Black Hornet
“We were all into cool those days: cool regards, cool threads and music, cool affairs. Hand-slapping, tribal handshakes and high fives hadn’t yet quite caught on.“You got it,” I told Sloe Eddie. “Sometimes low, other times high.”One night, ten years ago at least, Eddie had gone sailing on sloe gin fizzes and not hove back into port for almost a week; he’d earned the nickname for life.“You get high enough you’n see all the shit.”“So they tell me. Like we don’t see enough of it down here.”“Got tha...t right.”“You coming?”“Going. Two young ladies and a new bottle of Cutty waitin’ for me. Your man’s hot tonight, though.”I went on inside, sat at the end of the bar, and ordered a Jax.The club, like most of them, smelled of mildew, urine, beer, and edgy, cheap alcohol. Twenty or thirty years ago someone had scraped together enough money to buy the place, nailing down his piece of American dream, turning the gleam in his eye momentarily real. He’d hired a crew of workmen.MoreLess
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