The Dancer
Chapter 10
Judge Jonathan Haskins poured himself a shot of bourbon, added three ice cubes, and sat down in his study. His routine.
The way he’d end every workday. Usually, he would sit quietly, check out his calendar for the following day, finish his drink, and head home to Hazel, his wife of 55 years.
Tonight would be a bit different. Johnny Fallon was on his way.
The first face-to-face meeting in twenty-eight years. So many years had passed since Johnny had left town. He could still see the agony in the young Fallon’s eyes. He had lost his bride — his bride-to-be, the beautiful, the lovely Betty Lou. He had lost his partner…the one he was supposed to spin... twirl... hold, not just on a dance floor, but his partner forever…their future already planned out — raise a family, grow old together, and dance their way through life, together.
Judge Haskins finished his drink. He remembers the first time he saw the couple perform. It was a local contest. They were competing in an open jitterbug contest. He’d never seen anything like it as he watched the two of them slide across the studio floor.
The youngest entrants and the most talented by far were handed the first-place trophy while the crowd around the dance hall cheered and clapped in appreciation of what they had just witnessed.
The 78-year-old Haskins shook his head. The years passed quickly, and the young couple grew into young adults; then, the unthinkable happened at Brighton Canyon. Betty Lou was unable to stay clear of Ricky Rivera’s runaway tire. The guilt the young Fallon must have felt as he rushed to save a deer in the middle of the road. The deer disappeared into the forest a split second before Rivera’s car crashed into the embankment.
Fallon looked back to see Rivera’s hot rod flipping once, twice…three times, and suddenly landing upside down on the side of the road. He watched helplessly as the tire dislodged from the vehicle and turned into a deadly weapon, blazing a path toward the helpless Betty Lou.
Johnny Fallon heard her scream. He rushed to her and held her in his arms. Deadly silence followed, except for the sound of the remaining tires on Rivera’s car…spinning…and spinning and spinning.
Judge Haskins had listened to his share of horror stories over the fifty years he’s sat on the bench. But nothing hit him harder than the story of Ricky Rivera, Betty Lou Johnson, and Johnny Fallon.
Johnny was a bystander, a witness to it all, destined from that moment forward to a life of turmoil, as was his best friend, Bobby Joe Gorman. The young Gorman survived it all, too, but was forced to witness the crash through the window of his vehicle.
He knew Bobby Joe still dealt with the agony and still found his way to the Tavern on the Hill on occasion to drown those sorrows.
Judge Haskins took the last swallow of bourbon. He heard the knock on his chamber door. It was Johnny Fallon.
“Johnny, you’re a little bigger than the last time I saw you,” Judge Haskins said.
“I guess I’ve filled out a little,” Johnny said, patting his stomach.
“It’s been a long time, Judge. A long time.”
“Glad to have you back in town. Sure miss your parents. Marsha and John were the best.”
“They’re gone, Judge.”
“I know, Johnny. I was so sad to hear of their passing. Allison White, the editor of the newspaper, wrote a nice article about them. A sad thing…a sad thing.”
Both men stood in silence for a brief moment. Judge Haskins cleared his throat and offered Johnny a drink. “I have a little bourbon left.” He stared at the chamber door. “Rose, my secretary, has gone home. I’ve reached my limit... one. Something I’ve done at the end of every day since I put on the robe,” pointing to the coat rack in the southwest corner of his office.
“No, Judge. Thank you, though.”
“Well, then. Sit down, Johnny, and tell me what you’ve been doing since the last time I saw you.”
Johnny looked around the room, noticing all the pictures on the walls, including a photo of John F. Kennedy, a picture of the Judge, back when he was just getting started in his profession, and a photo in the center of the room of Judge Haskins and Slim Walker.
Johnny stood up and walked over to the row of photos. “You and Slim in your younger days, I see.”
“We were in business together for many, many years. Slim and Millie are in a care home up in Vermont. Finally, they sold their old motorhome and quit traveling. The man’s got to be in his late 80s by now.”
“I’ll never forget, Slim. He was so good to me. I loved that shoeshine job. I was so little. He seemed larger than life to me.”
“He thought the world of you, Johnny. He took it so hard when you left town. Come on, Johnny. Sit down. What the hell happened to you?”
Johnny tapped the photo of JFK twice with his right hand.
