I used to carry a gun in a holster, and then I went to England and had to loose it for awhile. Never picked one back up when I got back to the States. Spent a whole summer in Kentucky, no gun. Startin to wish I had one now. Ol' Fuckhead's been askin' about me again: who I been with, what we been talking about. And now I got this idiot in my face. This god damn bar is cold and dark as all hell, and really startin to piss me off. Like to kill Amet for ever patronizing this place to begin with. I wanta find him, I gotta come here. Never much understood why anyone'd want to pretend they was dead, let alone believe it. Amet's got a sick sense of humor. Real sick.
"You look familyah, dahlin," she drawls out, loud enough to be heard over the music. Her sweet breath rasps my nose. She's got a face plastered white and she spits when she talks on account've her fangs. She tips her head to one side, lookin at me, and I ain't surprised to see that her hair don't move.
"What's yo name? I'm Celestial Raven."
"Sure y'are. I'm waiting fo someone, you doan' mine."
She scoots up to set on my table. "Least you can do is tell a lady yo' name… Shit!" Her honey-smooth voice roughens as she inspects her leg, her fishnet nylons snagged on a rough edge of the table. She got her ass in front've me, shrink-wrapped in cheap red rayon, blockin' my view.
"Git off my table. You raised by wolves or somethin?"
"Dammit, what's yo name?"
She's pretty insistent, and it don't much matter to me, so I tell her. "Evzen Vitale."
Her eyes go all wide, so I can see the whites real good, and she looks down at my guitar case almost scared.
"Yo daddy Lorenzo? Black Vitale?"
"Lorenzo's my middle name, but I ain't never called that sumbitch daddy."
"Sweet merciful Jesus, you are his kid."
She gets off my table real quick and bumps into one the other tables jammed in all close. People are startin to look at us. I don't like the attention-it's dim here, hard to see properly, and the floor's all clogged with tables and chairs and a herd of people dancing to the lousy music. I scoot my guitar case closer to me, over the rough pine floor, feel its pebbly surface. Everything in me says git out, go, leave this crazy bitch in this crazy bar, leave this whole fuckin town. Hole up someplace quiet. Or better yet, get goin agin. Keep movin and don't stop, just pause a bit like in Kentucky, or that year in France. That's the way to do it; just git up and out and go.
No. Can't do that. Promised Teta Kathleen I'd stay. Dunno why I did something that stupid, but she ain't never asked nothin of me before. I run my fingers down the smooth handle of my case and eye that woman, still backin' away. Might's well set things straight.
"Lorenzo Vitale ain't nothin to do with me, and don't fo'get that. I was brung up by Amet Maliche' and he's the only one I ever called daddy."
I reach into my jacket pocket for my smokes, pull out a pack of camels. Her face's gone all grey under her make-up, I can see it around her eyes, and she swallows hard. I shake a cigarette loose and slide it home, between my lips, waiting. She reaches over all wobbly with a silver zippo and flicks it on, lighting me. Guess his name's still got the ol' power behind it. Good enough for me.