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The Imbiber: Barchetypes
As you’ve probably gathered by now, I go to a lot of bars. It’s a by-product of being a member in good standing of the international boozing press. Over the years, certain similarities have emerged between these bars. Upon noticing this I immediately realized further research was in order. Several weeks later I remembered what the similarities were again. And the process started all over again. It’s like the circle of life, only drunker. And now, after two full decades of remembering to try to figure it out, I have done it. I have determined that there are precisely 10 kinds of bar in the world. I call them the Barchetypes. And to give the last 20 years of my drinking some modicum of meaning, I’m going to tell them you about them.Notes Toward An Ontological Exploration of The Ten Barchetypes and the Flora and Fauna Pertaining Thereunto1. The [url=http://www.ccoachfactoryoutlets.com/]coach factory outlet[/url] PubPubs differ from dive bars [url=http://www.ccoachfactoryoutlets.com/]online coach factory outlet[/url] in that they’re usually larger, cleaner and more tourist-tolerant (and when I say tourist, I mean anyone who didn’t grow up within a three-block radius of the [url=http://cheapcoachfactorybackpacks2i.webs.com/]coach backpacks[/url] place). They tend to be cozy spots where a lot of drinking still gets done, but you’re far less likely to see someone projectile vomit on his wife, get beat up by a Teamster, collapse and die of liver failure, or put their shit-digits in the pretzel barrel. Most pubs offer good beer, reasonably priced drinks and greasy cheeseburgers that taste awesome after midnight. The Cool-People-To-Total-Jag-Off ratio in these places tends to hover around 10-to-1. Disregard this ratio, however, if said pub has a karaoke night. In this case the ratio reverses. Depending on the frequency of said karaoke night, you may actually want to consider downgrading this place’s rating from a Pub to a Plastic Bar (see below).2. The Plastic BarMy friends and I sometimes call these Karl Rove bars. Which is to say, The Plastic Bar was born without a soul. You might know them as fern bars, or yuppie bars or “that place with the frozen daiquiri machine.” But while they may not have authenticity on their side, they do have booze, so let’s not get too hung up on technicalities. Treat your plastic bar the same way you’d treat a museum exhibit. Speak softly, don’t touch anything and leave as quickly as possible. You may have sex with things you find inside the plastic bar, but only once.3. The High Concept BarThese are built upon a central idea that is sometimes clever, but more often tiresome once the novelty has worn off (this process usually takes about a week). These typically sprout up in major metropolitan areas like New York, LA and Paris where there’s an ample supply of either a) tourists looking for expensive thrills or b) arrogant twits who believe they’re more sophisticated than the average beer-swilling Philistine and feel the need to prove it by embracing the latest in nightlife novelties. For example, I was once dragged by a publicist to the Ice Kube Bar in Paris where, for somewhere in the neighborhood of75dollars(luckily I wasn’t paying), I got to dress up like an arctic explorer and spend 20 minutes doing Grey Goose shooters inside a bleak frozen chamber made entirely of ice (as evidenced by the pic on the right). The publicist maintained that freezing my dick off just to catch a buzz was an “authentic experience like no other.” Funny, it seemed an awful lot like another highly authentic experience called “homeless in winter,” only a hell of a lot more expensive.I will admit that there are a few high-concept bars that are just too awesome and original to be dismissed. For instance, the Skeleton Bar in Gruyère, Switzerland (yes, where the cheese comes from) is a magnificent, otherworldly boneyard designed by HR Giger, the guy who won an Oscar for production design on “Alien” and also conceived the highly controversial Dead Kennedy’s album cover, “Frankenchrist.” That place is genius. But for every Skeleton Bar, there are ten Rodeo Bars and ten Waikiki Wallys. Bottom line is, when in doubt, stay the fuck away.4. The Strip ClubAh, where to begin? Mandatory two-drink minimums for watered down cocktails in plastic shot-glasses at 15 dollarsa pop. Or 20 dollarglasses of fruit punch masquerading as Mai Tais that you’re obliged