“Judge…I wandered around…aimlessly…from one small town to another, working odd jobs and sleeping in grungy motel rooms… finally, in the winter of ’62, I walked into a recruitment center in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and joined the United States Army."
Johnny gestured with his right hand, “ ‘Sign right here,’” the recruiter said. “And so I did.”
“I had no idea what I was doing. Looking to disappear, I guess. I ended up in some country I had never heard of, Vietnam,” Johnny continued. “Judge, maybe I should have that drink before I go on.”
Johnny’s following thoughts took him to his base camp, 35 miles outside of Saigon. The heat was unbearable. The War was barely getting started. He was there to help train South Vietnamese soldiers… not to engage.
Johnny looked squarely in the eyes of Judge Haskins. “Judge, from that moment on, I prayed for the day I’d be able to return to U.S. soil.”
The Judge listened to every word while remembering another War…in another time…in another land.
The words were beginning to flow at a rapid pace as Johnny recalled every frame, every moment, every second of his tour of duty as he wallowed in the heat of the land, trying to make headway, trying desperately to hold on to the fact he was there to make a difference, to save a small country from aggression from the Viet Cong, the aggressors from the North. With each day, he lost faith and suddenly realized his priorities had changed. He was there to survive from dusk till dawn, right along with his fellow soldiers — his brothers. Nothing more.
Then it happened. “Judge, I swear I don’t know where the shots came from. Three shots. Then silence. Jimmy Clayton. He was from Lawton, Oklahoma. A good ole boy who could talk your leg off. We were on patrol, and Jimmy was going on and on about the day he scored four touchdowns in a single game. His last words: “They couldn’t stop me that day.”
“Judge. His head exploded right in front of me. A split second later, I was hit twice. I felt pain in my right knee, then in my right hip. Then darkness. I woke up a week later, being attended to by a nurse who was trying her best to keep me still. It was the last thing I remember about Vietnam, and it was just as well.”
Judge Haskins continued to listen, taking in every word.
“I was transferred to Japan and flown back to the United States. The leg was shattered just below the knee. I swear, Judge. It took the doctors at the VA months to get my leg back together. I never thought I’d ever walk again, and dancing…forget it.”
Johnny took a deep breath, stood up, and walked around the room. Judge Haskins sat quietly and listened to the young man continue, reliving the agony of it all. Johnny said he flew from Los Angeles to Hoboken on November 23, 1963 — one day after JFK was shot in Dallas. His leg was in a cast for the third time, some kind of a rod now inside his leg, holding him together.
The plane flew over Dallas, and he looked down on the city where, hours before, the President of the United States had been assassinated. He was heading to the East Coast to be with his parents again, to heal…to mend. He felt lucky. Guys like Jimmy Clayton were gone. More troops would be heading to Vietnam and would soon be in harm’s way. He would quickly learn in the days and years to follow of the thousands and thousands of American soldiers who would be sent there…and thousands and thousands more who would not return.
Johnny told the Judge that his parents were glad to have him home. They nurtured him back to health and took care of him just like they had done in Forest Hills for the first twenty years of his life.
Years passed. He regained the strength in his leg, and slowly but surely, he began to walk without a limp, and then he began to dance again. He danced in the living room with his mother…in the kitchen…in the hallway with his father. It was like old times. "We'd listen to music together as a family, the same way we had done decades ago."
Johnny worked in an auto plant in southern New Jersey and held a second job at night in a small dance studio in downtown Hoboken. Physically, he had become the Johnny Fallon of old. Mentally, it was a different story. He’d wake up sweating. He’d be far away from Hoboken. He’d be back in the jungle. He’d see Jimmy’s face in one dream and Betty Lou in another.
By 1980, Johnny had sent resumes to dance schools across the country, from New York to Los Angeles. Could he find someone willing to take a chance on an over-the-hill dancer?
Finally, a break came. It was his parents who ultimately supplied the missing link. A letter came from a dance studio near Los Angeles. The owner, Ms. Esther Manning, a former professional dancer, had, along with her late husband, Harold Lawson Manning III, lost the 1933 Florida State Ballroom Freestyle Championship to a couple of 22-year-olds from Hoboken, New Jersey, named Robert and Marsha Fallon, who outpointed them.
Johnny was offered the assistant director of dance position at the Valley School of Dance in Anaheim, California. Once again, he said his “goodbyes” to his parents — his parents, realizing their son had been given a second chance, sent him on his way. This time, with their blessings.
