The Karaoke King

The Karaoke King



The two women nearest the stage had been knocking back margaritas and flirting with Randy all night. The larger of the two had frizzy red hair that sprang out in all directions. Her pudgy cheeks were rouged orange and she wore an impossibly small pink tank top. It wasn’t any work at all when she hooked the shirt with a finger and tugged, showing him a nipple. Her companion thought it was hysterical and blew Randy kisses. He tipped his Stetson, smiled and started singing some Merle Haggard.

Even as he moved down the stage to work the rowdy crowd of the Red Rose bar, he thought about the women. There was an easy familiarity between them. They probably shared everything, even men. It wouldn’t be hard to let them take him home for a private party.

Randy two-stepped his way through the last verse and moved over to the sound system. He cued up an Elvis song and gave Savannah a signal. She was sitting at the end of the bar and brought the lights down to a soft blue. Randy strutted to the front of the stage. Easing to one knee, he closed his eyes and began singing to the ladies. Are you lonesome tonight? Sure they were and he was going to fix it. Elvis would have been proud. Randy put his heart into it, meaning every word. When he finished, the crowd gave him a standing ovation. The two ladies were awestruck, leaning on each other with open mouths. Randy winked at them, waved to the crowd and walked off stage.

The dressing room of the Red Rose was a dusty corner of the storage room. Randy stacked two cases of long-necked Buds, making a chair and lit a cigarette. His back was aching from laying bricks all day and now his knees were hurting from kneeling on the stage. Nobody could ever say that Randy Revis wasn’t a showman. It wasn’t easy, though. A man his age gets down and it’s not easy getting up. He thought that he had pulled it off okay and figured on finishing his smoke and going out to round up the ladies. That shouldn’t be much trouble.

Only it was. Savannah came storming through the door, her sandals slapping concrete. She threw both hands on her hips, kicked the door closed with a foot and glared down at him.

“I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life,” she hissed.

“What?”

“You! Drooling all over the stage and carrying on like that! What are you, Tom Jones now? You done everything but wave your pecker at those two ladies.”

“Well pardon me but it ain’t easy being the Karaoke King. Anybody can sing but you’ve got to make them feel it.”

“Oh, I’m satisfied they’re ready to do a little feeling. You too!”

“Whatever,” Randy dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it with a boot. “We’ll argue about it later. Right now, I’ve got someplace to go.”

“Forget about it. I told the hussies to buzz off.”

“What? You better be kidding!”

Savannah smiled and offered a hand, showing her diamond. “I told them that I was Mrs. Randy Revis.”

Randy jumped to his feet and got in her face. “You told me you pawned that ring after we got divorced!”

“I lied,” she said and folded her arms, holding her ground.

Sometimes, a man gets too mad to speak. Randy glared at her and snatched the hat off his head. When he slapped his leg with it, she jumped back. He turned and kicked a case of beer. His boot made a hole in the cardboard. It felt good and he done it again. Then, he simply stared at the grimy wall. In the silence, the sounds of the jukebox seeped through the walls. Randy listened, picking out the song. It was Skynard, wanting somebody to give them back their bullets. Not a bad idea, he thought. If he had a bullet and gun, no telling what he might do right now. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never understand women. A thought jumped into his head and he spun to face Savannah.

“Damn! You’re jealous, that’s what it is! You won’t take me back but can’t stand the thought of anyone else having me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Savannah snapped, yanked the ring off her finger and jammed it in a pocket. “I don’t give two hoots about your personal life. I’m your manager and this is strictly business. If I had let you run off with those women, you wouldn’t have come up for air before Monday morning.”

“So?”

“What about the Karaoke contest in Nashville tomorrow night? Huh?”

Randy took his time. He put on his hat, tugged it low over the eyes and considered a spot on the wall, three feet over Savannah’s head. “I don’t know. Maybe I won’t go to the contest.”

Savannah stamped her foot and jammed both hands in her back pockets. She began walking fast circles in the confined space. It was an old habit of hers. Randy knew that she was counting, trying to control her anger. She could count to a zillion for all he cared but he didn’t have to stand around on tired feet. Easing onto a box, he shook out a smoke.

“What is it with you?” Savannah stopped at the door and leaned against it. “Do you want to lay bricks for the rest of your life? Look at your hands, all beat up and I know your back aches every minute you’re bending over out in the hot sun. Go and win that contest and you’ve got a free recording contract and a chance to make it.”

“Sounds to me like you’re the one wanting to make it.”

“You’re a sorry, lowdown bastard for saying that. Here’s how it is. You pick me up at noon tomorrow and we go to Nashville or find yourself another manager.”

Randy paused with his Zippo in his hand and chanced a peek from under his hat. All he got was Savannah’s backside, going out the door. She slammed it hard enough to knock a three year old calendar off the wall. He stared at the door before getting up and kicking another box.

