The mighty backslide of scotch set him right. When he felt this way, Dibbs could understand the grunge of civilian life and even enjoy getting grungy with it.
Might as well get another one, Dibbs thought. Shifty's taking so damned long...how hard can it be to change a tire?

On the cramped, sweaty stage, she swayed her shapely hips side to side, led by the slowly seductive pump of a bass funk tune. She then whipped into a pirouette before straddling the chair waiting in a faded red spotlight. Her firm ivory flesh stabbed against the darkness, forming a luminescent line like the moon's horizon. Somewhere within the malaise of heated motion swirled to stillness, her bra had vanished. Of the near dozen people in the audience, some men hooted and hollered to every move the dancer made. Others sat transfixed as though to speak would be sacrilegious in the presence of this almost virginal diva. Along the bar towards the back wall a few other dancers smoked cigarettes and judged the act they would soon follow. "Look at her timing, will you? She knows exactly where her nipples will be each second."
"If I spun like that, I'm afraid that when I stopped, my boobs would keep going."
"I think I'd throw up."
"You know how she stays in top form? You'd think it was because she doesn't smoke. But if the truth be known, she drinks prune juice and meditates!"
"Makes you think, doesn't it."

Prune juice?, Dibbs puzzled, I would have guessed strawberries, something about her makes me taste strawberries.
He smirked into his glass and glanced around to size up the situation. Though these small town people amused him, he did not want to overlook any potential complications.

Three men looked like turnips dumped around a small circular table seeded with beer cans. They all wore jeans soiled with dirt, earthy sweat-stained t-shirts and straw hats like the ones worn by the migrant workers who picked green beans near the highway. Nothing the dancer did escaped notice of the straw-hatted turnips, jiggling and shaking as they hooted and drooled. "Eso eso. Estamos listos, mujer!!"

Others were hard to discern amidst the shadows, but the suits they wore shimmered of a sharply cut Italian design. They mumbled among themselves and took little interest in the sensuous swank of the stage.

One man sat alone three stools down from Dibbs. He looked like a Buddhist monk with his shaved head and saffron robe. He earnestly studied the dancer, sketching with meticulous control upon a large sheet of drawing paper taped to a board. Behind him, steam rose from a porcelain teapot perched as delicately as a dove upon the bar.
Dibbs turned his back to the stage and thumped his empty glass.

"Another?" The bartender made ready to grab the bottle of scotch.

"Yeah."

The bottle had only a spot of amber on the bottom, so she tossed the bottle in a garbage can. She pulled another bottle out from under the counter. Her left arm ended in a round bread roll of flesh just beneath the elbow. With her whole hand took the bottle and put it into the left, the fleshy stump pinning the bottle against her breast. Her right hand then unscrewed the cap. She then had to switch the bottle back to the grip of her right hand to begin pouring.

"Does the dancing always start this early?"

The bartender stopped pouring. "Sometimes. You're not a cop, are you? Because we have a license and all my girls are clean."

"Clean girls aren't as fun." Dibbs pointed to his glass. "Fill her up. All the way. I'm no cop." He became conscious of his clothes. Maybe he and Shifty should've paid more attention to small town fashions when preparing for this stage of operations. Looks mattered.

"I haven't seen you around before. Mostly we get regulars." She poured a double for Dibbs. Her smoke dried eyes told of long hours and perhaps revealed the toils and concerns of a single mother with not much to look forward to and no time to mope about it.

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pouch of her apron. "Strangers can spell trouble."

"I'm no dictionary but I pass through Aliento now and then. I haven't had the pleasure of stopping in this fine establishment before." He took a sip and looked back to the stage to gauge the progression of rosen ivory in the darkness..

"Where you from?"

"Just across the highway." Dibbs noticed his reflection in a square of mirror between all the colored bottles. His squinting brown eyes, thick nose and blunt chin made him look like a chunk of granite. He often hid behind his countenance; people thought him tougher than he felt. In this way he retained a safe distance between himself and the things of the world that scared him.

Dibbs gazed at his drink and thought of the truck. She has no way of knowing, no one can read me, and supposing they could, what would they do about it? I served my country, so it can serve me. Serves them right. Sometimes you have to deal, and I've got the upper hand. I got nothing worry about. Maybe Shifty was right, maybe I should get into cards, they got the casino here too.
The bartender set the bottle of scotch back against the mirror, covering Dibb's reflection. By then an atmosphere of smoke veiled the air. The bartender gazed out to the stage and puffed on her cigarette.