to buy the stripper who’s charging you 20 more for every three minutes of grinding robotically on your lap to some suggestive [url=http://cheapcoachfactorybackpacks2i.webs.com/]cheap coach backpacks[/url] hip-hop song from 10 years ago. Throw in all manner of creeps, pimps, punks and skanks and what [url=http://cheapcoachfactorybackpacks2i.webs.com/]coach backpacks[/url] have you got? A multi-billion-dollar industry that generates more money per year than theater, opera, ballet, jazz and classical music concerts combined. Which I’m kind of relieved about, quite frankly. Because a world in which people pay more to see an anorexic perform a pirouette than they do to see a ripe pair of titties is no world I want to live in. Still, if you’re looking to get any kind of serious drinking done, don’t do it here unless you just sold your tech startup to Google.5. The Full Of Itself BarThis category [url=http://cheapcoachfactorybackpacks2i.webs.com/]cheap coach factory backpacks[/url] was the subject of some debate between me and my editor. He wanted to put The Full Of Itself in with the Vertical Bars. He is a heathen. I say that because these bars are specifically aimed at that vertical slice of humanity that enjoys liquor, they deserve a category all their own. Plus, there are too many of them around these days to ignore. I’m talking, of course, about the bars that purport to bring a science and a purism and a sense of history to the creation of cocktails. In these places you’ll often hear bartending referred to as “mixology.” You are also very likely to be charged $15-$20 per drink. Which is great when they’re great. But their trendlet has attracted poseurs, and when these places are bad, they are deeply hideous. Because the last thing you want when you’re trying to enjoy a relaxing drink is either smug superiority from the bartender or a member of the waitstaff insisting on telling you about the fair-trade origin of the drink’s agave syrup. Shut the hell up and make with the alcohol fetching. And turn off the fucking lounge music. Oh and a comfortable chair would be nice. I should reiterate that many of these places are wonderful and employ some of my favorite people in the world. 12Next

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The Cold Arab Spring
Observers of the first turbulent days ofthe Arab [url=http://coachfactoryoutlet2w.webs.com/]Coach factory outlet online[/url] awakening could have been forgiven for predicting the triumph ofWestern values of liberty. Scenes of girls fearlessly marching on the palacesof the anciens régimes evoked the French Revolution. Women led ralliesheralding Tripoli’s liberation from 42 years of Colonel Muammar el-Qaddafi’sdictatorship and earned their place at the tables of Cairo’s coffeehouses, longa bastion of Egyptian males. The angry reaction [url=http://bagsoutletsonlines.com/]coach factory outlet online[/url] to soldiers in Cairo who chasedfemale protesters and subjected them to virginity tests showed just how muchthe public mood had changed.But two years on, the promise of individualas well as national liberation still hangs in the balance. The secular youthswho braved the batons and bullets seem mere stalking horses for the Islamistcavalry bent on regulating according to God’s word not only the public life ofArabs but their private predilections as well. Among the first victims wereAlexandria’s statues of bare-breasted mermaids, which for more than a centuryhad borne a hunky Zeus on a marble platter. During the French Revolution, womenbared their breasts; during Egypt’s, iconoclasts covered them up.Rather than welcoming the tempests ofchange blowing the idea of liberty from Europe, the Arab world seems to havesuccumbed to the puritanical sandstorms that have since ancient timesperiodically blown in from the Sahara, cleansing like pumice stones theepicurean ways of the southern Mediterranean with rugged monotheism. Clericsrailed [url=http://coachfactoryoutlet2w.webs.com/]coach factory store online[/url] against the Western colonial mores that earlier Arab revolutions hadfailed to root out. Although hundreds of thousands of European settlers hadbeen swept out in the 1950s and 1960s, by the eve of the Arab Spring30?million tourists were being invited in each year. Helped by natives,these tourists played out their Oriental fantasies, bronzing, boozing andbonking on North Africa’s beaches.The desert-born faith is threatening tosuppress immoral conduct as remorselessly