The Pieces of My Self

29 - True North

NKUMBRA

Scat Town, 11 June 2174, Saturday

William Nkumbra liked the idea of returning to his favorite haunt. It had been, what? Maybe a year? He remembered visiting the True North Saloon after Knightly's death, following up on leads. It was a dive at the end of a strip mall in what locals called Scat Town—a poor white part of Covington where country music and locally brewed beer soothed lost souls. It was also a place steeped in bittersweet memories of love found and love lost.

The honky-tonk was framed by old-fashioned neon lights that buzzed like lusty male cicadas. A haze of smoke clouded the interior. The bouncer at the door blocked his entrance.

"Whites only," he said, breathing cheese and pepperoni. "You and the lady have to leave."

He watched Lillian roll her eyes, sweat glistening on her brow from the heat of the night. She silently mouthed words that resembled expletives.

Nkumbra slowly reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. "I think you should reconsider." He flashed a badge, hoping his official status would trump the 200 pounds of muscle filling the doorway.

The man tugged at a nose ring with a forefinger, then scratched under the armpit of a tight black T-shirt emblazoned with the words, Mom's Favorite.

"Hey Marge!" he yelled. "Com'ere!"

A woman who could well have been his mother, given her size and age, sauntered from her station behind the bar, a baseball bat in one hand, chest bulging behind a green True North apron.

"Before I grind this guy into dust—no disrespect to the lady—I need a second opinion."

The woman squinted at Nkumbra and Lillian through greasy round VR glasses, then smiled.

"Hello, Bill. It's been a while. Are you still looking for her? Lenore? There's a lotta water under that bridge. Maybe it's time to give up."

He glanced sideways toward Lillian. Marge nodded, as if in recognition.

"Let 'em in, Rudy. The guy's official, but he's mostly harmless. Their first drink's on me. Give 'em a backseat so we don't ruffle any feathers."

She pointed toward a table with the bat.

"Suits me," Nkumbra said. "Thanks."

He shrugged off catcalls as they entered, and felt the weight of a dozen staring eyes as they shuffled across an unlit dance floor, feet crunching on peanut shells that smelled of stale beer. The chords of rough and raunchy guitars vibrated through his body and made him feel the pain of country songsters who could half-sing.

Rudy steered them around a couple who slow-danced to a fast beat and seated them in a shadowy corner near an emergency exit, below a blinking purple sign for Bayou Teche Beer. The bouncer waved toward the bar and a male server hustled over.

Nkumbra ordered two King James Versions—a specialty whiskey drink.

Lillian eyed him from across the table. "I think you're telling me iced tea is not an option. Aren't you on duty?"

"It's my way of showing the usual rules don't apply here. There's also no surveillance." He stared into her eyes for a moment. They were nice eyes that hid a crusty personality.

"There goes my plan for staying sober."

He winked. "Relax and enjoy."

"Sure, if you think the stink of beer and body odor is relaxing."