Daylight seeped into the club and was immediately eclipsed by an imposing shadow. The bar door shut, and the red lights fell across the shoulders broad as a brick wall. Everyone seemed to stop and look, even the dancer froze momentarily, her panties slid down to mid thigh. The door shut behind, and the massive silhouette transformed into a massive man. He walked over to Dibbs and took a seat. The dancer resumed her swaying of curved seduction, the migrant workers continued hooting , the sharp-suited men murmured to themselves and the monk returned to his drawing.

The muscular man seated himself next to Dibbs.

"What kept you, Shifty?"

"Serg--" Dibbs scowled and Shifty corrected himself,"--you left me to change the tire. I had to do all the work while you were having fun in this titty bar."

"It's alright. You're manly enough to change a tire by yourself." Shifty had arms as thick as roofbeams from having done more push-ups than any man on the base. According to some rumors, he once did more push-ups in a single day than he had the entire duration of boot camp because on that particular day he suffered from extreme flatulance while standing in formation. Even on the days when his constitution was contained, he often fidgeted and wiggled in formation, complaining of itchiness or nervousness. Hence the platoon called him Shifty, and all the sergeants sentenced him to an endless repetition of push-ups.

"I checked three other bars before I found you. We would have saved time if you'd have told me where you'd be from the start."

"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out sooner. When I saw Juicy Lucy's, I figured I had finally solved the mystery of your woman's occupation."

"Shut up, Dibbs."

The bartender put away several shot dripping wet glasses under the counter. She wiped the bar with a gray towel. "A drink for your friend?"

"Sure. Get him a beer."

"No, Dibbs, you know Lucy doesn't like it when I drink. She can always tell no matter how little I've had."

"That's because you always walk around so tense and guilty. Tell her you drank at Juicy Lucy's because you wanted to find out what she does during the day." Dibbs could see Shifty rubbing his big hands together, veins pressing up against the skin. Those mighty arms stirred like slowly waking beasts. They could be deadly if awakened to passionate anger.

"All right, get him a root beer. I swear, Shifty, even kindergarten boys enjoy more debauchery than you. You used to be halfway fun before you started looking at bedspread patterns with that woman."

"Lucy wouldn't like this place. She wouldn't be happy knowing I was here."

Lowering his voice, Dibbs said," Following her orders to the T, you'd think she was your superior. Well, let me tell you, Mamma Superior has enough of a past to make a whole convent blush."

"Everybody's got a past, but you can't seem to look past your own balls."
The monk looked up from his drawing and studied the dancer. He closed one eye and held the pencil at arm's length in her direction.

Dibbs thought, maybe we better move on, there's a lot of weird types here, they might be wondering like that bartender might be wondering and I'm wondering if the drink makes me sloppy ...the truck, someone might be looking....

Shifty thanked the bartender and took a sip of the root beer. "The thing is, I wish you'd leave Lucy out of this. I'm doing this for her, but leave her out of this. I don't like the way you talk about her. You know you can pull rank on me, but anyone else, I'd knock him down. If I had any sense, I'd let you find some other help. So far all we've done is waste time and wasted time over root beer and a strip tease won't put a down payment on a house."

You want your American dream, you think that new suburb is heaven, you may as well move to Aliento and rub elbows with these grime balls. You think you can make your life something, get a woman, get a house, get a lawn chair and lousy bean patch, then get out of the service. Get get get...Tired of being told what to do? You wouldn't know what to do if I didn't tell you. You think there's freedom, that it stands concealed in the woods like some old tree you'd like to climb. The Army's the most freedom a man can have, short of being in prison because you're free of being responsible for your own will, There's no tree of freedom and you're just a leaf infested with bugs munching away at you, you fool...

"You're perfectly right, Shifty. We've achieved nothing so far except hit a horny toad on the road and get a flat. Tell you what. Let's finish our drinks presently and get to work."

"What is it you gentlemen do?" asked the bartender.

"We try to earn a living that doesn't kill us slowly. Are you Juicy Lucy?"

"Gertrude."

