The Crew Pt. 09

I remember that bare foot red haired girl down front in the short white dress.

Lord, she moved to the blues with a sexy grace that took my breath away.

I never saw a girl could float on a note like that...Such sexy class...Such a sexy...

What was she doin' there?

Tell me what was she doin' there?"

Baby, what were you doin' there...on Seventh Avenue?

Her eyes never left me as I played my heart out under the lights on Seventh Avenue.

That smile never left her face as she danced her heart out there for me...until...

Some pinball wizard in the corner had his eyes all over her long lean body,

Looking hungry like a wolf with his pack...prowling...circling in for the kill.

The dogs come out to hunt at night...

Stray dogs out runnin' in the moonlight...

Wild dogs lookin' for some kinda crazy steet fight...out on Seventh Avenue.

***************

The band had repeatedly played a dozen or more little joints and halls scattered over four or five counties north of the border. Our ID's were good enough to get us in the back door and onto the stage. Night driving home at the end of a gig, we got pretty good at knowing where we needed to watch our speed and where we didn't. I leaned toward the places where I didn't. I knew the area well and I knew how to change up my route, rolling through the miles of cornfields and tiny mapdot towns.

The Crossroads Tavern was the social center of one of those tiny mapdots. Far enough out in the country to qualify as a local joint, it was also close enough to a couple college towns that weekends saw it attract some adventurous kids who wanted something other than the typical college bar scene. The sandwich sign by the door read "Bar...Food...Music". I knew the food was outstanding. That, along with gas money, constituted most of our pay for the first couple times That Damn Band played there. Open from 7 AM to 2 AM, they offered breakfast all day long, as well as basic home-cooked meat and potatoes fare for dinner and supper. (Lunch, I'd been told, is what you get served at the church hall after a funeral.) Out in the middle of almost nowhere, ten miles south of eighteen miles from Jackson...and Ann Arbor...it was the perfect out the way location to rendevous with Sal.

The place looks different in the daylight, without the giant neon sign lit up overhead. Without all the cars and trucks packing the lot. Without the crowd spilling out the front door, standing or milling around outside, talking and laughing in the jittery glow from the ancient Christmas lights that hang year round from the roofline. The heavy fake log cabin siding is sorely in need of a fresh coat of stain, but the red and white plaid curtains and the flowers in the window boxes give it a rustic homey welcoming feel. Even if you care enough to notice the geraniums are plastic. There were only three other cars and two pickups in the big gravel lot at 2:53 when I eased to a stop next to Sal's Riviera. Things would start picking up again around five. For supper. I chambered a round, set the safety, and put the Beretta and extra clip in my courier bag with my notes. Took it with me. Just in case.

As I expected, Ricki McCall was behind the bar telling a story and topping up drinks for three men and a woman when I walked in the door. Her face lit up when she saw me. "Mike, mushrooms," she yelled to her husband, who's also the cook. She left the bottle on the bar and came around into the open. She was wearing her trademark low rider skin tight jeans and ostrich leather boots. Her sequened western shirt was untucked and open except for her standard strategic two snaps. The tails were tied off a good six inches above her navel. Her pronounced nipples strained against the fabric and there was no visible sign of a bra. Most of the top and inside slopes of her 38 DDs were proudly on display and her sleeves were rolled up to just below her elbows, like she was ready for anything.

Ricky's a big girl. Almost as tall as me and probably weighs the same if not just a bit more. She's fit, with a waist that looks narrow compared to her tits. And no belly fat at all. Her hips flare out to proportions in line with her top, forming an ass and legs that take your breath way. And she wears it with attitude. Always friendly, with sparkling blue/grey eyes, there's still an undercurrent behind her demeanor that makes it clear she's the one in charge. That in a pinch, she can probably easily whip any man or three in the place in a fair fight and she never learned to fight fair. I guesstimate her to be no more than a few years older than my mom. Still has a gorgeous face, with hardly a wrinkle. Ever so slightly crooked front teeth that make for a quirky, devastating smile. And thick wavy prematurely silver gray hair that shimmers as it falls to her shoulders. Ricki's the heart and soul of the Crossroads Tavern. She captured me into a crushing hug that almost lifted my feet off the floor.

"How are you doing, kid?" she asked, sliding an arm around my back and giving my ass a playful squeeze while leading me steadily back past a SECTION CLOSED sign to the area off to the side of the empty stage. No one was back there shooting pool or playing pinball. Only Sal, alone at the corner table. Back to the wall. Next to the fire exit. He was nursing a beer and picking around at what looked like an open-faced hot prime rib sandwich.

"Sal called me this morning and filled me in a little when he got here," Ricki said in a hushed tone. "I don't need to know what's going on beyond what he told me and that sounded plenty serious. No one'll bother you back here. I'll see to that. I can keep this whole section closed until almost nine. Wednesday nights don't pick up till after the prayer meeting gets out at the Baptist church in Devil's Lake." She laughed lightly. "Sorry. I never get tired of saying that. Seriously though," she continued, "I know you know how much I like you guys. I've got your back. You just be careful out there. Whatever's happening... Whatever you talk about or decide to do, I don't know a thing. I never saw either one of you today. You weren't even here."

