A Note From an Old Acquaintance (6 page)

7

THE
INTERCOM
BUZZER
RANG
at 6:30. Brian struggled into his plain white t-shirt, while pressing the talk button. “Just finishing up. I’ll be right out.”

“No sweat, we found a space right in front.” Bob said, his voice sounding robotic through the tiny speaker.

Turning away from his front door, Brian scrambled to pull on his pants. Nick had called the office earlier in the day to let them know that the party had a “Grease” theme: leather jackets, chains, jeans, and lots of hair pomade. It was another last-minute “masterstroke” that had Bob rolling his eyes.

Typical Nick.

The only thing Brian owned that fit the bill was a pair of tight-legged black jeans he’d never worn, some Western style boots and a newly-purchased black leather motorcycle jacket, the same style as worn by Marlon Brando in
The Wild Ones.
Shiny and stiff, it squeaked whenever he made a move in it.

Zipping up the jacket, he turned up the collar and glanced at his image in the mirror. He had to admit it did make him look a bit dangerous. The hair was where he drew the line, however. His was so baby-fine, he would have looked like a wet Pekingese if he’d tried to pomade it. He gave himself a thumbs-up, a final spritz of Halston Z-14 and was out the door.

Bob’s car, a three-year-old gray Honda Accord, idled at the curb. Brian slipped into the back seat, grateful to be out of the biting cold. The motorcycle jacket squeaked loudly and Bob eyed him in the rearview. With a sinking sensation Brian saw that neither Bob nor his wife, Debbie, were dressed in anything resembling Fifties attire.

“Oh, great, I’m probably going to be the only one dressed like this. I’ll look like a fool.”

“No more than you usually do,” Debbie said, giggling.

“Thanks,” he said, grimacing. The jacket squeaked again.

“Actually,” she said, “I think you look kind of cute. Doesn’t he look, cute, Sweetie?”

“Very cute,” Bob said, smirking.

They pulled out into traffic a moment later. The ride to the Metropolis Club was a little less than a mile straight down Beacon Street, through Kenmore Square now choked with crowds of restless college students hitting the clubs and bars, up Brookline Avenue and over the Pike, with an immediate left onto Lansdowne.

The club occupied a long two-story cinderblock building crouched in the shadow of Fenway Park’s titanic green carcass. The only indicator the building housed anything other than non-descript industrial space was the large blue neon “M” mounted above the thick polished stainless-steel doors.

Amazingly, they found a space near the other end of the street and walked back to the club, joining a small crowd poised outside the vault-like doors. A tall muscular bouncer dressed in black, holding a stainless steel clipboard, turned some of the people away as they approached.

“Private party, ladies and gents. Invitation only,” the bouncer said, moving to bar the door. “You can’t enter, if you’re not on the list.”

Several couples groaned their displeasure and left.

A moment later, when the three of them reached the head of the line, the bouncer eyed them, his thick brows arching inquisitively.

“Bob Nolan and guest,” Bob said.

The bouncer consulted the list on his clipboard and nodded toward the door.

Brian gave his name and watched the big man flip through several pages. Brian did some quick math in his head. At roughly fifty names per page, that meant at least three hundred invitees. Nick had to be spending a bloody fortune.
I’m in the wrong business,
Brian mused.

“You’re cool. Go on in,” the bouncer said finally.

Brian eased through the steel door and found his friends standing in an impromptu receiving line in the reception area. The room was easily twenty by twenty feet with black walls, charcoal-gray carpeting, and stainless-steel sconces shooting white-hot beams of light upward toward the fifteen-foot ceiling. Watching over all of this was a twice life-size replica of “Maria” the sexy Metropolis robotrix, her metallic curves gleaming. He could hear music thumping through the walls, the beat shaking the floor.

Nick and his partner, Cassie Bailey, stood at the head of the line greeting their guests. To Brian’s relief, both Nick and Cassie wore clothing similar to his own. In fact, except for the cowboy boots Brian wore, Nick could have been his clone. The similarity ended there, however. Nick stood a hair over five-foot-seven, had dark unruly hair poised like a crag over a lean face that bore more than a passing resemblance to Matthew Broderick.

Cassie, taller by a good two inches, wore a battered russet-brown bomber jacket two sizes too small—which did little to hide her ample figure—and skin-tight jeans rolled to just below the knees, exposing shapely calves and sockless feet shod in bright-red high-top sneakers. Her dark brown hair, always in disarray when working, was now sleeked back into a greasy pompadour, completing the haughty biker moll look.

She sidled up to Brian and enveloped him a hug that lasted a little too long.

“You gonna save a dance for me, Honey?” She spoke this into his ear in a breathless whisper.

She pulled away, her black eyes flashing. It was obvious she’d had a few too many already, though she’d made it crystal clear in past encounters that she had a thing for him. And while Brian was flattered, she just wasn’t his type. It wasn’t anything physical he could put his finger on, either, as she was fairly attractive. She certainly filled out her jeans well enough. No, it was more her overt predatory nature—fueled by an undercurrent of desperation—that made him uneasy.

Brian managed a smile and was about to answer when she slunk away, distracted by another guest. He breathed an inward sigh of relief and moved over to Nick, who was hugging a tall brunette dressed in a poodle skirt and matching sweater.

Nick spotted him and grabbed his hand in a vise-like grip, a toothy grin creasing his gaunt face. “Hey, kiddo, you made it. I was laying money down that you were gonna chump out on me.”

“Sorry you lost the bet,” Brian said, returning the grin.

“You kidding? It was worth it. You’re gonna have a blast—or else.” He raised his fist, laughed, and slapped Brian on the back. “Go on in. Bar’s open.”

