A Different Kind of Forever(47)
She was looking at his feet. “Boots too?”
“Hell, yeah. Hand made by a guy outside Austin. They’re beautiful, really. And they add an extra two inches.”
“Michael,” she said wickedly, “you don’t need an extra two inches.”
He turned bright red. “Thanks. But I was actually referring to adding two inches to my height.”
“Oh. Well. My mistake.” She was grinning at him. “Couldn’t you find a big silver belt buckle? Maybe in the shape of a cow’s head?’
“Ha. Ha. Keep it up. I’m tough.”
“Isn’t this a little early for the 1896?”
“Yes, but I figured we’d eat first. Are you hungry?”
“Of course. Are you going to wear the hat in the restaurant too?”
“I can’t believe you don’t like my hat. I’m crushed. Really. The girl who sold it to me told me it made me look sexy.’
“Michael, if you looked any sexier, we’d never get out of bed.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You look great, by the way.”
She smiled. She was wearing a denim skirt and a red sleeveless tee shirt, with an oversized black linen shirt as a jacket. “Thank you. If I had known we were playing dress-up, I’d have worn my fringed leather jacket.”
“You have a fringed leather jacket?”
“Since high school. It’s older than you are.”
“Oh.”
The 1896 Club was an old mansion that had been built in the twenties. The address was 1896 Main Street, and since the mid-seventies it had been a known primarily for the blues bands that came through on their way to the Big Apple. The owner, Bobby St. John, was an aging hippie who was on a first name basis with some world class musicians. NinetySeven had played there often, before they made it big.
It was almost nine by the time Michael and Diane got there, and there was already a small crowd gathered on the front porch. Michael was ignored as he made his way to the front table, and as he paid their way in he asked if Bobby was around. The bouncer had been leaning up against the wall. He was big, over six feet tall, heavy and brutish. At Michael’s question, he walked over and stood beside him, looming. He glared at Michael.
“Bobby who?”
Michael looked up at him. “Bobby who signs your paycheck,” he said patiently.
“How the f*ck do you know Bobby?”
Michael looked at Diane. Her eyes were big and dark. He carefully put his wallet into his back pocket. He looked back up.
“I know Bobby,” he said calmly. “I’ve played here before. Is he upstairs?”
The bouncer shrugged and took another step toward Michael. The people in line behind them were watching. Michael took Diane’s arm.
“Excuse me,” he said quietly. The bouncer glared, looked around at everyone, and stepped aside. Michael and Diane went inside.
The place was crowded, but most of the people were milling around. Michael made for a table off in a corner. As they sat down, he looked around.
“This is a good spot. Too close to the speakers and you’ll loose your hearing for a week. What do you want to drink?”
Diane was looking at him, still wide-eyed. “What was that all about?”
Michael shrugged. “It was about him being the size of Duluth and me being a small guy he thinks he can intimidate. What are you drinking?”
“But that was shitty. Why did he do that?”
“Because,” Michael said patiently. “He can do that. He’s big and tough and he can be as shitty as he wants to be, because he figures I can’t stop him. And he’s right. Drink?”
“But,” she began, then stopped.
“But what?” he asked.
“Does it bother you?”
“Yeah, it bothers me. But I figure I’ve made more money so far this year than he’ll make in his lifetime. A month ago I had lunch with Mick Jagger. I’m spending my Friday night with a lovely, gracious woman instead of standing guard at a nightclub. Now. What do you want to drink?”
“Just club soda.”
Michael stood up and turned as a short, stocky man with a long white pony-tail grabbed him from behind, growling, picking him up off the ground.
Michael grinned. “Hello, Bobby.”
Bobby St. John dropped Michael and gave him a loud kiss on the cheek. “When Jackie said some douche-bag in a cowboy hat was giving him a hard time, I figured it was you.”