as the Saharan sands that buried thepharaohs’ fertility cults and the Romans’ mosaics of bacchanals. Jolanare, ayoung lecturer in belles lettres dressed in cowboy boots and a miniskirt,berated the youths in Tunisia, once the most sexually liberated country in theArab world and the first to rise up against its dictator in December 2010, forlosing control to the Islamists. “Instead of bringing freedom for all, therevolution has propelled us back years, burying the progress I thought I’dacquired,” Jolanare said. In response to the change, her blog sports anillustration of a woman’s pubic hair shaped as an Islamist’s beard. “I neverthought that one day I would have to defend my basic right to exist as a sexualperson, with breasts, lips and an ability to think.”?For a Western pleasure seeker, arriving inMorocco—a mere eight miles from southern Europe—is like diving into the shallowend. Cultural battles that rage elsewhere in the Arab world peter out by thetime they clamber over the western edge of the Atlas Mountains. Islamists sweptthe elections at the height of the Arab Spring, but their influence in Moroccois contained by an imperious monarchy whose current ruler had a reputation inhis youth as a playboy. As crown prince, Mohammed VI wore slick piano ties andhad royal bouncers escort him from his advisor’s flat to the VIP lounge atAmnesia, the most risqué discotheque I know of in North Africa. His love ofwater sports was so widely known that when he became king his subjects calledhim “ma-Jet-Ski.”But once he became king he surfed the Islamistwave with remarkable dexterity. He was proclaimed commander of the faithful anddonned a chaste white caftan, the traditional woolen tunic, while allowing hissubjects to continue to live in a land where anything goes. Marrakech, arose-red city on the Sahara’s edge, is where former International Monetary Fundhead Dominique Strauss-Kahn sated his lust, and even [url=http://coachfactoryoutlet2w.webs.com/]Coach factory outlet online[/url] the normally temperateFinancial Times chose the city as the site of its luxury conference. Islamistsin Morocco find themselves the butt of secular ridicule, not least from theleaders of a movement for Berber rights who promote their indigenous,pre-Islamic culture, decry Arabic as an Eastern colonial implant and callthemselves “beerberistes” to emphasize their rejection of Islam’s prohibitionof alcohol. The bars at the back of the bourse in Casablanca, the country’scommercial capital on the shores of the Atlantic, seem to bask in more redlights than Amsterdam. Down the coast, past the mammoth Hassan?II Mosque,one of the largest in the world, lies what may be the Muslim Arab world’s onlytransvestite bar, Le Village, run as a family business. Lady-boys in brasgyrate to African women banging tom-toms between their legs.“What does he think of us?” I ask Latifa, afilmmaker by day and my guide through Morocco’s seedier side by night, as shehands the keys of her sports car to a valet garbed in a peasant’s scruffytunic. “That you’re a Western source of corruption, and I’m your pute,” shereplies, languidly wrapping an arm over my shoulder to leave no room for doubt.Yet even here there is the furtivepitter-patter of the killjoy’s advance. The kingdom’s new Islamist primeminister, Abdelilah Benkirane, entered politics by campaigning for thecontestants in a local beauty pageant to replace their swimsuits with woollycaftans, turning their hourglass figures into body bags and hooding their hair.The intervening years have mellowed him into a merrier swashbuckler. Hisinformation minister marked Women’s Day by giving his female employees a box ofchocolates and a red rose, and his justice minister likes women so much hemarried two. But “immodest” women still make Benkirane flinch. He reduced thenumber of women in his cabinet from his predecessor’s relatively profligateseven to a cautious one, whom he predictably appointed to head a women’saffairs ministry. At his inauguration ceremony in January 2012, Benkiraneaccused a bareheaded female journalist seeking an interview of molesting him.And though government officials insist theywill not formally apply Islamic law for now, they are eagerly looking foralternatives to tourism—or “sex travel” in the words of a Moroccan official—thekingdom’s foreign-currency mainstay. In an attempt to rein in the country’savid bikini culture, a relic of Morocco’s former French rule, Benkirane’sjustice minister won a legal battle to allow