It was a run-down pole barn style building that looked like it might have been a big rig repair shop at one time in its life. At least, there were two...oversized garage doors on one end of the long building. A large, faded sign painted on one of its sheet metal sides showed a couple dancing. The girl’s skirt was flipped high above her waist showing her barely-covered ass. Beneath the couple it said, “Colonel Boogie’s Private Dance Club. Public Welcome.” According to the tax records of Scott. I, Ramon, the helpful big brother was to the rescue. This time I said to myself that I wasn’t about to do shit. I let the call go to voicemail the first time. Then her worrisome ass had the audacity to call again. My guess is that she wasn’t gonna let me sleep until I heard what she had to say. So I picked up the phone on the second ring.“What you want now Quisha?”“You can’t say hi to your favorite baby sister?”“Hi baby sister. What you want now Quisha?”“Ramonnnnnnn,” she said in a long drawn. More

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