Chapter Seven
The El Cajon Music Palace turned out to be a neighbourhood bar on the end of a retail block. It had little to distinguish it apart from a red neon sign saying “All Welcome.” It served as a less than promising introduction. The cab dropped them right outside and Isobel stepped out amongst a dozen or so smokers who were congregated by the entrance, enjoying their addiction. The security on the door asked to see Ryan’s ID and, in a show of solidarity, Isobel offered her English driving license. “We let the gals in any age,” said the man, holding up a palm.
“Is that a compliment?” said Isobel.
“You can make your own mind up when you get inside.”
A second obstacle to entry presented itself, a $10 cover, in exchange for which they each received a straw cowboy hat.
“Music Palace,” said Isobel, placing her hat on top of Ryan’s. “This place should be closed under the Trade Descriptions Act, or whatever it is you have in California.”
“Chillax,” said Ryan. “You haven’t seen the bathrooms yet.”
The Music Palace looked more like a drinking den in southern Louisiana than the Mecca of live entertainment the guidebook entry had suggested. The tone was set by the gloomy galley-shaped interior with a row of plastic bar stools, all occupied. The floor area had been demarcated by sports and leisure, one end given over to pool tables and the other to a token dance floor and stage. The smell of beer filled the air and Isobel’s shoes left the floor reluctantly with each step, their soles sticking like glue. The dress code for women appeared to be short skirts and plunging necklines, designed to show their assets to best effect as they stretched horizontal when lining up their cue. An American flag adorned one wall and a faded Confederate one had been secured precariously to the ceiling. Red lamps in the shape of racing cars hung over each pool table, and the year’s NASCAR schedule had been pinned up at a crooked angle against one wall. Both men and women stood around the tables with cues in one hand, beer bottles in the other, oblivious to the sounds coming from the speakers as a woman in a denim mini skirt and V-neck top in search of her belly button blasted out one of Dixieland’s tunes, while a row of line- dancing girls moved in unison across the stage.
“A beer okay?” asked Ryan.
Isobel had already noticed that the few tables that were in the bar were decked out with plastic pitchers, and a biker with a twelve-inch beard and a bandana on his head sat swigging from one of them. With his intimidating bulk and biker gear—a gothic crucifix dangling from one ear—he looked like the kind of guy she would normally cross the street to avoid. “Be a shame to waste the cover charge,” said Isobel, thinking a quick exit a more sensible decision.
The press of thirsty bodies obliged her to move away from the bar, and she stood alone, conspicuous and self-conscious in her seamed black stockings and red-soled stilettos as Ryan took his chances at the bar. A man chewing a toothpick and chalking a cue caught her eye, and made a show of leaning sideways to check out her rear. Damn these stilettos, she thought.
“Hey, honey, you want a seat?” shouted the man in the bandana.
“We’re okay, thanks,” she said, but he seemed not to hear her, and the group of drinkers began to shuffle up to make room at the end of the table. A woman with a generous bosom and a waistline to disguise it gestured to Isobel to take the seat next to her. She looked over to the bar where Ryan stood waiting his turn, so she took the seat, glad of the sanctuary it offered, nodding her thanks.
“Don’t reckon we’ve seen you in here before, honey. What brings an uptown gal like you to an ol’ redneck hangout like the Palace?” said the man in the bandana.
“My boyfriend is a huge country and western fan.”
“Well, your fella might find himself at the bar till sunrise. Jim up there likes to look after the regulars first, and there’s a pile of thirsty locals ahead of him.” The man sloshed a measure of beer over the side of the pitcher and into a glass. “Here, have this to slake your thirst. No sense you waiting. I’m Leroy, by the way, and this here is my wife, Judy.”
Isobel could not be sure that the man had been swigging out of this particular pitcher, but discretion demanded she took the glass he offered, and Leroy struck the pitcher against it. “Thank you, I’m Isobel,” she said. “It’s great music here, isn’t it?”
“All depends who’s got the mike in their hands,” said Leroy. “Mary up there can belt out a song, but she ain’t no Patsy Cline.”
By now, Isobel had worked out that she had stumbled into a karaoke night. Mary did a reasonable job of keeping time as the words on the screen changed from green to red, and a few of the crowd began to sing along with her.
“You’re not from round these parts,” said Judy, taking over the conversation. “Englan’, if I was to guess?”
“Yes,” said Isobel. “But now I’m living in…in San Diego.” She had stopped herself saying Coronado, thinking that mention of a place of such gentrified repute stood little chance of endearing her to the hard- bitten crowd at the table, and might even paint a target on her back.
