Blue Bayou

This week's sentence was taken from Bruce Chatwin's 'The Songlines':

At the bar, a big man with a purple birthmark on his neck was methodically swilling Scotches through his rotted teeth, and talking to the police patrolman whom we had met the day before at Burnt Flat.

Blue Bayou

Taking a booth by the window, I eased my ass into the pink bucket seat, flicked open the wipe-clean menu and checked the room.

Chrome and plastic; neon beer lights; sizzle and clatter through the kitchen hatch; the short-order cook preparing to load the arteries of the half-dozen early-bird diners dotting the joint and coughing smoke into their newspapers.

Mackinson nodded in time with the ancient jukebox and smiled.
"Roy Orbison. Nice."

At the bar, a big man with a purple birthmark on his neck was methodically swilling Scotches through his rotted teeth, and talking to the police patrolman whom we had met the day before at Burnt Flat.

"Scotch for breakfast. That's gonna kill him."
I had to chuckle.
"Jeez, Mac. Keep it down."

The waitress glided over: pink gingham, name-tag: 'ARLENE', good legs.
She oozed class - of a sort I liked - from her mousy roots to her plastic boots.
Sepia-stained teeth and fingertips clashed with ‘Harem Nites’ lips and the kind of pink, sparkly nails and turquoise eyeshadow that little girls used.

She popped her gum and slapped her mouth at us a couple of times.
"Ready to order?"
I smiled. A regular trailer park princess. I wanted her so bad.

Mackinson friendly: "Two coffees, honey; two OJ, two specials; eggs over easy.
Do you have a payphone I can use?"

"End of the bar." she tilted her head and a sudden wave of bottle-blonde ponytail cascaded onto her shoulder. The blinds painted her in stripes of sunrise and I winced, watching her wiggle back across the room and wishing I'd come here under different circumstances.

"Mac." I glanced upward and he stopped scratching his head, heeding my warning. These wigs were getting itchy. I suppressed a grin; he looked kinda distinguished with grey hair, glasses and moustache.

“I’ll call him.”
As he rose I shook open the Post to distract myself from the ache of Arlene.
Jeez! Gas just hit 64¢ a gallon! One of these days we're gonna have to do something about those fuckin' Arabs.

On the phone to Bartleby, Mackinson watched the fat cop waddle out into the car park and mount his patrol bike. It was quite a balancing act.
When the engine noise receded he gave me the nod.

I got up and stretched. Mackinson was easing his pistol from his belt and checking the room for backup. I walked over to the big man at the bar. He glanced up and saw me.
Too late.
As he stiffened in shock I shot him twice in the face then once behind the ear when he fell.

"Done." Mackinson hung up the phone on Bartleby, yanked the wire from the wall and we sauntered out while the other diners were still struggling to get under their tables.

I took a last glance back at Arlene where she crouched, weeping behind the bar.
Shame.
We drove away with Mackinson humming Blue Bayou; Arlene's cheap perfume mingled with cordite on my breath.