Page 42 of Thug

“Most of the bars we hang out in have food,” I said. “So that’s what they’re all used to.”

“Believe me, that’s what I’ve been wanting to do since I bought this place. I couldn’t afford it. Heck, paying my rent has been hit and miss. Until now.”

I slid my empty beer bottle across the bar. “Glad we could be of assistance.”

Can’t You See, by the Marshall Tucker Band began to play. The song was a southern rock ballad about a man who needed to escape life’s clutches after losing a woman he’d fallen in love with. Although it was a song I generally enjoyed, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Not in Gray’s presence, anyway. Even so, I was fascinated that our musical tastes aligned.

“Did your jukebox come with all those records?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said with a smile. “I bought each one of them, individually. Printed all the little cards, too. Took me months to find them all.”

I looked at her with slight disbelief in my eyes. “Why’s a girl your age listening to 1960’s and early 1970’s rock music?”

She nodded toward my foot. “Why’s a guy your age tapping his foot and bobbing his head to the same music?”

I didn’t realize I was doing it, but it wasn’t a surprise. “I grew up listening to this stuff,” I admitted. “We had a record player and played music like this all the time.”

“Same thing with me,” she said. “I grew up listening to old school rock music. My dad loved listening to a good part of what’s in that jukebox. The songs got stuck in my head before I was old enough to know who sang them. The rest of what’s in there are my personal favorites, they’re just from the same era.”

“He must be proud of you,” I said. “Having this bar and loading that jukebox with all his favorites.”

“Wouldn’t know,” she spat.

Her demeanor did a 180-degree turn in an instant. Obviously, she and her father didn’t have a good relationship with one another. I couldn’t believe she didn’t speak to him about the bar or mention the jukebox. “You haven’t told him about—”

“I haven’t talked to him in almost ten years,” she said as if it were no big deal.

A wave of relief washed over me. I hated to think she had parents and didn’t have a healthy relationship with them, but I was relieved that her father wouldn’t simply show up in the bar one day out of the blue.

“Too bad you two don’t get along,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed in opposition. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “A child ought to have a relationship with their parents, if at all possible.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Unless those parents are lying, stealing, unreliable, unfaithful pieces of shit.”

It was time for me to change the subject back to music. “The other night I heard the Rolling Stones. 100 Years Ago, and Heartbreaker. Goat’s Head Soup has got to be one of my favorite albums.”

“Mine, too,” she said with a smile. “Mick looks like Katharine Hepburn on the cover.”

I tilted my head toward the jukebox. “That song a minute ago? Can’t You See? That’s another one. I love that song.”

She laughed. “My dad hated it. I love it. Not because he hated it, but because I love the lyrics. The flute in the beginning and the end are awesome, too.”

“What about 30 Days in the Hole?” I asked.

“Pfft.” She waved her hand in my direction. “One of the best songs ever written or performed. Steve Marriott’s voice is incredible. The best thing about it is that the rhythm is different in each of the three verses. In the first verse, there’s 16th notes on the hi-hat, and a standard boom-chick rock beat between bass and snare. In the second verse? Swung 8th notes on the shaker, with a jungle type beat on the toms, and cymbal splashes. Then, the third verse has quarter notes on the hi-hat and a boom-boom-chick rock beat on the bass and snare. Who does that? Humble Pie, that’s who. The second-best thing about it is that it’s about getting busted for having the equivalent of a joint and spending 30 days in jail for it. Marriott thought that was ridiculous. One of his friends got thrown in jail, and he wrote that song in protest. Here we are fifty years later and nothing’s changed. Law enforcement is still overzealous, and the punishment rarely fits the crime.”

I studied her for a moment. I pushed myself away from the bar and faced the crowd. “Bar’s closed, fellas,” I shouted. “Tonight’s drinks are on me.”

“There’s almost two hours before closing time,” Gray said. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t need everyone hovering over me while I’m trying to talk,” I said. “Drives me fucking nuts.”

She gave me a funny look. “Nobody’s hovering over you.”

“They damned sure won’t be now, will they?”