small feet in old-time brown slippers. Fit Frank’s idea of someone who’d own a place like this. Short and fat, with a white beard, horn-rimmed glasses askew on a gin blossom nose and a scowl on his face that let you know he wasn’t a jolly, roly-poly type of guy, even though he kind of resembled Santa Claus.
Of the department store variety.
But who could blame the guy? Four in the morning confronted by a big stranger with booze on his breath and—Frank looking at his hands now—bloodied knuckles. The result of scraping against Bryce Parker’s teeth. And, oops, there was some blood on the top of his Adidas sneaker.
“Sorry to bother you at this hour, sir,” Frank said, polite. “But my wife and I have been driving all night—we’re from Minnesota—and—”
“You need a room. Hell else you’d want at this hour?” He stepped outside and looked at Frank’s car, checking the front license plate and peering in at Evelyn.
“My wife’s asleep. We’ve been on the road since Colorado.”
“All right,” Desert Santa said, giving Frank a sure-you-have look. “That’ll be fifty dollars. In advance. Checkout time is noon. You wanna stay longer it’ll cost you extra.”
Frank pulled his wallet from the pocket of his khakis and thumbed out two twenties and a ten.
“Gotta come in and fill out the card,” the guy said.
(End of Chapter 33)
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Posted in Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, tagged #DiveBartender, #donwinslow, #elmoreleonard, #pulpfiction, Amazoncrimefiction, Arizona crime fiction, BluestonePress, book-review, book-reviews, books, crime, crime fiction, Crime noir, crime stories, Donald Westlake, fiction, Minnesota Noir, mystery, noir, pulp, pulp fiction, reading, short-story, T.K O'Neill, thriller, writing on May 22, 2024| Leave a Comment »
From SPR Review: “Love, loss, brotherhood, and purpose clash in a timeless examination of freedom through a drug-addled lens. With a clever and original flourish for simple, unexpected descriptions, the prose hums along at an even clip, occasionally taking time to wax poetic, à la Kerouac, with the urgency in Frank’s mind and movements reminiscent of Sal Paradise, if not Dean Moriarty. Comparisons aside, this book is far from derivative; it is a refreshing homage to beatnik life, telling an accessible story with a familiar lesson – you can’t go home again, and home is wherever you make it.”
Rolling across the pitch black desert in the station wagon, dust cloud in the rearview glowing taillight-red, giant cacti looming beyond the arc of the headlights like lost soldiers in Pancho Villa’s army, Frank could only shake his head at the turn the evening had taken.
All because of the young girl on his right, her nose full of white powder and her belly full of booze and downers.
But no, that wasn’t really accurate.
What went down was all because of the predatory behavior of two overly entitled white guys with too much money and too few values.
Guys who believed it their right to take what they wanted without concern for the consequences.
But, hey, they weren’t the Hillside Stranglers, as Clayton Cook had so fervently declared.
Frank’s mind switched gears and began working on the thorny problem of what to do now.
“You got some place to go, Evelyn, some place I can take you?”
“No, not really,” Evelyn replied, her jaw set at an angle and her eyes momentarily wide and staring in the glow of the dash lights.
“Whattaya mean, no not really? You haven’t got a home? Come on, I’m just trying to help here.”
“Of course I have a home, pendejo. I share an apartment with my brother Javier.”
There was that ben decko shit again.
“Good, I’ll take you there. But you have to tell me the way. I’m not from around here.”
“Really,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her words like wax from a candle, “I never would have known. Your car is just like the cars in my neighborhood—old and shitty.”
Girl using sarcasm? She must be doing better than he’d thought. “It’s not shitty. It’s reliable. Trustworthy. Just like me. Now tell me how to get to your apartment.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I stutter or something?”
“Just give me directions.”
“I give you directions out here in the desert, you’ll just forget them by the time we get to Phoenix.”
Frank couldn’t help himself and broke into song: “ By the time I get to Phoenix, she’ll be waiting.”
Evelyn made a face. “You got a permit for that voice? Permit to carry a tune? Think you’re in violation, Jack.”
“Name’s Frank. Give me the directions when we get back to civilization then.”
“Javier finds out I’ve been doing drugs, he’ll slap me around.”
