the booth and headed over to let Sheila know we’d lost another employee.
“Ridley!”
I turned toward the call.
A guy trudged toward me. He wore his hair in a devil’s lock, everything shaved except for one long patch that hung down his face. A row of silver hoops ran all the way up one ear, a silver stud pierced his eyebrow, and another silver hoop dangled from his lip. A skull and crossbones silk-screened on his t-shirt peeked out from under his coat.
I took a step back, ready to make a defensive move, until I recognized something in his eyes. I knew this guy.
“Devon?”
He jerked his head back as if surprised I remembered his name. “Yeah, dude. Long time no see, eh?”
In high school I had two good friends—Tom Fortier, and Devon Whitegard. Like three outcasts, we often sat at a corner table in the cafeteria, glaring at the other kids with defiant smirks, as if we had a secret the rest only wished they knew. In reality, we had no clue how to socialize.
“Good to see you,” I said.
He sucked on the hoop in his lip. He hadn’t had any of the piercings or the devil’s lock in high school, but he still looked like the same old Devon—the bony limbs, the stooped posture as if trying to compensate for his height, the bulging eyes.
“Cool,” he said with a nod, coming to some decision. “Can we talk?”
I glanced toward the bar. Sheila poured a line of shots in front of a trio of hairy guys wearing trucker hats and designer shirts.
“Give me five minutes, Dev. I’ve got to put out some fires.”
“Sure, okay.”
“Go ahead and have a seat,” I hooked a thumb toward my booth.
I nudged my way to the bar and waved to get Sheila’s attention.
“What is it?” she asked, hitting me with cinnamon-scented breath.
“Mandy just quit.”
“What did you do?”
“What did I do?”
Sheila cut a hand through the air. “You need to step up to the plate.”
“I was afraid of that.” The opening bars of “Just a Gigolo” by Louis Prima played, and I knew Hal was up again even before he started signing. “Mandy said something about more missing booze.”
A guy at the end of the bar shouted, “Did that old bag finally kick, or can I still get a drink?”
Sheila glanced toward the voice. “I have to take care of this.”
“Yeah, but the booze …”
She shot down the bar without answering.
I bulldozed my way back toward Devon.
“Is this a bad time?”
“I’m sorry, Dev. I wish I could sit and chat, but my only waitress just bailed on me and I need to fill in.”
“Bummer.”
I grabbed a cocktail napkin from the stack on the table, pulled a pen from my pocket, and scribbled my cell number on the napkin.
“Give me a call,” I said, and handed him the napkin. “I swear, sometimes my phone is actually charged.”
Devon laughed automatically, not with any real humor.
“All right. I’ve got to take drink orders.”
He grabbed for my arm and missed, but I stopped.
“I really just wanted to ask you a favor,” he said. “No. Not a favor. It’s like, I need your help.”
My stomach dropped. Not another one. “Listen, Dev. Whatever you heard, I’m not a detective anymore.”
He scrunched his face. “Detective? Naw, man, I wanted you to help me with, with singing.”
“With singing?”
He waved his hands toward the seat across from him. “Sit a sec, dude. Let me lay it out.”
I sat slowly. I’m sure I had a funny look on my face.
“This’ll sound crazy,” he said, splaying his fingers with his hands flat on the table, “but I’ve always wanted to sing like you, okay? I know, it doesn’t seem like my kind of thing. I’m the computer guy, Mr. Techno nerd. But I’ve been watching that show on TV, you know? Where those people get up and sing, and the audience votes, and there’s judges that tell them they suck?”
I wiped my face and glanced toward the stage. Hal gave a few pelvic thrusts in my direction and mimed a toast. His gold chains sparkled. The disco
“Ridley!”
I turned toward the call.
A guy trudged toward me. He wore his hair in a devil’s lock, everything shaved except for one long patch that hung down his face. A row of silver hoops ran all the way up one ear, a silver stud pierced his eyebrow, and another silver hoop dangled from his lip. A skull and crossbones silk-screened on his t-shirt peeked out from under his coat.
I took a step back, ready to make a defensive move, until I recognized something in his eyes. I knew this guy.
“Devon?”
He jerked his head back as if surprised I remembered his name. “Yeah, dude. Long time no see, eh?”
In high school I had two good friends—Tom Fortier, and Devon Whitegard. Like three outcasts, we often sat at a corner table in the cafeteria, glaring at the other kids with defiant smirks, as if we had a secret the rest only wished they knew. In reality, we had no clue how to socialize.
“Good to see you,” I said.
He sucked on the hoop in his lip. He hadn’t had any of the piercings or the devil’s lock in high school, but he still looked like the same old Devon—the bony limbs, the stooped posture as if trying to compensate for his height, the bulging eyes.
“Cool,” he said with a nod, coming to some decision. “Can we talk?”
I glanced toward the bar. Sheila poured a line of shots in front of a trio of hairy guys wearing trucker hats and designer shirts.
“Give me five minutes, Dev. I’ve got to put out some fires.”
“Sure, okay.”
“Go ahead and have a seat,” I hooked a thumb toward my booth.
I nudged my way to the bar and waved to get Sheila’s attention.
“What is it?” she asked, hitting me with cinnamon-scented breath.
“Mandy just quit.”
“What did you do?”
“What did I do?”
Sheila cut a hand through the air. “You need to step up to the plate.”
“I was afraid of that.” The opening bars of “Just a Gigolo” by Louis Prima played, and I knew Hal was up again even before he started signing. “Mandy said something about more missing booze.”
A guy at the end of the bar shouted, “Did that old bag finally kick, or can I still get a drink?”
Sheila glanced toward the voice. “I have to take care of this.”
“Yeah, but the booze …”
She shot down the bar without answering.
I bulldozed my way back toward Devon.
“Is this a bad time?”
“I’m sorry, Dev. I wish I could sit and chat, but my only waitress just bailed on me and I need to fill in.”
“Bummer.”
I grabbed a cocktail napkin from the stack on the table, pulled a pen from my pocket, and scribbled my cell number on the napkin.
“Give me a call,” I said, and handed him the napkin. “I swear, sometimes my phone is actually charged.”
Devon laughed automatically, not with any real humor.
“All right. I’ve got to take drink orders.”
He grabbed for my arm and missed, but I stopped.
“I really just wanted to ask you a favor,” he said. “No. Not a favor. It’s like, I need your help.”
My stomach dropped. Not another one. “Listen, Dev. Whatever you heard, I’m not a detective anymore.”
He scrunched his face. “Detective? Naw, man, I wanted you to help me with, with singing.”
“With singing?”
He waved his hands toward the seat across from him. “Sit a sec, dude. Let me lay it out.”
I sat slowly. I’m sure I had a funny look on my face.
“This’ll sound crazy,” he said, splaying his fingers with his hands flat on the table, “but I’ve always wanted to sing like you, okay? I know, it doesn’t seem like my kind of thing. I’m the computer guy, Mr. Techno nerd. But I’ve been watching that show on TV, you know? Where those people get up and sing, and the audience votes, and there’s judges that tell them they suck?”
I wiped my face and glanced toward the stage. Hal gave a few pelvic thrusts in my direction and mimed a toast. His gold chains sparkled. The disco
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