Page 23 of The Witching Hours

“That I’m glad we’re past that truck,” he lied. In truth, he’d been silently calling himself an idiot for leaving the hard top behind. He knew there was no rain forecasted so he thought it was safe to go topless. He hadn’t counted on being out past dark. He was thinking they could stop for some greasy food at one of those places that sold sweatshirts with the café name on the front. At least Jeanette would be warmer on the ride home.

By the time they’d left the truck behind they were already at the Lafitte wilds.

“Sun’s lower.”

“I noticed.”

“You wanna get a quick bite and head back?”

“Yep.”

“Find us a place.”

She pulled out her phone to look for something close that didn’t have a thousand one-star reviews.

“Local spot. Live music on weekends. It says they have the best onion rings in the universe.”

“I’ll accept that challenge if you will.”

“I’m in. Turn left in a quarter mile.”

As Tristan slowed to turn in, he said, “Their problem is that nobody can find the place in the dark.”

Jeanette laughed because it was a rundown tavern that had bought up half the Las Vegas neon boneyard. “Pretty sure it can be seen from space.”

“Well, maybe all the lights will discourage anybody from thinking about keying the car.” They pulled into the parking lotthat was half gravel, half shell and crunched their way to a spot up front.

“Right,” she said as she was getting out. “And if they can’t see it, the music’s loud enough to find it blindfolded.” It was loud, not just because of the music on the inside. The establishment had also been thoughtful enough to provide exterior speakers pointed outward toward the parking lot.

“Come on. You love adventures.”

She bit her lower lip in a noncommittal way.

When the two of them stepped inside, the dozen or so customers stopped what they were doing to turn and give them a once over. It was like Tristan and Jeanette were giving off alien signals that could only be heard by bats and locals.

The three-piece band was wearing jeans with random rips, Hawaiian shirts and cowboy hats while they played their own mashup of Southern rock and Western swing. A little like Stevie Ray Vaughan, but nowhere close to that level of expertise. The graphic on the bass drum read ‘Men in Black’ and featured a cartoon guy in dreads and sunglasses. It made no sense, but southern Louisiana doesn’t demand sense.

A well-nourished waitperson with pink hair and too many dangles on her dangly earrings approached with a cautious smile. “You here for dinner? Or just a beer.”

“Dinner,” Tristan said. “We heard about the onion rings.”

That got a more genuine smile from her. “It’s God’s own truth they don’t come better. Over here.” She grabbed two menus in plastic folders that looked like they hadn’t been updated for decades and started in the direction of a bank of booths against the wall. “Booth ok?”

“Perfect,” Jeanette said.

“You got lucky. It’s steak night which means lots of hungry bikers. And they like the seats by the wall.”

“Oh. Um-hum,” Jeanette said. “Does that mean we should have steak?”

“No, darlin’,” the woman said over her shoulder as she walked. “Not unless you want to stand around out back and cook it yourself.”

“Oh. Um. No. I’d rather leave the cooking to somebody who’s better at it.”

As they slid into either side of a booth covered in olive-colored vinyl, the woman said, “I’m Eugenie. What’re ya havin’ to drink?”

“Um,” Jeanette began, “Do you have Diet Coke in a can? Or bottle?” Jeanette thought she’d leapfrog one big hurdle if she didn’t drink out of a glass, or a plastic facsimile of a glass.

“Can,” Eugenie said.

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