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Saturday, August 9

The search for Sandie was not as easy as I had initially hoped. After seeing the work environment of Kerrigan &  Moore I assumed that it might be common practice to hang out with colleagues after work to kiss up to superiors and the such, most probably during a drink in a nearby bar, and there were many of them in the neighborhood. Stalking her, like waiting for her near the elevator shafts, came to mind, but only as a last resort.

My plan was to frequent local bars after business hours, befriend some regulars, and eventually ask them for Sandie. I was sure any decent or indecent heterosexual guy would remember her and would be willing to share his fantasies about her. Through the Internet I had created a sizeable list of bars around the Empire State Building within a perimeter of roughly five blocks. I could rule those out who opened late night, but still, the list was impressive.

My guess was that Fridays would be my best bet, but on the other hand I didn’t want to take any chances and I went out every afternoon. To tell the truth, I was thrilled to break with my usual routine, and any excuse in favor of my quest was welcome.

The only obstacles were my dates with Erin which usually started later in the evening. I had long showers and brushed my teeth extensively after each bar visit and before I saw her. When I left the building to see her I felt like I had transformed from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hide, or vice versa, whatever persona was appropriate.

She still hadn’t told me she worked for Vanessa Corrigan, the top-notch literary agent, and I didn’t push it at this time. And even though we were officially dating I hadn’t slept with her, but I was sure, as soon as I needed to give her the final push, I had to stand up to the task in front of me.

All these thoughts went through my mind when I finished up my hair, ready to engage into another excursion of the New York bar scene. I had created a list of bars and the first stop tonight was the Double Door Piano Bar, about three blocks away from the Empire State Building.

The name didn’t lie. There was, in fact, a double door leading into the bar, and as soon as I entered I could hear the music from the piano on the stage in the far right corner. I didn’t expect to find Sandie here tonight. My intention was to check out the premises, maybe have a beer or two, and then continue with my list.

Attendance was low, which was no surprise for a late afternoon on a Saturday. I saw three people sitting at the bar, each of them separated by at least three empty chairs, and each of them nursing their drinks. I picked a seat close to the guy who also seemed to be the only one somewhat close to my age. The rest looked like they were all in their sixties, and while guys in that age range have the most vivid fantasies about big-boob blondes when they see them, I was not in the mood for that kind of conversation.

They didn’t have beer on draft, so I ordered a White Russian from the female waiter, an overweight woman in her late forties, who seemed utterly dissatisfied with her current job. I paid immediately, leaving some change on the counter, just in case I felt the urgent need to leave as quickly as possible.

The TV behind the bar was tuned to ESPN, and apparently they had a report on the New York Yankees, but, in view of the live piano music, they had the audio turned off. I learned the hard way that watching ESPN without audio is pure torture. I personally consider watching ESPN and listening to their incredibly incompetent commentators as painful, with audio or not, and I was ready to leave.

“You’re a Yankees fan?” the younger guy turned to me.

“I’m from Baltimore,” I answered truthfully.

“Well, that doesn’t answer my question,” he grinned. “Are you a Yankees fan?”

There was nothing aggressive about his tone, and I found that, for some reason or the other, I immediately liked him.

“No,” I answered. “Sorry, but I stick with the Orioles.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said and laughed. “That would be something if the Orioles would win the World Series this year. Doesn’t seem likely, though, the way things are going for them at the moment, but I sure would like to see that, and I am a Yankees fan.

So, what brings you to New York?”

“Business, just business. I am on an assignment until end of September.”

He nodded and took another sip of his Vodka Martini.

“By the way, my name is Dennis,” he introduced himself and reached over to shake my hand.

“Stuart,” I said. “Not Stu. If you call me Stu my mother will hunt you down and kill you.”

We both laughed and chatted about baseball for a while. He seemed to be very knowledgeable not only about baseball, but pretty much about everything that goes on in this world, and after a few more drinks he became more personal.

He told me the story about his father who was on the board of directors at several big companies all over the United States, and who had sent his son, Dennis, all over the country to learn the business of upper management.

“Last month it was San Fran,” he explained without any apparent enthusiasm. “For the next two months I will be staying here in New York. After that, who knows.”

He took a last sip from his drink and immediately ordered a new one.

“Honestly, I am not made for a life in New York City. I hope, at some time I will make it to Boston. I love New England! I went to college there. Until then I work ten to twelve hours a day, and after work, and on weekends, I drink six hours a night.”

His finger pointed upward.

“I have an apartment here on the twenty-fifth floor. Well, my Dad’s business owns it. It’s just very convenient to have a bar on the first floor.”

“Sounds like my life in New York,” I sighed. “I moved into town almost four weeks ago, and I just started exploring the neighborhood.”

Sipping on my fifth White Russian I felt comfortable enough to get more personal.

“Just to change the subject to something more enjoyable,” I grinned at him. “I am on some kind of a quest, if you can call it that.”

“Oh?”

“You see, I met this woman…”

“Oh God!” He mimicked despair and threw his arms into the air. “You know, Fred Flintstone once said, ‘Why can’t they invent something for us to marry other than women?’.”