“Your brother beats you?”
“Only if he catches me doing dope. Both our parents are dead and Javier thinks he has to play father to me. Even though he’s younger. I’ve had some trouble with drugs in the past, so I guess he has a right. I can drink as much as I want and he doesn’t say a damn thing, but he finds out I’ve had one taste of coke or a pill or something, he blows his cork.”
“Where would you like me to drop you then?”
“I dunno. Hotel?”
“Got any money?”
“Few bucks.”
“Nice. Sweet. Just fuckin’ dandy. How old are you, Evelyn?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Got ID?” You’ve been a bartender for ten years, you have to ask.
“I need ID to ride in this piece of shit?”
“Never mind. I’ll take your word for it.”
But Jesus, look at her, she looks seventeen.
If that.
He could see the state trooper shining a flashlight in the window at the dangerously young girl with booze on her breath and white powder on the edge of her nostrils. And then the light hits the loaded handgun on the front seat.
Night plinking in the desert, son?
Then the cop shines the light on the face of the driver—a much older man— forty, at least.
Only thirty-six, Frank was thinking as he tossed Larry’s pistol out the car window.
And what, pray tell, is the age of consent in Arizona?
For an answer he got an image of Clayton Cook: “Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher.”
Pleasant.
“You got any tunes in this car?” Evelyn said, still showing signs of life.
“Radio doesn’t work.”
“Shitty car, like I said. Even the campesinos have a radio.”
Frank jammed on the brakes and the wagon skidded to a halt. “You want to get out and walk?” he said, feeling like what he imagined the father of a teen-ager might feel.
He watched her look out the window at the blackness. Saw a couple pairs of eyes looking back.
Arizona coyotes.
She laughed. A guffaw, a snort and a girlish giggle. “No thanks. I know you won’t leave me, you have kind eyes.”
“Okay, you got me.”
He hit the gas.
Few minutes later, glancing at Evelyn, he could see she was starting to fade again, her eyes getting heavy and her head lolling forward like one of those bobblehead dolls people were putting in their back windows. “You know, Evelyn, your friend Clayton put Tuinals in your drink.”
“Toenails in my drink, ew.”
“No, honey, Tu-i-nals. It’s a barbiturate.”
“Barbershit?”
“Sleeping pills.”
“Fuckin’ lumiosos. Now I need a toot.” She stuck her hand in her purse and came out with the coke bag, pinched a wad between thumb and forefinger and sniffed it in.
“Okay, honey, that’s enough for now. Wipe off your nose and give me the coke. We’ll be back in town pretty soon and we can’t have the policia seeing you snort up. Definitely not cool.”
Frank was keeping track of her snorting; determining that she needed a toot about every fifteen minutes just to stay reasonably coherent.
Time to cut her off and hope she passed out.
“Stop calling me honey,” she said, handing over the bag of powder.
“You got it, swee—ah—Evelyn.”
And before too long, miraculous as it seemed at the time, they came upon some lighted streets Frank halfway remembered.
And then, more miracles, they were somehow back in front of the Neon Cactus, the club now looking eerily vacant, surrounding streets empty and clean as if no one had been there for a week.
(To be continued)
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Posted in Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, tagged #DiveBartender, #donwinslow, #elmoreleonard, #pulpfiction, Amazoncrimefiction, Arizona crime fiction, BluestonePress, book-review, book-reviews, books, crime, crime fiction, Crime noir, crime stories, Donald Westlake, fiction, Minnesota Noir, mystery, noir, pulp, pulp fiction, reading, short-story, T.K O'Neill, thriller on May 7, 2024| Leave a Comment »
From the (St. Paul) Pioneer Press: “Although O’Neill…writes from the noir end of the mystery genre, “Dive Bartender” is not a violent book. Some of it is funny and there is tenderness in Frank’s all-consuming devotion to Evelyn. Also, there are gangsters and drugs.
Frank straightened himself to his full six-two, gave Cook his best Clint Eastwood sneer. “I’d heard that guys like you live in a bubble, Cook, and now I know it’s true. Guess it’s up to me to burst that bubble.”
“Good luck with that, bartender,” Cook said, walking away.
