“I hope you’re not going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself all night.” Luanne comes strutting out of her bedroom like it’s New York Fashion Week, wearing a pair of skin tight blue jeans and a tiny white tank-top.
“That’s what you’re wearing to work?” I ask, brows lifted. “It’s kind of a rough bar. Won’t those guys be all over you if you’re dressed like that?”
“It’s all about the tips, baby. Now, get your skinny butt off that sofa and into something sexy. You’re coming with me.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “I don’t think so.” I turn toward the TV and lift a forkful of spaghetti to my mouth, ignoring Luanne. Silly me. Luanne doesn’t get ignored.
She marches across space and plants herself in front of the set. “Come on now, I’m serious. You’ve got to get right back in the saddle and I’m going to make sure you do it.”
“I don’t feel like it tonight, okay? I just want to stay here and watch some bad reality television.”
“Listen, honey, there’s no worse or more interesting reality than down at The Cavern, so let’s get going. I put a sexy little outfit together for you on the bed.” Luanne, hands on her hips and foot tapping against the floor, refuses to move from her spot in front of the TV.
Luanne 1, Ellie 0.
The bar is full of raucous bikers and grizzly oil-riggers. I claim a stool at the end of the bar nearest to the door in case I need to make a quick getaway. It’s too dark inside to tell, but I’m pretty sure two of America’s Most Wanted are shooting pool in the back and the old guy next to me is dead. I haven’t seen him move once since I walked in and his tight grip on the shot glass in front of him may be the onset of rigor mortis. I gently poke him in the shoulder and hear him grunt a little. Thank God.
“Oh, don’t mind him, that’s just old Hart,” Luanne says, bringing me a beer and tying an apron around her waist. “He falls asleep after his third shot. Hart!” Luanne yells, leaning over the bar to get close to the old man’s right ear.
Hart jolts awake and snaps his head up, his grip on the glass steady. “Yeah, darlin’, I’ll take another,” he says, unaware that he had, moments before, been mistaken for a fresh corpse.
“Like hell you will,” says Luanne. “Hart, this is my friend, Ellie. Ellie, this dirty old rascal is Hart, the worst tipper in Cavern history.”
I smile at Hart who takes his time to look me over with murky, cataract eyes.
“Huh, doesn’t look like a friend of yours,” he says to Luanne.
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” she asks.
“It means that most of the friends I’ve seen you with look like a bunch o’ harlots. This one here looks like she ain’t never stepped foot in a place like this before.”
“Well, I guess that’s true enough, but you be nice to her anyway. She’s just getting over a break-up with her fella.”
“Is that right?” asks Hart. “Who would break up with a pretty little thing like you?”
I admit, even coming from the mouth of a seventy-plus year old man with naked lady tattoos on his forearms, the compliment feels good.
“Now, I said to be nice to her, not to hit on her,” Luanne scolds. “Don’t let him put his hands on you, Ellie. He’s a dirty old dog who can’t be trusted.” Luanne leaves us, sashaying her way down the bar, eliciting catcalls and offers of marriage as she goes.
“It’s nice to meet you, Hart.” I stick out my hand and shake his gnarled old grip which feels warm and comforting. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Every day for the past forty-two years.”
“Wow, that’s a long time. Do you mind if I ask why?”
Hart places his empty whiskey glass over a well-worn sweat ring on the bar and shakes his head slowly. “I like the peanuts.”
“Peanuts? For forty-two years?”
“Good peanuts.”
My psychic alarm bells twinge. This is about a woman. A woman that can keep a man coming back to a dirty, dark old bar day after day for the past forty-two years. I’m on the verge of telling Hart my theory when I notice some men walking through the door to my left. They certainly match the clientele of the bar—cowboy boots, blue jeans, and scruffy faces