Night People by Barry Gifford

Author:Barry Gifford [Gifford, Barry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780802133694
Google: LT0dR9EutSIC
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Incorporated
Published: 1994-01-18T08:00:00+00:00

NIGHTCAP AT RUBY’S CARIBBEAN

“Sabine, darlin’, one more of these and I’ll even go to bed with you!”

Jimmy Sermo and Sabine Yama were at Ruby’s Caribbean Bar on Poland Avenue, drinking Bombay and listening to the jukebox. Little Johnny Taylor had just now wailed on “Love Bones” and Fabrice Dos Veces, the transsexual Cuban bartender, offered a free drink to whoever would play “Lookin’ for a Love” by The Valentinos. Sabine hopped down from his stool, limped over, pushed a few quarters into the Rock-Ola, and punched up Fabrice’s request, along with “The Things That I Used to Do” by Guitar Slim and “Nite Owl” by Tony Allen and the Champs. By the time Sabine had climbed back onto his stool, there was a fresh Bombay on the rocks with a twist of lime waiting for him.

“Gracias, Sabine,” said Fabrice, as Bobby Womack’s sweaty voice surged into the room.

Jimmy Sermo slid off of his stool onto the floor and stayed there, curled up in a fetal position on the brown-and-white tiles. He was a short, thin man of thirty-one, with wavy blonde hair and hazel eyes that, due to his alcoholism, were bloodshot most of the time. Jimmy and Sabine had known each other since both had been child prostitutes, and they met occasionally at Ruby’s Caribbean or the Saturn for drinks. Jimmy now worked in a laundromat on St. Ann, his once angelic looks having deteriorated badly over the years. His disheveled and dissolute appearance disturbed Sabine, who had tried unsuccessfully to get Jimmy to seek the counsel of Dallas Salt.

The last time Sabine had suggested it, Jimmy Sermo said, “That faggot’s your savior, not mine.”

“Brother Dallas ain’t a faggot,” Sabine replied.

“All the more reason I ain’t got no time for his mess,” Jimmy said.

Fabrice Dos Veces, who was five-foot-two in her high heels and could barely see over the top of the bar, asked Sabine where Jimmy had got to.

“Sleepin’ on the floor here, like a good boy.”

“Tough for a man or a woman to get any peace these days,” said Fabrice, wetting the tips of her index fingers with her tongue and smoothing down her thick black eyebrows before twisting them up at the ends.

Just as Guitar Slim gave it up to Tony Allen, the door opened and in walked Terry Perez and another member of the Sisters of Clytemnestra named Dogstyle Lou. Ruby’s Caribbean was not a regular hangout for the Sisters, so Sabine and Fabrice were surprised to see them.

“You serve real women in here?” Dogstyle Lou asked Fabrice.

“We serve real drinks to real people who can pay for them,” Fabrice said. “I don’t guess you’d know a real woman if she squatted on this bar and pissed in your glass.”

Dogstyle Lou, who was six-one and other than svelte, laughed hard and shook her close-cropped head.

“You know, Terry,” she said, “that’s what I love about New Orleans, the candor of its citizens. There really ain’t another city in this country for tellin’ it like it is, as old Aaron Neville never can quit remindin’ us.

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