"I was hoping to have a word and more with Juicy Lucy. Anyhow, we do commerce, mam." He sipped some scotch. "We're merchants really. We carry office supplies and such."

"There aren't many offices in Aliento, no stationery stores."

"There's that artist colony I heard about. Heck, maybe that Buddha dude is from there. Excuse me, friend," the monk looked up at Dibbs. Shifty started to fidget. "I noticed you were drawing. Can I trouble to ask what sort of art materials you use?"

Shifty pushed his half finished root beer onto the bar. "Dibbs, let's go."

"No no. Gertrude here wants to know what we do. So I'm giving her an example."

The monk looked at his pencil and pad. "I have been utilizing a 6B, and yet, it is as though mountains were no longer mountains. Perhaps by using a 4B pencil, I can gain control, moving beyond my delusions, such that mountains would once again be mountains."

"4B. I'll bet we carry those. Shifty, let's look to see if we've stocked that caliber when we get back to the truck."

Gertrude folded up the towel. "So you came out to Aliento to sell pencils?"

"Not just pencils."

"Let's go, Dibbs."

"Wait a second, Shifty. Miss Small Town bartender wants to know what two strangers are up to in Aliento. Isn't that it?"

"Maybe you've had too much to drink."

"You saying I can't hold my liquor?"

"We don't need any trouble here. I was only curious. Making conversation is all."

"Well, I didn't hear you conversing with sketch-book Buddha."

"He's here to draw. He comes in all the time. I mostly get regulars here. I can't help but notice visitors."

Dibbs gulped down the rest of his drink and patted Shifty on the shoulder. "Let's go."
They got up, and Dibbs turned to Gertrude. "Maybe you should get used to visitors. They bring in business and broaden your mind." He paused and then added, "By the way, we also carry shovels and hoes, which might interest those bean pickers over there."

Dibbs felt his face burn with pleasure. As a civilian, he could really unload, tell it like it is. She thinks I came all this way to sell a pencil, what the hell's a 4B? Monky must have a small one and came here hoping it B getting bigger than 4...

As they passed the monk, Dibbs looked at the drawing.

"With all the booty grabbing she's got hanging out up there, you only managed to draw her ankle? Will you look at that, Shifty? Mr. Monky man's been scribbling away for hours and only has an ankle to show for it."

"Quit giving him grief. It's one hell of an ankle."

"When you're planning to marry a nun, thinking of that ankle could give you something to jerk off to."

"You'd know more about that than me."

The monk smiled as the two men left and returned to his drawing, adding some shading to the Achilles tendon.

In the late afternoon, on the brink of dusk, a pack of teenagers clad in baggy pants and untucked shirts scrambled by and clambered into a long sedan convertible. The tires squealed, leaving a greasy scent of burnt rubber and then a silence interrupted by intervals of Juicy Lucy's sign flickering in red neon.

The truck looked like a large shoe box thrown across the street.

"See, you were parked right by Lucy's and it still took you all of half an hour to find the joint."

"I didn't notice it."

"How could you miss it?

"I don't know. You never said where you'd be waiting."

They crossed the street.

"I bet you liked it there. Doesn't hurt to look."

"Yeah, well, that's all you ever do, Sergeant Dibbs."

"Screw---hey! The door--" Dibbs ran to the back of the truck; the rolling door was partially opened at the bottom. He threw the door all the way up and jumped inside.

"Damn!! Did you see those punk ass kids?"

Shifty got inside. "They took off in that hanging car."

Dibbs clenched his fists and struck the air. "Punks. I should've figured...they looked like they got away with murder with their slimy hair and zits. Damn!"

Shifty and Dibbs looked through the wooden crates. The dark green wool blankets had been tossed aside. Only one of the crates had been opened---smashed from the top. Dibbs picked through the debris.

"Looks like they got half the forty-fives and a bunch of clips."

Shifty checked the rest of the crates.

"Everything else is here. That's all they got."

"That's all they had time for. If I had drunk another round--" Dibbs kicked at the broken bits of wood and jumped out of the back. "Come on."
Shifty hopped out and Dibbs pulled the door down. They climbed inside the cab and sat in silence.

