Jaguar

by M. L. Hamilton

  He brushed a hand through his spiky blond hair and headed toward the door. As he pulled it open, the twang of country music bled out, along with a sour smell of spilled beer and too many bodies in too close quarters. He almost backed out, but he had nowhere else to go.

  The interior had wooden floors, tall bar tables, and leather stools. A few booths sported horsehair benches and the tabletops were plexiglass with beer labels affixed under them. He was surprised at how many people were in here, but looking at his phone, he realized it was nearly 4:00. He’d wandered around for a good couple of hours, sitting on the bench where he’d found his mother and smoking his joint.

  He felt mellow and fluid as he took a seat at the bar. Now he just needed to drink enough to forget what waited for him at home. A blond woman with hair teased up high on her head and double-D breasts that nearly escaped the top of her t-shirt approached him.

  “What’ll you have, darlin’?” she asked him.

  “Whatever you have on tap.”

  She went to pour him his beer. Jaguar realized that most people in the bar were watching him, but he ignored them, staring at his own reflection in the mirror over the bar. His eyes were bloodshot. Pot always did that to him and his cheeks were flushed. Smoking always made him cough and a tickle troubled the back of his throat. He knew it wasn’t good for his vocal chords, but what the hell! It’s not like he had a singing career anymore.

  She set the beer in front of him. He dug a twenty out of his pocket and slapped it on the bar. She eyed him a moment, then she reached for the bill. “Aren’t you that Jaguar guy? The rockstar?”

  He sighed. “That’s what they tell me.”

  She frowned at him. “What does that mean?”

  “Tonight, I’m just a guy who wants to drink beer.”

  She rolled her eyes and walked away to make change. He picked up the beer and downed a fourth of it. Two cowboys sitting a few seats away from him were eying him in the mirror over the bar. He ignored them, concentrating on the music playing from the speakers in the corners. The twang of the guitar matched the twang in the singer’s voice. Maybe Anaconda could do a country album. They’d never tried that before, but he thought he could probably write a few country songs. Or else he was stoned because he hadn’t been able to write anything in a damn long time.

  The bartender brought the money back and placed it before him. He didn’t touch it.

  “Why are you in here?” she asked him.

  “I wanted a beer.”

  “This doesn’t seem to be your sort of joint.”

  He looked at the room in the mirror behind her. “It’s as good as any.”

  She frowned again, then walked away. The two men a few seats away continued to stare at him. He wanted to say something snarky to them, ask them if they wanted a kiss, but he had enough self-preservation left to know they’d likely beat the shit out of him for that.

  He finished off his beer. The bartender came back, setting another beer in front of him.

  “Why’s this place called the Rollicking Robin?” he asked her.

  She leaned a hip against the bar. “It used to be a blues joint, I hear.”

  That didn’t really explain anything, but he reached for the second beer.

  “So, I heard you went around in a limo and had bodyguards with you all the time,” she said.

  “Yeah, they’re sitting outside.”

  Her brows rose at that. He figured she probably knew they weren’t there, but he sensed it wasn’t a good idea to admit as much. “So, you got a name?”

  “Yeah, it’s Brenda and I’m at least twenty years older than you, so don’t get any ideas.”

  “Believe me, Brenda, I have not one single idea.” He tapped his temple. “That’s part of the problem. No ideas.” His gaze drifted to the two men. “So, what’s their problem?” He jerked his chin at their images.

  Brenda turned and looked at the mirror, then she faced him again. “This is just a guess, darlin’, but I don’t suppose they’re any too excited to have a punk with piercings and suggestive tattoos in their establishment.”

  “So they own the place?”

  She laughed. “You got balls, don’t you?”

  He sighed. “Today, it doesn’t feel like that.”

  “Then you got a death wish?”

  He pondered that for a moment. Did he have a death wish? He didn’t believe he did, but a part of him had always been a little prone to self-destruction. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  She gave him a troubled look and walked away. He gave her words a little more thought, running the fingers of one hand through the condensation on the glass. He was only half-aware as one of the men watching him rose and approached, leaning against the bar to his right.

