interested but had to make out that she was. Her phone beeped with a couple of incoming texts. AT&T central.
By the time she was off the phone, we’d pulled into Caesars. I followed her through the casino, heading for the Forum shops, according to signs. Our destination was a place called Shadow Bar. Lined up outside the door was a queue, another one that didn’t seem to apply to us, as Alabama went up to the guy managing it, a black body builder in a black Lycra top with a secret service–style earpiece in his ear, and kissed him on the cheek. Inside, the place was popular but not overpopulated. The barkeeps, mostly Jake Gyllenhaal look-alikes, were finishing a show, flipping bottles, juggling glasses, spinning around, somersaulting. They should have no trouble putting a couple of rocks in a glass, I figured. Once they stopped dancing and started serving, the music selection slowed and the navy-blue silhouette of a woman appeared on each of the pink video screens up behind the bar and began moving to the beat, slow and sensuous. The dancing turned the mood-o-meter to erotic, as did Alabama’s nemesis, Sugar, who I was surprised to see was now also here. She’d changed into a black ultra-mini to go with her shoelace. The dress was a knockout – fitted and cut high at the front, but with a low back, rows of polished stones around the hemline. She swayed a little to the music as she talked to some college types at the bar, occasionally emulating the moves of the women behind the screens. She glanced at Alabama and blew her a kiss. Or maybe it was meant for me. Little Coop thought it was meant for him. Several other women seemed to be with Sugar, all of them tall. Topless talls, I guessed, though they were currently covered. Alabama didn’t seem too pleased to see her bosom buddies, even though I’d gathered from the behavior of the muscle at the door that this was a current favorite watering hole among them.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Alabama asked as she claimed a booth well away from her fellow dancers. ‘The least I can do . . .’
‘Sure. Glen Keith with rocks if they’ve got it, Maker’s Mark if they don’t.’
‘Back in a second,’ she said, and went over to Sugar and pulled her aside. The black woman rested her hand in the small of Alabama’s back while they talked, and let it drop six inches or so. Alabama didn’t seem to mind, smiling, engaged. In fact, it looked to me like the two were extra-specially good pals.
‘No Glen Keith, I’m afraid,’ said Alabama when she returned from the bar with two drinks, one of which was nuclear-waste-lime in color. ‘So I got you Maker’s.’
For a moment there I’d thought maybe the Green Lantern thing had my name on it. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief, said thanks and accepted the bourbon. ‘I thought you and Sugar didn’t get on.’
‘We don’t,’ Alabama replied, sipping her Three Mile Island or whatever. ‘You mean our little girl-hug a moment ago? We’ve got a love–hate thing.’
‘Have you been with her?’ I asked.
Alabama hesitated then said, ‘That’s a pretty direct question.’
‘Got a direct answer?’
‘Why’s it important for you to know?’
‘I don’t know what is and isn’t important at the moment.’
Another pause. Alabama sipped her drink. ‘Yes. Twice.’
‘Has Randy?’
‘I don’t know for sure, but Sugar was interested. And she is persistent.’
Glancing over at Sugar, I saw she had her arm around a woman and was laughing at something being whispered in her ear by one of the men in her orbit. She seemed the type that could get anything, and anyone, she wanted.
I pulled the business card from my pocket and changed the subject. ‘Let’s talk about the company Randy works for, about his boss.’
Alabama was shaking her head slowly. ‘Randy hasn’t said much of anything about either, except that there are always plenty of planes around, which he likes, of course. I’ve been out there a few times
By the time she was off the phone, we’d pulled into Caesars. I followed her through the casino, heading for the Forum shops, according to signs. Our destination was a place called Shadow Bar. Lined up outside the door was a queue, another one that didn’t seem to apply to us, as Alabama went up to the guy managing it, a black body builder in a black Lycra top with a secret service–style earpiece in his ear, and kissed him on the cheek. Inside, the place was popular but not overpopulated. The barkeeps, mostly Jake Gyllenhaal look-alikes, were finishing a show, flipping bottles, juggling glasses, spinning around, somersaulting. They should have no trouble putting a couple of rocks in a glass, I figured. Once they stopped dancing and started serving, the music selection slowed and the navy-blue silhouette of a woman appeared on each of the pink video screens up behind the bar and began moving to the beat, slow and sensuous. The dancing turned the mood-o-meter to erotic, as did Alabama’s nemesis, Sugar, who I was surprised to see was now also here. She’d changed into a black ultra-mini to go with her shoelace. The dress was a knockout – fitted and cut high at the front, but with a low back, rows of polished stones around the hemline. She swayed a little to the music as she talked to some college types at the bar, occasionally emulating the moves of the women behind the screens. She glanced at Alabama and blew her a kiss. Or maybe it was meant for me. Little Coop thought it was meant for him. Several other women seemed to be with Sugar, all of them tall. Topless talls, I guessed, though they were currently covered. Alabama didn’t seem too pleased to see her bosom buddies, even though I’d gathered from the behavior of the muscle at the door that this was a current favorite watering hole among them.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Alabama asked as she claimed a booth well away from her fellow dancers. ‘The least I can do . . .’
‘Sure. Glen Keith with rocks if they’ve got it, Maker’s Mark if they don’t.’
‘Back in a second,’ she said, and went over to Sugar and pulled her aside. The black woman rested her hand in the small of Alabama’s back while they talked, and let it drop six inches or so. Alabama didn’t seem to mind, smiling, engaged. In fact, it looked to me like the two were extra-specially good pals.
‘No Glen Keith, I’m afraid,’ said Alabama when she returned from the bar with two drinks, one of which was nuclear-waste-lime in color. ‘So I got you Maker’s.’
For a moment there I’d thought maybe the Green Lantern thing had my name on it. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief, said thanks and accepted the bourbon. ‘I thought you and Sugar didn’t get on.’
‘We don’t,’ Alabama replied, sipping her Three Mile Island or whatever. ‘You mean our little girl-hug a moment ago? We’ve got a love–hate thing.’
‘Have you been with her?’ I asked.
Alabama hesitated then said, ‘That’s a pretty direct question.’
‘Got a direct answer?’
‘Why’s it important for you to know?’
‘I don’t know what is and isn’t important at the moment.’
Another pause. Alabama sipped her drink. ‘Yes. Twice.’
‘Has Randy?’
‘I don’t know for sure, but Sugar was interested. And she is persistent.’
Glancing over at Sugar, I saw she had her arm around a woman and was laughing at something being whispered in her ear by one of the men in her orbit. She seemed the type that could get anything, and anyone, she wanted.
I pulled the business card from my pocket and changed the subject. ‘Let’s talk about the company Randy works for, about his boss.’
Alabama was shaking her head slowly. ‘Randy hasn’t said much of anything about either, except that there are always plenty of planes around, which he likes, of course. I’ve been out there a few times
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