This is all gone wrong, like a bad jerk off...What were you thinking, drinking, didn't the service teach you anything? This is worse than being in a mine field and sleep-walking into a crossfire ambush...caught with your pants down...
Horace, what are you doing?
Nothing, mother, just changing my pants...
...defiling the Lord's temple, touching your...
Can you ever be a man?
Listen you pansies, sergeant Dibbs will drill you into the ground, he will make every one of you snot-nosed boys into men who make their country safe and their mothers proud...
When will you be..

"Can we still deliver what we have?"

"Damn forty-fives. We'd be ripping them off. I wish I could find those punks. There's just no time now."

"Maybe they won't notice."

"Of course they'll notice. Wouldn't you? They're expecting, among other things, a crate of forty-fives."

"Let's tell them we're just fresh out of pistols right now and they'll have to be happy with shot guns."

"No way. They won't deal." Dibbs thought about the missing guns. "We have to hope we can get out of there before they open everything up. We're going to go with what we have and hope they don't catch on right away. We go, we deal, we say nothing about fourty-fives."

"It's risky."

"It's more risky if we don't get rid of these guns. You want a court marshall? And then do you want your country to call you a felon? We have to dump these guns. They're chains on our ankles as long as we hold on to them. Besides, once we swap them for the dope, it'll be easy. We can hide the stuff easy and triple our money when the time's right. So let's go."

Shifty sat still behind the wheel.

"Go NOW! That's an order!"

A man in a gray suit. He's the one tonight--fat tie--big belly. He walks in with a tall man--thick, bushy sideburns. Looking around--walking the walls--never been to Juicy Lucy's. Maybe new in Aliento.

I check my watch--fifteen to ten. The tittied dancer with the black hair is still sliding her ass over the rail in somebody's face.

I was letting fried eggs brown for dinner when the phone rang. Marion.

"Jerry, hi, how've you been?"

"Fine." . . . "Usual." . . . "You know."

"Do you feel like coming by tonight? I could use some extra."

I wanted sleep. I thought liquor. I thought smoke. Marion spinning her long straight hair. Letting it whip around as they all sat and yelled. I wanted a long sleep waking up forgetting whatever I thought just before I lay down.

"The same game?" I said.

"You got it, dear."

"Okay, sure, yeah."

"Great." A little surprised. "I'm on around ten."

"I'll be there, Marion."

The gray suit has a seat across the stage from me. Plenty of space tonight. Old wrinkles with his pipe, he's always here--lips tight, puffing away. Two farmboys the way farmboys always are. Trying hard to look like they know what they're doing here--looking like they don't belong anywhere at all.

Gray suit's tall friend is at the bar. I recognize the bartender, but I don't remember her name. Her good arm is pushing a rag over beer spills when the tall man pulls something like a picture or a card from his wallet and shows it to her. She looks at it for a while, frowns a little more like she's thinking something over, hands it back and says something.

The black-haired dancer is picking her clothes and money off the floor and I clap with everyone else. Tall man sits next to gray suit tapping a cigarette on its box. They talk. I watch the sharp creases under the dancer's bare behind as she hops off to the curtain on spike heels.

Should be Marion's turn now. One song ends and another starts up. Same beat. I asked her once and she told me they have boxes of tapes in the back with nothing but dance music. No one really chooses what to dance to.

I was in a bar with bourbon that time. Voices filled the space around me. I looked now and then but mostly just saw the long mirror and the bottles lined up sweet and tall.

She came up, leaned on the bar and tapped ash into a tray. Hair in a tight ponytail and huge round earrings. Bartender worked on her cocktail--a guy tried to talk to her--she just turned away from him, saw me and smiled.

She steps in fake fur down to her knees while the farmboys get really excited. She doesn't look at me, probably tries not to. But she sees the gray suit as I'm looking at the gray suit and she sees it the way I do.

One light spins around the floor but the others just hang there lighting bright cones where Marion dances in black boots. Fur coat slides off, drops and curls in a cat shape. One farmboy slaps the steel rail, happy seeing Marion in white lace and panties. His money's on the edge of the stage. He's heel-kicking the shaft of his stool in time to the music.

No stripper does the nobody smile better than Marion. Clean white teeth and lips oil red telling you you paid for this and nothing but your money parts my lips this way.

She squats down before farmboy shaking breasts--thighs smooth and strong--quick work at the clasp on her back--a thrown bra and tits perched on the rail, farmboy turning red. The money's in her hand. Farmboy's friend slaps him on the back when she's gone.

