Return to Oakpin(104)

            “Not really,” he said. “Some pop. I’ll be your designated son.”

            “Good.” She put her empty wineglass on the table. “I am. Drinking. Where’s that waitress?” The three guys in red T-shirts at the next table all turned and checked her out, her black satin western shirt. “Hello to you,” one said.

            “Where you guys from?” she asked them.

            “Gillette.” They were all about thirty, with short hair and sideburns. “We’re the Coyotes, pretty lady, the band to root for if you want to know. You could even sit at our table. We encourage groupies.” The speaker, a thin young guy with a goatee, waved a finger at the two full pitchers. “In fact, we look after our true fans without worrying about the expense. We are dedicated to them hoof, hide, and bone.”

            “Oh, shit,” Marci flirted back. “And I’m already with a band, darn it.”

            “You won’t be for long.”

            There was a drumroll, and Bobby Peralta came on the microphone: “Hey, everybody, welcome to the Pronghorn Bar and Grill, the only four-star establishment in Wyoming and North and South Dakota. Tonight, as you all know, we are happy to host the Pronghorn Battle of the Bands!” There was a roar and clapping and ragged whistles until Bobby held up his hands. In one he had pillowcase full of pool balls. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will now select the order for the Pronghorn Battle of the Bands!” Another upheaval, screaming and a howl or two, followed. Bobby then had a representative from each band reach into the bag and pull out a ball.

            “What’d he get?” Frank said. “Is it solid or stripe?”

            Craig, like everyone else on the stage, was holding his choice high over his head in two fingers. The noise was impenetrable.

            “Is it the eight ball? Tell me it’s the goddamned eight ball.”

            “It’s the nine,” Mason leaned forward and said loudly. “We’re late in the lineup.”

            “We should have got you shirts that matched,” Marci said to Frank.

            “What?”

            “We should have got you shirts that matched!” she yelled. One of the red shirts at the next table stood and bent to Marci. “What’d you draw?”

            “Nine,” she said.

            “It’s not too late to drop out,” he toasted them with his glass of beer.

            “You’re drunk,” she told him.

            “It’s the only way. We’re the Coyotes, and we will not perform unless inebriated.”

            “Good luck,” Mason told the man.

            “Well, yeah,” the guy said thoughtfully. “But we’re still going to kick your ass and take this girl here as a trophy. Please excuse my frankness.”

            Bobby Peralta named the bands, each to an explosion, sometimes a small explosion, from some quarter of the jammed barroom. Then he introduced the judges: a deejay from Jackson Hole, the owner of a record store in Laramie, and his own wife, Mrs. Annette Peralta, a happy blond woman in a full turquoise body suit. He tried to say something about the categories they’d be judging on, but no one could hear, and then he showed the three trophies, which brought a roar, general yelling, and applause. The dance floor was cleared or almost cleared, and for a few minutes there was relative quiet in the Pronghorn, as snow settled on the arched tar roof and waitresses with trays of drinks worked the room.

            Frank leaned over to Larry and said, “Are we ready for this?”

            Larry nodded. “Not really. But it’s two songs. We’re tight. Jimmy said to let it rip. I have a feeling this is our last gig forevermore. Whether we know what we’re doing or not, let it rip.”