Then Bryce Parker came around the wall wearing an indignant look, his chin raised. “You know what, Ford? You are no longer welcome at Sonora North. Get in your rat’s ass station wagon and get off my property.”
Frank let his torso go limp and dropped his gaze to the floor at Parker’s feet. “You gonna call the sheriff, Bryce?” he said, raising his head and looking Parker in the eye.
As Parker stood there blinking, Frank set his feet, got his hips and shoulder into it and drove his right fist into the center of Parker’s squared-off chin.
Parker’s arms flew out to the side as he toppled backwards like a chopped tree, banging his head on the hardwood floor and going still.
Frank watched Larry turn stiff. Man looked shocked and disturbed.
Welcome to the club.
Frank left Larry gaping there and went back to the game room. Moving quickly across the hardwood towards the bar, he watched Cook’s saucer eyes get even larger.
“What the fuck, are you doing, man?” Cook said, his voice going up a couple octaves.
Evelyn’s eyes were especially wide and her body was showing the signs of actual muscle tone as Frank moved in and grasped Cook by the collar of his “high-end” shirt.
Clayton grabbed at Frank’s hands and tried to pull them off. “Frank, man, c’mon, ease off. We’re all friends here.”
“Friends don’t dose friend’s drinks with Tuinals, Clayton,” Frank said. Then he shifted his right hand from Cook’s collar to the back of his head and drove Cook’s forehead down onto the bar top.
Clayton’s head bounced off the granite, his eyes rolled back and his ass slid off the barstool.
He hit the floor like a wet bar rag.
“Come on, Evelyn,” Frank said. “We’re leaving. Think you can walk?”
“No party?”
“Party’s over, dear. But you can take that bag of coke with you if you want. Something to see you through, something for your inconvenience.”
She made an attempt at a smile before bending over and picking up the rolled-up hundred. She snorted a long line of powder, pinched her nose and grabbed the coke. She put the glassine bag in her purse, a fringed leather thing she clumsily lifted off the stool next to her.
Being gentle, Frank put his hand on her elbow and helped her to her feet.
Together, arm and arm, they started for the door.
“Whattaya think you’re fuckin’ doing, Frank?” Larry Richards shouted from behind them. “You pull this shit—after all the hospitality we showed you?”
Frank craned his neck around.
Saw Larry pointing a gun.
The commemorative Colt.
“Sorry, Larry, but it looks like I’ve already done it. And you better put that pop gun away before someone really gets hurt.”
Frank let go of Evelyn’s arm and turned square with Richards. She swayed on her feet but remained upright.
Richards raised the gun to the level of Frank’s chest, hand shaking. “That’s five hundred bucks worth of blow.”
“I look at it as a fee. I figure she’s got it coming. And c’mon, Larry, get real. You and I both know you’re not going to shoot me.” But looking at the panic and growing hysteria in his old chum’s eyes, Frank wasn’t so sure.
Larry lowered the gun.
“Give it to me, Larry.” Frank held out his hand.
Larry handed it over, a guilty look on his drained-of-color face, Frank thinking of that Procol Harum song, “A Whiter Shade of Pale.”
“Now Evelyn and I are leaving, Larry. And I suggest you think about doing the same.”
“Frank?”
“What?”
“You’re gonna need to punch me, so it looks like I put up a struggle.”
You need more than a punch to straighten your ass out, Frank was thinking. Parents probably didn’t spank you enough.
This was a subject Frank and Nikki had debated more than once, Nikki calling him a “Neanderthal” when he told her he believed in Spare the rod and spoil the child.
But he was getting sick and tired of thinking about Nikki all the time so he obliged Richards and threw a punch. Only going three-quarters and avoiding the nose and teeth, he crunched his fist on Larry’s cheekbone in a way that was guaranteed to leave a nice, showy, shiner.
With Larry groaning on the floor, Frank thinking he was maybe overdoing it, Frank and Evelyn left the building. Frank used the commemorative Colt to shoot out two tires on the Lincoln, one front, one back, and then they continued down the red brick toward the dome and the station wagon. He was trying to move her along at a brisk pace but it was like dragging a beer keg up the basement stairs at the Metropole.
