Rushmore.
We must’ve lingered too long because he half turned and stared. Robin smiled and gave a fluttery finger- wave. Her curls were wild, copper-bright in the moonlight, her dress a tight black tulip, set off by red stilettos.
Usually that has its effect.
Black Suit was no exception and he smiled back. Then he stopped himself, returned to reviewing the pavement.
Robin said, “Guess I’m losing my touch.”
“He’s a robot.”
“I used to be good with machines.”
A push of the brass door leading to the Fauborg’s lobby plunged us into a sooty, demi-darkness that turned the Damson-plum carpeting to soil-brown. All the furniture was gone, no one worked the desk, gray rectangles marked the walls where paintings had been removed.
One thing hadn’t changed: the familiar olfactory stew of roasted meat, disinfectant, and grassy French perfume.
The ancient air conditioner thumped the ceiling at odd intervals but the air was close, musty, dank.
Robin squeezed my arm. “This might be a bad idea.”
“Want to leave?”
“You and me quitters? Not in our DNA.”
Half the light fixtures had been removed from the lounge. The room was a cave. As my eyes adjusted, I made out the overstuffed leather and green plaid seating. Here, too, the artwork was gone.
Same for the big black Steinway with its gigantic brandy snifter for tips. Tinny music seeped into the room from an unseen speaker. An easy-listening FM station. As we stood waiting to be seated, Barry Manilow was replaced by a commercial for auto insurance.
Like pedestrians in a fog, the other patrons materialized gradually. A group of handsome white-haired people in their sixties who looked as if they’d driven in from San Marino, a quartet of well-dressed continental types ten years older, both men wearing ascots.
One exception to the maturity motif: two tables from our usual corner a young woman in white sat alone, checking her watch every fifteen seconds.
No one came forward to greet us and we settled behind a scarred coffee table stripped of snacks, flowers, candles.
The insurance commercial ran on. Glass rattled from the bar.
Gustave wasn’t bent over the slab of polished oak. In his place, a grim, big-chested brunette who looked as if she’d finally given up on a film career mixed what looked like a standard Martini while consulting a cheat-sheet. The concept of gin with a splash of vermouth seemed overwhelming and she grimaced. Clots of moisture created tiny reflecting pools along the bar-top as her fumbling fingers spilled as much booze as they splashed into the glass. She took a deep breath, reached for an olive, shook her head, and put it back in the bowl, health code be damned.
Her third attempt at carving a lemon twist was partially successful and she handed the drink to a server I’d never seen before. Looking too young to be allowed in a place where spirits flowed, he had floppy dishwater hair, a soft chin, and a dangerously overgrown bow tie. His red jacket was a flimsy cotton rental, his black pants ended an inch too soon.
White socks.
Black tennis shoes.
Ralph, the Fauborg’s waiter for decades, had never deviated from an impeccable shawl-lapel tux, starched white shirt, plaid cummerbund, and patent-leather bluchers.
Ralph was nowhere to be seen, ditto for Marie, the middle-aged Savannah belle who split busy shifts and offered naughty one-liners with refills.
Red Jacket brought the Martini toward the young woman in white, plodding cautiously like a five-year-old ring-bearer. When he arrived, she dipped her head coquettishly and said something. He scurried back to the bar, returned with three olives and a pearl onion on a saucer.
As the commercial shifted to a pitch for the latest Disney movie, Red Jacket continued to linger at the girl’s table, schmoozing with his back to us. She wasn’t much older than him, maybe twenty-five, with a sweet oval face and huge eyes. A white silk mini-dress bared sleek legs that tapered into backless silver pumps. A matching silk scarf, creamy as fresh milk, encircled her face. The head covering didn’t fit the skimpy dress; winter on top, summer on the bottom.
Her bare arms were smooth and pale, her lashes too long to be real. She used them to good effect on the waiter.
The watch on her right arm sparkled with diamonds as she consulted it again. The waiter made no attempt to leave as she pulled something out of a white clutch. Ivory cigarette holder that she rolled slowly between slender fingers.
Robin said, “Someone’s channeling Audrey Hepburn.”
The girl crossed her legs and the dress rode up nearly crotch-high. She made no attempt to smooth it.
I said, “Audrey was a lot more subtle.”
“Then someone else from that era. Hey, maybe she’s who Dudley Do-Right’s guarding.”
I looked around the room. “Can’t see anyone else who’d fit.”
“Someone that cute all alone?”
“She’s waiting for someone,” I said. “That’s the fifth time she checked her watch.”
“Maybe that’s why I thought of Audrey.
The girl produced a cigarette, fit it into the holder, licked the ivory tip before inserting it between her lips and half smiling at the waiter.
He fumbled in his pockets, shook his head. Out of her clutch came an ivory lighter that she held out to him. He lit her up. She inhaled greedily.
No smoking in bars has been California law for years. When the girl in white created haze, no one protested. A moment later, someone across the room was also blowing nicotine. Then two more orange dots materialized. Then four.
Soon the place was hazy and toxic and oddly pleasant for that. The commercial ended. Music resumed. Some imitation of Roberta Flack being killed softly.
Robin and I had been ignored for nearly ten minutes while Red Jacket lingered with the girl in white. When she turned away from him and began concentrating on her Martini, he returned to the bar, chatted with the befuddled brunette.
Robin laughed. “I am
“Want to go?”
“And lower my odds for lung cancer? Perish.”
“Okay, I’ll go educate Surfer Joe.”
“Be gentle, darling. He’s still wrestling with puberty.”
As I stood, the barkeep said something to Red Jacket and he swiveled. Mouthed an O.
Loping over, he grinned. “Hey. You just get here?”
Robin said, “Seconds ago.”
“Great … er … so … welcome to the Fowlburg. Can I get you guys something?”
“We guys,” I said, “will have a Sidecar on the rocks with light sugar on the rim, and Chivas neat, water on the side.”
“A Sidecar,” he said. “That’s a drink, right? I mean, it’s not a sandwich. ’Cause the kitchen’s basically closed, we just got nuts and crackers.”
“It’s a drink,” I said. “Any wasabi peas left?”
“There’s no vegetables anywhere.”
“That’s a bar snack. Peas coated with wasabi.”
Blank look.
Despite Robin’s soft elbow in my ribs, I said, “Wasabi’s that green horseradish they put on sushi.”
