She worked Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights slinging drinks at a little dive over on General De Gaulle in Algiers. It would’ve been a real pit to work in if it hadn’t been for the guy who owned it, TK Williams, retired oil field diver extraordinaire. TK was a legend. He’d been, done, and seen. Young hotshots looking to live the dream spent the pay they made worshipping at TK’s bar buying drinks in the hope of hearing his stories.
Emma Lee could hardly blame them. He was long and tall with pretty, tan hands, past his prime but if he hadn’t been her boss she would have given him something to remember. He walked with a rolling swagger, wearing black Tony Lamas, and jeans that slid on over what she was sure remained fit and lean. She knew he had it for her. She went to Bronco’s every Saturday night. TK had an agreement with Diamond Al, who owned the joint, that the band would not play Louisiana Saturday Night until he walked through the door. Wherever she was, he found her and twirled her right out from under the nose of whatever man she was talking with before he even had a chance to take offense. He two-stepped her right around the floor like it was nobody’s business. It was the same thing every Saturday night. “You get down the fiddle and you get down the bow, kick off your shoes and you throw ’em on the floor, dance in the kitchen till the morning light, Louisiana Saturday Night.” There he was green eyes snapping and gold crowns glinting every time he tipped his head back to laugh.