He helped her into the front seat of the wagon, the girl muttering “Jesus… Jesus… Jesus…” in a scratchy voice. And also something that sounded to Frank like “Ben-deck-ohs.”
He went around and slid in behind the wheel and turned the ignition key.
Wagon fired up and Frank threw it in gear and headed for the gate, hoping to be long gone before Parker or Cook came to.
But the goddamn gate was closed and locked.
“Fuck,” he shouted, pounding on the steering wheel with both hands.
He looked over at the girl. She was into the coke bag already, pulling out a wad of powder pinched between her thumb and forefinger and putting it to her lovely nose.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, for goddamn sure.
Frank thought about backing up and making a run at it, picturing the steel gate flying off to the side like in the movies. Then pictured a more likely scenario: gate not moving at all, not flying off to the side, staying shut and leaving his car crunched and unmoving, like a dying steer.
Shit.
Not knowing what to do, he craned his neck around and squinted at the door of the house.
And saw no one.
Yet.
Then it came to him. This was the American West. He had the gun that won the West on the front seat.
Well, at least a facsimile.
And how did they deal with a lock in every Western movie ever made?
Shot the sonofabitch.
Frank got out, walked up to the control box, pointed the revolver at the box from three feet away, shielded his eyes with his left hand and pulled the trigger.
Bullet hit the box dead center.
Box popped and fizzled.
Frank saw the gate come loose and swing open a few inches. He put his back into it and pulled it all the way open, thing harder to move than he’d anticipated.
When he got back behind the wheel, he was sweating.
(End of Chapter 31)
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Posted in Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, tagged #DiveBartender, #donwinslow, #elmoreleonard, #pulpfiction, Amazoncrimefiction, Arizona crime fiction, BluestonePress, book-review, book-reviews, books, crime, crime fiction, Crime noir, crime stories, Donald Westlake, fiction, Minnesota Noir, mystery, noir, pulp, pulp fiction, reading, T.K O'Neill, thriller on April 16, 2024| Leave a Comment »
From International Review of Books: “(Frank Ford) wasn’t a saint and wasn’t a hero, but carries (the story) with flying colors by being a regular guy dealing with a dark past, self-doubts, and, perhaps to his surprise, a chivalrous streak…”
Coming into the big house now, the lights in the main room dimmed and atmospheric, Frank was getting that off-kilter vibe again; the feeling that there was something skanky roiling just under the surface of this place.
Cook was standing in front of the stairs giving Frank a look that seemed to be somewhat condescending, like maybe Frank was tracking dirt or dog shit into the hallowed grounds.
Frank had the urge to stop and check his shoes but instead just followed Larry into the back of the house where the bar was. Larry kept turning his head and glaring at him.
The lights from the pool were shining in through the glass doors of the game room. The water looked placid and luxurious in shades of aquamarine. Clayton was at the bar laying out lines on the dark surface. Bryce was at the stereo tuning in the same radio station they’d listened to in the car. Evelyn was sitting on a barstool leaning on her elbows, eyelids drooping.
The way she’d snuggled with Clayton in the car; Frank had begun to have second thoughts about the need to look after her. She gave him a sideways glance, eyes unfocused, as he took a seat at the bar next to her.
“Where is everybody?” she half slurred, half snapped. “You said we were going to a party.” She looked at Clayton and then down at the lines on the bar top.
“This is a party, Evie,” Clayton said. “Now have yourself a toot and maybe Frank here will be kind enough to fix us all a drink. Maybe something festive, like tequila sunrises or Margaritas. Ever make a zombie, Frank? Frank’s a bartender from Minn-e-so-ta, you know, Evie.” Saying Minnesota with a parody of a Scandinavian accent.
Frank felt Clayton’s little dig. Remark hit him square in the gut, which was already a little queasy and uneasy, from all the booze and spicy food.
But he wasn’t about to show it.
“No,” Frank said, “never mixed a zombie. Served plenty of ’em over the years, though. About half the crowd at closing time, most nights.”
Frank thought it might be better if he just left these people to themselves. Went back to his little dome and tried to get some rest. Long drive ahead of him tomorrow. Would be tough enough as it is, without going round and round with these assholes.
