Espresso Shot

the festivities. But it wasn’t what I feared-some photographer with a zoom lens.

It was worse.

A leggy blond in a business suit stood peering into the room. She wore expensive, rose-tinted sunglasses that shielded much of her face, but I would have recognized her anywhere. She appeared to be surveying the gathering, and she didn’t look happy. No surprise, given her focus on the hanging banner, the one with the unflattering poster of herself holding Matt’s leash.

Matt hadn’t yet seen her. He’d been distracted by Roger’s toast, so I waited for the best man to finish and the gang to raise their glasses. Then I maneuvered through the guys to the center of the room and tapped my half-drunk ex-husband on the arm.

“She’s here, Matt.”

“Who’s here?” He looked down at me, his eyes slightly glazed.

“The woman who threatened you with homicide if you had a bachelor party.” I pointed to the half-open door.

Matt paled, his mug of beer freezing halfway to his lips.

“I’m a dead man.”

THREE

THE door swung fully open, banging like a gunshot against the back wall (and barely missing the framed photos of Dylan Thomas’s gravesite and writing shed). The sudden noise quieted the men, and they turned their heads to find Breanne Summour fuming in the doorway.

Regally blond, the statuesque beauty was clad in a form-fitting business suit of pearl gray pinstripes. Her honey-colored hair was coiled in a tight bun, and even though the tavern’s lighting was dim and her eyes and much of her face were hidden behind the large rose-tinted sunglasses, there was no mistaking the sharp chin and pouting lips, glossed with her favorite Beaujolais Red lipstick. Sheer black stockings, four-inch pointy-toed heels, and a matching leather attache completed the sleek trademark look.

Matt winced. “Oh, jeez…”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like a silent wave, the men parted, allowing Breanne to cut a swath through the room. The ominous bonging of the wall’s pendulum clock and the tap-tap-tapping of Fifth Avenue heels across worn hardwood planks were the only sounds in the dead quiet.

Breanne slammed her attache onto a stout table and popped the leather lid. A moment later, music flowed out of the case, a rhythmic throbbing. As a throaty saxophone began its song, Breanne stepped close to Matt.

Without a word spoken, his broad shoulders sagged, as if in relief. And his tense expression-no doubt braced for a tongue-lashing-now visibly relaxed.

It took me another moment to realize what was really happening. Breanne ripped away her tinted lenses, and I finally saw that this was not Matt’s bride, just a dead ringer for her-or, rather, a dead ringer for a much younger Breanne. Sans rose-colored glasses, the young woman was obviously half Breanne’s age. Unfortunately, she was also the bachelor party’s featured entertainer, so I could guess what was coming next.

Using a chair for a step, the woman climbed onto a table, where she definitely had everyone’s attention. With her lips pursed in a seductive pout, she swayed her hips to the primal music and began to unbutton her fitted pinstriped jacket. She released her coiled hair next, letting it fall like a honey- colored curtain; then the dancer slid her hands down her thighs and lifted the hem of the skirt to reveal stocking tops and lacy black garters.

Embarrassed, I looked away, searching the crowd for Koa. He shot me a knowingly amused thumbs-up, and I knew he was the one to arrange this frat-boy prank.

So much for discretion.

The younger guys were going crazy now-buck wild, actually. And I started going crazy, too, frantically pushing my way through the howling, testosterone-fueled mob to the room’s windows. I maneuvered the high blinds down to a closed position just in case Knox’s “Gotham Gossip” photographer was lurking out there in the night.

Whistles and catcalls erupted around me, and I turned to find Koa at my side, grinning like a Pacific shark. “We really had Matt going there, didn’t we?! I thought he was going to drop a rock!”

“Ha-ha, yes, very funny,” I said, and was about to add more, but Koa’s attention had already shifted back to the dancer, which didn’t surprise me. (Men typically preferred staring at a woman rather than actually listening to one.)

Above my head, cloth fluttered down like autumn leaves. The audience hooted, whistled, and howled. I spied Roger Mbele shaking his head, a bemused expression on his face, and that’s when I realized the door to the bar’s public front room was still wide open.

I moved to shut it and found half a dozen male customers from the bar standing there gawking, eager to get an eyeful of the stripper. When one of the college kids whipped out a cell phone and held it up-presumably to start snapping pictures for the Internet, I shoved the group back.

“Sorry, private party!” I told them and began to close the door in their faces.