“There’s more, Judge. Maybe we should call it a night.”
“Johnny, that’s an unbelievable story. All I can say is I’m going to go home and hug Hazel. You are a survivor, my son, and don’t you forget it.”
Johnny checked the clock on the Judge’s wall. It was eight o’clock. “That’s pretty much the reaction I received from Leo Johnson and Bob Gorman the other night. All I can say is it’s nice to be home. Your Honor, thank you for spending time with me.”
“Johnny, I’ll be seeing you soon. You can count on it.”
Judge Haskins turned out the light and locked up his chambers. The two men walked out into the night air.
Johnny headed for his ’57 Chevy. He glanced up at the stars. He was glad to be home, and now he had one thought in his mind.
It was time to dance.
Chapter 11
It was Saturday night. Johnny Fallon had been in town one week. He had made headway. He had met his remaining demons head-on, and he was finally winning the battle.
With the help of his closest friends — especially his best friend, Bobby Joe, and men like Bob Gorman, Leo Johnson, and Judge Haskins — he knew he was not alone. In short, he was home — back where he belonged, back to the only place where he had a chance to put all the pieces of the puzzle back together again.
Doctor Smith had already pounded into his head that he wasn’t alone. Sure, he’d been through hell, but he was still standing…still upright…still battling against the odds. Like the Judge had just said to him, “Johnny, you’re a survivor.”
The Vietnam War had taken its toll on him, long after he’d been placed in a helicopter and sent away from the line of fire, long after his arrival back in the States, and long after he had found himself amongst the “people” — people who hadn’t a clue what he and his fellow soldiers had gone through.
There were years and years of protests and beautiful songs — songs protesting the War, which would grab at his heart, like "The Eve of Destruction" with Barry McGuire blasting away with the singer’s crushing lyrics and the soft, pleasing words of the great John Lennon, bellowing out, "Imagine." So many songs over the years as the world continued to voice their disapproval of the War, and finally, The Animals, putting it all into perspective: We’ve Got to Get Out of This Place.
In 1975, the Vietnam War was officially over for the American soldier. Johnny had come home just 12 years earlier…and he was still trying to make sense of it all.
Johnny looked in the mirror. He no longer felt like a middle-aged man without any direction. Something had snapped into place when he knelt and placed the bouquet of roses on Betty Lou’s gravestone up in Brighton Canyon.
There had been times in his life when he had heard the saying, “You can never go back.” Perhaps the answer lies somewhere in between. He’ll always go back to the music, to the beautiful sounds of yesteryear. But it was finally time to move on. There was more music ahead. It was a new beginning.
It was time for a new chapter in his life. He grabbed a comb out of his pocket and checked out his new hairdo. A few hours ago, he had sat in Charlie Peabody’s barbershop and let Charlie perform wonders with a trim and a shave. He was no Johnny Travolta, but he was Johnny Fallon.
Johnny revved up the ’57 Chevy and headed for the Tavern on the Hill, The Hideout. According to Bobby Joe, it was Fifty’s Night…and tonight, Johnny Fallon wouldn’t be running for the exits.
The “new kid in town” entered the Hideout and eyed a waving Bobby Joe. “Over here, Johnny. Over here.”
The Hideout was packed. Bobby Joe’s table contained the usual suspects — Mary Beth, Natalie, Bud, Claire, and Filo. Even the bar was full of familiar faces. A Fifties Night, all right, with plenty of old-timers sitting on the stools, including Leo Johnson and Bob Gorman. Johnny even recognized the old Forest Hills High School football coach, Clifford Steele.
“The first song is for you, Johnny,” said Bobby Joe, pointing to the band.
Before the band had pounded out the first note of Johnny B. Good, Mary Beth Thompson had pulled Johnny Fallon to the dance floor. Within seconds, the floor cleared, allowing the couple to bring the house down, and before the song had ended, the patrons of the tavern were on their feet. The Fifty’s Night was officially underway.
Bobby Joe welcomed Mary Beth and Johnny back to the table.
“That was unbelievable, Johnny. You two were great out there. Johnny, I’ll never get tired of watching you dance.”
“Back in the day, everyone used to say that was my song,” Johnny said. “But the song isn’t about a dancer. It’s about a guitar, man.”