So what the hell, might as well act humble, he thought. Make the drinks and look for an opening to make a graceful exit.
Glancing at Evelyn, he thought she looked a little uncomfortable now.
Could just be the coke, but her recent comment about the lack of party guests had pushed up a red flag.
Frank stepped behind the bar. Clayton gave him a smirk and moved around front, sliding in next to Evelyn. “We’re going to need a few things,” Frank said. “Triple sec, a few limes, salt…
“I think you’ll find everything you need behind the bar,” Clayton said. “I think there are some limes in the mini-fridge.”
Frank had always made a great margarita. Felt strangely good to work up a specialty drink again, like his hands had missed the work. When he was done, he set the sweating glass pitcher on the bar. “Margoes are ready. Come and get ‘em.”
And then to Evelyn: “Are you aware that Clayton here dosed your drink at the Neon Cactus?”
“Hosed my sink?” she slurred.
“No, girl. D-o-s-e-d your d-r-i-n-k,” spelling it out. “What was it you dosed her with, Clayton? Wasn’t an upper, judging by her condition.”
Frank shot Richards an eye laser as Larry sat there staring straight ahead at the wall behind the bar.
“Frank,” Larry said, his voice low and soft, “We need to talk. Let’s step around the corner so we can have some privacy.”
“No problem,” Frank said, and followed Richards into the dining room.
“What is your deal, Frank?” Richards said as soon as they were on the other side of the wall.
“You mean because I told her Clayton dosed her drink? I thought she should know what was happening to her, just in case she didn’t want to be gang-raped by you three assholes.”
“You’re certainly welcome to take part if you so choose, Frank,” Cook said, coming around the corner. “And you need to realize that spic chicks only dig the three D’s. Dicks, dope and dinero. Nothing bad is going to happen to the girl. Larry’ll drive her back into Scottsdale in the morning only a little worse for wear. No permanent damage, man, I swear. We’re not the Hillside Stranglers.”
Not yet, Frank thought, and then said, “And that would be fine, I suppose, if she was on board with the plan. But there’s no way she’s into this. She was led to expect a party. With lots of people. Not just three horny jackalopes. What’d you give her, ludes?”
“Tuinals,” Cook said. “The apex of American pharmaceutical achievement.”
“You really are full of yourself, aren’t you, Clayton,” Frank said. “Which means you’re full of shit. Without the coke propping her up, that girl would be unconscious. Back where I come from, what you’re planning is called sexual assault. There will be no sexual assault taking place here as long as I’m around.”
Cook snorted. “Then why don’t you go back to where you came from, man? You can take Larry and go back to your mediocre state full of self-righteous douchebags confusing self-deprivation with piety.”
“You sweet on the girl, Frank?” Richards said. “That what this is about?”
“Sweet on her? Jesus Christ, Larry, you Andy of fuckin’ Mayberry or something? You want to be part of a sexual assault, man? That’ll look good on your resume. You forget that we’re all probably on videotape back at the Neon Cactus. That girl starts figuring out what happened to her and maybe gets a bit pissed off and decides she wants payback? Would be no problem for the cops to pull the tapes. Maybe they have the plates of the Lincoln on that tape. Ever think of that?”
“She won’t remember shit,” Cook said. “It’ll all be a haze. And if she does have an idea, she might be so full of shame that she won’t care to report anything. Or, realistically, she’ll look at it as the time of her life. Think of it, man, she’s the center of attention at a luxurious mansion in the middle of the desert, with handsome rich men making love to her. A groupie’s dream, come true.”
(To be continued)
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Posted in Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, tagged #DiveBartender, #donwinslow, #elmoreleonard, #pulpfiction, Amazoncrimefiction, Arizona crime fiction, BluestonePress, book-review, book-reviews, books, crime, crime fiction, Crime noir, crime stories, Donald Westlake, fiction, Minnesota Noir, mystery, noir, pulp, pulp fiction, reading, T.K O'Neill on April 2, 2024| Leave a Comment »
Goddamn Larry is such a worm, Clayton Cook thought to himself as he watched Richards and the bartender straggle in, their tight-assed Minnesota ways following close behind.
