MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH

by Michael Lister

  —You do, do you? You can go into the girls’ bathrooms and the strippers’ dressing rooms?

  I laugh.

  —Guess not, I say.

  —Why you in such a hurry to get rid of me? she asks.

  —I’m not. I just —

  —Come on, she says. You’re through with me and you know it. I repeated the pattern one too many times.

  —I’m not through with you. I told you.

  —Yeah. Yeah. You’d do anything you can for me.

  —I will.

  —How can you just cut your feelings off?

  —I haven’t. And I’m not playing games. I’ve noticed before when I’d back off like you seemed to want, you’d start pursuing me. I’m not trying to get you to do that. I swear.

  —I can tell. I want to tell you a story.

  —Has it got a wow finish? I ask, thinking of Rick sitting in his dark saloon, drunk as fuck, Ilsa standing before him.

  —What? she asks, confused.

  —Just a line from Casablanca.

  —Oh. It’s about a girl who met a man in a strip club once.

  —Yeah, I say, I’ve heard a lot of stories like this. They all start the same. Mister, I met a man once in a strip club.

  —Can I tell my story? She’s a stripper with barely an AA degree, and he’s a reporter and a professor and they’re an unlikely pair, but he shows her real love.

  —Sounds like a great guy, I say.

  —He is. And she really responds to him, but she also gets freaked out. I mean, she’s in a relationship that’s dead, but not in the ground yet. And the truth is, she’s damaged goods — has been since... since she... lost her daughter, and always will be. But he seems to understand that, too. Anyway, so she retreats sometimes, gets so close to the flame of his love she thinks she’ll be consumed by it, and she runs. But she gets past that. She does. And then she loses her phone. And he thinks she’s doing it again — and who can blame him — but she’s not. She’s really ready to move forward with him and he says he just wants to be friends.

  I’m not quite sure what to say, and so drive in silence for a while.

  We ascend the flyover ramp, only the tops of pine trees, a high-rise, and a few random billboards visible above the short concrete walls. As we crest the Hathaway Bridge, lights from the Port of Panama City shimmer in the dark waters of the bay on the right, the lit buildings of the college rising up out of the campus on the left.

  —You not gonna respond? she asks finally.

  —I’m sorry.

  —For what?

  —Everything, but mostly at the moment for the loss of your daughter.

  She sniffles in the darkness and I can tell she’s tearing up.

  We come to The Toy Box first.

  It’s a small strip club with a stage in the front and bar in the back. Actually, I should probably call it an exotic dancer club because, as one of the girls explained to me, she’s not a stripper because she doesn’t strip off all her clothes.

  The DJ booth is high against the right wall, towering over the open private dance room — if you want a lap dance here, you have to get it in a room with other people getting theirs.

  The place is dim, lit mostly by the glow of neon and rope lights, the music is loud, but not nearly so as the other places we’ve been to.

  Regan and I enter separately. I take a seat at a small table near the stage. She poses as a dancer and checks the women’s restroom and the dancers’ dressing room.

  I order a Corona from the waitress, then tip the dancer on stage. By the time my beer arrives, the dancer is sitting next to me.

  A single mom from Alabama, Candy barely opens her mouth when she speaks, which only serves to accentuate her severe southern drawl. Beneath her white sheer lingerie, the only thing about her that looks like she had a baby just over a month ago are her breasts.

  We talk for a while, which is pleasant except for the fact that she’s a chain smoker and we’re in very close proximity. Her speech and movements are so slow, her words so soft and hard to understand, I wonder if she’s on something, or drunk, or slow, or just sleep deprived, and decide, it’s likely a combination of all the above.

  The DJ has a wireless microphone and is out of the booth as much as he’s in it — up and down the stairs, in and out the door — and when he’s announcing I call Tristan and leave a message to see if it sounds like the one Casey left.

  —Wanna a lap dance? Candy asks.