The bad thing about it was that Savannah was right, as usual. Randy woke up Saturday morning without a hangover, fresh and feeling good. He cooked breakfast, washed the truck and went out for a haircut. Returning home, he showered, shaved and dug out the new clothes that Savannah had bought for the contest. He hated to break in new jeans and boots but the shirt wasn’t bad. It was western cut with black piping, pearl buttons and musical notes that danced across the chest and shoulders. The white Stetson was the crowning touch. He checked himself in the mirror. Shit, he was going to look like a regular city slicker when they got to Nashville. He packed a suitcase, tossed in a handful of soundtracks and was ready to go.

On a whim, Randy stopped at the florist’s and bought a single, long stemmed rose. It wouldn’t hurt to show some appreciation and offer an apology for last night’s argument. Also, there was the fact of the wedding ring. That had to mean something. If she was holding on to it, he still had a chance. He liked his odds, stuck Johnny Cash in the tape deck and sang all the way to Savannah’s house.

He pulled in behind her Honda, bounded up the steps and rang the bell. After a moment, he rang it again and knocked. Where the hell was Savannah? After a minute, he began pushing the bell and tapped out the rhythm to an old Waylon song.

“For the love of God, will you stop?”

Savannah’s voice was a hoarse whisper. Randy hadn’t realized that she was there. The door was cracked six inches. She was holding her pink robe up to her face and wearing sunglasses.

“Hey, I’m twenty minutes early,” he smiled. “What’s up with the glasses?”

“I have a headache and the light hurts my eyes. You’ll have to go to Nashville without me. Sorry…”

She closed the door and locked it before he could say a word. What the heck was going on? Randy started to ring the bell again but thought better of it. Instead, he used his old key. She would be pissed that he still had it but too bad. Savannah was standing in the kitchen. She cursed, spun her back to him and leaned on the range.

“Savannah? What’s going on?” Randy slowly crossed the room.

“Will you just leave? Please?”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Savannah shook her head, banged the stove top with a fist and turned, snatching off her glasses.

“Are you happy now?” Her voice trembled.

Randy stared. Her right eye was half closed with bruising along the cheekbone. The lower lip was split with more bruising on her chin.

“What the hell?” Randy breathed.

“I got in a fight with Lorrie last night after you left the bar. We’re fine now and I’m going back to bed. Leave me alone or I’ll call the police.”

“Okay but…have you seen a doctor? I could take you.”

Savannah lifted the phone off the wall and held it up. Randy hesitated and backed out of the room. Something wasn’t right and he paused on the front porch to think. The front yard needed cutting and dandelions were blooming all over. The hammock that hung from the gnarly water oak was in bad shape. He must have told her a hundred times not to leave it out but there it was, moldy and rotting. Randy removed his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Savannah wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn.

The Red Rose bar wouldn’t open till four. Louis Day, the owner usually showed up around noon to work in the kitchen. Randy drove over and pulled around back to wait. Forty minutes later, a shiny black Lincoln backed up to the rear door. Louis got out and walked around to the trunk.

“I thought you were going to Nashville,” He said and lifted a box of produce out of the car.

“That’s the plan,” Randy answered and grabbed the second box. “Savannah’s not going. She got busted up in a fight last night. Said her and Lorrie got into it.”

Louis paused and stared at Randy. Without a word, he turned and walked into the kitchen. Randy followed and waited while Louis fidgeted around, turning on lights and warming up the grill. He finally turned, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Lorrie’s been in Myrtle Beach all week with a new boyfriend,” he said.

Randy wasn’t surprised. Savannah never had been able to lie worth a hoot. Besides, like most women, her fighting consisted of nails, slaps and hair pulling. Her wounds had been caused by a hard fist.

“Had a big mouthed trucker come in at closing last night. He was driving a Peterbilt, red with lots of chrome. He wasn’t pulling a trailer. Called himself Clyde and was headed to Dallas. Savannah fixed him a couple of sandwiches and looked out after him. I was in the kitchen, cleaning up. Now…I can only tell you what I saw. One minute, they’re laughing and talking the next, they disappear. About thirty minutes later, I hear the truck start up. When I looked out the window, Savannah’s car was gone.”

“What did this guy look like?”

Louis folded his rag and set it on the counter. “He’s about your height but a lot heavier, barrel chested with a thick neck. Wore gold chains, rings on every finger and flashed a Rolex. Funny thing was that he didn’t really look like a trucker. He was wearing a short sleeved dress shirt with shorts and sandals. Kind of reminded me of Elvis with the hair and sideburns.”

“All right. I better be going.”

“Maybe he’s not the guy, you know?”

“So, I’ll ask him.”

Louis stared at him and reached up, lifting a round sugar container from the shelf. Inside was a paper sack. He handed it to Randy.

“It’s a five shot thirty-two,” he explained. “This guy has crazy eyes, intense and jumping all over. Even when he laughs, the eyes don’t. Know what I mean?”

“Sure,” Randy said and took the sack.

A lifetime of laying bricks is bound to show a man a thing or two. No matter how big and long the wall, the thing is built one brick at a time. Don’t waste energy fretting, just deal with what’s in front of you. Randy considered the facts as he accelerated onto Interstate Forty, heading west. The trucker was traveling light with no load and if he was pushing hard, could be in Memphis. That was eight hours down the road. One thing was for certain, he’d need fuel and food. Randy planned to hit every truck stop, nose around and pick up a lead. It was as simple as laying bricks.

