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Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 32 ….The Four Horsemen of Rancho Deluxe

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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Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 31 ….armchair heroes seek refuge

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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Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 30 ….what could possibly go wrong?

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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Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 29 ….stranger in a strange land

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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Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 28 ….something to hide

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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Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 27 ….with friends like these, who needs enemies?

The Outpost Restaurant was on top of a small rise; surrounded by an oasis of green foliage Frank figured was goosing the water bill to the max. Kind of thoughts a one-time barkeep with ideas of acquiring his own bar gets.

The restaurant was a low-slung ranch-style structure of dark green painted timber with a slightly peaked roof the color of sand. More western than southwestern. More Old West than Old Mexico.

The inside was simple, basic and elegant in an understated way: Wooden tables with white linen tablecloths. Cylindrical candles burning. Sterling silver flatware. Coffee cups as thick as your hand.

Leaning back in a sturdy wooden chair and taking it all in, Frank was thinking he’d made the right decision. The round of golf went better than he’d anticipated. Some of the weight from the past seemed off his shoulders. Today’s fun wasn’t exactly the type of thing the characters in Kerouac’s book had done—definitely more upscale and mainstream here—but it was something Frank would never have experienced if he’d gotten back on the road.

So he felt he’d done justice to his desires—at least temporarily—and was ready for an enjoyable but light hitting night on the town.

If he stayed disciplined and drank conservatively he’d still be in good shape to hit the highway.

One day’s drive and he’d be in California.

The thought made his gut jump.

He looked around the darkened interior of the restaurant for someone to take a drink order.

He caught the eye of a waitress dressed in black jeans and cowboy boots and a white, Western-style shirt.

Cook, Parker and Larry ordered Stoli martinis. Frank requested a bottle of Dos Equis. “I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress said. “We don’t carry Dos Equis. We have Budweiser on tap and in bottles, also Michelob, Miller, Pabst and Falstaff.”

Frank ordered a bottle of Budweiser and the waitress departed.

Cook and Parker got up to use the men’s room.

Frank glanced over at Richards, the man looking squeezed.

The needling from Cook and Parker—especially Parker, Bryce evidently greatly disappointed his team didn’t win the golf match—had continued on the drive to the restaurant. And just now before he left the table, Cook had stared at Richards like Larry was something stuck on his shoe, shooting Larry a look reminiscent of an overbearing schoolteacher as he extolled Richards to not forget the phone calls he needed to make.

Frank was trying to act as if he were unaware of the dynamic playing out in front of him. Shit was making Larry look like a fraternity whipping boy. So Frank said something meant to be innocent and neutral: “You know, man, I really liked that Dos Equis beer out at Rancho Deluxe. Surprised they don’t serve it here. That shit is good.”

“Take a look around,” Larry said. “They don’t serve any Mexican products here. No south-of-the-border influence whatsoever in this place. No Jose Cuervo, no Dos Equis—not even any Mex food on the menu. This place could be in Montana—and that’s the idea. You see anything tells you we’re close to the border here?”

Frank gazed around the room: comfortable, dark, elegant, and totally USA. Even the wait staff and the bartenders were white; something Frank thought had to be unusual down here. Had to be some kind of federal violation.

Larry said, “The owner of this place fronts a group that vows to never forget the Alamo. They also want to see the Phoenix area maintain its white majority. No “browning of America” fans here. Anti-immigration, anti-minimum wage increases, anti-welfare—anti-anything that might serve to build up the Mexican population. These people are active in regional politics and exert a not-insignificant influence in the Valley.”

Frank recalled seeing an aging sheet of newsprint in a frame on the wall behind the cash register. Headline: Remember the Alamo. “But the Alamo was in Texas,” he said to Larry.

“Doesn’t seem to matter to these people. It’s their cause and they support it with near religious fervor.”

“Didn’t you say that Howard Parker had a fondness for Mexicans?”

“That’s the story that is told. But I suspect old Howie really liked Mexicans when they did work for him at a lower rate than American workers—and not so much in other times. Except for the women. Word has it that the old boy had more than one Mexican mistress over the years. Including one long-term liaison, according to Bryce. And Bryce still seems to harbor some resentment about it, if the way he looked at me the morning after he spilled the beans on that one is any indication. Man gets a little blow up his nose and a bellyful of Stoli and you can’t shut him up. Family and personal secrets come tumbling out like there’s no tomorrow. And then when tomorrow does come and he’s hung over and filled with regret, he wishes he hadn’t told the story so thoroughly.”

“Maybe you should make a recording. Hold it over his head if he starts to give you too much shit. Which, from what I’ve seen, is a real possibility.”

“Hey, Frank, these guys are my friends. I respect their secrets like my own.”

