“Mr. Grit,” said Barry White, or what sounded like the rotund singer, but was actually Momma Blue. I think she played Barry White in one of her shows and since I was a big fan, I would have to catch her show one of these nights. “Yes,” I responded, extending a hand. “I remember you. Sam, isn’t it?” “Uh, yeah, it’s Sam, Sam Grit.”
Momma Blue stood about my height but much more substantial with a bosom rivaling that of blonde bombshell Jayne Mansfield. Miss Mansfield had tragically lost her life in a horrific car accident just a few months before. It was difficult to hold a conversation with Momma Blue without peering at the small mountain range she carried on her chest. The voice of Barry White coming from the person with the prodigious mammary glands was a peculiar dichotomy at best. I had to admit her uncanny vocal likeness to Barry White had me questioning her gender. There were a number of reasons to question her gender, but those were questions that were irrelevant at the time.
Momma Blue directed me to one of the many sofas that ringed the wall in what was the ‘Pleasure Center’ as she referred to it. She stared at me for what seemed like a long time waiting for me to react to the afore-mentioned ‘Pleasure Center’ area designation. I didn’t bite. I had visited a few “pleasure centers” in Tijuana when I was a young man in the military and I doubted the Gardenia Club came close to matching those.
There was a long bar to our right that extended from one end of the space to the other. It was a distance of about a hundred feet or a third of a football field. I heard it was common to see some of the local football stars in the club, and I’m sure at the bar. They must’ve felt very at home there, given the length of the bar where no doubt a few scrimmages were engaged. I felt her out (figuratively speaking, that is) to see if she might know something regarding Chief O’Halloran. I was not prepared for what she told me next.