“Isobel here is from Englan’,” announced Judy, throwing an arm around her and pulling her in close. “She’s come all the way to El Cajon to listen to country music.”
Ryan arrived back with two bottles of beer in each hand, and Isobel took refuge in his company. “Hell of a line at the bar, so I thought I’d double up.”
“They’ve run out of glasses?” she asked.
“I thought drinking from the bottle would help us blend in.”
“The only way we’ll blend in here,” said Isobel, leaning in and lowering her voice, “is if we pull on cowboy boots and a biker jacket.”
She poured one of her bottles into Leroy’s pitcher, and he gave her a nod of appreciation, respect, even. Beer, she concluded, was the way to Leroy’s heart. She introduced Ryan to the group and he said that his family hailed from Ireland, the first Isobel had heard of it, but it went down well. Judy continued to do her best to make them feel welcome. “You folks got a song in you?” she asked. “We could do with some fresh voices on that stage. And I never met an Irishman yet that couldn’t entertain a crowd.”
“I’m tone deaf,” said Isobel. “Can’t hum a tune, let alone sing a note, but Ryan here used to be on the stage so he loves being the centre of attention, isn’t that right, darling?”
“I’ve already got an agent to big-me-up, thank you,” said Ryan, “and looks like there’s a line of singers waiting for their five minutes of fame.”
“Don’t you mind about no line,” said Judy. “Big Leroy can fix that for ya, can’t ya, honey?”
“Sure can,” said Leroy, pushing himself to his feet. “You step right this way with me, boy, and we’ll have you whistlin’ Dixie quicker than you can catch a gopher by the tail.”
“I think a refusal might offend,” whispered Isobel to Ryan, “and Leroy doesn’t look the kind of guy you want to go around upsetting.”
Ryan sank a swig from his bottle before standing. “I’ll get you back for this,” he said.
Judy led the clapping. “You go there, boy,” she said. “We’ll all be rootin’ for ya.”
Ryan went to the stage with Leroy’s arm tight around his shoulder. After some heated discussion of the playlist with the DJ, Leroy turned Ryan round to face the crowd.
“We got some guests in tonight all the way from Great Britain,” said Leroy, leaning down onto the mike. “So let’s hear a warm country welcome for Ryan, who’s going to get us all dancing with a real Dixieland favourite, ain’t that right, Ryan?”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” said Ryan, in a passable Dublin accent, taking the mike and glaring at Isobel, who had stood up and joined Judy to applaud.
The intro music started and Ryan bobbed around in time with the beat before launching into his rendition of “Dixie.” The earlier songs had been no more than background noise in the raucous bar as singers followed the prompting of the karaoke machine, their eyes locked on the screen. But Ryan did not just sing the song, he performed it, caressing the mike without a glance at the screen. He knew how to work a crowd, moving into the line dancers and the drinkers and inviting girls to join in the chorus with him.
Judy pulled on Isobel’s arm. “Your fella's not just a pretty face. That boy sure can sing.”
Isobel laughed. “And I never knew.”
“This ain’t no time to mope. Come on, gal, we ain’t gonna miss this,” said Judy. And with that she hauled Isobel onto the dance floor and into the line-dancing crowd, growing in number with every note that Ryan delivered. By the time he hit the chorus for the last time, the whole bar faced the stage, their pool matches and conversations suspended as the crowd clapped and sang along.
Isobel waited at the front for Ryan, but he stayed holding the microphone. “My last song,” he announced, pausing for dramatic effect as the now-respectful audience stood in silence, “is for my own English rose, Isobel, the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Ah, he sure is a sweetie,” said Judy.
The karaoke machine kicked back into life and Ryan oozed his way into a slow version of “You’re More Than a Woman to Me.” A burst of clapping heralded the crowd’s support for the choice.
Isobel had remained at the front, watching Ryan. A confusing mix of emotions held her, affection, admiration, and pride, a feeling of being more drawn to Ryan than anytime she could remember.
Leroy arrived to interrupt her musing. He held out his hand. “Not strictly country, but I reckon we can shake a leg to this one.”
Isobel smiled warmly and accepted his hand. “You’re really just a gentle giant, aren’t you,” she said.
“I can be, with those I like. And not everyday I gets to meet a real lady, other than Judy.”
“Well, I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you.”
Leroy beamed at the compliment and took her centre stage. He led the dancing, proving to be both skilled and nimble for a man of his bulk. The line-dancing girls retreated to the edge of the stage, forming a circle around the two newcomers, clapping and shouting encouragement as Leroy led Isobel through a foxtrot routine, crossing the stage in giant strides before swinging her around in a full turn.
