The Parachute Plant

But there were no go-go girls featured, no XXX shows. Just a country tavern. Why not give the boys a treat? And where else would she expect to meet her Marlboro Man? She put out the cigarette and locked the pack and her purse in the glove box. Night lights came on as she boldly walked toward the building. She’d back out, though, if there were no women inside.

She saw three or four women in the candle-lit booths. The predominance of men didn’t bother her, nor the lull in conversation as she strolled to the bar. The juke box switched to Loretta’s "Honky Tonk Girl." Within a minute or two, a biker with no sleeves and a bandanna headband asked her to dance. "Not now," she said; "I need something to drink first." He failed to take the hint and wandered off. There was a twenty-dollar bill in the car, but she wouldn’t spend it unless she had to. She sat down on a torn leather bar stool and waited.

The bartender or innkeeper stopped talking to glance at her. He had heavy eyes, a straight nose, an imperious look. He wore his hair tied back, his beard short. Her first impression was mixed. He seemed masculine, macho, and would show no mercy for a dumb broad. She could handle that. What troubled her was the mirthless line of his mouth, the contempt he might feel for a woman he judged to be loose.

Approaching, he asked, "What can I do for you?" No smile.

"It’s warm tonight. I could use a glass of water."

"Wouldn’t you like something stronger? I make a great margarita."

"Afraid I couldn’t afford it unless I went to the car for my purse. Just water will be fine." She gave him a smile, seeking one in return.

"For gorgeous new customers, drinks are on the house."

"In that case, pardner, I’ll have one of your margaritas. Is this your place?"

"That’s right. I’m Gil Black."

"I’m Nola."

While making the drink, he said, "I haven’t seen you before."

"I’ve been in jail."

He may have lost a beat before replying, "Drug rap?"

"Murder."

Now he smiled, showing white teeth and a flash of gold. Placing the drink before her, he said, "Okay, I’m with you. You’re one of the Parachute Three who murdered Loomis."

"I did not."

"Well, you should have." He excused himself to wait on a customer. Returning, he placed both hands on the bar and said, "Anything else I can do for you, pretty lady? Say yes."

"Perhaps. Maybe you could tell me how a girl could make a few extra bucks around here." She had decided to play it by ear and try to psyche him as she went along.

"Are you a waitress?"

"No...and I don’t sing or strip."

"Can you tend bar, sweep the floor, bounce drunks?"

She was pleased at the hint of a sense of humor, if only in its lowest form: teasing. "I’m afraid my talents lie in another direction."

At that moment someone touched her arm and said, "Dance?"

"Why not, cowboy?" The juke was starting Haley’s "Rock Around the Clock," and the tall, angular young man slipped right into jive. She liked the way he made her do most of the moving. He twirled her, broke away, mooched back in. This logger was a pro! Now he thrust her between his legs, back out, high in the air. Their audience got a flash of the black panties. Amid scattered applause, he returned her to the bar and offered to buy her a drink.

"Maybe later," she said. He didn’t look like he would pay for sex, and she didn’t want to be pinned down. He shrugged and returned to his companions. Through intuition alone, she foresaw an erotic adventure with Gil Black.