I dig out a dollar and hand it to her.
—Got a request? she asks, but doesn’t wait for my response.
Surprisingly, Joe’s is busy, the bar nearly full, and the lone bartender rushes past me, cigarette in one hand, beer in another, serving the late night patrons.
—What can I get you?
—Tecate and a dozen wings, I say. Hot with ranch.
—Don’t have Tecate.
—Corona?
She nods and is gone, disappearing beneath the blue neon Joe’s Corner Pub sign and into the small kitchen. Bartenders at Joe’s also cook the wings.
There are a few bikers in town for the rally scattered throughout the joint, but only a few. This is a locals’ place — one you have to look for to find.
—Lime? the bartender asks, placing my Corona on a green Rolling Rock coaster.
—Please.
She shoves a small slice of lime all the way down into my beer and is off again.
—Merrick McKnight, a slurring female voice says.
I turn to see April Jen trying to climb onto the stool next to me.
—Hey April, I say, and help her onto the stool.
A true alcoholic, I’ve never encountered April — no matter the time, day or night — when she didn’t smell like alcohol and seem under its influence. A few years ahead of me in high school, April’s family owned the package store in Wewa, and I had always felt sorry for her. Back then, I made a point of speaking to her, sitting next to her if she were alone in the lunchroom or gym or on the bus.
—How the hell are you? she asks, leaning in unsteadily — too close, too familiar.
—I’m okay. How are you?
—What the hell you doin’ here? she asks. I’ve never seen you here before. Is this your kind of place? I wouldn’t think this is your kind of place.
—I love it here. Came to get some wings, I say. Missed supper.
—Carol, she shouts. Carol.
A brunette with family resemblance staggers over to us from further down the bar.
—This is Merrick. Guy I told you ’bout. Nicest guy in Gulf County. This is Carol, my cousin.
—He’s all hawt too, Carol says. You are. Look at that cute face and hard body.
—Thanks, cousin Carol, I say.
Of course, it’s too dark to see much of anything in the bar, and she’s too drunk to see much of anything even if it weren’t.
The metallic chook-chook of coins sliding and the ceramic pop of the balls dropping is followed a moment later by the crack of the break — and a new game of pool is begun.
April and Carol continue to talk, and I just toss in an occasional uh-huh, really, or nod.
My wings arrive, and though I had asked for ranch, the blue cheese on the plate is homemade and so good I don’t correct the mistake. The wings are small and crispy and hot and live up to the advertisement as the best in town. I should know. I’ve tried them all.
—Either of you ladies care for a wing? I ask.
—I’m on a liquid diet, April says.
Carol laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.
I eat my wings and drink my beer faster than I normally would, yet still enjoying every bite, and though I’m tempted to order another dozen, resist the urge and head back out to the beach.
Driving past the college, the port of Panama City, and over the Hathaway Bridge in a light drizzle, I listen to a club mix put together by Miguel on Island 106, bouncing to the beat, feeling the pulse of the night, seeing the million lights of the beach through a smattering of raindrops on my windshield.
The storm’s coming — I can feel it in the atmosphere, but so far it’s only a threat — looming, impending, inevitable.
The Hathaway Bridge connects two worlds — one of dreams, of paradisiacal fantasies, of concrete condos, giant houses built on sand; the other, of small town sensibilities, deep South traditions, of paper mill and port and public Protestantism.
Arriving out at the beach with even more time to kill than I planned, I remember Steve Wiggins is hosting jam night in the piano bar of The Grand Towers, and stop by before heading to The Curve.
Every Wednesday night, Steve Wiggins, great guy and amazing musician, invites anyone who’d like, to bring an instrument and sit in on the best, most eclectic jam session on the beach.
The music is good, but what I like most is the atmosphere. Everyone is welcomed and encouraged — no matter their skill level.
In a living room like environment, we sit on sofas and chairs in front of a flickering faux fireplace and sip spirits to the soothing sounds of mostly blues standards.
Just before I leave, Lenwood Cherry sits down at the drums, Kerry McNeil takes up the bass, and with Steve on piano, they perform a blues version of “Ain’t No Sunshine” with Lenwood taking care of vocals. Lenwood’s voice is soulful and resonant and nearly as smooth as his touch on the drums.
I find Tristan in the parking lot of The Curve, having a smoke with Brad, the bouncer. Located on the curve of Thomas Drive, the place is actually called Ms. Newby’s Too, but just as often goes by The Curve.
Bikes are lined up across the front of the building, cars and trucks further back in the lot. Next to the door, beneath a small tent, Sweet Racks is selling what many locals argue is the barbeque equivalent of a multiple orgasm.
—Ciao baby, Tristan says, giving me his standard greeting.
A couple of years my junior, he’s a thin, dark, much inked, much pierced, punk rocker in all black. His black eyes are made more so by the eyeliner around them, which matches the paint on his nails. In contrast to all the black and the dark, brooding vibe emanating from him, his short, spiky hair is a shock of peroxide white-blond.
—’Sup Merrick, Brad adds.