Of which, he has a few, Frank thought to himself.

“And their shit giving is harmless, really. No blood no foul. I give it right back, tit for tat.”

Frank hadn’t seen much of the pushback. But if Larry was cool with it, Frank was too. Although, to paraphrase his old classmate, he suspected Larry liked his two “friends” more when they were investing their money in his projects—and not so much at other times.

And who knew about the other members of Larry’s so-called consortium?

(End of Chapter 21)

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Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 26 ….golf before the storm

Cruising across the desert in the classic old Lincoln, dust cloud billowing out behind like a super long parachute, Clayton Cook pulled the glowing cigarette lighter from the dash and touched it to the tip of a large joint. He took a big drag and passed it to Frank in the back seat. Parker was driving and Cook was riding shotgun. Larry was in back with Frank.

The foursome was on the way to the country club.

Frank took a pull off the joint and passed it to Richards, who in turn passed it up front to Parker without taking a hit.

Shit tastes pretty good, Frank thought. And nine holes of golf might be a fun way to spend an afternoon, even in this heat.

He hadn’t totally committed to playing yet, but Clayton could be persuasive. A don’t-take-no-for-an-answer type of guy.

An hour later the four of them were at a table in the country club bar. Cook ordered a round of drinks and then asked Frank if he’d made up his mind. Frank said, “At this point, there’s not much I could say no to in the world. Yes is the answer. The word yes is the gateway to freedom and adventure.”

The other three shot him looks.

“Sorry,” Frank said. “The weed must’ve gotten to me. I was thinking about that Yoko Ono art project she was doing when she met John Lennon. Supposedly, you climbed up this ladder and on the ceiling there was a little folded piece of paper or something, and inside was just the word YES. YES kind of representing a door opening, much as NO would be a door closing.”

Smirking and looking down at his drink, Bryce Parker crooned a line from a Steve Miller song: “Space Cowboy, I bet you know where that’s at.”

Larry Richards was grinning. “Jesus, Frank. Didn’t know you were such a high flying hippie dippy.”

If you only knew, Frank thought, as he watched Cook lean forward across the table.

“So that means you’re going to play?” Cook said.

“YES,” Frank said with a grin.

“All right,” Cook said. “That’s great. How about you and I take on those two?”

“Larry and I will kick your ass,” Parker said.

“Twenty bucks a hole,” Cook said.

Richards, on Frank’s right, leaned over and mumbled in Frank’s ear: “They usually play for fifty.”

Frank wanted to beg off, say it was too rich for his blood. But since they’d scaled it down to something they likely thought was more on his level, he held his tongue. He’d played the game before. Not quite a rank beginner. Back in the days of the caddy shack they used to let the caddies play an occasional free round during the off-hours, like early mornings, rainy or cold days or Ladies Day. Few golfers wanted to follow the women around the course, the average time per round increasing exponentially when the ladies were out.

The round—if nine holes is considered a round—began pretty much as Frank expected.

He was all over the course. First left then right, his old slice still a problem.

Then skulling one along the ground for fifty yards—a worm burner.

Hitting one nearly straight up in the air, eliciting a “Gonna bring rain,” from Bryce Parker.

Frank hoped Parker was right about the rain.

But it didn’t rain much in Arizona.

Clayton, true to his promise, was consistently straight down the middle and near the greens in regulation. Cook and Parker were nearly equal in skill, both of them scratch golfers, and Larry was only slightly below their level. Richards was a tennis player, after all. But it looked to Frank like the man had put in some time on the links. Could be a requirement to pass the bar exam out here.

It took Frank a while to get his swing going. Started off the round with two double bogeys and a bogey. It was hot as blazes on the rock hard fairways of Thunderhook Country Club.

But then on hole four, a short par five, he nailed a five-iron pin high, ten feet right of the stick, and sank the putt for a birdie, winning the hole and tying the match at two holes apiece.

From then on Clayton held up his end, staving off Richards and Parker with booming drives and artful wedge shots, only shaky putting keeping his team from winning the match in a runaway.

As it was, the group came to the ninth green all even. Cook and Parker were facing difficult putts, while Richards, who’d been playing like a demon the last three holes—Frank thinking it was a matter of male pride—had a reasonable putt for birdie and the win.

Frank was just off the edge of the large rolling, multi-tiered green in two. Being the farthest from the hole, he was up first. He pulled the putter out of the bag of rental clubs and lined up the shot, calling on his old caddy instincts to somehow come back to him.

He didn’t look at it very long, just sighted it in and let ’er rip.

The twisting, bending, sixty-footer, dropped right in the center of the hole.

Clayton Cook hooted and swung his putter in the air. Frank watched Richards and Parker’s shoulders sag as he went to remove the ball, being careful not to step in his opponents’ line.