  —Would love one, but actually don’t have time. I’ll pay you for two just to answer one question for me.

  I pull out two twenties and the folded picture of Casey.

  —Has she been in tonight?

  —Why you lookin’ for her?

  I tell her.

  She picks up the glossy magazine cover and holds it close to her face, straining to see in the dim room, and studies it for a long moment.

  Over by the bar in the back, one of the dancers shoots pool with a customer, her T-back thong and skimpy bra making the activity look more odd than sexy.

  Eventually, Candy shakes her head.

  —She looks familiar, she says, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in here.

  —You’re sure?

  She nods.

  —And you don’t have to pay me for that, she says.

  —I want to, I say, sliding the twenties across the table to her.

  —Thanks, she says, folding them into her garter with the rest of her stash.

  —How long you been here tonight? Anybody else I should ask?

  —I’ve been here all night, but we can ask Andy, just in case I missed her.

  She stands and walks back to the bouncer, a young, bald, white man with a thick, bushy goatee, sitting behind the reception counter. Greeter, cashier, and bouncer, Andy is soft spoken and gentle.

  He shakes his head after looking at the cover.

  —She ain’t been in, he says. Not since I’ve been here.

  Regan walks up.

  —You decide not to dance? Andy asks.

  —Yeah. Just got my period and have a horrible headache.

  He nods.

  —Another time, she says, and walks out.

  —Well, thanks for your help, I say, dropping my card on the counter. If she does come in, will you give me a call?

  —Sure thing, he says. No problem.

  In the parking lot, beneath the giant lighted Maharaja’s billboard, Regan and I pause before getting in the car.

  —She wasn’t in there and hasn’t been in.

  —Thanks for doing that.

  —Probably wind up working here after walking out of The Dollhouse.

  Stetson’s is not what I expect at all.

  The décor is strictly country/western, but everything else is club.

  On our way over, we had stopped by The Gold Nugget, but with the assistance of the manager, the bouncer, and a particularly cute and helpful shooter girl, quickly determined Casey had not been there.

  When we arrive, the band is on a break, and the whitest sounding black DJ I’ve ever heard yells into a microphone that’s already turned up too high, and plays dance music so loud I think it might actually rupture my eardrums.

  The large venue is packed, and the crowd is far more diverse than I imagined — black and white, young and old, dance and drink and dialog — especially for what I thought was a redneck joint.

  Middle-aged white men in cowboy hats standing next to young black men in hip-hop attire watch as fifty-something females shake their groove things alongside twenty-somethings on the dance floor.

  I look over at Regan.

  —This what you expected?

  She shakes her head and smiles.

  —I figured we were walking into a place out of Urban Cowboy.

  —This is amazing. Even if it weren’t a country joint, I wouldn’t expect to see such a wide range of people.

  —Everybody wants to party, she says. Why not do it together?

  —They just rarely do.<
br />
  On the dance floor, a young girl wearing a crown celebrates her bachelorette party with her friends, as everyone cheers.

  —She’s just a child, I say.

  —She’s a rebel.

  —How you figure?

  —Trend is to marry later these days, she says.

  —Not around here, I bet.

  —Here?

  —I guess I meant the Deep South.

  She twists her lips into a sad smirk and nods.

  As I move through the room, and Regan checks the girls’ bathroom, I call Tristan and leave a message while the music is playing and the DJ is talking.

  It takes a while to get through the crowd and to pass the photo around, but when we’re finished, we’re both convinced she hasn’t been here — ever.

  Just as diverse, but less surprising, is Panama City’s only gay bar, The Fiesta/ La Royale Lounge.

  It’s less surprising because when you’re the only gay bar around, it stands to reason you’ll attract gay people of all ages and races. What I hadn’t counted on was how many heterosexual people the place drew, but I soon discover why.

  As if transplanted from the French Quarter in New Orleans, the old brick buildings are joined by an enclosed courtyard, The Fiesta on one side, La Royale Lounge on the other.