  “You play guitar?”

  He looked over at the guy. “Yeah.”

  The man was about fifty with broad shoulders and a big belly. He was at least six feet tall and wore cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and jeans. His checkered shirt strained across his chest, the buttons nearly popping off. The man jerked his chin toward a small, wooden stage on the left side of the room. A few amplifiers and microphones were arranged there, along with a keyboard and an acoustic guitar. “Why don’t you show us what you can do?”

  Jaguar looked at the arrangement, then back at the two men, both of whom had him by fifty pounds each. He didn’t feel like playing, but he also didn’t feel like getting the shit beat out of him. “I don’t know any country songs.” He had an instant flash to the scene from the Blues Brothers where they played the theme from Rawhide over and over again because they didn’t know anything else.

  “Play your devil’s rock,” the man said.

  Jaguar released his breath, then began coughing. He really needed to give up the pot. Picking up his beer, he polished it off. What the hell! He’d been performing for most of his life. It would certainly take his mind off his other problems.

  He slid off the barstool and walked to the stage, realizing he was a little more unsteady on his feet than he should be after only two beers. He grabbed another stool closest to the stage and dragged it onto the wooden platform.

  His two new buddies came over, carrying their pitcher of beer and glasses, taking a seat at a table near the stage. Jaguar marked they sat between him and the door. Shit. Brenda was right. He probably shouldn’t have come in here like this.

  He sat down on the stool and picked up the guitar, running his fingers over the frets and plucking the strings. It was out of tune, so he spent a few moments trying to tune it. The country music that had been piping in through the speakers suddenly went silent, drawing more attention to him. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him, but he forced his concentration to the instrument in his hands and started to play.

  He lost track of time. Brenda brought him another beer and he downed it, then someone gave him a shot of tequila. He downed that too. He half-noticed that some women had positioned themselves around the stage, swaying to the music and giving him doe-eyes. He pulled one of the microphones over then and sang a few sad ballads, letting his natural showmanship take over. A full beer suddenly replaced the empty one and he didn’t know who was paying anymore. And he didn’t care. He had a pretty good buzz going and everything else had become distant and unimportant in his mind.

  He figured he could just sit here all night, strumming someone else’s guitar and drinking someone else’s booze. The next time he looked up, he realized his vision was swimming. The man standing in front of him wore a tan sheriff’s department uniform, his hat tilted to the back of his head, his shoulders curved inward, and he had a thin moustache perched on the top of his lip.

  Jaguar smiled. “Sheriff Wilson, you’re not gonna catch me smoking behind the gym. I already smoked it.” He was a little surprised to hear his words slur.

  Wilson reached out and took his elbow. “Come on, son. I’m gonna take you home.”

  Jaguar tried to set the guitar on its stand, but he missed. Wilson caught it be
fore it fell and righted it. “I’m okay. I’ll jez take a taxi.” He stumbled into Wilson as he rose to his feet. “I sended the limo back to LA.”

  “Uh huh,” said Wilson, tightening his grip as Jaguar stumbled off the stage.

  “I gotta pay the bill.”

  “It’s been paid.”

  Jaguar shifted to look Wilson in the face. “Why are you here?”

  “Brenda called me. She said you’d had enough and she was afraid someone was going to roll you. You’ve been flashing hundreds.”

  That surprised him. He didn’t remember doing that. Wilson turned him toward the door. “What are you doing in a bar like this anyway, son? You’re lucky they didn’t kick your ass and throw you in the culvert out back.” Wilson pushed open the outer door and the cool night breeze brushed over Jaguar’s heated face.

  “I jez wanted a beer. I didn’t drive. Then they asks me to play, so I played.”

  “Uh huh.” Wilson opened the passenger door on his patrol vehicle. It was parked right across the front of the building.

  Jaguar reared back. “I don’t wanna ride in a cop car. They’re not gonna like it in Shady Acres.”

  “Shady Acres?”

