Wage slave’s emancipation night, millworkers, cannery workers, and dock workers with sales clerks, maids, seamstresses, hookers, and pimps and whores, card sharks and loan sharks and undertakers and up-lifters, all free, free, God Almighty. free, at least, until Monday morning.

In the bucket of blood Club, loud voices, louder music, flashing thighs, bulging bosoms exposed and bulging pants concealing carnal lust. The smoky air fuels baited breath and whiskey breath and something-died-in-your-mouth breath and everyone all in on it and up on each other.

I know, you know, she know, we all know that blood will flow with the booze, the sweat, tears, music and madness.

“You, nigger, stepped on my toe, spilled my drink, messed with my woman, was mean-mugging me, you look like someone I don’t like, took my seat, stole my watch, fucked my wife, poisoned my dog.”

Rent and food money in one pocket and play money in the other pocket sitting at the blackjack table minding my manners and my own business when she come and sit beside me. She crosses long brown legs, licks thick, red lips.

Said, “My name is Honey Dew.”

“How do you do Honey Dew? What’s up with you?”

“Trying do right on a Friday night, but if I do wrong, I want to do it right and all night. Can you dig it?”

“You playing my song and I want to hum along. Let me win this hand, buy you a drink and watch you cross them fine roads to paradise.

I buy, she drinks, crosses and re-crosses, I win. Ready to get in the wind.

I make note of him as he enters the Club. Tall like a telephone pole, black like a crow, serious like a deacon on Sunday morning and angry as a thundercloud. He’s lightning looking to strike someone dead.

Not me, not me, couldn’t be me, I done paid my dues, sung my blues and been visited by bad news, hard times, thirsty razors and craggy scars. Not me, not me this time.

Comes my way like a moth to the flame, like a hound on the scent, like a Canadian Mountie after his man.

Not looking for a man, not looking for me, looking for Honey Dew. He pulls a blue, black 38 revolver, shoves it in my face, slaps Honey Dew right off her stool.

Honey hits the floor hard and yanks an Italian dagger out of her purse and drives it through his brogan through his foot and pins him to the floor. He screams and moves the snub nose gun to point at her. He’s too late by a fraction of a second. She has a double shot Derringer and discharges both barrels up through his mouth into his brain.

Death! I look up, and I see Death standing by the door. He dressed in a sharp, dark green, three piece, silk suit with a fancy black Stetson hat on his head and spit shined Stacy Adam shoes on his feet, wearing a blood red tie and a black shirt and a matching red pocket square. He smiles at me and winks. I nod in return.

In the Club ain’t nobody seen nothing, ain’t nobody heard nothing. Body removed. Floor’s mopped. The bloody, good times rolls on as Honey Dew, and I dip out into the warm Biloxi night for Friday night delights.

“Who that you nodding to in the Club when the deed was being done?”

“A fella in a dark green suit—“

“Oh, you know him too?”

“When my mother died. I was eight—“

“When my baby died in my arms—well, we got us an acquaintance in common.”

And we do, Honey Dew and I do.

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