"Thanks lady," I said, "whoever you are."

"You're catching on," she laughed. A little louder this time. "I'm gonna see where your shrooms are and bring you a Rolling Rock, assuming you still have that really convincing bogus ID I never spotted as bogus." She winked. I couldn't help watching as she turned and swayed back toward the bar and the kitchen. Sal was watching the whole exchange from the corner. Grinning his signature half-grin. He looked up at the clock on the wall above one of the pool tables. 3:09. Bar clocks are always set to read ten minutes fast.

"Good to see you, brother," he rumbled as he stood and grabbed me into a bone crushing hug. "Any trouble on your way up here?"

"No," I said, "but some dicey shit went down at the river house this morning. Somebody tried to break in and I accidentally surprised them. Didn't get a look at who it was, but Maurice found a pry bar still in the window to Scooter's room.

"They tried to break in with people there?" He was glowering.

"I don't think they knew anybody was home. My car was parked off to the side and I always throw that cover over it when I stay there. The pine tar eats at the paint. Scooter's car's at Izzy and Frank's getting the brakes done and she and Pete were gone in the van, running deliveries. I stayed behind to wait on your call."

"So you were there by yourself. Just walked up on 'em." He was looking at me like I'd won a Darwin award for stupid.

"I didn't know there was anybody out there. I went out to get a notebook out of my Bonneville. Heard something move beside the house. Not thirty seconds later, I hear a car fire up and peel out. Maurice heard the ruckus and came barreling through the trees with a shotgun."

"Are you sure it was a car?

"It was a car for sure," I told him. "Loud. Sounded like straight pipes or Cherry Bombs. Laid down a lot of rubber out on the street. And the burn outs were wide. Could have been slicks or wide ovals or something like that."

"I was afraid you were gonna say that," he growled, shaking his head. "You do understand they weren't running. They were leaving a mark and a message."

"That thought had crossed my mind," I admitted. "But right now, I don't even know who THEY are."

"Well, brother," he answered...with steel..., "I think I might be able to help you out with that."

"I hope so," I said. I opened the courier bag and pulled out my notes. Tossed them on the table and pushed them to him. "Other than what I just told you about this morning, this is all I've got." He didn't look at the notes at first. His eyes were on the bag as I closed it. I knew he saw the Beretta. And he knew that I knew. Neither one of us said a thing.

Ricki showed up at that moment with a truly massive platter of deep fried mushrooms and two Rolling Rocks. All conversation stopped abruptly, as if agreed upon and understood beforehand by all of us. Ricki looked us each in the face as she put down the shrooms and slid us our beers. She nodded to me, and smiled a smile that was deep with compassion and understanding and...fiercely protective.

She still said nothing when she looked to Sal. She just looked. Locking eyes. Communicating...something more. They each nodded, never breaking eye contact. She turned and walked away. It seemed like we all understood and had our parts to play. Like she'd said, we hadn't been there so of course she hadn't heard anything because she hadn't seen us. But she had our backs.

Sal started paging through my notes. Talking as he skimmed. "Ricki already knows," he said. "but she doesn't if anyone asks. When I got here, I gave her a basic rundown. She asked of couple of questions. I answered. Then she figured it out on her own and went into mama bear mode. Remember those assholes who tried to drug Bobbi way back when we played here the third time? The guys in your Seventh Avenue song? It turns out they weren't the last guys who tried to pull something like that here. She's dealt with some others just like that. And all of them turned out to be connected to some of the same people. People Bobbi's mom and dad were connected to. People you normally don't want to mess with at all."

"So we really are talking organized crime here?" I said. "Bobbi's family's involved in organized crime."

"Brother, there's stuff that even some organized crime families won't mess with. This is some stupid dangerous shit and all of a sudden we're in the middle of it." He took a deep pull on his beer. Nodded toward the bag. "You might need that before this is over. Keep it handy."

"So who are they?" I asked. "You said you know? The people that tried to break in?"

"I do," he said. "They're the reason Bobbi's been running. You ever hear of Fat Max and Crazy Willie Duchamp? Or the Sheridans?"

"I've heard the names. I think I've heard Robb and my dad talk about them. Not much...and nothing good." I didn't like where it felt like this was leading. Not at all. "Just tell me," I said. "What's going on?"

He didn't respond at first. He got up and walked to the end of the bar. Surveyed the area outside of our closed off section. Exchanged whispers with Ricki. Then came back and sat down again. "Got a pen?" he asked. I handed him one. He went back to the notes and started marking down notes of his own in the margins. With lines and arrows. Went through them all page by page. Silently. Finally, almost half an hour later, he looked up.

"OK," he sighed, staring me in the eye. "Buckle up, Alice. The rabbit hole's about to go deep."