  “Where Mom and Pop live. They are not gonna wanna see a cop car in that neighborhood.” He stumbled into Wilson. “They don’t even let you park on the streetz.”

  “Okay. Watch your head.” Wilson pushed him into the vehicle, putting a hand on his head to make sure he didn’t hit it.

  Jaguar slumped in the seat, distracted by the lights on Wilson’s equipment, the sound of the police scanner. Wilson went around the front of the vehicle and climbed inside, shutting his door.

  “You’re not gonna get sick on me, are you?” he asked Jaguar.

  Jaguar waved him off. “I can hold my booze.”

  Wilson sighed. “Let’s hope so,” he said and he started the car. “So what brought on this binge? I haven’t had any reports about you since you got back here. Why now?”

  “She set the kitchen on fire,” he told Wilson, pointing at him. “Flames, fire alarm.” He held up both hands. “I was gone thirty seconds and she set the kitchen on fire.”

  “Your mom?” Wilson pulled out of the parking lot, turning toward Sequoia.

  Jaguar nodded. “And he won’t talk about getting help. I have to go back to LA.” He shifted and stared out of the window. “Except that bastard hung up on me.” He pointed a finger at his own chest. “He hung up on me. Me!”

  “Who?” Wilson signaled and pulled onto the freeway.

  “And then the envelope.” He closed his eyes for a moment and everything spun. He forced them open again. “I didn’t even open it.”

  “What envelope?” The lights of the oncoming traffic illuminated Wilson’s features.

  “Visalia DNA…um, DNA Visalia Diagnostic or Diagnosis or something.”

  “The paternity test,” said Wilson.

  Jaguar didn’t answer, just stared out the window at the black outline of the redwood trees. “This place iz pretty,” he said, bracing his chin on his hand. “You forget. You know. You forget it’z pretty.”

  Wilson glanced over at him, but Jaguar didn’t have anything else to say.

  CHAPTER 3

  A coughing fit woke Jaguar, sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains, shining directly on his pillow. He scrunched his eyes shut tighter, rolling to his back, his temples hammering. A moment later he wished he hadn’t moved because his stomach rebelled, nearly dumping its contents.

  He fought it down, keeping his eyes closed, breathing through his nose so he wouldn’t start coughing again. He definitely had to give up either the booze or the pot and the pot was easier to forgo.

  He dozed for a while more, but the pressure in his bladder couldn’t be ignored any longer. He rolled to his side and dragged himself into a seated position, then he braced his head in his hands, pressing on his pounding temples. His mouth tasted like an ashtray. Okay, maybe giving up the booze wasn’t completely out of the picture either. He’d be thirty in six months and at the rate he was going, he’d need his first liver transplant by forty.

  Opening his gritty eyes, his attention landed on the envelope. He’d never opened it. He had a vague memory of Sheriff Wilson bringing him home, walking him to the door where he fumbled for his keys. Finally, his father had opened it, glowering at him. Henry hadn’t said a thing, but the look he gave him was chastisement enough.

  Well, he was in the habit of disappointing Henry. He’d been a disappointment to his father his whole life. Why not do it up in grand fashion and have the cops bring him home like they had when he was sixteen?

  Bracing his hands on either side of himself, he thought about rising, but his stomach rebelled again. He blew out air until the nausea subsided, then he pushed himself to his feet and surprise, surprise, he remained upright.

  Walking carefully to the door, he pulled it open and listened for sounds from his parents, but he heard nothing. Thankfully it was a short hobble to the bathroom. He just made it to the toilet before his stomach decided it had had enough and emptied itself with shocking violence.

  He hung over the bowl until the spasms had subsided, then he grabbed toilet paper and wiped his mouth. After he relieved himself, he felt a little better. The throbbing had retreated to a rhythmic pounding with his heart. Bending over the sink, he rinsed his mouth three times, then brushed his teeth twice and opened the medicine cabinet, finding the bottle of aspirin. He dumped four into his hand, threw them to the back of his throat, and washed them down with water from the sink.