Five hours later and just outside Nashville, he hit pay dirt. After fueling the truck, he parked in front of the café and ambled in for a cup of coffee. His waitress wore a tag that said Amber. The name matched the color of her hair, teased into a halo around her head. She wore too much mascara and her lipstick matched the color of her pink uniform. Three open buttons showed ample cleavage and she had a great ass. Amber wasn’t going to let him get away with staring.

“Like what you see?” She paused at his booth and pulled her pad.

Randy felt his face go hot. “Uh…just coffee.”

Amber spun and worked her hips, moving up the aisle. She returned with a mug, coffee pot and slice of apple pie. After digging out a pack of Salems, she sat across from him and shook out a smoke.

“I didn’t order pie,” he looked at her.

“It’s on the house, honey. Around here, it’s nice to serve a gentleman every now and then.”

“Who…me?”

Amber’s laugh was a low, throaty rasp. “You see anyone else sitting here? One, you remove your hat when coming in and two, I made you blush. Hey, handsome and sensitive is all I want in a man. If you’re looking, I’ll marry you this weekend.”

Amber was a live one. Randy laughed and sampled his pie while watching her. She lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke out the side of her mouth.

“Where you headed?” She asked.

“Actually, I’m looking for a trucker named Clyde. He drives a red Peterbilt.”

Amber paused and gave him a look. “You should have played the lottery today. That guy was in here an hour ago. If he’s a friend I’m sorry but he’s a real prick. Complained that the coffee was burnt and silverware dirty, really had me jumping through hoops and for what, a fifty cent tip!”

Randy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I’ve got to go.”

“Relax Honey and finish your pie. See that ugly yellow building across the street? That’s where you’ll find Clyde. They advertize as an authentic Swedish massage parlor. That means girls in blonde wigs with bad accents, selling hand jobs at fifty bucks a pop. What is it with guys, paying that kind of money for something they can do for free?”

Randy laid a twenty on the table and grabbed his hat. “I guess we have more money than we have sense.”

The massage parlor was called Olga’s and even uglier up close. The front door was painted red with an open sign that hung on a nail. Flanking windows were trimmed in red with the glass shuttered by black drapes. Triple X’s adorned the walls in bold black strokes. Magazines and novelties were advertized on the cinder block and curvy silhouettes of women beckoned all to enter.

Randy followed the signs to a rear gravel parking lot. Clyde’s truck was parked at the far end and six cars were nosed up to the back of the building in a haphazard line. The entire compound was enclosed in rusty fencing. Beyond was grassy, trash covered fields, an abandoned gas station and the nearby interstate. He parked beside the truck to wait. Thirty minutes later, Clyde came out the door.

He carried a plastic bag and bounced it off his leg as he walked. Louis had described him to a tee. Randy donned his hat and got out, sticking the pistol in his back pocket. When he slammed the door, Clyde looked up and slowed his walk but kept coming. Randy stepped around to the front of his truck and leaned against the grill.

“You going in that joint?” Clyde jerked a thumb behind him.

“No. I’m waiting for you.”

“What for?”

“You were seen in the Red Rose bar last night, over by Kingsport. A girl got beat up. I’m thinking maybe you were involved.”

Clyde glared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’re the law, show me a badge.”

“I’m just a karaoke singer.”

“What is this, a joke?”

“Not unless you think karaoke is funny.”

“It’s not and neither are you,” Clyde said and pulled out a comb, pointing it like a weapon. “Running around and making wild accusations can get a man hurt.”

“Make me believe you’re not guilty.”

“I don’t have to do nothing!” Clyde eyes blazed and he finished by raking the comb through his hair in quick jerks.

“Fine. Here’s how it’s going to be. I’m going to tie you up, throw you in the back of the truck and drive back to Kingsport.”

“That’s funny. You want me to dance a jig, too?”

Clyde began moving his feet and hips, bouncing to a silent rhythm. He spun to the right, gold chains flying from his neck, stutter-stepped and spun left. On his third spin, he didn’t stop but lowered his head and charged.

The big man was faster than he looked. Randy tried to lunge sideways and caught a shoulder in the chest. The blow knocked him backwards against the grill. He came up, ducked a punch and pushed off, trying to get some room. He threw a quick right that grazed the side of Clyde’s head. Before he could throw another, the guy hooked him hard in the gut. His ribs exploded in pain and he lost his air. Clyde grabbed a handful of shirt and slammed him against the fender. Randy reached for his back pocket as his head snapped back from a punch. He sagged and shot Clyde in the foot.

The big man hopped backwards in surprise and pain. He crumpled onto the gravel and grabbed his foot. Randy spat blood and sucked air, putting himself back together. Even on the ground and groaning in pain, Clyde was still talking. He couldn’t believe he’d been shot and was going to sue and somebody better get him to the hospital before he bled to death.

Randy checked the building and didn’t see anyone. He jammed the gun in his pocket and picked up his hat, brushing dirt from the brim. After tucking in his shirt, he turned and looked at the trucker.

“Shut up Clyde,” he said and went to get the rope.