'Ain't it funny how time slips away?' Cool thought to himself, as he drove south on the old familiar highway along the ocean side. 'Seems like just yesterday that I was giving thought to getting married myself and now there's about to be a whole rash of it going on.'
Dennis and Debbie, along with Gerald and Susan, Dennis' mother, were planning a huge wedding for high noon on New Years Day, 1994. The front foyer of the mansion was to serve as the nuptial gallery. The two couples would stand facing the front door and the huge entry room and balcony above would seat all those invited to witness the splendid event. Rita, Camille and the other girls were in a frenzy to make it a memorable event.
Cool was happy for his friends, but a little bothered to see his harem shrinking. Although, he was still getting more action than any one man could ever hope for. Rita, Camille and Ming were insatiable, Caroline was always horny and Bobby Sue, now pregnant, seemed to be more eager to play with him than ever before. He smiled to himself as he drove.
Today was the first time he had taken the old Nomad for a spin in several months. The shiny green wagon throbbed under him as he motored along the road to Daytona. Just for kicks, he shifted down into second gear and stomped the foot feed to the floorboard. The big Chevy mill sucked gas through all eight holes of the twin four-barreled carburetors and screamed forward. He slammed the floor shifter into third gear and drew a loud protest from the rear tires as they bit into the blacktop, and then another quick shift into fourth hurling the powerful hot rod at breakneck speed down the narrow road. Backing off, the twin exhaust pipes rattled loudly as the engine compression slowed the thundering vehicle to a sensible speed. Cool's heart raced in his chest. In the old days, you could hit a hundred fifteen, or better, and hold it for miles and miles. Now, there was a side road every few hundred yards and a happy highway patrolman lurking somewhere behind a tree waiting for you.
It had been months since the Cool One had wandered the pawnshops and he had the urge to spend some money. City pawn was the first stop on his list. The sweet old lady behind the wire cage was most helpful in directing him to the wall lined with hanging instruments. Nothing caught his eye so he thanked the aging proprietor and walked up the street a block to Blackie's Loan and Pawn. Blackie and Cool were old buddies and spent the next few minutes kicking around old times. Blackie then took him into the back room and showed him the good stuff.
Guitars were very much like women in Blackie's mind. It was never easy finding one you really liked. Cool had never had that problem, because he loved all women and guitars were the passion that had kept him sane throughout his sordid life. Blackie pulled a battered brown leather case from under the table against the back wall of his cluttered back room. He carelessly brushed a year or more of dust from the case and laid it up on the bench for Cool's inspection. Lifting the cover of the well-worn case, Cool exposed a gleaming Martin Dreadnaught guitar, dating back to the 1930's.
Hand-made in those days, the old hollow-bodied instrument was a rare piece. Cool lifted his foot up on a chair and cradled the fine wooden guitar on his knee. Forming an E-chord with the fingers of his left hand on the smooth rosewood neck, he picked the first few notes of Wildwood Flower.
Leaning back against the bench, folding his arms across his chest and smiling, Blackie lost himself in Cool's flawless picking. The sound was heaven to his ears. Cool had the gift of music that Blackie had struggled his whole life to create for himself and never achieved. His greatest joy in life was to hear his father's guitar played the way it should be.
"It's still the most perfect guitar I've ever played, Friend," Cool said. "The offer still stands."
"You know I can't sell it, Cool," Blackie said. "I promised the old man that I'd never sell it. But I never told him I wouldn't make it a gift to a friend. Take it with you. There's nobody ever made it sound the way you do."
"I can't do that, Blackie," Cool said. "It means too much to you."
"We're getting old, Chum," Blackie croaked. "'Sides, if you don't take it, it's subject to get stole. We've been hit three times in the last few months and they've missed her so far. Might not happen next time."
"How about if I just store it long term for you up at my place and you can come visit her any time you get the notion?" Cool asked.
"Fair enough," Blackie said. "Now, break out your cash and take a look at these old Fenders I got at a sale the other day."
Blackie showed Cool two old Stratocasters, a Telecaster, and a clean white Jaguar. He also had three Jazzmasters, in various conditions, and a Jazz Bass. Cool gave him forty-five hundred for the lot. He also bought three aging Gibson Les Paul's and a Birdland. Cool felt like the cat that had just eaten the canary.
"What say we close up and walk down to Fred's and see if we can get us a blowjob and a cold beer?" Blackie asked, after depositing the cash in his floor safe under the table in the back.
"Yes to both," Cool agreed and followed the grizzly dark haired man out the front door.
They walked the short distance to the waterfront bar and shouldered their way through the afternoon patrons to empty stools at the far end of the bar.
"Hey, Gretchen," Blackie howled up the bar to the barmaid. "Bring us a couple of cold Miller's and two doubles of that blackberry stuff."
Gretchen, obviously having had the pleasure of Blackie's company in the past, hooked two large shot glasses from the shelf with one hand, a bottle of D'Kuyper's Blackberry with the other and poured two doubles without stopping between them, dropped the bottle back in the rail and had two longneck Miller's out of the cooler and opened one-handed and on her way back down the bar in less than a minute.
"Impressive?" Blackie asked.
"Smooth as silk," Cool answered.
Gretchen made a great show of settling the ordered drinks carefully on napkins on the well worn bar top. The place was crowded, considering that it was just after noon. Most of the merry-makers were middle aged or older, and surely had very little else to do to while the hours away. Beach people were a race of their own. Cool had live on the water his whole life but had been sheltered on the estate. This was foreign ground for him and he was happy to be with his old friend from the pawnshop.
Half way down the bar, a busty blond with red painted lips and too much eye shadow sat slowly turning a highball glass on the white napkin on the bar. A long thin cigarette hung from her mouth. Cool watched as she stared into the drink on the bar. Two stools farther down, a tired woman with mousy brown hair and big eyes sat with a slender old gentleman wearing a suit and tie. He looked out of place. Cool watched as she got up and walked to the hall in the back of the barroom and disappeared through a beaded curtain. A sign over the door indicated she had gone to the rest rooms. The suit followed her after a minute or so. Five or six minutes later the man appeared and left the bar. The woman returned and took her place at the bar. She rummaged in her purse for a compact and her lipstick. She touched up the smear on her lips.
She glanced at Cool and smiled, shrugged her shoulders, snapped the compact shut and returned it to her bag. She picked up her drink and took a long pull, swirling the strong liquid in her mouth before swallowing it. The blond looked at her, then at Cool, then back into her drink. Score one for the old broad with the brown hair.
"That's Ramona," Blackie invaded Cool's concentration. "She and the blond are the regulars. The blond is Marty."
Marty held up her glass for a refill and was quickly attended to by Gretchen. A fresh smoke found it's way to her lips and Gretchen fired it with a lighter from her vest pocket.
Cool hadn't had any bar room sex in more years than he could remember. Debbie and Marie had been his first and he found the gritty floor of the toilet room in a bar to be an exciting place for getting it on. He motioned for Gretchen to take his money for Marty's drink.
Marty turned her head and raised an eyebrow when Gretchen pointed his way after returning Marty's glass. Cool nodded, but stayed on his stool. Protocol dictated that the man was supposed to move over to the woman when he wanted to make contact. Marie had taught Cool about games and he felt like playing; so he waited. Marty evidently worked a long shift so the drinks lasted her for a long time.
Cool turned to talk with Blackie for a minute and when he turned his attention back down the bar, Marty had abandoned her stool. The glass half full glass still sat on the bar. Cool glanced around the room, but the blond had vanished.
