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he accidentally mentioned he’d served it to them cold. The way they liked it. Cold cereal, cold pizza for breakfast. What was the difference?
    “Hi, Kim.” Extending her right arm, Ginger stretched out her hand. Making herself a promise, a promise that she knew she would keep: If she wanted to be a professional, she had to start looking like one.

4

    Ain’t No Woman Like the One I’ve Got
     
    In the center block of Market Street near Fenkell, formerly Christ Temple Baptist Church, the newly acquired building was being renovated as the current headquarters of the Production 10 Motorcycle Club. This building was their second acquisition. Little Bubba and Jackson, along with twenty other lifelong members, had formed the club in 1970, and each owned a share of the structure. Monies made from cabarets and party rentals were used for utilities and the upkeep of the building. Occasionally they went on field trips; their intention was not profit but pleasure.
    “Damn it’s cold in here, man!” said Little Bubba, blowing into his cupped hands, then vigorously rubbing them together. He walked over to the thermostat and turned it up. “Man, I’m surprised to see you down here this early in the morning.” He eased onto the bar stool next to Jackson. The ten-foot-long mirror stretched across the wall behind the bar, reflected the image of two old friends. Looking at the heap of plumbing apparatus covering the dance floor, Little Bubba said, “I thought we set the meet-up time at noon”
    Jackson fumbled with the wrench on the counter. He hadn’t expected anyone to show up here at the club before 12:00 P.M. He wanted a few hours by himself to think. “Been talking about bringing down that extra toilet and sink of mine for the last few months. Thought I’d do it today. Might as well get both of the bathrooms installed at the same time.”
    Little Bubba looked puzzled for a moment. Lifting his hat, he scratched his gray-speckled crew cut. Jackson never missed his Saturday morning Westerns on the cable channel at home. There was a television set at the club, but they didn’t have cable. “Your satellite dish still working all right?”
    “Yeah,” Jackson said. “Same old reruns.”
    Walking around the bar, Jackson opened the refrigerator door and peered in. He put two cold beers on the counter and then leaned his back against the cool surface. The smell of cold beer filled the air. “Watching the game tonight?” asked Jackson.
    “Wouldn’t miss it. The Pistons are playing Cleveland tonight. . . right?”
    “Yeah, at the Coliseum.” Jackson turned on the television set, and sat down beside his friend to watch the morning news. “Gonna be a good game. Pistons need to win this one tonight.”
    “Got twenty dollars bet on ’em suckers, they better win.” Little Bubba, feeling the warmth of the furnace, shed his wool jacket. Shuffling through his deep pockets, he extended a small yellow bag to Jackson and opened his own.
    “Hey man . . . thanks.” Just like old times, thought Jackson. “Man, this bag must’ve come all the way from Mississippi, they’re tough as hell.” Biting down on a curled pork crackling, he cursed from the side of his mouth through clenched teeth.
    “Them big teeth you got shouldn’t have no trouble biting nothing.” Little Bubba smiled. He and Jackson had grown up together down South. Little Bubba stood barely five feet five inches tall. Because his baby brother hadn’t learned how to say brother correctly he’d always called him Bubba, and the name stuck. After Jackson and Bubba entered high school, though, Bubba’s younger brother grew like a weed and shot up four inches taller than Bubba, so he changed the nickname to Little Bubba. “How’s the kids and Ginger doing?”
    “They’re doing fine. Just fine.” Jackson pondered for a bit, then added, “Her oldest son Jason got a job bagging groceries at Krogers. It’s working out pretty well. Plans on buying a car before the