Memphis Luck by Gerald Duff

Author:Gerald Duff [Duff, Gerald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780997832396
Publisher: Brash Books, LLC
Published: 2018-02-15T07:00:00+00:00

***

J.W. was supposed to be meeting Nova Hebert a little after six o’clock at some bar on South Main she said she liked and thought he might enjoy, too. He was suspicious, though, not only about the bar but a couple of other things. The drinking establishment had a name which was not only cute, but clever, and that, J.W. had learned over the years, was generally a bad sign.

There ought to be a necessary and logical link between what function a place was intended to serve and what it was called, he believed. When that connection was hazy or non-existent or too damn much of an insider’s game the rules of which could be understood only by people with college backgrounds in professions which required certifications and licenses, the establishment usually sucked big time.

The Owl on Central Avenue now, the bar where off-duty and retired cops and the random road-running woman or two gathered to get untwisted or twisted, whatever the need may be, was in J.W.’s opinion well and appropriately named. It hadn’t been labeled the Owl because anybody meant anything by the name, like wisdom as in wise old owl or late night because that’s when owls hunt down what they kill and eat.

No, somewhere early in the bar’s existence, the owner had stuck a cement statue of an owl up on the roof to scare off the pigeons which inhabited Midtown Memphis like flying rats, and the name of the bar became the Owl. It made sense to one and all, particularly to cops and ex-cops and the hangers-on, all needing to have their nerve centers hammered into or out of balance.

Over the years of his time in Memphis, J.W. had made it his practice not to know certain things or keep current with new cultural developments in the entertainment aspects of the city. It made life simpler for him, it allowed him to focus on what served him well during his time in the Bluff City, and it did not encourage elevation in his blood pressure level.

So when Nova Hebert had suggested they meet for drinks at the Metronome on South Main, J.W. had felt a twinge kick up just below his breastbone, a definite clinch in the stomach area. He made no external sign of the response, and said sure he knew where the Metronome was. He didn’t, but one of the young uniformed cops in the Midtown station would certainly be eager to tell him the bar’s location and brag about what he’d done among the women there.

Nova Hebert was a good ten or twelve years younger than he was, J.W. estimated, she probably had guys her age all over her all the time trying to get her pants off, and he would be a fool this early in the game to show her how he really felt about anything. Nova was not likely to be amused or attracted by the fact that trendy new places gave J.W. heartburn. What was a metronome

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