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Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 42 ….one of the good guys

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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Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 41 ….spare the rod and spoil the child

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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Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 40 …. the good, the bad and the ugly

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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Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 39 …. from the dark side

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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Flowers in the Desert Excerpt 38 …. just like in the movies

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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