“You know a band called Spanklicious?”

“That’s Smoke Up, Johnny.” He pointed at the stage, shouting over the racket.

“I mean another band.”

“No. You want another?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t ask what I was drinking, which was fine since I didn’t know. He brought it back too foamy, and I tried again.

“Other places around here have a band tonight?”

“Hell if I know,” he said.

I drank, ordered a third, drank it, and ordered another.

I was thinking about the restroom when the girl onstage announced the band was taking a quick break. I circled the dance floor, plying my way through the crowd, found the men’s room. The single urinal was mercifully free, so I unzipped and let out some beer.

Someone flushed in one of the stalls. The girl singer came out, fished a lipstick out of her purse and put the purse on the narrow shelf under the mirror. “Don’t mind me, hon.”

I usually only let sixty-year-old waitresses at truck stops and really fat table-dancers call me hon, but the singer was pretty, and I liked her voice, so I said, “No problem at all, doll.”

She glanced at me sideways. Her lips curled into a little smile before she applied her dark lipstick. Her nose was a little too pointy, gave her a hawkish look. “The line for the little girls’ room is murder. I had to hold my bladder all the way through Tommy’s horn solo.” She shook her head like it was the saddest thing in the world. “Nine minute fucking horn solo.”

She left as some frat boys came in, and they paused, looking at the front of the restroom door to see if they had the right one. She was gone by the time they figured it out.

I straightened my tie in the mirror, decided I wasn’t impressing anyone, and pulled it loose again. I looked at my eyes. Red. Too much beer and not enough sleep.

The singer’s purse was still on the shelf. I grabbed it and left the restroom.

On my way back, I spotted Lou still guarding his territory near the bar. He was chatting up a busty coed in sorority letters, the frat guys still glowering over their shoulders at him. It wouldn’t be long now.

I had another beer, remembered I had a purse in my hand, and found the singer on the steps that led up to the stage. She was on her way back up, and I asked her to wait a minute.

“I can’t talk now,” she said curtly. “We’re on.”

“You left this in the can.” I held out the purse.

Her eyes softened. She took a step down. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” She grabbed the purse, but I hung on to the other end.

“Do you know a band called Spanklicious?”

“Yeah. They come through every few months. Sounds like somebody throwing glass bottles into a buzz-saw. What do you want to hear them for?”

“I’m not a fan. I’m just looking.”

“They usually play at Café Blitzkrieg. It’s a bottle club on 4th, or was. It burned down- shit- maybe a week, ten days ago. They always got shit bands. I don’t think anyplace else in town would have them.”

I let go of the purse. “Sorry to trouble you.”

She looked at me sort of weird, curious. “No trouble.” She took the stage, and the band jerked to life with “Hit that Jive Jack.”

When I got back to Lou, he was having some hard words with one of the frat kids. Another came up behind him and broke a beer bottle at the base of his skull. Lou teetered, and the frat guys saw their chance. About eight dove on him. The guy behind the bar yelled. The band played louder, segued into “Sing, Sing, Sing.”

Lou kicked out with a big boot and caught one in the stomach. The kid folded good, hit the floor hard. Lou grabbed a fistful of one’s shirt and tossed him over the bar. The other guys were landing solid blows into Lou’s midsection. They might as well have been punching a dump truck. I moved in to help, but I didn’t hurry.

One of the bigger frat guys threw a wooden chair. Lou ducked, and the chair sailed over the railing and down into the dance floor. It obliterated a couple who’d been swing dancing pretty well up till then. All hell broke loose. Screaming. Some afraid. Most angry. A tiny girl heavy with rhinestones scooped up the chair and hurled it back. It landed on a crowded table, spraying beer in every direction. The guys at the table jumped the rail and waded into the swing kids.

The bouncers arrived, two fat guys who didn’t know where to start. They looked at Lou. They looked at the brawl on the dance floor. I guess they weren’t ambitious enough to tackle Lou, so they headed for the dancers. The band had abandoned the set list and dove into a quirky cover of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Around the Old Oak Tree.”

Lou looked happy. He had a very picturesque dribble of blood in one corner of his mouth, and he planted a fist in the face of anyone who dared come within range. I picked a random kid and popped him in the mouth so I could feel involved.

His buddy aimed a fist at my nose. I turned and took it on the cheek. Then I leaned in with an uppercut that rattled his teeth and made the cartoon songbirds circle his head. He went down.

“That’s enough, Lou,” I shouted over the din. “Let’s go. Cops!” I didn’t really see any, but that would get him moving.

“Right behind you, man.”

He hammered one last kid on the top of his head with a meaty fist and kicked his limp form under a table, then followed me to the exit. The guy on the door looked nervous, held up a hand wondering how he was going to stop us, figured out he wasn’t, and ducked behind the cash register.

In the parking lot, I backed the Suburban into a Mazda by accident in my hurry to leave before the cops arrived. I didn’t hear any sirens, but it would be soon now.

“Fuck, man,” said Lou. “Watch your driving.”

“Thing’s the size of a battleship.”

I got us away, pointed us toward the Interstate.

“Well, shit,” said Lou, who grinned like he’d just won the Nobel Prize for kicking ass. “I guess we showed ’em.”

We drove into a cluster of restaurants and hotels where Interstate 75 intersected with 200. I got us a couple of rooms at the Best Western.

In my room, I flipped on the light over the twin sinks, poked at the swollen area under my left eye where the kid had nailed me. I’d had too much beer, gotten careless. A watery punch thrown by some college kid. Should have seen it coming. Stupid.

I flopped down on the bed, grabbed the phone, and dialed Marcie’s number. She answered after eleven rings. “Yes? Hello?”

“You sound out of breath.”

“I ran in from the garage.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Working. I have three howler monkeys on ice.”

“You have three- what’re you doing?”

“I got them from the Sanford Zoo,” she said. “They were free. Can you believe it?”

“Dead monkeys. That’s quite a deal.”

“Ha, ha. You think it’s a big joke, but a friend of a friend owns an alternative art gallery in Jacksonville. You know Minnie Shwartz?”

“She owns the gallery?”

“Minnie? No. Minnie owns squat. But she knows Naomi. Naomi runs the gallery.”

“Noami who?”

“Naomi nothing,” said Marcie. “It’s one of those one word names. Like Cher.”

“Or Zorro.”

“Hilarious.” A pause. “You okay?”

“Holding my own.”

“Why’d you call?”

“Just to hear a friendly voice.”

“And I’m as good as anyone?” Her question was only half playful.

“You know that ain’t true.”

“So you like me best, huh?”

“I like you best. What are you going to do with the monkeys?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’d better get started before they start going bad.”

“You could do one of those see no, hear no, speak no evil things,” I suggested.

She laughed. “You’re wonderfully silly and cliché. I have to go.”

“Be careful. Don’t dead animals have parasites or ebola or something?”

“My monkeys are melting.”

“Bye, baby.”

“Bye.”

We hung up.

I thought about calling Ma, but it was getting late. I went back to the mirror and checked my bruise again. Stupid.