“We don’t care what the words say,” Bobby Joe said jokingly. “We just want to watch you jitterbug.”
Johnny sat down. He felt the nagging pain in his right leg, much like he did six months ago in the finals of the West Coast Swing Regionals in Los Angeles.
He had spent a year working with a student at the dance studio. Joni Greer, 27, had mastered the swing dance to the point that he felt they had a shot at winning regionals and qualifying for nationals. And they almost did, but his leg gave way before time expired in the final qualifying dance.
All the work, all the preparation, the late-into-the-night practice sessions, turned out all for naught as the couple left the floor — disqualified.
Johnny would no longer be vying for dance titles. Teaching, maybe. Professional dancing. No. Johnny blamed himself. His past decisions. His age. “Pick an excuse,” he would often mumble under his breath.
“You okay, Johnny?” questioned Bobby Joe.
“I’m okay. I’m getting older…not as young as I used to be.”
“You could have fooled us,” Mary Beth said, still trying to catch her breath.
The pain in his leg would eventually subside, and before the night was over, every single woman in the bar — sitting alone with their toes tapping on the floor, their eyes closed, taking in one rock and roll song after another — would eventually dance with Johnny Fallon.
From "Great Balls of Fire" to "Blueberry Hill," from "Peggy Sue" to "Jailhouse Rock," the songs would keep coming; only a 15-minute break every hour would allow the dancers time to catch their breath.
Johnny would lead them from The Stroll to the Electric Slide as the dancers pushed their way onto the crowded floor.
The time had ticked away quickly for all the patrons of the bar. It was midnight — time for one more song.
A woman stood at the bar and motioned for Pamela. “It’s the last call,” said the head bartender.
“What can I get you?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine. Tell me, who is the gentleman that just came off the dance floor?” she said.
“You must be a stranger in town?” Pamela said. I’ve never seen you in here before.”
“I’m not from here,” she smiled. So, what’s his name?”
“Why, that’s Johnny Fallon.”
“Thank you,” the woman said as she walked to the end of the bar and then walked slowly to Johnny Fallon’s table.
Pamela watched. “What a striking woman. I wonder where she’s from? My goodness, she’s asking him to dance!”
The band began to play its final number of the night, a Platters song, A Million to One.
Johnny looked into her eyes. “You’re not from around here.”
“That’s funny. That’s what the bartender just said.”
Johnny picked up the beat, and she was right with him. For nearly three minutes, they owned the dance floor. He spun her in every direction. She followed his every move.
Then it was over. And like a week ago, when he had made his quick exit, she did the same, walking quickly to the red doors.
Johnny yelled to her, “I didn’t get your name.”
She stopped and looked back. “It’s Samantha Reed. Thanks for the dance.”
The doors closed, and she was gone.
Johnny had spent so many years dancing for three minutes at a time. During those three minutes, he’d leave his body and find himself in the clouds, searching for Betty Lou — looking for a glimpse of her blond hair blowing in the wind.
Every time a song would end, it was like walking off the floor into an abyss — and within seconds, he’d return to reality…back to the pain of it all.
This time was different. The longing for another three minutes with a woman who, minutes ago, had asked him to dance. He suddenly wanted that feeling again.
Johnny turned toward his table. His friends are all standing. Transfixed. In shock. Bobby Joe was the first to comment, “What was that all about? Who was that?”
“I don’t know,” Johnny said. “She said her name is Samantha.”
Chapter 12
Johnny had made his decision. He settled up with Sally at the Shady Creek Motel on Monday morning, made his way into town, and pulled in at Bobby Joe’s gas station.
“I’m glad to hear that, Johnny. When do we leave?”
“As soon as you can, make arrangements and get the coverage you need here at the station. We should be back in four days at the most.”
Bobby Joe jumped at the chance to help his best friend relocate back to Forest Hills. “Besides, I have never seen the ocean. It’ll be a blast. Just you and me, Johnny!”
“Believe me, Bobby Joe. It’s not going to be much of a social trip. I need to park my old car at the house, and we need to find a truck like yours. We’ll need to rent a U-Haul when we get out there.”
“This is exciting, Johnny. Hey, we have a couple of great deals at the automotive center. Dad will fix you up.”
“Sounds good,” Johnny said. “I need to make a couple of phone calls. I need to talk to Madge and give her the news, and I need to stop in and see Judge Haskins.”
