Fortune Kookies by Stephen John

Author:Stephen John
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: miss fortune, cozy, murder mystery, humor, detective
Publisher: J&R Fan Fiction
Published: 2021-11-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

~~~~~~~

Monday—late afternoon.

THE RED DEVIL DUNGEON Tavern was located on Toulouse Street, just three short blocks from Kookies. As soon as we entered the front door, I understood why ‘dungeon’ was part of their name. The entire place had a cave-like appearance and an ominous feel.

Just inside the front door was a long, dark, narrow hallway, leading to the main bar. The door to the corridor was painted bright green and the plaster walls were badly chipped. The corridor was bathed in red light.

The bar itself looked like it was perpetually decorated for Halloween. It was dimly lit and what lighting there was, was a gaudy mix of red, orange and purple. Behind the bar there were bottles of booze, backlit in red with illuminated red skulls dispersed among the bottles on the shelves.

The center of the bar had a raised platform where an enormous red Harley Davidson was displayed.

“I get the Dungeon part,” I said, “but why Red Devil Dungeon?”

“Red Devil is the nickname given to the Harley Davidson motorcycle that’s on display,” Brennan replied.

“How do you know that?”

“It was written on a poster in the entry. It’s quite common for Harley owners to name their bikes. If the bike is a color other than silver or black it’s common to name the bike something associated with the color, like in this case.”

“Do you have a name for yours? Yours is white.”

He nodded, “I call it Tidy Whitey. Cute, huh?”

I nodded, “For you, it’s perfect.”

Our arrival had been noticed. It was nearly four o’clock and thirty people were milling about, drinking, sitting at the bar, playing pool, throwing darts or chatting with each other. I don’t know why I was surprised that all eyes were upon us when Brennan and I walked in. We were both dressed in plain jeans and tops. Neither of us had tattoos, wore leather or black lipstick, had nose rings or any other visible piercings. We stood out, and not in a good way.

We took a seat at the bar. The bartender, a built-like-a-brickhouse goth chick with black lipstick, punk-styled purple hair and more than a dozen facial piercings, gave us a dismissive look and summarily ignored us. She leaned on her elbows, over the bar, chatting up three muscular guys wearing black leather, bandannas and sunglasses. A Cajun Commandos Motorcycle Club logo was emblazoned on the backs of their leather jackets.

“Excuse me,” Brennan called out politely, “We’d like to order a drink.”

Goth chick looked at us and smirked. The closest of the three men glared our way, “We’re having a conversation with Heike, pretty boy. Why don’t you turn around and go back the way you came in. The Barbie and Ken bar is two blocks down.”

The Barbie and Ken comment made Heike and the two other men laugh.

Brennan and I both refrained from replying. He cleared his throat, leaned into me and whispered, “I’m getting a vibe, here. This might get a little . . . lively,” he speculated.

“I was thinking the same.

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