No one knew me. I didn't know myself except for bourbon. The sharp something that's still full and a bit sweet, shivering in the glass. Marion--dark eyes, like I'm someone she knows.

"So what do you do?" she said.

"I just wait tables at Charcoal Chuck's. How about you?"

"Have you been to Juicy Lucy's?"

"Once. A while ago."

"Come by again. You might see me." Mouth on a plastic straw. Icy pink daiquiri.

Gray suit has a five-dollar bill on the stage. Better than I thought. I have fives in my pocket, folded and separated. Marion shakes hips in front of gray suit. Tall man's eyes from her legs to her face. She kicks the five to center stage and comes across to me where the panties slip down in quick slinky twists. Marion shaved and pink with a smile. I'm smiling back and nobody gets what I'm smiling about. No wink. Someone could see a wink. She takes my five off the stage and leaves to rub against the brass pole skewering stage and ceiling.

Gray suit leans back like he wishes he had a seat back to rest against. Tall man with his cigarette. One farmboy gets beers for him and his buddy. Wrinkles with the pipe puts a little money out. He'll do that once a night--probably feels like he owes them a little something.

"Close yet?" This was spoken with a quick exhale in her ear. Small pink lobes turning into hard white ridge holding back plait of hair.

"No. It's okay. I want to feel you."

Closing my eyes--squeezing her sides--feeling down to hips--my own sharp bones against hers. Just needing that, being able to search with my fingers the air between us collapsing, how hips move. My mouth open on her neck. Then I didn't feel anything except pushing like trying to crawl up inside of her. Breathing my own breath off of the skin of her neck.

Her palms rubbed my back. "You're really warm now," she said.

Window opened. Cold February air. Cigarettes.

Gray suit with more money on the table. I've seen all of Marion's moves. The kicks. Ass wiggles. Spins around the pole. Some of them can't even do that. She lets every one think she's dancing just for him, showing just so he can see. She doesn't dance for anyone.

She doesn't look and she doesn't smile at gray suit when she bends over, let's him view her from behind. And she doesn't stay long. The money's in her pile, she's back for my five, rubbing close against the rail for me.

I look around quick. The bouncer's leaning against the bar, arms folded. Bartender wiping highball glasses dry. If they ever noticed they never cared.

Through Marion's parted legs I can see the gray suit. His eyes catch mine for a moment and he doesn't move. Sit still and suffer with it, old man. This is how it really is. With money--with women. Marion keeps smiling.

The game. The first time.

Never saw her dance before. Big greedy lips and hairy arms--staring at her pussy, and I wanted to laugh because they didn't know anything about it. Not like I did.

We didn't plan it. I put down a dollar bill just for fun and she danced a great show. The guy from the casino--short in a pale blue collar shirt--got jealous and kept offering more money to get the same performance she gave me.

I n the back later. "That was great," she said. "Thanks. The little troll never puts out that much."

"Sure, no problem. You want to do something when you're off tonight?"

"Like what?"

I shrugged. "Come over my place."

"No, it's kind of been a long day. I just want to turn in early."

Bourbon speaks better to you. Slips down your throat easier and when the good, good feeling starts to hum it whispers to you, saying stay away, hold that chair and keep quiet.

She slights him for the third time. Marion takes gray suit's ten-spot and dances off. He gets up and straightens his coat. I turn away and let him float hazy gray in the corner of my eye. Tall man follows. When I turn around the door's already swinging closed.

Marion dances a while longer. Then she's away, wrapping money and lace together, trailing fake fur into the curtain.

One cigarette in my shirt pocket--for counting the time. I light up when the next dancer comes on. Short-haired blond. Lynette, I think they call her.

When the cigarette's down to the butt I leave. Night outside is too cold for the warm daytime standing on both sides of it. Aliento hills flat and purple on blue-black sky. Juicy Lucy's red neon buzzes overhead.

Around the building. Thump-thump of music muted low stripped to bass vibrating through the wall. In the alley, the back door's closed. The dumpster behind the butcher shop waits for the flies in the morning. I stand by the door.

"Here's your fifteen," she said, counting fives in slim fingers. "Do you want a cut of the rest?"

"No thanks."

April--spring but cold--my hands in jacket pockets--stuffing money.