veils at the beach. “The king has23 palaces,” he says. “At least let us have sand castles.” On Fridays, prayermats jostle for space with beach towels. “Forsake not God’s law on [url=http://bagsoutletsonlines.com/]coach factory online[/url] thebeaches,” rants a bearded doomsayer who stalks bathers at Mehdia, a popularresort north of Rabat. “O faithful, bare not your nudity.” The sermon of Abd AlSamad Mirdas, a Casablanca preacher, reverberates from a car radio, likeningwomen to devils.?Morocco’s Kulturkampf is mild compared withthat of Tunisia, 1,000 miles to the east, as it lurches from fundamentalsecularism to fundamental Islam. Though he ousted the French colonialists,Tunisia’s first president, Habib Bourguiba, preserved their values with relish.He banned core Islamic practices such as the veil and polygamy and discouragedfasting during the holy month of Ramadan. Unique in the Arab world, women intight-fitting jeans frisk men at airport security check-ins. Bourguiba’s successor,a dour policeman named Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali, took subservience to Europeansone stage further, prostituting his subjects to their whims. His beaches servedup “bezness boys” to offer relief to aging white women. (The French guidebookRoutard helpfully lists where to find them.) And investors developed thesouthern isle of Djerba, where, legend has it, the “honey-sweet fruit of thelotus” seduced the mariners in Homer’s Odyssey and, in more recent years, seedybars help Europeans retracing the epic achieve a similar “state of lethargicbliss.”Two years after chasing out Ben Ali,Tunisians remain torn between their desire for liberation from European bondageand dire necessity. Tourism, which plays a major role in the country’s economy,declined 30 percent in the revolution’s first year. In the Place del’Indépendance, the heart of the capital city of Tunis, a stone likeness of themedieval Tunisian philosopher Ibn-Khalduˉn—perhaps the Arab world’s greatestthinker—stands encircled by armored cars and webs of barbed wire, pondering inwhich direction to turn. Just as Bedouin tribesmen burst out of Arabia inKhalduˉn’s time, today Islamist hordes from the East seem poised to overthrow avalue system cultivated in the West.In the flea market that straddles thetracks where the last train arrived in the city of Menzel Bourguiba two decadesago, a former cave mate of Osama bin Laden’s sells scarlet-colored women’spanties. Musab is tall, diffident and prematurely old. He has an apologeticsmile, wears a black leather jacket over a red shirt and takes a shine to myguide, Farida, an unveiled female journalist who, like Musab, had fled BenAli’s dictatorship and returned to her hometown only after his departure. Bothhad also spent time in Europe, where Farida discovered the secular highlightsof Paris, and Musab, after dabbling in drugs, met a Belgian imam—before meetingBin Laden in a Kandahar cave. In 2001, following the U.S.-led toppling of theTaliban, he was captured, held at a Pakistani military base and extradited to aTunisian jail. He escaped in a breakout that followed Ben Ali’s overthrow inJanuary 2011.Though mild and understated, Musab is ahero to local unemployed kids who wear military fatigues and sport bum-fluffbeards as old as the revolution. Anwar, his aide-de-camp, a sort of SanchoPanza to Musab’s Don Quixote, operates his own perfumery opposite Musab’s stalland runs a sideline in fashionable sequined face veils. Like Saint Augustine ofHippo, another North African rake turned eremite, Anwar found God after tiringof a life of debauchery. His youth is evocative of that of Black Hand, anillegal immigrant immortalized in “Clandestino,” a Manu Chao song belovedacross Tunisia for depicting the fate so many share. Like Black Hand, Anwar reached“Babylon, a northern city,” after traveling across the sea in a dinghy. Hesurvived by trading cocaine, until one day an imam from an Italian mosque inTurin saved him. Following the flight of Ben Ali and his security apparatus,Musab and Anwar acquired a following that they fashioned into a morality squad.They wrested control of Menzel’s main mosque, warded off looters (who hadtorched the local bank) and harangued a local bar until it stopped sellingalcohol.Few towns [url=http://bagsoutletsonlines.com/]coach factory outlet online[/url] reflect the ebb and flow of Tunisia’sfortunes more than Menzel Bourguiba. The French called it Ferryville, after the19th century French prime minister and