Читать книгу The Redneck Riviera - Richard N. Côté - Страница 6

Myrtle Beach

The dusty parking lot was almost full as Dolly slipped her Honda into a sp ot on the side of the building, twenty yards away from the main entrance to White Lightnin’, Myrtle Beach’s favorite country-western club. She was on a manhunt and didn’t want her rusty car to spoil the manicured image her carefully chosen outfit projected. Dolly surveyed the lot like an auctioneer scanning the crowd for potential bidders. It was full of cars and pickup trucks – mostly pickups – of every description, but a Jaguar sedan, a BMW 535i, a Porsche Carrera T-top, a Lexus, and a Mercedes 450 SL convertible caught her eye. Not bad for a Friday night, Dolly thought.

Chrissie’s tastes were more domestic than import. “Hey Dolly. Check out the Silverado!” Chrissie yelled, pointing to a meticulously waxed pickup truck. “Brand new. Platinum metallic. Moon roof. Performance package. Full leather. Rosewood trim. Six-speaker Bose premium sound system. That cowboy can put his boots under my bed anytime.”

“He’s all yours, Cutie,” Dolly said. “I’ll go for Mr. Mercedes anytime.” The doorman at White Lightnin’ touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “Evenin’, Miss Dolly, Miss Chrissie. Nice to see you again.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Dolly replied. "How’s Nancy and the kids?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

She gave him a friendly once-over, from his hat to his black, Tony Lama Longhorn boots. “If the boys inside look half as good as you do, Honey, we’re gonna have a fine time tonight!”

“Don’t break too many hearts, girls,” he said, waving them in. The women walked past the blue bug zapper lights that flanked the door. A pleasant, familiar little chill ran through Dolly as she walked into to her favorite hangout. Although it was a large club, she knew most of the people there, by face, anyway. White Lightnin’ was part of a happy extended family she didn’t have outside its four walls. Here, people kept an eye out for her and made sure nothing bad happened. She belonged here. She liked the place. She could have three beers, dance three hours, and go home alone without feeling lonely. Or, if she decided to let a handsome cowboy get lucky....

“Where do we start tonight?” Chrissie asked. “The bar, the pool room, or the dance hall?”

Ahead, the bar was full of smiling faces, cowboy hats, dress jeans, and narrow-toed boots. It was already lined two deep with animated bodies who were ordering, talking, smiling, flirting, or dodging unwanted passes.

To the right in the dance hall, a hundred well-dressed urban cowboys and cowgirls – and a couple dozen rednecks from the sticks, in T-shirts and baseball caps – danced in perfect formation to a lively line dance.

To the left, a green sea of pool tables buzzed with the whispers of flirting singles and the click of pool balls on their way to their destinations. A brawl inside, which broke out when one player spent too long admiring the cleavage of another’s girlfriend, was just the normal spice in the soup of the place. The brawl was over in less than a minute, and no one paid any serious attention to the temporary distraction.

“Let’s get a beer and then check out the dance hall,” Dolly said as they walked in.

The back bar featured a large, green-and-white neon sign with a thunderbolt roaring through the bar’s name, “White Lightnin’. A brass plaque under the epoxy-covered surface of the heart pine bar marked the place of each barstool. One read, “Drink Till He’s Cute.” The next said, “I’m the guy your mother warned you about,” and another read, “I’m not as think as you drunk I am.”

“Evenin’ ladies. What’ll it be?” asked the tall, muscled bartender. On one arm, he sported a red-and-blue flag tattoo. Below the flag appeared the Marine Corps motto, “Semper Fidelis” – “always faithful.” On the other arm was a heart-shaped tattoo enclosing the name, “Susan.” From his smile and the way he looked at them, Dolly guessed he was probably faithful to both The Corps and Susan, whoever she might be.

Dolly felt jealous of Susan. Faithful was not a word Dolly would use to describe most of her boyfriends. She made it clear to them that she was a one-man woman and expected the same in return. Somehow, it never worked out that way. Dolly took a deep breath, cleared the shadows of her failed relationships from her mind, and turned on her electric smile. “A Bud, please,” she told the bartender.

“Lone Star for me,” said Chrissie.

Dolly picked up her longneck and clinked it against Chrissie’s. “Bring on the cowboys,” she said, as the two of them toasted and looked forward to a night full of old friends, new hopes, good country music, and a lot of dancing.

Dolly and Chrissie moved from the bar to the entrance of the dance hall. On the stage, a popular local band was just starting its second set for the night. With his great girth held in check by a two-inch-wide brown leather belt and an enormous Confederate belt buckle, his graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, and his deeply tanned face filled with wrinkles, the good-natured fiddle player looked like a cross between Willie Nelson and Charlie Daniels. Three musicians playing banjo, guitar, and an electric autoharp rounded out the twangy quartet. A tall, long-haired redhead in a red-and-black blouse and gold-embroidered vest added a honey-sweet, Flora-bama flavor to the songs.

The band broke into a romantic Western waltz. The redhead sang, “May I have this dance for the rest of my life...?” Chrissie turned and whispered Dolly’s ear, “You’re off to a fast start, Honey,” as a tall, tanned man in gray snakeskin boots, jeans, and a black Western shirt and hat approached from her right. “Evenin’ ladies,” he said. “My name’s Ron.” Turning to Dolly, he said, “Would you like to dance?”