Thing of it was, though, Larry was a handy guy to have around. He was a decent lawyer and his input on the Denver mall deal had served everybody concerned quite well.
Larry, though, never seemed to be content with his efforts. He suffered with a sort of inbred insecurity it seemed, a constant belief that he was not doing enough.
Clayton picked up on this some time ago, observing that Larry would gladly demean himself and perform acts below his status simply because one of the consortium members made a request.
The cocaine dealing being a case in point.
And he and Bryce had taken advantage of this trait many times. Pretty much whenever they needed some menial or otherwise unattractive task taken care of.
But this bartender, this Frank Ford, was another animal altogether, and fast becoming a prickly thorn in the side.
Perhaps just a prick.
And it was Larry’s job to see that he wasn’t.
Didn’t.
Wouldn’t.
Larry needed to keep him reigned in.
You weren’t supposed to bring outsiders to Rancho Deluxe; it was an unwritten rule. Granted, Larry’s circumstances this time were a bit extreme, to say the least, and Bryce had reluctantly forgiven the transgression.
Clayton really hadn’t. But as long as Larry kept the bartender from interfering with the night’s activities, things were cool.
What was the big deal, anyway?
It was just some spic chick who wanted to get her nose packed and her twat fucked by some good looking, wealthy men.
Wasn’t only rock stars that had groupies.
And people from Minnesota were probably unaware that Mexican women loved to get fucked by white men—the more the merrier.
They were going to have a party in her pussy and bring her back to Scottsdale none the worse for wear.
Although she might have some difficulty walking.
(End of Chapter 30)
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Posted in Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, tagged #DiveBartender, #donwinslow, #elmoreleonard, #pulpfiction, Amazoncrimefiction, Arizona crime fiction, BluestonePress, book-review, book-reviews, books, crime, crime fiction, Crime noir, crime stories, Donald Westlake, fiction, Minnesota Noir, mystery, noir, pulp, pulp fiction, reading, T.K O'Neill on March 7, 2024| Leave a Comment »
Frank felt the pretty, loaded girl’s warmth against his shoulder, her body sliding over to his side of the backseat as the Lincoln bounced and swayed across the hardpan.
Felt pretty damn good.
Something he was missing these days, that type of warmth.
Thinking about it, he realized he’d pretty much always had a girlfriend of some sort, steady or part-time, since high school. This was the longest he could recall being without a consort.
But that scene back in Scottsdale—the club and all—he’d been through that shit too many times. Pickup bars seemed tedious, repetitive and meaningless to him now.
And as much as it pained him to admit it, it was true: He was getting too old for this shit.
So this was the point in the movies where he’d start falling in love with the pretty girl in the backseat.
She did have beautiful tan legs coming out of a pair of white shorts and her chest was perky under a satiny green T-shirt.
But it wasn’t gonna happen.
Evelyn seemed nice enough—if you could tell such things about someone as loaded as she was—but Frank was holding out for someone smart enough to avoid men like Clayton Cook and Bryce Parker.
Or Larry Richards.
Someone independent.
And definitely not possessive.
But he couldn’t deny that Evelyn’s warmth was intoxicating.
Then he heard Clayton say, “Time for another perk up, Evie, come back over here and I’ll powder your nose for you.”
Evelyn murmured like someone stirring in her sleep and pushed in tighter against Frank’s shoulder. Then she uttered a sleepy sound, giggled and straightened up on the seat before sliding across toward Cook.
Up front, Parker was fooling with the radio, dialing across static, Spanish language broadcasts, old-time country music, top forty stations and finally coming to rest on Linda Ronstadt singing “Weed, Whites and Wine,” the Lowell George classic that was another one of Frank’s favorites.
Linda Ronstadt.
Now there was a woman worth pursuing.
She was looking gorgeous these days.
He wondered if she lived somewhere in California.
Frank glanced over at Evelyn sniffing coke off Clayton’s fist.
The girl bore a resemblance to Linda Ronstadt, if you looked at her from a certain angle. Evelyn’s face was a little rounder and her skin was a little browner but she definitely was a looker.
And the song on the radio had her singing along now.
In a pretty damn good voice, considering.