Average size, Brad is small for a bouncer, but he’s a badass motherfucker, and nobody messes with him more than once.
—How’s tricks, fellas?
—Brad to the bone just fucked up some poor poser, Tristan says.
—Punk ass bitch drives down here in his Cadillac pulling his bike in a twenty-thousand dollar trailer then wants to act like he’s pimp and push people around. Shee-it. Not on my watch.
—Where is he?
—Ambulance just carried him to the hospital, Tristan says.
—Really?
—I shit you not.
Brad runs a hand over his shaved head, absently rubbing the voodoo skeleton death mask on the side of his skull.
—Time to get back to work, Tristan says. Those records won’t spin themselves. Ciao.
Inside, Mai-Tai in hand, I stand on the stage in the backroom watching Tristan spin his magic.
Using two turntables, two CD players, and two iPods, Tristan presents a wicked mix of 80s music — much of it from the underground, club scene, or independent labels. Behind him on the wall, a large flat screen shows a series of images and video clips, live-action and animation, all from the ’80s, which he compiled and edited to go with his set.
For the most part, the audience, largely comprised of bikers, doesn’t appreciate the music, but when he throws in a dance version of an ’80s hit, they fill the floor.
Quickly becoming my favorite drink, the Mai-Tai at The Curve is the most potent I’ve ever encountered. A mix of light and dark rums, orgeat syrup, Curacao, orange and lime juices, legend has it the drink was created by Victor Bergeron, the original owner of Trader Vic’s. According to him, he created it for a couple of Tahitian friends, who, upon tasting it, exclaimed, “Mai Tai,” which means “out of this world.”
I arrive at Coram’s over a half-hour early, so anxious am I to see Casey.
The lot is empty save for one other vehicle, an electric-blue Chevy truck with monster tires and a long antenna, like a warped cane fishing pole, on the back.
Next to the front door, a woman in a red Coram’s T-shirt and black apron leans on a News Herald box smoking a cigarette.
—One of the girls’ll be right with you, she says, as
I pass.
—No rush. I’m waiting on someone.
Like most waffle and omelet shops, Coram’s kitchen runs along the back wall, fronted by a counter in the center and booths on either side, a tile floor aisle, with more tables and booths next to the plate glass windows along the front.
The color scheme is light beige and chocolate-brown, including the sand-colored tile of the floor — all of which sits beneath rows of bright florescent lights, making the place look like early morning even in the middle of the night.
I take a right and head toward the restroom, passing a youngish couple shoving in breakfast food, as I do.
Standing at the urinal, expelling the red wine, Corona, and Mai-Tai, I glance around and see someone has carved I’M IN LOVE into the red painted wood of the single stall.
Me, too, I think, and understand the compulsion to declare it in a public space — even the wall of a stall in a local diner restroom.
I’m in love with a stripper, I think. A married one at that. I admitted it to her tonight and only got silence.
Only fools fall for strippers, I can hear Carl saying.
I walk back into the dining area, past the couple, past the counter where one of the workers is now seated eating the Coram’s special — heavenly hash with a side of blueberry muffin — to a booth on the far end, and sit facing the door.
A middle-aged waitress in a blue Coram’s T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail, comes over with her pad.
—Get you something to drink?
—Coffee and orange juice please.
—You got it, hon.
As I look over the menu, I wonder what I’m going to say to Casey, and think again about the threat I’d received before leaving Ms. Newby’s and the menacing phone call. How could sweet little Casey be involved with people like that? It was bad enough she was stripping — not in a moral sense, but in the having to deal with so many assholes sense. Like all professions, stripping has its troubled and lost souls, but many of the dancers I’ve met are strong, street smart, resourceful as hell, and shatter the Hollywood stereotype. I hope, like Regan, that Casey isn’t getting caught up in the scene — the drugs, risky sex, further exploitation.
—Know what you want? the waitress asks as she places the coffee and juice down in front of me.
—Waiting for someone, I say. We’ll order when she gets here.
On each end of the diner, not far from a security camera, an old fashioned round, wood-framed clock ticks off the seconds as I wait.
Through the rain-speckled windows, I can only see the lights of Bay Mini Storage — its lighted sign, and the red neon letters in the window that say, We Sell Boxes.
On Thomas the traffic is light and quiet — until bikers thunder by — the businesses beyond it closed, dark, unseen from here.
Three times while I’m waiting, headlights pan across the plate glass as cars pull into the lot, and I turn hoping it’s her, that she somehow managed to get out of the house early, but as it turns out she is nearly a half-hour late.
When she walks in, I stand and move to hug her, but she extends her hand and I take it.
—Sorry, she says. Took longer to cash out tonight than usual.
She places her iPhone on the table and I notice it’s just like mine — case and everything.
—No problem. I’m just so happy to see you.
—We have the same phone, she says. Don’t you love it?
I nod.
—Can I get you some coffee? the waitress asks.
—Just water.
—You hungry? I say.
She shrugs.
—How about some heavenly hash? You gotta be hungry after working so late.
—Actually, the house mom had a ton of food in the dressing room tonight, and I already ate too much.