But I couldn’t shut it all the way. I looked down to find a heavy black boot blocking my efforts. The boot was scuffed and dirty, attached to a guy in his late twenties: too old to be an undergrad, I thought, too skeevy to be a grad student (probably). He was close to six feet and wiry, with a studded leather motorcycle jacket and a black shirt decorated with creepy Day of the Dead skeletons. His skin was pale but flushed, as if he’d been drinking (big surprise). He had a few days’ scruff on his jaw, his stringy brown hair was disheveled, and a stud earring of a white skull was snickering at me from one earlobe.

“Who do you have to know to get invited to this party?” the guy said, his breath violating my nose with a reeking mix of bad dental hygiene and a great deal of tequila. “Who’s the guest of honor?”

“Nobody special,” I assured him. “It’s just a party. Now, please let me close the door.”

The man’s unblinking stare remained fixed. “Lemme in, lady. I won’t drink your booze.” He pointed to the Breanne look-alike. “It’s the ho I wanna meet.”

“Forget it.” I pushed harder on the door. His heavy boot remained planted.

“And what if I don’t, bitch?”

My eyes narrowed. Like most suburban girls, I’d grown up with the usual “be nice” lessons. Good manners were a sign of good character; and the last thing a modest girl would ever want to do was be the cause of an awkward scene. After years working a service counter in this town, however, I’d learned other lessons. To guys like this, for instance, courtesy was a rope to strangle women with.

“Stop giving me trouble, scumbag!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Or I’ll call our bouncer!”

People in the bar’s front room frowned in my direction, but Koa heard my yell (a miracle over the raucous noise) and immediately moved behind me.

“Trouble, Clare?” the big Hawaiian asked, crossing his massive arms.

“Not if this guy steps away from the door!” I yelled, this time with close to three hundred pounds of heavily muscled backing.

Eyes shifting to Koa’s ham-sized biceps, the jerk’s scowl deepened. Finally, he turned around. Heavy boots clomping, he walked back to the front room’s mahogany bar. The bartender approached the man as he plopped down and poured him another shot.

I shut the back room door and sagged against it. As the Breanne look-alike finished her act, I studied the vintage tin ceiling. Then I heard a burst of exuberant applause, and a moment later, the statuesque young dancer slipped away. Clothes bundled under her arm, pumps and attache case in hand, she ducked through the room’s back archway, bolting by the tavern’s kitchen and disappearing into an alcove that led to the ladies’ room.

Roger Mbele walked by me a moment later, his jacket draped over his arm.

“You’re not going to the gentlemen’s club?” I asked, not entirely surprised.

Roger smiled. “In Kenya, I go to bed when the sun sets, and get up before it rises. I’m too old for late nights.” Then he laughed. “Or maybe it’s simply a case of jet lag.”

He gave me a hug, pecked me on the cheek. “I’ll see you at the luncheon, Clare. And Madame, as well.”

Roger’s departure was followed by some of the other older partygoers, who also bade me good night. There were empty beer pitchers and glasses everywhere. The party banner had fluttered to the floor, and I found Matt speaking with Dexter Beatty, a Jamaican who sold Caribbean coffees out of three Brooklyn locations. Forty-something, tall, and scarecrow-thin, Dexter almost always displayed a wide grin under his wild Rasta dreadlocks.

“If your new wife can dance like that sweet thing, you are the luckiest dude alive!” Dexter said, knocking Matt’s fist. “See you at Thursday’s luncheon, mon. And congratulations!”

Matt turned to face me, opened his mouth to speak. Then Koa draped a big arm around his neck, and said, “Okay, bro, now that we got you all hot and bothered, it’s time for the main event. We’re taking you to Scores!”

The remaining men around us hooted.

“The night is on me,” Koa vowed. “So hand your wallet over to Clare. I won’t take no for an answer”-he winked in my direction-“and neither will she.”

I stepped forward, palm up, hand extended.

“Koa, my brother, you’re the best,” Matt said, rubbing his bleary eyes. “But I’m not going to Scores with you.”

Koa looked stricken. “Dude! You can’t be serious.”

Matt shrugged apologetically. “With the wedding and my daughter coming in, I’ve got too much to do. I’ve been going since sunup. It’s time for me to call it a night.”

“No Scores?” Men groaned in disappointment.

“Just for me, guys,” Matt insisted. He smiled at Koa. “You all go. Have a blast.”

Koa considered Matt and nodded. “Okay, bro. It’s your party… but we’re gonna keep it going!” Grinning, he turned to face the others. “Dudes, it’s on! The girls are waiting!”

With more good-byes and congratulations, the men filed out. After everyone was gone, I sidled up to Matt.

“That’s a shocker.”

“What?”