imperialist who considered it his “dutyto civilize inferior races” and turn their coastline into naval bases. Afterindependence, Tunisia’s first president, Bourguiba, called it his home—inArabic, Menzel Bourguiba. In keeping with his love of French customs, he keptits provincial French air. Cast-iron railings still enclose prim bungalows; inthe graveled central square gardeners manicure the shrubs that circle abandstand and whitewash the trunks of geometrically positioned plane trees; oldcodgers still play boules in their shade.But since the revolution, Musab’sideology—that of jihadi Salafism, which espouses holy war to re-create theworld of the prophet Muhammad—has challenged that decorum. Having conqueredMenzel Bourguiba, his Salafis are now targeting nearby Bizerte, northernTunisia’s largest city, which was once famed for its relaxed secular ways. Thecity’s Monoprix grocery store (part of the French supermarket chain) wastorched for its commercial ties to Ben Ali’s family. It has reopened—but onlyafter liquor was removed from its shelves. Bizerte’s red-light district liesabandoned; bootleggers and pimps have fled underground. Fewer women venture outunveiled. Even the Islamist movement, Ennahda, which won recent elections inTunisia, is worried about the new antidemocratic and misogynist radicalism ofthe Salafis. A banner flutters from the balustrade of the local Ennahda office,reminding fellow Islamists that half the population is female and that theother half emerged from them. 123Next

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Exassesee — Wed, 22 May 2013 11:46:52 +0000

Playboy’s 2012 Music Guide
LANA DEL RAYSure, she sucked when she performed on Saturday Night Live. So did Jimmy Fallon, and you gave him a second chance, right? Del Rey’s highly stylized ballads—she seems to have wandered, anesthetized, off the set of a David Lynch pilot—toy with the idea of the “bad girl,” leveraging? her appeal as a way out of her dead-end small town. When she coos, “God, you’re so handsome,” she knows just what you want to hear. Posing as a femme fatale is safe these days, but with her red dress and “tar-black soul,” Del Rey’s character is more like Cora in James M. Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice—an out-and-out cock tease. She split the world into two sides before she even released her first album,? Born to Die. Brilliant.ALABAMA SHAKESCourtesy of Autumn de WildeRemember Kings of Leon, the Tennessee band that was going to bring back Southern music? Pretty soon they were writing songs about how boring it was to date models, and then they walked offstage because a pigeon crapped on them. That’s not exactly the rebel spirit. Now come the Alabama Shakes, a soul quartet led by Brittany Howard. She’s a shouter, and she turns each track on Boys & Girls into a roller-coaster ride—climbing up and up as she slowly drawls out lyrics, then plummeting as she roars a crescendo. Until recently she worked as a mail carrier for the USPS, and Alabama Shakes songs take a determined view of hard times. In “Goin’ to the Party,” she sings, “There’s gonna be dancing, and there’s gonna be a fight,” and she sounds equally excited about both.AZEALIA BANKSCourtesy of Matt BarnesSmiling like a kid, wearing a Mickey Mouse sweater, her hair in braided pigtails, Azealia Banks might look innocent—that is, until she warns you that it wouldn’t be difficult for her to seduce your girl. “I guess that cunt gettin’ eaten,” she repeats. Banks mixes themes of innocence and sexual candor in the video for “212,” which adds a house bounce and a Jamaican accent to a hip-hop beat. Her mother once asked in exasperation, “Azealia, does every song have to be about sex?” The 20-year-old Banks—who grew up in Harlem, loving Broadway show tunes more than rap—is now making her first full album and recently declared her bisexuality. Not every one of her [url=http://coachfactoryhandbagoutlet2u.webs.com/]coach factory outlet[/url] songs will be about sex, she says emphatically, “but some will.” We’re thankful for that.AVICIICourtesy of Dan ReidSkrillex recently became an electronic music star by taking a jackhammer approach to house music—every jarring beat dices your ear holes. For subtlety and beauty, we must turn to his occasional collaborator Avicii, a cherub-cheeked young Swede born as Tim Bergling, who guested on David Guetta’s last album. In a musical style dedicated to electrode shocks, Avicii—he also records under a few other pseudonyms—adds