The Limping Spirits Meetinghouse

Excerpt:

Two tonks later, Billy set the tone for the entire evening, getting a drink splashed in his face when he disrespected a short spitfire ginger. 'You're the perfect height for what I want.'
As I'd done the entire evening, I continued to pace myself.
A part of me felt sorry for Joe. I held out hope for him, a man gifted with savoir faire. I could only fault him for refusing to cut loose our mutual buddy as his wingman. Poor Billy, I sincerely doubted the man could get laid in a women's prison with a handful of pardons.
Only minutes prior to last call, a taxi dropped us at a skeevy-looking dive on the Chullia Indian Reservation named The Limping Spirits Meetinghouse. The name of the establishment, not to mention its run-down appearance, left me uninspired, but Joe and Billy seemed eager to prolong the eternal night of humiliation. Frowning, chin resting on chest, I followed them inside.
"Gotta good feeling 'bout this one, David," Billy slurred cheerfully. Attempting a fist bump, he missed mine by a mile.
Merciful God, a quick once-over of the joint and I knew the horrible evening had come full circle. Cheap plastic palm trees with half-lit strands of blinking multicolored Christmas lights decorated each corner of the nasty little tonk, even though the holy holiday had come and gone months ago.
The members of a local country-and-western band were breaking down sound equipment and stage lights, while two wasted patrons slow danced to Hank Williams twanging away on the jukebox.
The last available woman in the whole dive would have, by my best estimate, weighed in at around two-hundred pounds. She had greasy hair and pockmarked skin and wore a floral print muumuu. A dozen empty cocktail glasses lined the bar in front of her. We stared in disbelief as she slurped down the heeltap of another sugary umbrella drink. Billy glanced at us and shrugged his shoulders. I pulled him back by his collar in mid-stride.
"Okay, boys, I think we should call it a night, maybe sober up in the motel pool."
"But the young's still night," Billy mumbled, struggling to keep his balance.
I interrupted an elderly man unburdening himself on the bartender, a tall shirtless Chullia tribesman with wicked scars and tatts in all the right places, to call a cab. Was I imagining things or was he checking me out? His big brown eyes never left mine as he placed the call. Momentarily, I contemplated dumping Drunk and Drunker, leaving them to their own devices.
As I herded my wasted buddies to the curb, Billy whistled and catcalled female patrons leaving the bar, even the ones escorted by gigantic boyfriends. I kept apologizing, making excuses for him. Joe was fading fast. Holding up two grown men was no easy task, even for me, a stalwart man towering over six feet in height.
Twenty minutes passed. I feared the taxi might be a no-show. Any longer and Billy would surely get us all killed. There was no silencing his booze-addled babbling. The sexy fucker bit my hand twice, but each time professed his love for me. Fantasizing foreplay, I decided I liked it. I propped the overgrown nipper against a semi-conscious Joe leaning on an inside corner of the building. Just before I'd abandoned all hope, a yellow cab pulled alongside the curb. I asked the driver if he wouldn't mind lending me a hand getting them settled into the taxi. As he did so, he warned our fare would be doubled if anyone blew chunks in the car.