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I’ve been to karaoke nights a few times, but Cress has always refused to go with me. “Hey, Max.” I want to find out why they’re going along.
“May I help you?” His formal response cracks me up again.
“Cress treats the idea of karaoke like a dreaded disease. So why are you two going?”
“JL’s my best friend, so of course I said yes. Cress just wants to horn in on your date.” His raucous laugh streams down the street into the cool night air.
A door slams. Cress has already climbed into the back seat of the SUV.
ChapterFour
Always remember: if you’re going through hell, keep going.—Winston Churchill
JL
The textfrom Max arrives as I rush past the desk sergeant on my way out. I wave, but she doesn’t notice.
MAX: We’re here. Getting the ladies settled.
I try to breathe a sigh of relief, which hurts. My nose is sore and before they carted Sam off, the EMTs confirmed the break. Not the first time, but it’s never fun. Just hope the new shape isn’t too terrible and I don’t need any cleanup surgery. I’ll ask the bar for some ice and a glass of water for the painkillers. Hope it doesn’t impact my singing. Winning tonight’s competition would be some recompense for a more than average shitty day.
ME: Need to change. I’ll be there soon.
I slip the mobile into my pocket, rev up the bike, and take off for the short ride to my condo in River East. In less than ten minutes, I’ve stripped off my shirt, examined my nose, put on a turtleneck, and got back on my bike, heading toward the flatiron-style building on the corner of Lincoln Avenue. After I park, I salute the mashed potato mural on the side and set the white rocking chairs in motion as I walk through the doors.
The hostess points me to the back. Micki jumps up from her seat in a red vinyl booth, waving her hands wildly above her head. Plates of shared food sit on the table. Stanley’s specialty is down-home Southern cooking, and the platters include andouille corn dogs, fried dill pickles, and God’s Own Mac and Cheese. Even though Max ordered Stanley’s Tots Poutine just for me, Micki spears a tot from the platter and waves it at me.
“Not authentic.” She frowns at my assessment.
Max taps my shoulder. “Let’s move to the bar and order the first round. And pick up some ice for that elephant trunk.”
At the end of the bar, we each pick up a shot glass and pour in some bourbon, a lagniappe Stanley’s provides for customers who know to look. We down them while we wait for our beers, wine, glasses of water, and a small plastic baggie of crushed ice. The place is hopping, waiting for Sunday night live-band karaoke as we thread our way into the back room. My skin damp from the rising heat from so many bodies. The smell of savory fried chicken and melted cheese mingles with spilled beer, too much aftershave and perfume, and the slightly sour smell of too many people in too little space. I’d pick up the pace if I could, but many human roadblocks clutter our path.
“I want to assign some guys to Micki,” I tell Max, then raise my voice. “Excuse me. Could you let us by?”
A guy turns with a glare, then sees the load we’re trying not to spill, pulls at his pal’s arm, and moves out of the way.
“You think she’ll accept that?” Max sounds dubious.
Not at all sure how she’ll react, I straighten my shoulders and pull on my cloak of confidence. “She was all for it when that nutcase, Tina, threatened Cress.”
“That was Cress. Doesn’t mean she’ll be receptive when it’s a question of her own safety. Look how she fought when we made her go to the ER after Sam slugged her last December.”
“This crazy attack is a definite escalation.”
By now, we’re back at the table.
“Think we’ll see any celebs?” Micki twirls her glass of wine, a bold Zinfandel, and takes a sniff. Max carefully puts Cress’ glass down where she can’t inadvertently knock it over.
I give a noncommittal shrug as I pull off my jacket and drape it over the back of the chair.
“Chris Chelios sometimes comes in.” Cress’ face flushes with excitement at the possibility.
“If he’s in town. Doesn’t live in Chicago now.” Micki’s little smile and the way she buffs her nails against her collarbone, as if she’s won some contest, are charming.
“Wish they hadn’t traded him to Detroit.” Cress gives a mournful sigh.
“That was fifteen years ago. Let it go.” Micki pats her on the shoulder.