  We park on Harrison right off Beach Drive, but can’t get in from here.

  —Gay bar, Regan says. Have to enter in rear.

  I shake my head.

  —Come on, she says. I know it’s an old and bad joke, but it’ll probably be the only time in my life I’ll ever get to use it.

  We arrive just before the first of three drag shows of the night. Beneath a large disco ball, several couples and a few individuals dance on a low stage.

  The couples are comprised of men and women, women and women, and men and men, and it’s a beautiful thing.

  As the dance music fades, a slow song comes on and even more people crowd onto the small stage. Of all the couples, the two most striking are a young man with cerebral palsy dancing with one of the waitresses and two giant, muscular, masculine men dancing with each other.

  —Wish we had time to take a twirl, I say. ’Cause I’d like to be part of that.

  She stops and looks at me, a warm, appreciative smile on her face.

  —What?

  —I love you, she says.

  We stand there a long moment, staring at each other, tiny dots of light dancing across our bodies. It’s magic, even transcendent, and everything else in the world seems to dim and fade away.

  Eventually, we embrace, pressing our bodies so hard against each other, it’s more like clinging than hugging.

  The song ends, and we let go.

  —Come on, she says. Let’s find Casey so we can figure out what to do about the fact that we both love each other.

  While Regan checks the girls bathroom and the crowd in The Fiesta, I walk to the bar in the back where the two bartenders are dancing and dry humping each other as they work.

  At the end of the bar closest to me, three ladies from the drag show discuss their upcoming performances.

  —Hell-ooo handsome, the tall African-American in a black evening dress says. She is standing. I’m a little over six feet, and I have to look up at her.

  —Ladies, I say.

  —Wanna buy a girl a drink? the thin blonde seated at the bar says.

  —That’s exactly what I want to do.

  I motion the bartender.

  —Another of whatever these three girls are having — and give me the gayest drink you can make.

  —You got it, sweetheart, he says.

  It’s the first time a guy has ever called me sweetheart.

  —What is the gayest drink they make? I ask.

  The three ladies think about it.

  —Sour apple martini.

  —Sea breeze.

  —Depends on who’s drinking it, darling. If it’s a dyke, the gayest drink will be the butchest, if a fag, then the most froufrou.

  I nod, and we’re quiet for a moment.

  Over near the stage, those seated at the small bar tables have an eerie milky glow from the black lights above them.

  —I’m looking for a girl, I say.

  —Came to the right place, honey, the most masculine of the three says in a deep voice.

  She’s in a black bodysuit, fishnets, high heels, with a white shirt tied up beneath her enormous breasts.

  —Obviously, I say.

  I pull out the picture of Casey and pass it around.

  When all the responses are negative, I pay for the drinks, take mine — little umbrella, erect banana and all — and step out into the courtyard.

  The brick courtyard is filled with plants and patio tables beneath the night sky and the looming white elephant of St. Andrews Tours.

  At the small bar, I repeat the routine from inside — and get the same results.

  More a traditional bar, La Royale Lounge has a jukebox, a pool table, and a long bar that runs the length of the inside wall — bottles of liquor for sale lined up behind it.

  Up on the bar top, two boys in nothing but their underwear and socks dance as patrons look up lustfully.

  Like The Fiesta, everyone in La Royale Lounge is friendly and welcoming — and the young, male bartender calls me sugar. Again, a first.

  Regan joins me, and I pass the picture around while she checks the bathroom.

  No joy.

  As we make our way back through the courtyard and through The Fiesta, the show has started.

  On stage, a female impersonator lip syncs to “I Wanna be Bad,” as patrons clap and cheer from their seats, while others stand at the edge of the stage with singles to tip — receiving a kiss on the cheek for their kindness.

  —Wish we could stay, I say.

  —We’ll come back, she says.

  I smile as I’m filled with a warmth that emanates from what seems the very center of me, but my smile fades and something cold instantly replaces the heat when she thoughtlessly, recklessly adds another preposterous promise.

