55. Jolene

Sam drove. ‘Rita sat in front. I sprawled in the back of the limo like a big provelone in local politics. I’d have lit a cigar if I’d had a plausible excuse for having one. There are limits to what people will believe you are carrying in the pockets of clothes that they gave you.

‘Where to, Chief?’ Sam said.

‘Georgetown, I’d like to ask someone a few questions.’ I ignored the sarcasm.

Margarita Cansino slapped the dashboard and shouted, ‘Yeehah! I know just the place.’

As it turned out, so did I. ‘Double G, Sam.’

I watched Sam’s shoulders heave and we didn’t say much on the hour’s drive.

We parked the limo on a meter outside 2311, Wisconsin Avenue. One of the Os had run out of neon gas so the place was called God Guys for the evening. I laughed, but didn’t explain why, when Sam asked what was so funny.

I knew I knew the lady on the desk. I’d never forgotten the tomahawk she'd used in her act in younger days. It came as a shock that she kissed Margarita and held her in a bear hug that would have won a submission in a wrestling match. She waived all the talk about memberships and smoking and all that jazz. When Ms Cansino unwrapped herself and headed into the big room with the stage, the big woman had tears in her eyes. She dabbed at them with a lacy handkerchief and waved us in too.

It was a night for familiar faces. Senatar Buckfast was on a stool right next to the stage. Sliders on his feet and none-too-clean dressings where his toes used to be. I strolled over and sat down. Sam followed the redhead over to the other side of the stage. near the curtain where the showgirls came out. They sat down at a table with a reasonable view of whatever act was coming on next. I hoped Sam would keep her out of trouble. Maybe they’d eat some of the terrible chicken wings.

Buckfast shied away, but it was awkward as the stool was bolted to the floor and his feet couldn’t help his balance much. I caught him before he fell off but he bounced his foot off the side of the stage and screamed. I had my hands in the air, hoping whoever came over would believe it wasn’t my fault. The music for the next act started. A tall woman came out in a silver wig and rhinestones. There were more of those on her shoes than on her body. No Dolly could have competed with that particular Jolene.

The big woman loomed over me. It didn’t look like old times would count for much. She had hold of my arm and one of Buckfast’s. She didn’t say anything. I could see four figures coming our way. Salvatore and the Gorillas, from the place out near the Fillmore Park. More heavy metal than boy-band, in my experience. It looked like Salvatore had branched out into DC. Just before they arrived, the woman leaned into my face,

‘I’m not even Native American.’

Maybe she didn’t keep that tomahawk on the wall of her apartment, after all.