Cook picked up his ball.

Parker missed his thirty-footer.

Richards stepped across the green and addressed his putt. Frank thought Larry looked a little pale all of a sudden.

Richards stood there motionless for the longest time, causing both Parker and Cook to begin pacing around nervously behind him.

Finally Larry drew back the putter and struck the ball.

Frank watched it start left and then bend back toward the cup. Saw it catch the lip of the cup and flutter there for an instant.

Thing dropped in.

The hole and the match were halved.

A tie.

Seeing the relief on Larry’s face, Frank wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

The foursome retired to the nineteenth hole as Clayton and Bryce jawed with each other over bad shots and terrible putts. Richards looked pleased. Frank just wanted to get out of the heat. The sun-block stuff on his face was starting to run into his eyes.

Cook ordered a round of drinks and congratulated Larry on his final putt. Frank thought he heard a note of sarcasm in Cook’s voice. Golf had proved to be a fun experience but Frank hadn’t liked the way the two rich boys treated Larry.

They’d ridiculed Richards’ putting stance—Cook saying it looked like a cow taking a shit—and laughed at his bad shots, Larry’s partner Bryce even joining the onslaught at times. They also enjoyed bouts of hilarity over Larry’s plaid Bermuda shorts, which even Frank thought were more suited to a half-senile retiree then a practicing lawyer in the prime of his life.

It had all started out as innocent banter, the kind of stuff competitive guys do, but as it progressed and continued, Frank sensed an edge of meanness in the unrelenting criticism and snide remarks.

It was still going on even now, here in the bar.

Frank just wanted to spring for the next round of drinks.

Glad that he hadn’t lost any money in the match, he threw a fifty down on the table. But Cook pushed it back to him, saying, ”It’s all on my tab, partner, save your cash for later, you might need it.”

Frank shrugged and put the fifty in his pocket.

Clayton ordered another round.

They drained their glasses in a hurry and retired to the locker room for showers and a change of clothes. Frank had brought along one of his old white bartending shirts and the crisp new khakis.

(End of Chapter 20)

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Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 25 ….just one more day

It was after one o’clock when Frank returned to the main house. He could smell something cooking. Seemed to be more Mexican specialties. He went to the glass doors leading to the pool. The three men were still in the water, empty beer bottles on the tiles alongside three separate lounge chairs.

Bryce Parker was floating on an inflatable raft in the middle of the blue water. He saw Frank and waved him out. Frank went out into the heat and took a seat at a round table with an umbrella over it, having had enough sun for the day.

“Grab yourself a beer, Frank. Lunch should be ready any minute,” Parker said. “Maria is fixing us a batch of carne seca. Ever had it before?”

“Never even heard of it before.”

“It means dried meat, Frank,” Richards said, climbing out of the pool.

“Dried meat?”

“It’s made with beef jerky, you’ll love it,” Parker said. “Maria is a fantastic cook. Nothing dry about it when she gets finished.”

Frank nodded his head. “The huevos rancheros yesterday were excellent.”

Parker rolled off the raft into the water and submerged, surfacing a few seconds later blowing water and pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Larry Richards was stretched out on a yellow chaise. He was tan compared to Frank, but not as dark as the other two.

Clayton Cook climbed out of the water, lifted a beer bottle from the edge of the pool and approached Frank’s table. “Decide if you were going to stay or not, Mr. Frank?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll stay for one more day. Take you up on your offer of dinner.”

“Great,” Cook said. “What about golf?” He executed a golf swing, clicking his tongue to mimic the sound of club striking ball.

“I was thinking maybe that I should caddy. I’ve got some experience with that. My game would be a disaster, slow you guys down waiting for me.”

Cook said, “You want to carry a heavy golf bag in this heat, man? You in need of atonement or something? Fulfilling some purgatorial duty, perhaps? Punishment for deeds unkind?”

He was. But they didn’t need to know that. “I was thinking more along the lines of driving the cart.”

“I suppose we can arrange that. But foursomes are much better than threesomes. On the golf course, anyway. You and I can partner against Bryce and Larry. What’s your handicap?”

“Having to swing the club. I’m horseshit at golf, plain and simple. Baseball—now there’s something I can do.”

“C’mon, man. No pressure, no responsibility, no worries. Right up your alley. We’ll play best ball. That way any bad shots you hit won’t cause us any harm, and if you do catch hold of one, we can make it count. After, we’ll take you to the batting cage.”

Frank figured there’d be gambling. And he couldn’t tolerate losing money to these rich guys. But he didn’t want to admit it; didn’t want to be seen as a piker. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said.

Bryce Parker was toweling off at poolside. “Lunch is served, gentlemen,” he said.

