Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Thirty-Six

It is eleven o'clock Thursday evening. And as far as salty Freeman's concerned we should be turning his Beemer over to a valet parker outside Valhalla, for the new tropical-themed nightclub's grand opening.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into coming to this piss-ant dump," he grumbles, snapping me out of my reverie.

"And I have no comeback," I say, conceding the bar's absolute dumpiness.

We ask the bartender to surprise us with a tap brew and quickly regret it when she shoves two mugs toward us that look like they were flecked with mud before being filled with beer.

Iceberg Slim, the legendary Chicago pimp turned best-selling author, once said that he always forced men who hired his prostitutes to go through with the act, even if they changed their minds at the last minute.

"You pays yo' money, you takes yo' chances," he said, explaining that it was important to make everyone follow through, lest other customers hear through the grapevine that someone balked, and then assume that Slim's goods were no good.

All eyes are on us, and this is just the kind of establishment where the bar manager could be a wannabe Slim, ready to teach a couple of yuppies a lesson.

Luckily, before our first sip, the double doors open and a petite woman walks through, commanding attention. She looks younger than her clothing suggests. She is younger. Her faux fur stole, six-inch heels, and tight mini-skirt make her look like a child playing dress-up.

I nudge Freeman and whisper hoarsely that this woman-child is our target.

He rises from his barstool, clearly planning to march right up to her, but I grab his arm and pull him back down.

"She could be 'working.' And if she is, do you want to rush her and risk her pimp coming out of the shadows to stop us?"

We wait, and so does Aretha Carr. The lone waitress approaches Tasha Stone's best friend and appears to take an order, in spite of Carr's obvious youth.

With no other distractions to blame, Freeman and I lift grimy mugs to quivering lips.

But like a superhero swooping in for a last-second save, the bartender slides a couple of far cleaner looking shot glasses our way, filled to their brims with what smells like top-shelf tequila. Our rescuer, noticing the shocked and pleasantly surprised looks on our faces, explains that the shot glasses are so clean and the tequila so high quality because no one at the Satin Room ever partakes.

"Honestly, I don't know if anyone's ever asked for anything off that shelf," she says, squinting up at the dusty plank and chuckling. "Don't they call that a pun? Top shelf?"

We laugh with her. But before I can ask who we had to thank, I feel what I assume is a ceiling tile, or light fixture, or a baseball bat, or maybe a semi-truck slamming into my back.

I swear I blackout for a moment, but not before seeing Freeman leap out of his seat, grab for the tequila bottle that the bartender had left in front of us, and flip it over to grip it the way you might a baseball bat.

A moment later, the haze clears, and I hear raucous laughter. We're the punchlines. So much for remaining incognegro. Freeman looks sheepish as he sits the bottle down on the bar top. And over my left shoulder comes a hoarse chuckle.

"Well, damn son! I didn't think you were that frail!"

It sounds like Hazzard County Deputy Roscoe P. Coltrane but is actually T-Back, AKA Sgt. Trevor Backstrom. I knew Backstrom was originally from down South – part of one of those African American families that migrated from the Mississippi Delta to the Upper Midwest and the Northeast, after World War II. But this night he couldn't have been more of a stereotype if he'd tried. Fifty, chubby, slightly gray at the temples, country-voiced, and, if you can believe it, wearing denim bib overalls. All he's missing is a pitchfork and a straw hat.