Suddenly he switched into utter seriousness.

“Continue,” he said.

“I didn’t know Fred was a philosopher,” I said. “Anyways, the woman in question… Well, she works in the neighborhood, and I couldn’t possibly hit on her at work.”

He nodded.

“So, my thinking was,” I continued, “that she might go out for a drink after work.”

“Good thinking,” he responded. “I know where you’re going with this. So, what’s her name?”

“Sandie,” I answered.

“Sandie!”

He threw his arms up again, rolling his eyes, and causing confusion on my part.

“Okay,” he continued. “Let me see. Sandie. Tall. Long blonde hair. Am I right?”

I nodded, speechless.

“Blue eyes, right?” he inquisited further, holding his hands in front of his chest.

“Yes,” I answered. “Big blue eyes.”

He took yet another sip from his drink before he continued.

“Yes, I know her,” he finally said. “She hangs out here on occasion, usually Friday after work. Considering her assets you can hardly oversee her.”

He nodded to the older men at the other end of the bar.

“These guys over there go nuts over her every time she shows up. You can literally hear the popping sound when their eyes fall out of their sockets.”

We both laughed.

“I guess I should be coming here on Friday nights,” I said.

“You could,” he responded, “provided you want to wait another week. Or…”

He took a dramatic pause.

“Or what?” I asked impatiently.

“Well,” he grinned. “I know where she hangs out on a Saturday night like this.”

I was yet again speechless. I had been hopeful to find Sandie eventually, but I was surprised by the efficiency of how things developed during that night.

“Do tell, Obiwan,” I urged him.

He grinned, “I like that. Yes, I will be your personal Obiwan Kenobi, and I will teach you the ways of the force.”

“But seriously,” he looked at me, “she likes to go dancing at a nightclub in Union City, just on the other side of the Hudson River.”

He pulled a pen from the inside of his jacket, reached for a napkin, and wrote down the name and address of the nightclub.

“She usually doesn’t show up before ten p.m.,“ he said when he handed me the napkin.

That was plenty of time for me, and it would even allow me to see Erin that night. I would come up with an excuse to leave early, and still have plenty of time for another shower.

“I take it, you have been at the…,” I looked at the napkin, “…the Salsa VIP club?”

“Yeah. It’s actually a very nice place. Crowded, but with a nice atmosphere. They have the most efficient bartenders I have ever seen. These guys don’t forget a face or the drink that comes with the face.”

Suddenly, there was a thought.

“I don’t mean to be too forward,” I said to him, “But would you like to join me?”

He looked surprised, but, after a few moments of thinking about the offer, he shook his head.

“Thanks for the offer, but, while I could need a change from my daily routine, I don’t think I would be good company, and…”

He thought again.

“Heck! What did I just say? I need a change from my daily routine? Well, let’s do it! So, how are we going to do this? You want to hang out here until later and then take a taxi?”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea. I’d prefer to be somewhat sober when we get there.”

“You got a point there,” he nodded. “Drinking water until then would be boring, and I could use the time to spruce myself up a little bit. How about I pick you up at your place, let’s say around nine thirty?”

He handed me the pen and another napkin.

“Well, it’s a date, then,” I said and noticed his face filled with surprise and something that might be interpreted as concern.

“Sorry,” I said. “That was just a bad joke. I am not gay.”

Dennis looked at me, and for a moment I feared I had spoiled the potential for a new friendship.

“Well, I am,” he finally blurted out. “I guess it makes sense to put all cards on the table before we run into any misunderstandings. Sorry, but if this is a deal breaker for you, let me know right now.”

I swallowed, searching for the right words to say. His confession came as a surprise, but my thoughts revolved around the fact that the only decent guys I had met in New York so far were gay.

“Oh, I understand,” he continued, sounding very disappointed.

“No, no!” I assured him. “That’s not a problem. You just took me totally by surprise.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I assured him. “Hey, the guy who cuts my hair is gay, and I am very picky about who I allow to touch my hair.”

He grinned, and I was relieved.

“Okay,” he said, studying the napkin I had given him. “I will pick you up nine-thirtiesh at the Herald Towers.”

We shook hands, and within minutes I took off and walked back to my apartment.

I went out with Erin later that evening, and at the right time I feigned exhaustion and headache after having spent the entire night refining my novel. She was disappointed, but to my relief she let me go without a scene, wishing me well.

Dennis was in time, waiting in front of the Herald Towers, and I quickly entered his car, a black, brand new Acura ZDX.

“Nice ride,” I said full of admiration, adjusting the seat belt. “Daddy’s car?”

He nodded, “Yes. Well, actually it’s a company car, but in this case that’s virtually the same. Daddy is the majority stock holder.”

He checked the side mirrors and carefully pulled the car into the heavy Saturday night traffic.

“Being rich does have some perks,” he added.

There was slight tone of bitterness in his voice. I had noticed the same tone before, and it came out whenever the conversation turned to his life and especially his father.