Brian rejoined Bob and Debbie and entered the club proper. The motif from the foyer was carried over into the main room on a grand scale. More duplicates of “Maria” were placed at strategic points, like sentinels. Lights flashed and spun, reflecting off a mirrored ball, making for an eye-dazzling display. The bar was even more impressive: an amalgam of polished steel and Lucite, the Lucite pieces seeming to vibrate with an unearthly blue glow. The sunken dance floor, a seamless sheet of obsidian, was deserted in spite of the pounding music. The sheer volume of it made it impossible to ignore. The bass frequencies shook the room hitting him in the gut at the relentless rate of 120 beats per minute.

Bob pointed toward the bar and made drinking motions.

“Get me a Sam Adams!” Brian shouted.

Debbie held up two fingers indicating that she wanted the same, and Bob left to get the drinks. Brian and Debbie found a table near the dance floor and sat down in two of the plush chairs. Brian studied the room then turned to find Debbie studying him, an amused expression on her Botticelli face.

“You okay?” she said, leaning closer.

Brian nodded.

“Seems like you’ve got your work cut out for you tonight.”

“How’s that?”

“Cassie. I’m not blind.”

“Yeah,” Brian said, chuckling. “I can handle her.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Debbie said, her deep brown eyes twinkling.

“Wait a minute, that’s not what I meant. I’m not interested in her.”

“I kind of figured that.” She paused, glancing toward the bar. Bob stood in a crush of partygoers, trying to get the bartender’s attention and looking peeved. Her expression softened when she turned back to Brian. “How long have we known each other?”

“Six years. Since junior year.”

“And in all that time, have I ever tried to set you up with anyone?”

“Thankfully, no.”

Debbie laughed then turned serious. “Well, I’ve thought about it—a lot, especially after you broke up with Julie. But to be honest, I hesitated because I didn’t think any of my girlfriends were good enough for you.”

Brian looked down at the table, not sure how to take that. “I appreciate that...very much.”

“But I think I’ve finally figured out your type.”

Brian looked up, puzzled.

Debbie nodded toward the dance floor. Two women were dancing—the
only
two people dancing, at the moment.

“The curly redhead on the left in the sequined cocktail dress.”

Brian stared, watching the woman dance, her lithe body moving with a fluid grace. A moment later her friend leaned in and said something, making the redhead convulse with laughter. Her smile was so carefree and natural, so ineffably sublime; it lit up her entire face.

“So what do you think?”

“Uhh, Deb, she’s dancing with another woman.”

Debbie glared at him. “She’s not—”

“How do you know?”

“Women know these things. She’s available.”

“And what makes you think she’s my type? You know her?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what?”

Debbie turned and watched the redhead, her expression turning thoughtful. “There’s just something about her....”

Bob returned with the drinks, setting them on the table. “What’s going on?” he asked, sipping his gin and tonic. Brian was grateful for the interruption, taking a swig of his beer. It tasted especially sweet.

“I was just telling Brian that he should go ask that redhead to dance.”

Bob looked over at the two women and shrugged. “Hmm. Not bad.”

Debbie scowled. “
Not bad?
She’s adorable, you dope.”

“Not as adorable as you,” Bob said, blowing her a kiss.

“Flattery will get you everywhere...later,” she said, turning back to Brian. “I think you should go for it. I’ve really got a feeling about her. She’s ripe for the plucking.”

He nodded, only half listening, his attention now drawn back to the redhead. From where he sat, she appeared to be about five-eight in her high heels, an effect accentuated by the mass of loose auburn curls piled atop her head. The cocktail dress she wore was a simple, flattering design, but it hid whatever curves she possessed, making her appear slim, almost lanky. Brian usually liked his women with more meat on them; however, something about this one stirred his emotions. Maybe a part of it was because she was having so much fun out there.

And then there was that luminous smile.

Even from thirty feet away, it made his heart pound and his throat go dry. He slugged back his beer, draining it.

The woman and her friend stayed on the dance floor through two more songs then took a break. By that time the floor was packed with undulating dancers, and Brian craned his neck, watching the two of them snake through the crowd toward the bar. He lost them behind one of the “Marias.”

“What are you waiting for?” Debbie said into his ear.

“The right moment.”

“The right moment is now, you schnook. You wait too long and some dickhead’s going to grab her.”

Brian held up his hand. “All right, all right, you win. I just need another beer.”

“Liquid courage?”

“You could say that.”

Debbie laughed. “Get the beer, then go get
her
.”

Brian wormed his way through the crush of people. It appeared his original estimation of the guest list was a bit shy of reality. There had to be more than four hundred people crammed into the club. About half of them seemed to have congregated at the bar. Pushing his way to the front, Brian caught the eye of one of the bartenders and held up his empty Sam Adams bottle. The man nodded, grabbed one from out of a cooler, twisted off the top and handed it to him. Brian tipped back the beer, letting the cool hops-heavy liquid glide down his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the redhead talking with her friend at a small table a few yards away. Butterflies swam in his stomach and his head felt as if it were swathed in cotton.

Oh, Christ, I can’t do this.

Yes, you can, you schmuck. Do it. Do it, now!

He started to move, stopping when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to find Cassie Bailey staring at him, a carnivorous grin on her pink-frosted lips.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she purred in his ear.

Caught off-guard, Brian was left without a snappy comeback. Cassie tugged him toward the dance floor. He placed his beer on a nearby ledge and went reluctantly, his eyes darting between the redhead and the direction Cassie was leading him. They reached the dance floor and she immediately began gyrating suggestively, making sure to bump and grind against him at every opportunity. Brian did his best to appear enthusiastic, without encouraging her, a delicate balance if there ever was one. He also tried not to look like an idiot on the dance floor.