Page 16 of Frisco

I didn’t want to know what he might’ve found.

By 6:05, I was in my car and heading to a place I hadn’t visited in twelve years.

I was going to my mom’s bar.

I hit call on my phone.

Right as he answered, I cut off his usual greeting, “—I can’t talk tonight, Dad. I’m about to murder someone.”

“Oh, no, no, no. You can’t be telling your pops that stuff. I need deniability, Daughter. Thought I taught you better.”

He still made me smile.

“Thanks, Dad.”

He knew what for. “You know it. Love you, My Little Girl No Matter How Old You Are.”

“Dad!”

He just laughed and laughed. Then he told me he started trying his own dance routines. “Me and Cousin Nick. We’re thinking of putting together an old guys’ dance crew. What do you think?”

“I think you’re going to break a hip, and you need three more members.”

“You’re right. I can get Stevie, Phil, and Pappy.”

6

KALI

The gravel parking lot was filled with Harley Davidsons and ten to twenty trucks. I recognized a few that belonged to the regulars. Yeah, some things never changed. It comforted me in a way, and then that made me sad.

A few guys sat outside at the tables, and a few others stood on the porch.

The music blaring was Kansas, but as soon as I walked inside, there was dead silence.

The music stopped.

In an uncomfortable, high-school kind of scene, all eyes would’ve turned my way. They didn’t. Instead, all heads turned toward the jukebox.

The song had stopped in the middle of the chorus, and holy—no one messed with Kansas. Especially “Carry on Wayward Son.”

“Hey! Where’d the music go?” That was the first grumble.

“What the hell?” came the second.

“Put it back!” That was a female grumble.

Then a new song started, and damn. Damn!

I recognized the first beats and looked at my mom, standing behind the counter. No one knew she could control the jukebox from her phone. She’d put on “Nasty Letter” by Otis Taylor. The whole song was about leaving a nasty letter for someone.

My mom started laughing, but I glared. “Not. Funny.”

She kept laughing, but reached for something under the counter. The music stopped, again. She yelled, “Everyone! A nice welcoming hello for my daughter. She hasn’t graced Ruby’s with her presence in twelve years.”

There was a smattering of cheers. More grumbling. I caught some chilly looks.

Someone yelled, “Put ‘Wayward Son’ back on!”

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