“Care for a toot, Frank?” Clayton said, damn near shocking Frank out of his shoes.
“No, thanks,” Frank said, closing his eyes again and leaning against the doorframe. They’d be back to Sonora North soon and his trials would be over.
Or maybe just starting.
Drifting in and out, Frank at one point heard Evelyn say to Clayton, “You smell nice.”
And then he thought he heard her say, “Who’s the big guy? You never introduced us.” But he could have been dreaming.
Up in the front seat, Parker had the tunes humming. Radio waves skipping across the desert skies to serenade the love boat on its journey home. A station out of New Mexico was playing two consecutive songs by each artist in honor of the station’s second anniversary. Playing songs by groups that were as new to the scene as the fledgling radio station. Bands Frank had heard of, but never actually heard.
Aerosmith. Sex Pistols. The Clash, Ramones…
Like Dylan said many years ago, “The times they are a changin’.”
In music anyway.
As for the interaction of males and females—not so much.
Frank wasn’t a big fan of the new sound they were calling punk rock, but as the Lincoln topped the last rise and started the descent toward Rancho Deluxe, the compound an oasis of light in the stone dark desert, the Sex Pistols’ “Pretty Vacant” seemed to aptly sum up his state of mind.
As he watched Parker push the buttons on the control panel and the gate swing slowly open, he felt the tingle of adrenaline percolating in his legs.
He wondered why.
Larry swung the Lincoln alongside the front door of the main house and shut off the engine.
(End of Chapter 29)
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Posted in Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, tagged #DiveBartender, #donwinslow, #elmoreleonard, #pulpfiction, Amazoncrimefiction, Arizona crime fiction, BluestonePress, book-reviews, books, crime, crime fiction, Crime noir, crime stories, Donald Westlake, fiction, Minnesota Noir, mystery, noir, pulp, pulp fiction, T.K O'Neill on January 18, 2024| Leave a Comment »
Larry Richards knew he was totally fucked if this got back to Zenith City. Knew he was dependent on Frank Ford’s discretion on this one. Wheeling the big Lincoln across the hardpan, his coke-and-booze-and-speed-fueled eyes were cutting through the dust and the darkness but maybe seeing things that weren’t really there.
Hard to say what was real and what wasn’t, at the moment. But as long as he kept moving, nothing was going to touch him. Which, he realized, was now part of his personal philosophy. You keep moving forward—or moving in any direction—you never have to stop and think. Never have to consider what your life is becoming.
What you are becoming….
A sycophant for Parker and Cook?
And to a lesser extent, the other members of the consortium?
The other members were not due for a Rancho Deluxe gathering until late October, unless the Valley of the Sun mall project moved along faster than originally anticipated.
Something Larry very much hoped would come to pass.
All of the ass kissing and the shit eating would be worth it when the project broke ground.
But why did Frank have to choose now to play hard ass?
It was well known back home that Frank had signed on to the whole sex and drugs scene, so he had no business playing holier-than-thou. He’d spent ten years working the bar at the old Metropole for God’s sake—a dump and a half if there ever was one—and a notorious source of illegal drugs.
So there you go.
No nobility in that.
And now he decides to get all righteous.
Man needs to loosen up and ease off, get the stick out of his ass.
Tonight’s events had brought to mind a night in high school when Frank stopped Billy Flint from jumping Debby Morrison’s bones because Debby was too drunk on sloe gin to know what was happening. Billy got a little upset and got up in Frank’s face but Frank just stood there glaring—kind of like he did to Bryce and Clayton in front of the Neon Cactus—and Billy backed off and said something lame, like I was just trying to make sure she was comfortable, Frank.
Frank coming back with a Frank Ford classic: “Comfortable with your dick in her snatch, Billy?”
To which Billy did not verbally respond, instead sheepishly returning to his beer and cigarettes and avoiding Frank for the rest of the night.
Pretty much for the rest of high school.
And would you look at Frank in the backseat now, eyes closed, head leaning against the door.
Man seems peaceful and content.
But every time the girl starts nodding off and Clayton moves in on her, Frank’s eyes pop open and he gives Clayton that death stare and then Clayton breaks out the coke and gives the girl a blast and takes two for himself, his eyes all wild and bugging out. You can see he’s getting ticked but Frank is just too stern and tough looking for Clayton to start anything.