"Well, why don't you let me buy you a drink later tonight."

"Sure. That sounds good."

"Just a drink, though, okay? Then I'll go home." Her look was sharp and serious.

"Okay. So what happened. We got along really well, remember?"

Zipping her purse closed--looking down the alley. "Jerry, understand, I don't just latch onto guys. I'm not like that."

"That shouldn't stop us from being together now and then. I think we're good together."

A long wait while I see the walls and its little cracks.

"I'll see you at Habenera in a while. Don't think about it too much, okay?" she said.

You think that back alleys always have a single stink. You think only night can bring a cold that burrows into your bones. You think nothing feels like a woman pressed against you. You think you can hold that small moment inside and feel around it wherever you are.

And I think too much like I always do. Lynette's music ends.

Footsteps around the corner. Maybe Marion coming from the front but it shouldn't be her.

Gray suit and tall man. Gray suit's eyebrows big and black in the dark. "Hey kid, what's going on?"

I take my hands out of my pockets. "Nothing. Just waiting for a friend."

"Really," says tall man. And he's moving around so he's on one side of me and gray suit's on the other.

"You're meeting that bitch of yours, yes? She's dividing the money with you?"

I shrug. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Gray suit looks at his friend. "He doesn't know anything. Not about shit nor anything else." He stares at the ground like there's something worth staring at. "That's a cheap hustle, you know." Looks at me. "It's not worth your time. It's not worth my time."

Back door opening. Music noise bolder--and light. Marion in jeans and t-shirt. Same boots. Purse hanging over shoulder. I don't think she sees any of us before tall man pushes the door out of her hand and makes it close. She looks at him. Then at me.

"Here she is," says gray suit.

"What's going on. Jerry?"

"I want a refund, honey pot." Gray suit gets closer. Tall man stands blocking the door.

"That's not how it works," she says. "You pay your money and you get your show. I don't give refunds." I can see her fingers tightening around the purse strap.

Gray suit spreads his arms, like he's trying to be reasonable. "But there must be some match between what you pay and what you get. Your little friend paid much less than I did, but I think he received a lot more."

She smiles, making it obvious that she's worried. "Hey, I'm sorry, that's just how it is."

"Come on, why even bother." I look at gray suit, somehow hoping he might agree. He looks at tall man. No nod, no gesture, but tall man's on me, pushing once with long arms and flat, solid hands.

I stumble back against the wall and I don't do anything because it doesn't make sense that other bodies floating around you in voices could break against you so easily. And in that thought his fist is in my stomach. A pain that doesn't begin until I hit the ground drops me down along the wall. The pain is a red mask in my eyes and my breath is something trapped in the air before me that I can't suck back in.

When I can see I see pairs of shoes. Gray suit's voice. "What do you want to say now?"

Cold ground--my arms on my stomach--not speaking, just coughing. "Give them the money, Marion, just give it."

This is her face in focus now. Lips slightly parted. Small teeth. If she had ever smiled at me, those lips left the memory of it far behind. She unzips her purse and puts her fingers in. "Thirty. I think thirty, right?"

I push on the ground and use the wall to help me up. Gray suit takes a fold of bills from her and counts them quickly, nodding.

I'm standing up--deep pit of my stomach still in pain. Gray suit holds the money up. "This isn't what I care about, you know. Types like you just need to learn."

Tall man moves aside when the door starts to swing open. Blond Lynette in a long nylon jacket to her thighs. Everyone's looking at her so she has to say something. "Just wanted some fresh air. Something going on here?"

Gray suit slips the money in his coat pocket and starts walking away. Tall man follows him around the corner. Lynette sees me and looks at Marion. My hair was in the dirt. "Marion?" she says.

Marion zips up her purse. She seems to see everything except me, who doesn't say anything. "Everything's all right," says Marion. She opens the door and steps inside.

Lynette doesn't need cool air anymore. She knows I'm something to get away from and follows Marion. The door closes off light and music.

Something colder shivers through me. Starts at my stomach and ends at my neck. The feeling of not being a man like someone sharing smoke with a woman in the cooling time, her bare legs weaved with my bare legs.

I know I can walk so I make my way past the dumpster and its smells, around Juicy Lucy's other corner. My stomach feels like it'll still be hurting in the morning.