LADIES 80'S NIGHT
"You think anyone saw us?" Kavi's guts felt like Mount Vesuvius. She, Harris and Arthur pushed through glass double-doors into Rainbow lanes. Their ammonia and sulfur stink paired nicely with bowling alley's usual eau de butt funk.
"We're pretty hard to miss." Harris picked at the rubble peppering his olive jumpsuit. "We look like a Devo cover band."
To their left, rainbow liquor bottles swam like tropical fish behind the bar. Round top tables dotted the 1000 square feet, a parquet dance floor in the far right. Flat panel TVs hung throughout, playing ESPN and music videos. The bowling alley opened beyond: empty, lightless lanes and a few hardcores.
A dozen or so men peppered the bar, ties clawed from necks, sweaters folded over chair backs and suits rumpled. The few women, glamazon tall, sipped Technicolor drinks and laughed loud vibrato. As is the unspoken rule in such dives, no one paid the new arrivals much mind.
"You know," Harris said, "there are more women in here than I'd imagined."
"Not quite women." Arthur leaned across the bar. "Oi! Gary!"
Gary the barkeep wore a white shirt and black vest, stays puffing his sleeves at the biceps. A golden watch chain across jangled across his stomach as he approached. A handlebar moustache, close second to Rollie Fingers or Snidely Whiplash on the list of all-time great moustaches, curled to Fibonacci spirals at the apples of Gary's cheeks, a perfect accessory to his round, open face.
Gary leaned elbow to bar before the Irregulars, face tight with scrutiny. "Artie, please tell me this is all some performance art..."
Arthur shook his head. "Just a quick question and we're gone. Promise. Pre-dial the cops if you want."
Gary took a breath, chewed his cheek. "Alright. One shot, pardner."
"What do you know about Bernard Smith?"
"Big Bernie? Your…," Gary looked to Harris and Kavi, trailed off. "Your friend?"
"They're cool." Arthur nodded.
"Never saw him before last week." Gary scratched the poofs of his moustache. "Pays cash—lousy tipper."
"Anything else?" Kavi leaned in. "Please. We desperately need to get in touch with him."
"Jesus," Harris said, "we really are bad at this detective shit."
"I thought we'd at least find something," Kavi said.
"I thought you guys were supposed to be good at this," Gary said. "Artie says you get together and write mystery stories."
"Not very good ones," Arthur said.
"Apparently." Gary nodded. "For what it's worth, I don't think 'Smith' is his real last name, but, I mean you're the one spending—"
A whoosh of cold air swirled in from the door. Gary's eyes steeled. His lips formed quick, harsh-looking words that drowned under the opening bass and drum of Come on Eileen.
"What the hell!" Harris plugged his ears. On the dance floor, a DJ, earphones half on, worked a laptop/turntable amid a shower of colored light. Bass hits squeezed their accordion lungs, forcing respiration in 4/4 time.
Arthur leaned in and shouted. He didn't have a snowballs chance in hell to match the music's volume, but Kavi and Harris read enough from his lips:
"Ladies 80's Night!"
With Dexy and his Midnight Runners toora-loora-ing toward the first chorus, Gary tugged at Arthur's shirt. Arthur turned, followed the line of Gary's outstretched hand. His heart jumped out his mouth and ass-scooted across the greasy floor.
"You want to talk to Big Bernie?" Gary's shout smelled like hot sourdough. "He just walked in the door!"
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