playfulness: funky R&B in “My Feelings for You,” a lightly skipping beat in “Bromance,” a whistling hook in “Street Dancer.” And on “Levels,” he builds a riot of tempo, color and harmony around a bluesy Etta James sample. There’s even a Skrillex remix, if you want it on blast.PO POCourtesy of Noah ConopaskZeb Malik loves the “desperate, dark, badass” quality of the Jesus and Mary Chain’s late-1980s punk rock, but the distorted guitars remind him of a more spiritual sound—Muslim prayers broadcast on “busted-out speakers” in the Philadelphia mosques where his Pakistani parents prayed. Malik has a gift for turning noise into hooks, and it’s paying off: His band PO PO released a few scuzzy songs and rapidly went from playing for 30 people in Philly to 30,000 in Portugal, opening for Nine Inch Nails. 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MUTHAFUCKIN’ EXQUIREPhoto courtesy of: facebookAre you tired of rappers who act like investment bankers? Who rhyme about their Audemars Piguet watches and tweet about their partnerships with Louis Vuitton? When did rap become a tool of the one percent? Meet Mr. Muthafuckin’ eXquire, a down-and-passed-out underground MC from the Brooklyn projects who raps about bottom-shelf vodka, riding the subway and watching porn on Cinemax. He was enrolled in a school for the gifted but was soon robbing kids with a box cutter and dropped out in 10th grade. You can hear his smarts and his problems on two recent mixtapes, which bring to mind DMX’s dark meditations and the Geto Boys’ surreal hallucinations. If you gave him an expensive watch, he’d probably trade it for a case of Hennessy and a MetroCard.GARY CLARK JR.Courtesy of Myriam Santos/WB RecordsFor a tennis player, 28 is old, but for a bluesman, it’s still adolescent, if not embryonic. 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There are a lot of similar sites, but none is as thorough; not long ago, a post about the Meters, the great New Orleans funk band, included links to more than 40 different albums, compilations and bootlegs, most of them out of print. Lots of sites inform you about music you’ve missed; this one delivers it into your hands.SERENGETICourtesy of Jacob Hand“Hip-hop is so depressing to me,” Serengeti once said. “It’s the same redundant ideas.” None of this underground Chicago MC’s ideas, spoken in a casual and unexcited voice, could be dismissed as familiar: not his song about White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen, nor the one about a neglectful dad who reconciles with his son by shooting smack with him and certainly not his concept album about a middle-aged telephone booth repairman who adores actor Brian Dennehy. If you agree that mainstream rap sucks, buy a copy of Family & Friends. 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enrindypemy — Wed, 22 May 2013 11:30:50 +0000

What It Was
Vaughn entered the offices of the Third District headquarters and went to his desk. He found a memo slip taped to his phone. A cross-dressing streetwalker named Martina Lewis had called and asked that he get back to him.Vaughn’s supervisor, Lieutenant David Harp, tall, white, whippet thin, middle-aged and blue-eyed, with black slicked-back hair, came into the room and told Vaughn he wanted to see him in private.“Right now,” said Harp.Vaughn wiggled his eyebrows at his fellow detective Charles Davis before following Harp back to his office. The white shirts rarely bothered him, and when they did he didn’t let it get under his skin. He wasn’t bucking for promotion. He already had the job he wanted. The only way they could hurt him was to fire him, and they’d never do that. Vaughn’s closure rate was top-shelf.Harp was already behind his desk when Vaughn walked into the office. Vaughn took the hot seat, a hard chair set in front of Harp’s desk. He removed his hat, held it in his lap and waited.“Where you been, detective?”“Working my case. The Odum homicide.” Odum had been 123 pounds of junkie, a former second-story man scraping by as a dish washer and heroin tester. He was one of many confidential informants that Vaughn kept and cultivated around the city. The ballistics report had determined that the slugs retrieved from Odum’s apartment came from a .22, a weapon favored by assassins.“The suspect is Robert Lee Jones, correct?”Vaughn nodded. “Street name Red. We just need to put the bracelets on him. We’re close”I’ve been tryin to get hold of you. You take your personal car today?”