Johnny’s first stop was Madge’s office. She understood. “I’m glad to hear you’re coming home. I’ll watch over the house until you get back next week.”
It was on to see Judge Haskins. “Why, Johnny. That’s wonderful. I’d be glad to rent the studio back to you. The last tenant moved out recently. They tried their best to turn the place into a tanning salon. They couldn’t make a go of it."
“Thanks, Judge,” Johnny said. “I’ve got some ideas. Can’t wait to get started.”
“You always do. Tell you what. Sign a year’s lease, and I will throw in the first three months free. It’ll be a load off my mind to have you back in there.”
“Thank you again, Judge. I’d better get a move on. I’ve got a truck to buy.”
Johnny drove to his house, parked the ’57 Chevy in the garage, and waited for Bobby Joe to pick him up. Things were moving fast. He was sure his parents were looking down from Heaven, and they would be pleased. Once again, the Fallon name would be back on the window at Third Street and Main, where it all began.
He was sure he was finally heading in the right direction.
Johnny, you can’t go wrong with this baby,” Robert Gorman said as he tapped the hood of the red 1987 Chevy Silverado extended cab. “It has 21,000 miles on it. One owner and this baby has a tow package to boot, and the payments are right.”
“When did you become such a good salesman, Mr. Gorman?”
“Johnny, to tell you the truth, I’m just like that good, old country boy over in Phoenix, but you’re like a son to me. Believe me, it’s the best deal on the lot, and I want you boys to head to LA in style.”
“Sold!” Johnny said.
Johnny stayed at Bobby Joe’s for the night. They got up early, stopped at the Do Drop-In for breakfast, and headed down the highway. They decided to make one stop…one overnight stay on the west side of Phoenix. “We have to go there, Johnny. It’s like walking into another world.”
“Mr. Lucky’s? Never heard of it.”
“Oh, Johnny. You’re gonna love it,” Bobby Joe said as he slid a Willie Nelson CD into the slot. “We might as well get in the mood. Suddenly, the words from Nelson’s On The Road Again bounced off the speakers of Johnny’s new truck.
The two men sailed down the mountain. Johnny was happy with his truck. Just like Mr. Gorman had said, it was a beauty. He loved the FM radio, but what he really liked was the newfangled disc player. Bobby Joe had a great selection of CDs. In time, Johnny figured he’d purchase a few of his own.
“What else you got there, Bobby Joe?”
“Hey, how about some Doobie Brothers?”
“Sounds good.”
Within seconds, Johnny was all smiles as the great sound of the Doobie Brothers rang out, and the free-flowing melody of "Listen To The Music" roared through the speakers.
“Gotta love it,” Johnny said. “Gotta love it.”
The time passed quickly as they curled their way down I-17 and into the northern edge of Phoenix. Suddenly, they were in the Valley of the Sun.
Johnny and Bobby Joe showered and shaved, put on their cowboy boots, left the confines of the Motel 6 on Grand Avenue, and pulled into the parking lot early enough to find a space. The sign at the entrance noted, 'Country Dance lessons, 7 p.m. till 8:30 p.m.'
They took out their billfolds and paid the modest cover charge.
Johnny eyed the surroundings. “My goodness. This place is huge. Look at the size of the dance floor.”
“I told you, Johnny. I told you.”
“What can I get you, gents?” said the cocktail waitress, who was decked out in a red, white, and blue mini skirt and a matching low-cut blouse, along with knee-high white boots.
“A couple of PBRs,” Bobby Joe said.
“Draft or bottle?”
“A couple of drafts will do,” Johnny said, thinking back to a song he had heard back in 1966, Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots Are Made for Walkin’…and That’s just what they will do…one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.
“Johnny. I can see it in your eyes, another one of those songs streaming through your head.”
“You caught me, Bobby Joe.”
Bobby Joe left the table and went to find the men’s room while Johnny surveyed the place. The place had an upstairs for rock and roll, and the downstairs area looked to be set up strictly for country music, with perhaps some upbeat country rock thrown in. There was a lot of hootin’ and a hollerin’ going on in the far corner of the main room, a mechanical bull — swinging and sliding with a cowgirl aboard — her hat spinning off her head and bouncing to the floor while she held on until the buzzer sounded.
Then Johnny saw her, a reddish-haired beauty, at the center of the dance floor, teaching a 24-step version of The Electric Slide.