—Oh.
—But a little breakfast food sounds good.
The waitress returns with the water.
—What can I get y’all?
—Two strawberry pancakes and a slab of country ham, Casey says.
—And you?
—I’d like the hashbrowns topped with bacon and cheese, I say.
—Got it, she says. Get you more coffee?
—I’m okay, thanks.
I look over at Casey when the waitress leaves.
The dull ache the void of her absence had left in the center of me for the past three years has now become an intense, nearly unbearable pain. Shooting. Stabbbing. Searing. Seeing her, being this close to her again, has ripped open the wound that would never heal, and I sit across from her bleeding internally.
—It’s so good to see you. I can’t get over how grown you are, how good you look.
—I look like her, don’t I?
I nod, unable to breathe for a moment.
—But, and I know she wouldn’t mind me saying it, even prettier.
—Sometimes I’ll pass by a mirror and for a split second think I’m seeing her.
She’s right, I think. As difficult as this is, that she looks so much like Monica makes it more so — much more.
—I can’t believe you’re back in PC. How long have you lived here?
—About six months. I was gonna look you up, say hey, but just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
—How’s Kevin? Do he and your dad live here, too?
—He’s good. Huge now. I mean really, really big. But good. He’s had some amazing teachers and therapists and he’s on some pretty good medication at the moment. I know he’d love to see you.
—I’d love to see him. I really would. Think your dad would mind?
I can’t even bring myself to say his name — Perry, a name I had grown to despise — using your dad to emphasize that the connection is to her and not me.
—Dad died about a year ago.
I’m shocked. How could I not know? Why hadn’t she called? She’s parentless and back in Panama City and hasn’t reached out. She must be far more hurt with me than I even imagined. And who can blame her?
—What? How?
—Cancer.
—Oh, Case. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.
—Why would you?
—How are you?
—We’re making it.
This is my fault, I think. My little Casey is stripping and having to take care of her burdensome brother by herself because I left her vulnerable, because I failed her, because I abandoned her.
—I want to help.
—We’re fine. Really.
—But I want to.
—You don’t have to. We’re doing good.
Perry had prevented me from seeing Casey and Kevin, had relished the opportunity to excise me from their lives, to use them to get back at me for — what? Marrying Monica? Becoming a father to the kids he all but abandoned? He had kept them from me for the three longest years of my life. I am not sad he is dead — and yet, I am deeply distraught for Casey and Kevin, who have lost both their parents at such an early age.
—There’s so much I want to say to you, to explain what happened and why things turned out the way they did.
—There’s no need. It was a bad time for all of us. I understand. I really do.
The waitress arrives with our food, and Casey begins to eat. I just stir my food around, the guilt and pain suppressing my appetite.
—This is good.
—Good. The thing is, I say, I was so fucked up over what happened — and not just for the obvious reasons, but something far, far worse. And then your dad really didn’t want me around or involved at all.
—Merrick, you really don’t need to explain. I understand now. There’s no playbook for shit like that. We all did the best we could.
She’s never used my name before, and it’s jolting. The little girl who had been my little girl for a while when her mom and I were married is no longer. The person sitting across from me is a woman, and I had missed the transformation.
Just seventeen when her mom died, Casey had still been very much a child. Now, barely twenty-one, s
he is every bit a woman — grownup in ways I would never be.
—I’ve got to go, she says. Kevin expects me to be there when he wakes up.
With the impediment of Perry out of the way and my head in a much better place, there’s nothing to stop me from becoming a father to Casey and Kevin again. They are parentless. I am childless. We need each other.
—Are you in trouble? I ask.
—What? No. Why would you think that? Because I’m dancing at The Dollhouse?
—No. Thunder Beach.
She looks confused.
—Are you being harassed? I ask.
—What woman isn’t?
—Casey.
—What? I can take care of myself.
—I had a guy tell me not to look for you tonight, I say. Actually threatened me. Another guy called.
—What? Are you serious? About me?
—Yeah.
—Who? How would they even know you were looking for me?
—I saw your picture on the Thunder Beach Magazine. It’s how I knew you were in town. I asked around about you.
—Oh.
—Casey, what’s going on?
—I have no idea. I swear. Lots of creeps in the world.
Whether she realizes it or not, she needs my help, and with Perry no longer around to interfere, that’s exactly what she’s going to get.
—You’ve got my number, I say. Please call me if you need anything. Anything at all. I can help. I really can. With bills, keeping Kevin — anything you need.
—I’ll call you, she says. I will. We need to get you and Kevin together.
The door opens and Liz Jameson walks in.
—Just the man I’ve been needing to see, she says. Can I grab you for a minute before you leave?
—Sure, I say.
—Thanks, she says, and turns and takes a seat in a booth on the opposite end of the restaurant.
—Who’s that? Casey asks.
—A truly amazing woman. She’s sort of like a social worker. I did a story on her a few years ago. Done a few others for her since then.
—For her?
—Issues she deals with that the public needs to know about — mostly domestic violence.
She nods.
—You seeing anybody? she asks.
—Not so’s you’d notice.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 33