“I’m more comfortable in my own vehicle, sir”“It has a two-way in it, doesn’t it?”“Yes, sir,” said Vaughn. “But sometimes I forget and leave it off.” Truth was, he didn’t like to be bothered with the constant crackle of the radio while [url=http://ccoachonlineoutlet.com/]Coach Outlet Online[/url] he was doing his job. The talk over the police frequency almost never [url=http://ccoachonlineoutlet.com/]Coach Outlet[/url] had a thing to do with him.Harp drew a pencil from a leather cup and tapped it on his desk. “Your boy Red and his partner robbed Sylvester Ward in his own house. Happened early this morning. Y’know that?”“First I heard of it,” said Vaughn. He was intrigued, but he tried not to let his emotions play out on his face.“Know who Ward is?”“That would be Two-Tone Ward. The numbers man. He controls the policy racket in the city”“Correct. He reported the crime soon as it happened. But Ward didn’t call the MPD. He called his city councilman. And the mayor, for all I know. And then I got the calls. More than one. Matter of fact, these [url=http://ccoachonlineoutlet.com/]Coach Outlet[/url] politicians have been up my ass all day. They want to know when we’re gonna get this joker off the street.”I’m sorry about the trouble it caused you, sir. If you want me to explain the progress of my case to any of those gentlemen—““Fuck them.”“Yes, sir” Vaughn smiled, displayed his widely spaced, crooked teeth. The younger cops called him Hound Dog, claiming he looked like that big dog in the cartoons, the one with the scary choppers and the spiked collar. Vaughn preferred to think of himself as a less pretty Mitchum. Or Sinatra on the cover of that record No One Cares, seated at the bar in raincoat and fedora, staring into his rocks glass. Not too gone for 52 years old anyway. He smoothed out the brim of his hat. “It’s unusual for a guy like Ward to call the authorities, even after he’s been victimized. I mean, there’s a code.”“They broke it. Red and his partner beat Ward like an animal before they left his house. From what I hear, Ward wasn’t even resisting.”“Sounds like my man.”“What’s this guy’s problem?”“Red Jones isn’t looking forward to retirement or old age, lieutenant. He’s living for this summer. Today. People all over the city are talking about him. The notoriety pours gasoline on his fire. That’s what he wants. He’s building his own myth.”Harp slipped the pencil back into his cup. He relaxed his shoulders and sat back in his chair. “bring the motherfucker in.”“Bet on it,” said Vaughn.” “And keep your radio on, detective.”Walking out of the offices, Vaughn put his hand in his pocket and touched a slip of paper. It was the messages from Martina Lewis.Vaughn bought a ticket at the Lincoln box office and went through the lobby to the auditorium. The 5:30 show was about to begin. Buck and the Preacher had been held over, but first the projectionist was running a reel of trailers for the current features playing at the other District Theatres, a chain whose bookers programmed films for black audiences in black neighborhoods. Vaughn let his eyes adjust and watched the promo for The Legend of Nigger Charley, currently running down at the Booker T. How the West Was Rewritten, thought Vaughn as he spotted Martina in one of the middle rows and made his way to a seat beside him.“Just got your message, baby,” said Vaughn, leaning close to Martina so he could keep his voice low and still be heard.“You weren’t followed or nothin, were you?” Martina [url=http://beautifulcoachbackpacks2t.webs.com/]cheap coach backpacks[/url] was wearing a dress, heels and red lipstick.“No. This about Red Jones? ’Cause I already know about the Sylvester Ward robbery.”“That’s not why I called you.”“I gotta find Red. Get me his location and I’ll make it worth your while.”“Money,” said Martina huskily, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Cash ain’t gonna do nothing for me, unless you got a lot of it.”“Tell me what’s going on.”In the light coming from the screen, Martina’s features were angular, masculine and troubled.“Tell me,” said Vaughn.“Hitter name of Clarence Bowman came into the diner earlier today. Was talkin to Gina Marie.”“I know Gina.”“Many do. Bowman had Gina Marie call some woman up on the phone and ask her when her man was gonna be home tonight. I had the impression that Bowman was about to put work in. The contractor had to be his runnin boy, Red.”“What man?”“A prosecutor. Cotch-somethin.”“Cochnar?”“That’s what it was.”