by Karl Tutt
Chapter 1
I picked up the phone. “I’ll pick you up. Be ready at nine.”
Okay, I had my marching orders for the evening. Commander Sunny had spoken. It was my duty “not to reason why” – sort of like the 600 in “The Charge of the Light Brigade”.
I heard the horn of the Saab honk at the appointed hour. I locked KAMALA and headed up the dock.
“Where to, my liege?” I asked.
“Just sit tight. You’re gonna love it.” I’d heard those words before and they were mostly true. She wound through the streets like Stirling Moss and headed over to Virginia Beach. I kept my mouth shut and waited. The Saab slowed down and I caught a flashing neon sign in the window of what looked like a low-rent dive. “Dead Ratz” flashed in red capital letters through the smoky glass. She parked on the street and we entered a place not much bigger than a two-car garage. I spotted Bill and Sarah sitting at a table near a make-shift stage. Cold beer in sweaty bottles was already standing at attention in front of four creaky wooden chairs. Sarah wore a red sequined top that no educator should be seen in. The band equipment was squeezed in place, but I didn’t see any performers at first. A canvas sign hung on the wall. It announced “The Bad Blues Boys”.
The musicians began to assemble, all four of them. A drummer, a rhythm player, a lead guitar and a bass. The bass player was Glen. He beamed at us, nodded, and pointed a finger at our table. The heat was on. They started with Willie Dixon’s “Can’t Judge a Book by Looking at the Cover”. The lead singer had a face even a mother couldn’t love, sort of that hit by a truck look. He started with a low growl, then cooed, and wailed like a demon straight from hell. It was raw and the players took turns kissing off a riff or a beat, but the energy and dedication blew us away. They followed with several blues standards: “Stormy Monday”, “The Thrill is Gone”, “One Way Out”. The small crowd was stoned on the sound. When they broke into Robert Johnson’s “Sweet Home Chicago”, Sunny stuck her hand in my face and beckoned. I shook my head and Bill pretended not to notice.
The next thing I knew, Sunny and Sarah were out on the dance floor grinning like two possessed sirens. Asses shook, lips puckered, hands clapped, bodies twisted in ways no contortionist could imagine. Sarah’s sequins caught every sliver of light and flashed like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Sunny was definitely keeping up. I could smell the sweat and see the pure delight. Two slightly high college professors just gettin’ it on.
When the boys had hit the last note, the crowd broke into boozy applause. I looked at Bill. He rolled his eyes and nodded. Yeah . . . those were our girls.
Glen came by our table at the break. I hadn’t seen him in a while. He looked like the cat who had finally nailed the canary. We all immersed him in sweet adulation. Sarah and Sunny stood on either side of him and kissed his cheeks simultaneously. The man was very happy.
It was a night where everything seemed right. Friends, booze, and music – nothing wrong with that picture.