Frank glanced through the glass doors and saw Humberto walking toward the dining room.

(End of Chapter 19)

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Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 24 ….what would Jack do?

Judging by the position of the sun, Frank figured it was close to noon when Clayton Cook arrived at the pool with a beer bottle in his hand.

A beer bottle of a type Frank couldn’t remember ever seeing before, which was rare for a veteran bartender.

Having been in the water long enough that the skin on his fingertips was wrinkling and his face was feeling a tad tight; Frank was sitting on the steps of the pool in the shallow end, lower body submerged and an orange beach towel over his head.

He nodded to Cook, who nodded back as he flopped down into an aqua blue chaise lounge at poolside.

“Care for a beer, Frank?” Cook asked. “We have some beaner brew, if you want it. Bryce always stocks it, so you either drink this shit or bring your own,” Cook lifted up the bottle of what Frank now saw was Dos Equis, a Mexican beer he’d heard of before but never actually seen.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I’m gonna hit the road after lunch, so alcohol is probably not a good idea.”

“Wisdom learned from years of tending bar?”

“Years of drinking and driving.”

Cook smiled and snorted. “Why don’t you stay and enjoy another day at Rancho Deluxe before you head out?”

“Sounds tempting, but I was really hoping to get somewhere with a little more green and maybe not quite so hot.”

“Where in Cali you headed?”

“I’m not sure. Santa Clara or Santa Barbara or Santa fuckin’ Claus… I really don’t know. Never been to California before so I thought I’d look around a bit. Hopefully find a clean, well-lighted place to work at.”

“A clean, well-lighted place. Hemingway, correct? I remember that story. About a guy who owns a little spot and studies the customers. That you?”

“Could be. But I think the story was more about the guy who visits the well-lighted place every night.”

“Perhaps,” Cook said. “Long time since I read it. So that’s what you want to do, own a bar?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Owning entails lots of responsibility. Which leads to worry. Which can lead to feeling like shit. Right now I just want to find somewhere to settle for a while. You know man, take stock of things.”

“I hear that, Frank. All the more reason you should stay another day. I was going to treat everyone to dinner tonight at this great restaurant on Camelback Mountain. Bryce and I were going to play nine at the country club and then go for dinner. I think Larry has business to take care of but I’m sure he’ll be joining us at some point. You play golf?”

“I have, but not very well. And I don’t have any clubs.”

“Clubs are not a problem. If you want to play, we can always scare some up. You should come; it’ll be a kick. After dinner we can hit the bars and burn off some excess energy. I know some spots that can get pretty wild. Lots of hot chicks.”

Frank had to admit he was tempted. Female companionship sounded good. He was beginning to think this being alone shit was like living with an open sore. Maybe another day of rest and recreation was what he needed.

He was feeling indecisive again.

And right now his face was feeling hot.

Frank got out of the pool and toweled off.

He said goodbye to Clayton, slid on his flip-flops and left the pool area.

Walking back toward the dome, rubber sandals clapping on the red bricks, he was debating within himself.

Should he stay or should he go?

These guys were uncomfortably out of his league financially, culturally and just about every other way, except the physical. He was bigger than them and figured he could take either of them in a fight if it came down to that. Then he wondered why he was thinking like that. He wrote it off to some old, deeply ingrained bartender shit, like when you were assessing the possibility of trouble from an unruly customer.

Unable to land comfortably on a particular choice, he recalled a saying he’d recently begun to hear from a wide variety of people: What would Jesus Christ do? Or the shorthand version:WWJCD?

He had his own version now: WWJKD?

What would Jack Kerouac do?

Seemed like Kerouac would say: Fuck the economic differences, man. Just dig it. Dig the scene, man; this chance may never come again.

So that side was heard from.

But what about the sensible side of Frank Ford? The guy who’d vowed to be a better person—more responsible—and dedicate himself to starting his new life before his money ran out?

Good question.

He decided to wait until after lunch to make the decision. First he was going to hit the shower and then maybe read a little or lie down for a short nap. Something was telling him he’d need the energy later.

Inside the dome it was cool. He had a shower and put on his underwear and crawled into the wonderfully comfortable bed with his book. But his eyes got heavy so he put the book on the bed table, thinking about Nikki as he drifted off. He thought about her a lot. Too much. More than he thought about his dead brother Ray. Nikki was definitely a lot better looking. And the memories of her were generally of the pleasant variety, whereas thoughts of Ray usually brought forth a truckload of torment.

Nikki, in spite of all of their differences, had been a beacon of light, a breath of fresh air and a plethora of other positive clichés.

As for Ray, what he was is better left unsaid.

And now, of course, the man was dead.

(End of Chapter 18)

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