“Cochnar’s building the case on Red.” Vaughn wrapped a hand around Martina’s forearm, hard as wood. “What’s Bowman look like?”“Tall, dark and cut. Like that actor, used to be an athlete.”Vaughn looked at the screen, saw Fred Williamson and said, “Him?”“Nah, one of them Olympic dudes.”“I gotta get out of here.”“Wait a minute, Vaughn.”“We’ll settle up later.”“It’s not about that,” said Martina, looking at him straight on. “I’m scared.”“Keep it together,” said Vaughn. “I’ll work it out. You’ll be fine.”Vaughn rose abruptly and rushed up the auditorium aisle. Martina’s head jerked birdlike around the house. He was trying to see if anyone had been watching or listening to their conversation. Half believing that they had not been observed, Martina slouched in his seat and got low.Coco Watkins, Red Jones and Alfonzo Jefferson sat on comfortable furniture around a cable-spool table set up in the living room of Jefferson’s bungalow in Burrville. They were drinking beer from clear longnecked bottles and passing around a fat joint of herb.Though the three of them had been raised in different quadrants of the city, they shared similar backgrounds. Jones had grown up in one of D.C.’s infamous alley dwellings, way below the poverty line. No father in his life, ever, with hustlers in and out the spot, taking the place of one. A mother who worked domestic when she could. Half brothers and sisters he barely knew or kept track of. Twenty- five dollars a month rent, and his mother could rarely come up with it. All of them hungry, all the time. Being poor in that extreme way, Jones felt that nothing after could cut too deep. Take what you want, take no man’s shit. No police can intimidate you, no sentence will enslave you, no cell can contain your mind. Five hundred push-ups a day in lockup, the same regimen on the outside. Legend was, an ambitious young dude had tried to shank him in jail and the blade had broken off in Red’s chest. It wasn’t a legend. Homemade shiv, but still.Jefferson had copped an OZ of premium Lumbo with his cut of the money they’d taken off Sylvester Ward. “Walk From Regio’s,” an instrumental from the Shaft soundtrack, was coming from the stereo, and Jefferson was moving his head to its bass, key and woodwind vamp.“This is bad right here,” said Jefferson, his woven hat cocked on his head, his eyes close to bleeding. “You know Isaac’s in town tonight.”“We got plans,” said Coco, eyeing Jefferson with annoyance. Jefferson, small and spidery, looked like a man-child. His voice was husky, and he was quick.“I know,” said Jefferson, and he smiled with sympathy at Jones. “Donny and Roberta. Sounds like a real house party. You can’t dance to that shit, though. It’s got no backbeat.”Jones hit the joint, hit it again and handed it to Jefferson. When Jones spoke, smoke came with his words. “What’d your woman say, exactly?“Monique? Said Vaughn came by, lookin for my Buick. Registration and title’s got her name on it.”“Ward snitched us out to the law. I can’t believe it.”“Ain’t no honor out here anymore.” Jefferson inspected the burning herb wrapped loosely in Top papers and drew on it deep.“Where your deuce at now?” said Jones.“Parked in my yard, out back. Can’t nobody see it from the street.”“If they walked into the alley [url=http://beautifulcoachbackpacks2t.webs.com/]cheap coach backpacks[/url] they could.”Jefferson put his hand on the worn .38 that lay on the cable-spool table. Official Police was stamped on its barrel, and he liked that. He touched its grip, wrapped in black electrical tape. “If someone walks into that alley and they look at my shit? It’s on. At that point, don’t nothin matter anyway.”“How close you think Hound Dog is?”Jefferson shrugged. “Man said our names to Monique.”“Dude stays on it,” said Jones with admiration. He was not concerned. In fact, his blood ticked pleasantly. “I wouldn’t go out, I was you.”“You about to go out.”“I gotta take care of Long Nose.”“And we got a date,” said Coco.“You know where Roland at?” said Jefferson.“Soul House,” said Jones. “According to you.”“If he’s out the hospital, that’s where he’ll be.”“So you gonna stay in,” said Jones pointedly. “Right?”“Monique comin over here,” said Jefferson with an idiotic grin. “Conjugal visit.”“What if she gets followed?”“I ain’t [url=http://beautifulcoachbackpacks2t.webs.com/]coach backpacks outlet[/url] stupid,” said Jefferson, smiling stupidly, his eyes gone. “Neither is ’Nique. She’s not goin any goddamn where unless it’s clear.” 12Next