  —We’ll do everything, she says. Everything.

  — Hey, faggot.

  We’ve only taken a few steps down the sidewalk on our way back to the car.

  I turn toward the angry voice, a physiological change already taking place inside me — pulse quickening, respiration increasing, adrenaline spiking.

  As I spin around, I sweep Regan behind me with one arm, bringing the other up defensively.

  —Knew who I was talkin’ to, didn’t he?

  The two men stepping out of the shadows have shaved heads that gleam ghostly white in the night. They carry aluminum baseball bats.

  —Knew who I was talkin’ to, didn’t you, faggot?

  This comes from the younger of the two — an early twenties, stocky white man with icy blue eyes.

  Next to him, the mid-fifties man, who is taller and bigger and softer, is dressed identically, as if flannel shirts, camo fatigues, and black boots constitute a uniform.

  —You like it the ass, don’t you, faggot? You sick piece of shit. See how you like it when I jam my big Louisville Slugger up your shitter.

  —What’s with the cunt? the older one says, shifting his glazed-eye glare onto Regan. She a chick with a dick or a fuckin’ muff divin’ dyke?

  —Your tits real, freak? the younger one asks her.

  With their attention directed toward Regan, I try to figure out a move.

  They have us cornered against a tall brick wall. If it were just me, it’d be difficult enough to get away, but with Regan, grabbing her hand and running is not an option. Of course, fighting two men with bats isn’t much of one either.

  —You gotta shriveled up little dick in your panties, darlin’? You wanna be a girl so goddam bad, I’ll cut it off for you. How ’bout that? Huh?

  I think about the love and acceptance we had just witnessed inside, the experience the environment had inspired, the way Regan had been moved to tell me she loved me, and i
ts contrast with the surreal world we’ve walked into — the fear, ignorance, brutality, and hate these men embody.

  Someone like these remorseless men before me had Casey, and if they hospitalize or kill us, I’ll never be able to find her, to save her, to make up for abandoning her, to prove to her that she can count on me, that I’ll always come for her.

  But what can I do?

  How can I possibly protect Regan and prevent what, at the moment, seems unstoppable, certain, inevitable?

  The more I think about the situation, the more I’m convinced the best I can hope to do is tackle the men so Regan can run for help. But will she? If I lunge into them, knock them both down, accept the brutal beating in the fight that follows, will she run or freeze? Will she see the opportunity to run as a chance to secure help or an act of abandonment?

  I’ll know soon enough.

  —I don’t know, the younger one is saying. These two sure are pretty. Maybe we should take them home so we can take our time.

  —There’s an idea, the older one says. Maybe we —

  Placing my foot on the brick wall behind us, I push off, diving toward the men, as if on a football field, arms spread out, knocking them down.

  We crash to the pavement, bats clanging, rolling, coming to rest on the curb a few feet away.

  —RUN, I yell.

  Regan doesn’t move.

  —Hurry. Get help.

  She turns to run, as I struggle to hold the two men down.

  As we scramble around, all three of us reaching for the bats, I glance over to see she is gone.

  I reach the bats first, but as I attempt to grab one, the men grip my ankles and jerk me back, scraping my stomach and chest on the asphalt.

  Flipping over, I begin to kick at the men and try to crab crawl away.

  As the older one holds me, the younger jumps up and runs over and grabs one of the bats.

  Kicking my way to freedom, I spin around toward the man with the bat, lifting my hands in a futile attempt to protect myself from the imminent attack, while simultaneously trying to roll away.

  —HEY.

  The yell comes from behind the man with the bat.

  He turns to see the Fiesta’s bouncer standing there.

  We all freeze.

  The bouncer is a slightly overweight, middle-aged man with thinning white hair and glasses. Wearing a pink T-shirt, jeans, and bright white tennis shoes, there’s nothing imposing or threatening about him.