Also by Paul Elard Cooley
A Tony Downs Story
by Paul Elard Cooley
Jesus Jones was playing on the jukebox. The winter rain pelting the roof was barely audible over the thumping bass. More people were in the bar than I had expected. From my place in the corner, I had a good view of the whole dance floor. Women and men wearing tight denim, some even in leather britches, walked around, checking on possible companions for the evening. Or maybe just looking for their friends. Maybe even for their drugs.
After making a cursory sweep of the bar, I kept my head buried toward my Jack and Coke. Best way to look inconspicuous is to not let anyone find you staring at them. Besides, there were other ways to find out what was going on.
The dance floor behind the main bar area pulsated with the music; lights flashed in time with the beat, making all the people stand and stop in mid-writhe. Strobes and gels bathed the area in bloody hues. I couldn't help but tap my feet on the floor. Even with the mission planted in my mind I couldn't stop that. Hell, if it had been a different night, I guess I would have been out there dancing around and having a good time.