Ryan stepped into the circle, still singing, beckoning to Isobel. “I reckon you better finish off the song with your boy,” said Leroy. “You don’t want an old roadie like me gettin’ in the way of true love.” He stepped away and Ryan put his arm around her shoulder.
“Now it’s your turn. Let’s do the last chorus together, else you do the next one on your own.” When they finished the song Ryan planted a smacker of a kiss on her lips before turning to make a theatrical bow as the crowd gave their applause. Cries for an encore rang out, but he waved them away in mock modesty.
“Is this the memory you want to take away,” asked Isobel, “like with the surfing?”
He stroked her cheek. “Yep, I reckon it is.”
As the taxi pulled away she took his hand and kissed it. “You never told me you were a singer as well as an actor. You stole the show in there.”
“Thanks, but the competition wasn’t up to much. Acting, singing, it’s all about stagecraft.”
“But you knew that song by heart.”
“It’s where I started out, singing in the chorus in musicals.”
She gave him a friendly dig in the ribs. “And talent and good looks were enough to do the rest.”
“All that, plus kissing ass.” He put his lips to hers, his hand caressing her breast, the petting shielded by his body. He opened the top of her blouse, but when his fingers went to a third button she clasped his hand.
“We’re in a taxi,” she whispered.
“Who cares? The cabbie won’t mind, it’s not like he hasn’t seen it before. It’s a perk of the job.”
“What if I mind?” she said, continuing to grip his hand.
“Then you’d be a sad English prude.”
He pressed his lips to hers before she could protest further and she released her hold on his fingers, stung by his taunt. He slid his hand inside her bra. She pulled her lips from his. “Please, Ryan, let’s wait till we get home.”
“Sorry, babe, you’re just too good to resist.” He put his mouth back on hers, and she parted her lips to allow his tongue to find her own. He pinched on her nipple and she winced. Undeterred, he continued to fondle her, lifting her breasts out of their cups. He took her right hand and rubbed it against his crotch. She glanced to the front, her anxiety eased by the blackness that enveloped them. Ryan put his hand on her knee and separated her legs, then ran his fingers up and down her thigh, tantalisingly crossing the line where the fine texture of nylon gave way to smooth warm skin. He pressed his mouth to her ear. “You’re making me so fucking hot,” he whispered.
Her eyes met those of the driver in the mirror and she held them— surprised by her unashamed boldness—until he averted his gaze, and she enjoyed a fleeting sense of power at her small victory. Yet still she put her hand to her blouse to redo the buttons, and shifted uncomfortably as Ryan began to massage her where soft flesh met the laced silk of her French knickers.
She allowed him a brief moment of excitement, then eased his hand away and edged to the corner. “It’s been a fun evening. Please, don’t spoil it.”
He slid across after her. “Chill, babe, you’re the party-pooper spoiling the fun.” He pressed his lips back on hers; she did not resist and again his hand went under her dress, his wrist carrying it high on her thighs. She clasped her knees but he forced his way onward.
“Please,” she said, putting her hand on his forearm. But he pushed the folds of loose silk to one side, and began to explore her. She continued to push against his forearm, but a quiver from his touch sapped her strength, and with it her resolve.
“Please, Ryan, not here,” she whispered, but without the conviction of before.
He continued to massage her and eventually she closed her eyes, her breathing now slower and heavier. He licked her neck and nibbled at her ear and a tingling of expectancy ran through her body. “That’s the way, babe,” he murmured. “That’s the way.” Any remaining resistance in her limbs melted away. “Now show me you’re liking it,” he said, his voice quiet, but edged with lust. The upholstery creaked as she sank down into the cracked leather, easing her hips forward, her thighs parted, and allowed him to explore beyond the outer curves of her delicate and moistened skin. “That’s it, babe, that’s it,” he said, gently stroking her insides. He drew his hand back a little and she let out a heavy murmur of displeasure “You want me to stop?” She said nothing, only held him against her as he pushed back into her; this time she winced from the sensation of multiple fingers invading her.
The cab pulled up at a traffic light and the fluorescent glow of street lighting fell on her face and body and reflected back from the whiteness of her thighs. Her gaze again met the driver; his hand went to the mirror and he rested it lightly there in a silent signal of encouragement. Again she held his look, this time brazenly, letting her mouth fall open, and groaned. The driver turned, his eyes running hungrily over her. She made no attempt to close her thighs, but dropped her head onto the restraint, put her palm to her breast, and abandoned herself to the pleasure of the moment.