Mike Faricy - Russian Roulette

“No, but I may have spoken to her when I phoned Kerri,” I went on to explain.

“So based on her first name and the fact she’s got a space between her teeth, you think she might have some sort of information?”

“Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

“Except I could lose my job telling you her name was Da’nita Bell and that I happen to know she spends virtually all of her free time at Boxer’s Bar on East Fourth Street. You know the place?”

I nodded.

“Good, ‘cause it would be against the rules for me to give you that sort information.”

“I’ve only driven past, never been in there,” I clarified.

“It’s memorable,” Aaron said and slammed the album closed.

After buying Aaron lunch I went home to nap. The combination of a splitting headache and a pain pill had wiped me out. I woke about 4:30 from a fitful, twitch filled nap, the pain pills seemed to have that effect on me. I sorted through my mail. It consisted of an expired ten-dollar-off coupon for an oil change and a circular announcing a cosmetic sale. Both got dumped into recycling. I decided to try and find Da’nita Bell down at Boxer’s.

Boxer’s is located on the corner of East Fourth Street and Garfield. The building is a two-story red-brick from 1904 according to the iron plaque just below the roof line. I’m guessing it wasn’t the best of buildings in 1904, and not much had changed over the ensuing hundred-plus years.

Two feet inside the door, just as my eyes began to adjust to the dim interior, a bouncer blocked my forward progress.

“Gonna have to wand y’alls,” he said looking down at me. I pegged him at about six four.

“I can save you the trouble. I got a piece on my right hip, just under the jacket. I’m licensed,” I said almost under my breath hoping not to cause a scene.

“Really?” he nodded, ran the wand over me anyway, smiled when it chirped loudly over my hip. He ran it over and over my hip, it chirped every time, loudly announcing my armed presence to the entire bar. Not that I needed any announcement, I was the only white face in the place other than the bartender.

“That’s okay, officer. Don’t you worry none, go get a drink at the bar.”

I was going to tell him I wasn’t a cop, but what was the point? Everyone in the place was watching and knew I was armed. Just in case someone had been asleep and missed my entrance, he called to the bartender as I stepped away.

“Charles, give the good officer a drink, on the house.”

The wooden floor was worn, the room was dim, neon beer signs illuminated the back of the bar. The place had a musty smell and at barely five in the afternoon the clientele looked like they’d already been there for quite a while. Despite the statewide smoking ban there were more than a couple of cigarettes glowing. Something like hip hop or rap assaulted my ears and my headache returned with a vengeance.

People resumed talking but the level of conversation was decidedly muted. Charles the bartender gave me as slight a nod as possible when I stepped in front of him. I placed both my hands on the bar.

“Charles, I think I’ll have a Coke, please,” attempting polite kindness.

“On duty,” he said not really asking.

“No, I’m not a cop, honest. Your doorman made a mistake.”

“A mistake,” sounding not at all convinced.

“I’m just here to meet someone.”

“Well, in that case, since you’re not a cop, its two-fifty for the Coke.”

There, I’d made my point and I could relish in the fact I was deliberately overcharged for the soft drink poured into what I guessed was a fairly dirty glass.

When Charles returned with my change I worked at being polite.

“I’m supposed to meet Da’nita Bell here. Has she been in yet?”

“What you want with her ass?”

I felt myself beginning to harbor ill will toward Charles. I decided to smile and fake it.

“Look Charlie, how’d you like it if the city inspector showed up in here tomorrow and shut you down for a week or two because of code violations? Then maybe someone might call the license inspector and have him look into reports of underage individuals being served in your fine establishment. Maybe some reports of controlled substances being sold on the premises could reach concerned ears. Would that make your day, Charlie?”

He seemed to think about that for a moment, looked me up and down, then came up with the right answer.

“That’s her, at the end of the bar.”

I looked down the bar but couldn’t see anyone, the place was dim but not dark.

“Where?”

“End of the bar, you can just see her head. Hey, Da’nita,” he yelled. “Wave your hand for the nice officer.”

A small hand slowly rose above the bar. I could just make out dark, curly hair an inch or two above the top of the bar.

I walked down the length of the bar, rounded the corner, and nearly knocked over a small woman in a motorized wheelchair. I spilled a little Coke on her.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole. You’re spilling on me, wasting good whiskey,” she shrieked. As she did I caught the flash of her silver tooth, caught the subtle hiss when she called me asshole.

“Da’nita?”

“Maybe, maybe not, what’s it to you?”

“I wanted to talk to you for a moment, I…”

“I haven’t done anything. You get away, leave me alone,” she shrieked again, then began hurriedly reversing the wheelchair, ramming into a table behind her, and knocking over a couple of beer bottles. I reached over her and righted the bottles, said to the couple at the table, “Oops, sorry about that, let me get you a couple more. Ouch, damn it.” Da’nita raced across my foot, gaining speed backing toward the ladies room. Fortunately no one made a move to come to her aid.

“Hey, Da’nita, hold up will you? I just want to talk, it’s me, Devil. Remember from the phone?”

That stopped her, although she kept her hand firmly on the throttle, just waiting for an excuse.

“Devil?”

“Yeah, that’s me, I was always calling for Kerri, remember?”

She thought about that for a moment, then said, “I might. A drink might help me remember.”

“Sure, sure thing. What’ll it be?”

“Make it a Cosmopolitan, with a shot of Grand Marnier on the side.” The way she said it made me think it wasn’t the first time she placed that order.

I didn’t believe Charles knew how to make a Cosmopolitan, and I was sure this dump didn’t stock Grand Marnier. I was wrong on both counts. I returned with her drinks after dropping two beers off at the table she’d rammed. The couple at the table grabbed the beer bottles and never said thanks. I set her drinks on a back table, sat down and pulled a chair out so she could wheel in. She did so hesitantly. I wasn’t sure what she expected me to do. Finally she reached for the Cosmopolitan, sucked down a goodly portion of the thing and didn’t even blink.

“Da’nita. I’m hoping you can help me. I’m having trouble getting in touch with Kerri and I need to talk to her.”

She downed the Grand Marnier without so much as a shudder.

“You see that bitch, you tell her she better not cross where I’m driving, I’ll run her down.”

She looked serious, hit and run with a wheel chair.

“You two have a little falling out?” I asked.

“Falling out? That’s your term. Shit, more like getting pushed out. The bitch fired my ass is what she did.”

“Fired? When did this happen?”

“Just the other day. Middle of the afternoon she runs in all hot and bothered. Cleans out her desk in about one minute flat, literally pushes me out the door, and leaves me sitting in the damn hallway with my thumb up a hole. Then she locks the door, runs out to her car and drives off. Never looks back. I still got all my shit in there. Think she cares? Hell no. She don’t give a damn bout little ole Da’nita,” she said, then drained the last of the Cosmopolitan and quickly pushed both empty glasses toward me.