Midnight Man looked up from cutting lemons at the bar, Fannie’s head held in the cradle of her hand. Her steady drink of gin with grenadine and extra cherries before her, cigarillos smoldering in the tray. Debby Boone singing her goddamn heart out.

“It’s bullshit. True and authentic bullshit, my friend. Do you know what he told me? He said he could offer my people—my fucking people!—something I couldn’t. What the hell does that mean? You were here long before me, barbecuing the whole hog for Johnny Stagg, listening in and knowing every dirty, rotten goddamn deal in north Mississippi. What the fuck could that bastard offer someone like Buster White? You and I both know, the only thing our people care about is money. Money is goddamn everything. Anyone who tries to go and lay some Dr. Phil shit on your ass doesn’t understand their asshole from their elbow. Power? Sex? Where is that shit if you don’t have the money? I learned that a long, long time ago, watching boys leave dollar bills at the edge of the stage, making eyes at me, until they emptied their wallets. You’ll never know the true heart of a man until he shudders in your hand, eyes goddamn crossing, whispering he loves you as he lays down his last hundred bucks for companionship and understanding during an Aerosmith song. You know Aerosmith, right? You know them?”

Midnight Man shook his head, eyes down on his work, loading the plastic buckets with fruit for the highballs and Old Fashioneds the rich boys like to drink. Those rich boys from Oxford and Starkville coming in with fat wallets and hard-ons that made them walk nearly sideways.

“Make me another.”

“You good, Miss Fannie,” Midnight Man said. “It ain’t even four o’clock.”

“You know what my grandmother used to tell me? The original Vienna who ran that cathouse down in New Orleans? She used to say Man may work from sun to sun, but a whore’s work sure is fun. That woman sure was something. Did you know I didn’t even know she’d been a whore until the second time I’d been busted, my worthless stepfather coming after me with his belt, trying to whip the fear of Jesus into me even though he’s the one who parked the devil there. Son of a bitch. That’s how it is. Isn’t it? Skinner and that rancid bastard were nothing like Ray. Ray had class. A gentleman. God. Where is my drink?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Fannie,” he said. “Mr. Ray was a nice man.”

“A drink,” she said. “Now. Extra damn cherries.”