At least in the car.
Rancho Deluxe might be a different story. They don’t call him “Crazy Clayton” for nothing.
Fuckin’ Frank could do a lot of damage to his plans, Larry thought as he stared into the glow of the headlights. This story would spread like wildfire in the east end of Zenith City. Should Frank decide to disseminate the tale to someone back home, Larry’s sterling reputation would get a bit of tarnish, to say the least. Also his parents’ unwavering admiration for their high-achieving son would take a serious hit. The tale likely to put Larry’s reputation in the shitter for all time. But Frank’s interference with the boys’ playtime tonight could also hit Larry right in the here and now. Right in the fucking wallet. He’d already kind of breached the consortium code of conduct by bringing Frank to Rancho Deluxe in the first place, so…
Could the mall project get underway without Larry’s input and energy?
Probably.
And all they had up to this point was a verbal agreement.
So once Larry brought the local players into the mix and introduced them to any of the consortium members, it would be an easy step to cut him out of the deal and find some local lawyer willing to work on the cheap.
Type of thing the Parker family was famous for, according to the stories.
Clayton probably, too, but Larry didn’t know much about the Cook family’s business ethics. But he had his suspicions.
Nevertheless, he’d hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
His longtime motto.
He had to make the rest of tonight go smoothly or risk losing everything.
Couldn’t go back to live in Denver now—Katrina Reynolds’ murder had made that perfectly clear.
Arizona would have to be his new home.
At least until something better came along.
(End of Chapter 28)
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Posted in Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, tagged #DiveBartender, #donwinslow, #elmoreleonard, #pulpfiction, Amazoncrimefiction, Arizona crime fiction, books, crime, crime fiction, Crime noir, crime stories, Donald Westlake, fiction, Minnesota Noir, mystery, noir, pulp, pulp fiction, T.K O'Neill on December 21, 2023| Leave a Comment »
Bryce Parker was standing next to the driver’s door of the Lincoln with the keys in his hand. Cook and the girl were already in the backseat.
Parker, waving the keys, said, “Larry, you drive. Clayton and I will keep Evelyn company in the back.”
Frank squinted in at Cook and the girl.
Evelyn.
Cook was giving her another blast of coke. Her eyes were slits.
Coke usually makes your eyes look like saucers, if it’s any good, Frank thought. And the way the three stooges were acting, the shit must be pretty strong.
But the girl…
She was barely maintaining.
Frank glanced across the Lincoln’s roof at Parker. The man’s inference was clear: Larry and his unwanted friend ride up front and leave us to do our thing in the back.
“I can’t ride up there,” Frank said. “I get carsick. Be a shame if I tossed my cookies in the immaculate Continental.”
Parker’s eyes narrowed. “Only a short ride, man. Upholstery can be cleaned. Give the help something to do.”
Frank straightened himself and returned Parker’s narrow-eyed stare. “Very hospitable of you, Bryce. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not puke.”
Parker just stared, frowning a little.
Larry was behind the wheel now. Frank watched him lean across the seat and open the passenger door.
“C’mon Frank, get in, man,” Richards said. “I promise I’ll take it easy.”
Frank reached in and popped the lock on the rear door, giving Parker a final stare. “Hate to be a pain in the ass, gentlemen,” he said, “but there’s plenty of room in that backseat for four people. And one of them’s going to be me.”
He pulled open the suicide door and slid onto the dark leather, Evelyn looking at him, seemingly curious. At least as curious as someone in a drug stupor can look. Cook was grappling with a sneer. Frank shot him an eye dart and said, “S’all right, Clayton, not to worry. S’only a short ride. And I’ll be gone tomorrow.”
Clayton chuckled softly and looked away.
Parker bent over and peered through the window to the backseat and its occupants. He shook his head then walked around the car and got in the front seat, body language shouting, I’m pissed.
Frank saw the tightness grabbing Parker’s shoulders, thought it was funny.
You could cut the tension with a knife as Larry put the Lincoln in gear and headed for the open desert.
(End of Chapter 27)
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