  For a moment, he hung his head and gripped the basin, willing the aspirin to stay down. When the nausea subsided, he looked up into the mirror. His pale blue eyes were bloodshot, his skin clammy and grey looking, and his hair resembling a hedgehog. He turned on the water and cupped it in his hands, then he splashed it on his face, rubbed it across the back of his neck, and dragged his damp fingers through his hair, smoothing it down. The cold water eased the pounding in his temples.

  He realized he’d removed his shirt and jeans the previous night. The tattoos on his arms and across the left side of his chest stood out starkly against his pale skin. He eyed the shower and wondered if he had the strength to hazard it, then figured it would have to wait until he had a cup of coffee in him.

  He yanked open the bathroom door and stumbled across to his bedroom in his boxers, knowing that his father would be furious if he showed up in the kitchen in anyway but fully clothed. He tugged on a t-shirt and jeans, not bothering with socks, and went back out. His parents’ bedroom door was closed and he wondered what time it was.

  Going into the kitchen, he marked that it was 9:00 by the clock over the kitchen sink. A few dishes lay in the sink itself and the coffee pot was half-full. He grabbed a mug out of the cabinet and filled it, then carried it to the kitchen table and sank into a chair. His father’s paper lay on the tabletop, so he dragged that over to himself as he sipped at the hot coffee. Trying to read only made his head pound, so he braced it in his hands and stared at the photo of a big box store that was trying to buy its way into Sequoia.

  He looked up as his father stopped in the doorway. The look on Henry’s face immediately told Jaguar he was in trouble. Henry’s jaw was taut and his hands were fisted at his sides. He’d never hit Jaguar. In all the years that Jaguar had been disappointing him, he’d never raised his hand, but Jaguar wasn’t sure today wasn’t the day.

  “You come in here last night drunk! The sheriff had to bring you home! The sheriff!” Henry hissed, trying to keep his voice down so Ida wouldn’t hear.

  “Good morning to you too, Pops,” Jaguar said, lifting the mug again. “Want some coffee?”

  “Don’t be cute with me! Everyone on the street saw you brought home by a cop. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  My father’s a prick, he wanted to say, but he didn’t feel like escalating things the way he had when he was a teenager. “Look, can we talk about this later? I have a b
itch of a headache.”

  “Later? Our neighbors saw you brought home by the sheriff! What am I supposed to say to them?”

  “That I didn’t drive drunk.” He couldn’t help himself. Henry had always made it so easy to goad him. He sipped at the coffee some more and thought about eating toast.

  “I won’t have this in my house! I won’t have the drinking and the drugs and the whoring.”

  Jaguar looked up at him, but he didn’t respond.

  Henry took a step closer to him. “This is my house!”

  “Technically,” said Jaguar, leaning back in the chair, “it’s my house.”

  Henry’s face got so red, Jaguar worried for a moment he might have a stroke. He wished he hadn’t said something like that. He shouldn’t be poking his father like this; it was wrong. There was enough tension between them as it was, he didn’t need to humiliate him.

  Henry’s features contorted and he jabbed a finger toward the front door. “Get out!” he shouted. “Get out of my house now! You’re not wanted here. Go back to LA! Go back to your drugs and your whores and your loose living! Get out!”

  “NO!” came a wail behind him.

  Both Jaguar and Henry’s eyes widened in alarmed. Henry turned and reached for Ida, but she batted him away.

  “Don’t say those things!” she sobbed, clutching a hand to her breast.

  “Mom.” Jaguar rose to his feet.

  “Don’t tell him to go away! He’s just a boy,” she told Henry, tears filling her eyes.

  “Ida?” pleaded his father.

  “No, you tell him to go away and what if he does! What if he leaves? I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand it if he left.”

  Henry shot a frantic look at Jaguar, but Jaguar didn’t know what to do or say. He suddenly remembered another fight like this, another fight when he was eighteen and his father ordered him out of the house. He’d left and he’d never looked back. Was Ida reliving that or was this a reaction to today? There was never anyway to know.