Bobby Joe had just returned to the table when Johnny grabbed the right arm of his buddy and shook it. “That’s the girl from the Hideout. That’s Samantha!”
“Are you sure, Johnny?”
“I’m positive.”
Johnny watched her as she shook hands with her dozen students, then left them to practice on their own. She headed for the bar. Johnny couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
“Go talk to her, Johnny. Go talk to her,” said Bobby Joe, as he practically pushed his startled friend off his chair.
Johnny reluctantly headed for the bar, the red-haired beauty with her back to him in a lengthy conversation with the bartender. He looked back at Bobby Joe. His buddy gestured. “Go, Go, Go!”
“Samantha?”
“Johnny Fallon!
Johnny, looking for the words, muttered, “I never got that second dance” as he motioned toward the dance floor, just moments after the cowgirl at the jukebox had punched her Keith Whitley selection, Don’t Close Your Eyes.
Samantha Reed smiled and didn’t say another word as they made their way to the floor. Johnny’s buddy was already casing the joint, looking for a dance partner. Johnny had already found his.
The couple danced for hours. The band played on. The couple had no idea when the bartender had turned off the power switch to the jukebox or when the band had introduced their first number of the night. One tune, followed by another
.
Suddenly, the light flickered above the dance floor, and the band announced its final song of the night. Johnny and Samantha gazed at one another and smiled as Willie’s voice echoed throughout the nightclub, Turn Out The Lights, The Party’s Over.
Johnny and Samantha left the dance floor and headed back to the table. “I see your friend has met one of my students,” Samantha said. Morgan’s been in my class for four weeks. She’s a quick learner.”
“I wish I could say the same for my buddy,” Johnny said jokingly.
It wasn’t long before Johnny, Samantha, Morgan, and Bobby Jo walked out the front door of Mr. Lucky’s and into the night air. The breeze felt good, especially to Johnny and Samantha, who had barely stopped to breathe after three nonstop hours of dancing. Not ready to call it a night, the four dancers met up at a late-night eatery called The Big Apple.
It didn’t take long before Morgan Sullivan had caught everyone up on her life history. “I’m a graduate student at Arizona State University, and I turn 23 in two weeks. I’m trying to get Ms. Reed to get me comfortable with the two-step so I can find me a cowboy.”
Johnny and Samantha laughed while an embarrassed Bobby Joe scratched his head and grinned slightly.
As for Ms. Reed, she had a tale to tell, which would take a while.
“I’m thirty-seven, and I’ve seen my share of cowboys. Thank You.”
She had confided in Johnny on the dance floor, and Johnny couldn’t believe it when she mentioned her grandparents, both from Scotland, and both were professional ballroom dancers. “I guess that’s why I love to dance so much. It’s in the blood.”
Samantha continued her story as Johnny, Bobby Joe, and Morgan listened, as if they were being offered chapter after chapter of a romantic novel.
“My mother was an only child and grew up sitting, listening, learning, and watching her parents perform…”
“It wasn’t long before my mother met Sebastian Reed, a Flamingo dancer from Spain. My father was good to me and taught me many artistic skills. He was such a great dancer, but my father was killed in a plane crash on his way to a performance in Italy. There were no survivors. Years later, a photo was returned to us — it was of the three of us on vacation together on a beach in Aberdeen.”
“Wow! Morgan said. “That’s so beautiful. I’m sorry. I mean, not about your father. Just how you described it all.”
“That’s okay, Morgan.” Samantha smiled at her. “I understand.”
Samantha shrugged and finished the story. She told of her mother, who packed all their belongings and sailed with her teenage daughter to the United States.
“My father was also a fine arts dealer, and we had a very comfortable life. He had provided for us rather nicely. Mom and I eventually settled in Carefree, Arizona — a small community just north of Phoenix. A few years ago, Mom decided she wanted to buy a summer home in the mountains. Mother has been ill in recent years, so I drive up to Forest Hills to check on the cabin four or five times a year.”
Samantha smiled and took a deep breath. “That’s pretty much it in a nutshell. Except for a couple of failed marriages — those two cowboys I had mentioned, one turned out to be a little on the abusive side, the other — well, to make a long story short, I think the Jim Beam settled the issue.”
She turned to Morgan. “So, you be careful, little lady.”
Johnny was frozen in his seat. He was somewhere between Scotland and the United States.
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