boxing glove. Cam recognizes a scar on Johnny’s chin from a fight he watched outside Cadillac Grill, when a beer bottle Johnny swung at some guy was shoved back into his face. Cam reckons the stories behind the new scars are probably even worse.
Mary Beth pulls a fresh pack of Marlboro Mediums from her purse and unpacks them with a few practiced smacks against her palm. As she pulls out a smoke, Johnny leans over with a party-trick flip of his tarnished brass Zippo. Cam has seen this lighter do this trick hundreds of times for girls. But the hands are a little shakier now, and the girl already knew it was coming.
When the waitress comes back with a full tray of drinks Cam pays the tab and Johnny doesn’t give any protest.
“Why the hell’d you come back to Shreveport anyway?” asks Johnny.
“For school.”
“Why aren’t you down at LSU?”
“Goin’ AWOL’s a felony, can’t get much student loan money.”
“Well I guess I’m not goin’ to college,” Johnny laughs. “Can’t your granddad just write ‘em a letter?”
“He passed away,” says Cam.
“Well, that ought to be worth somethin’.”
Cam gives Johnny a stare to make him see he’s not laughing.
“You at LSUS?”
“Nah…” Cam mumbles.
“You’re not at Tech, are you?”
Cam hides his nod behind a sip of whiskey.
“That ain’t college. Shit, that’s just a waste of time. Buddy of mine says he can get me a job at a restaurant in the French Quarter. Good fucking money with all the tourists.”
“I’m sure,” says Cam.
“Tech… Shit, I could go to Tech if I wanted to,” Johnny trails off and his focus drifts over to the Karaoke DJ. “Dire Straights!” he yells. The DJ yanks off his headphones and tells him to shut up, interrupting a middle-aged cattleman’s crooning of D-I-V-O-R-C-E, with enough giggling between verses to kill any humor of a man singing it.
“This band sucks.”
“It’s Karaoke, Johnny,” says Mary Beth.
“You mean that ain’t Tammy Wynette?” Johnny shoots back dryly.
“I thought you were…” Mary Beth cuts herself off with a sip of her Razz and cranberry.
“Let’s go somewhere decent, we got a welcome home party to throw,” says Johnny.
“I got a room upstairs,” says Cam.
“Bullshit,” says Johnny.
Cam pulls his key out of his pocket and drops it on the table.
“Ladies…” says Johnny, as he stands up from the table. They stand up and Cam leads them all out to the elevators.
––––––––––––––
“This must be the honeymoon suite,” says Mary Beth, grinning at the king bed like she’s imagining all the positions it could handle.
Colleen stares out at the city with her nose to the window. “I’ve never been this high before without bein’ on an airplane,” she says, leaving a small patch of steam on the glass in front of her face that disappears as quickly as her attempt to join the conversation.
“That’s amazing, Colleen,” Johnny mutters, as he kicks a sweet spot on the side of the minibar fridge that pops the door open. Then he helps himself to both of the baby Tanqueray bottles––whatever he’s not immediately drinking goes into his pockets. The girls each take a bottle of vodka and a bottle of cranberry juice and mix Cape Cods in their mouths, sip by sip. Cam cracks open a mini-bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pours it into his room service glass from earlier.
Johnny fishes a tiny glass vial from the front pocket of his gray Levi’s and empties white powder onto the laminated room service menu on the desk.
“You first, Daltry,” he says, as he cuts out a few lines with his license––all four edges frayed and stained white.
“Is that speed or blow? asks Cam.
“Ask me in about five minutes.”
Mary Beth cackles and Johnny pulls a crumpled single from his pocket and rolls a crude straw. He leans over the desk and two lines disappear. He straightens up from the desk with the sniffles and passes the bill on to Mary Beth. She tries to re-roll it but it’s nearly gone to cloth by now. As she fishes through her purse for a better one, Cam reaches into his pocket and slides out a crisp hundred.
“Try this one,” he says, coolly.
“You hit the jackpot down there or what?” asks Mary Beth.
“He hit the jackpot when he was born in South Highlands,” says Johnny.
“There wasn’t jack in it by the time I showed up,” says Cam.
“Shit, your last name alone’s got dollar signs in it,” says Johnny.
“You’re from South Highlands, too, man.”
“His momma sure picked a good doorstep to leave him on,” says Mary Beth.
Cam’s breath locks up in his chest as Johnny levels a hard stare on Mary Beth. She ignores it and leans over the desk to polish off a line, then casually thumbs her nostril and hands the bill back to Cam.
Cam avoids Johnny’s stare as it shifts from Mary Beth to him. He cautiously unrolls his hundred on his thigh, wipes the residue off on his leg and returns it to the envelope in his pocket.
“Jesus, Johnny, take a joke,” she says, with a hint of fear breaking through her sass.
“I got a few of those you wouldn’t take that well, neither.” he says, straight-faced.
Mary Beth’s smile drops completely and her eyes lose their shine.
“Don’t I?” says Johnny.
Mary Beth lowers her eyes to the chipped-away pedicure poking out of her tired black open-toed flats, and gives Johnny a slow nod.
“You got any ice?” Johnny asks Cam.
“Man, I didn’t mean to––“
“You got any ice?” he repeats, firmly.
“There’s a machine down the hall,” Cam says quietly.
“You mind?”
Cam shakes his head.
Johnny picks up the leatherish ice bucket off the desk and hands it to Cam. “Why don’t you go with him,