“Maybe I’m reading too much into it,” I couldn’t help to inquire, “but somehow I get the feeling you don’t really enjoy your rich life as much as your Daddy probably expects.”

“You got that right,” he snorted, checking the mirror again and changing lanes.

“Daddy expects me to follow his lead, and at some time I am to take over his job. I am sorry, but a life with a family you hardly see or care for, including several cardiac arrests plus seven bypass surgeries, doesn’t really appeal.”

“Does Daddy know?”

“You mean that I don’t enjoy corporate business or that I’m gay?”

“Well, both.”

“The answer to both is no. Daddy doesn’t have a clue. He’s a hard core Republican, and he watches the 700 Club on TV. And he believes everything Pat Robertson tells him. Really, he knows him personally.”

I was impressed by the fact that his father seemed to roam in the circle of celebrities, even the questionable ones.

“I guess that includes the belief that homosexuality is a decease and can be healed through the help of God.”

Dennis nodded grimly.

“I don’t think that old Patty would put it in such unrefined words…”

He winked at me.

“…but that’s pretty much the guts of it. Needless to say, any confession toward my sexual orientation would be a waste of time. It would also kill him. On the other hand, I am what I am, and I like what I am. Neither my powerful father nor old, delusional Patty would be able to change that.”

We had finally reached the Lincoln Tunnel that would lead us across the Hudson River into Union City in the state of New Jersey.

“It’s gonna be another 20 minutes to get there,” Dennis explained. “The Salsa is close to Park Avenue over there.”

My thoughts were still with his personal situation, and I was curious.

“So, what is it you would like to do in your future life?” I asked. “Apparently, at some time you will tell Daddy that you don’t like corporate America, right?”

Dennis grinned and nodded.

“I’m just waiting for the right time, and, honestly, I don’t know when that is going to be. I just finished college last year, and right now I am thrilled with the fact that I am traveling the entire United States, and maybe soon even Europe.

“But I guess after a while all that will grow old as well. My dream is to find the right partner, move to Southern Vermont or Western Massachusetts and run a dairy farm or a grocery store, something that is a far cry from what Daddy is expecting.”

I laughed.

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

“You don’t strike me as a typical New Englander.”

“Well, not the way I am dressed now,” he insisted, pointing at his expensive black suit. “Believe, I don’t have any problems wearing an overall with plaid shirts and rubber boots.”

“Don’t forget the straw hat,” I teased him.

“Straw hat included.”

He didn’t seem to mind my teasing. I liked his great sense of humor, and that made us go along very well.

Dennis pulled the car into Park Avenue, and after a few moments he made another left turn. Judging from the slow speed he was maintaining at this point, I assumed we were close to the Salsa VIP club.

“In any case,” I said, trying to get the conversation to a conclusion before we entered the presumably loud nightclub. “Let me know when you make it. My family and I would like to visit you.”

“Oh, you’re already planning to marry Sandie and have kids?”

I swallowed and cursed myself for the blunder. At the same time I recovered fairly quickly.

“No,” I laughed. “I’m talking about me and my parents. The have never been to New England, but they talk about it all the time and how they’d like to spend some time there.”

I was relieved that he believed my little while lie, but at the same time I began feeling uncomfortable lying to him, and for a brief moment I contemplated telling him the whole truth. After all, he had been honest to me from the moment I met him.

Luckily, my momentary weakness didn’t have enough time to spread throughout my mental system. The large neon signs and a line of several hundred people made it abundantly clear that we had arrived at the Salsa VIP Club. To my surprise Dennis did not pull into the club’s valet parking lot. Instead he drove on, took another right turn, and then another, leading us into the backyard of the building.

Dennis noticed my confusion, and he grinned.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t bring you here to wait hours in line. I promised to get you into the club right around ten p.m., and, God will be my witness, you shall be there before ten.”

He parked the Acura behind a large trash dumpster, and we stepped out into the narrow driveway with all its fouls smell and, as I vividly imagined, rats and other night creatures.

Dennis walked around the car toward the building. There was a back entrance door with a small light-bulb hanging on top of the iron frame. Dennis took the two steps up and knocked several times at the door. After a minute the door opened, and a black guy, probably six feet eight inches tall, with a large chest and arms thicker than my thighs, impeccably dressed in a black suit, black shirt and black tie, stepped outside.

“Hey, Jamar,” Dennis addressed him, pulling out a hundred dollar bill and handing it to the man.

“That’s my friend Stuart,” he pointed out to me.

Without showing any reaction the black guy opened the door and nodded us inside, and it seemed he would slam it close in front of us if we didn’t proceed in a timely manner. Dennis and I rushed in while Jamar took a last glimpse at the outside, and then closed and locked the door.

He nodded at Dennis.

“I know the way,” Dennis said and dragged me with him.

The end of the long hallway lead to a large kitchen where an army of Mexican looking cooks was busy as a swarm of bees. The air was filled with the smell of good Mexican food and Hispanic yelling. Nobody seemed to notice us, and Dennis, watching the caravan of dark-haired waiters leaving and entering the kitchen, pushed me toward the large double swing doors, that lead us right beside the Salsa Club’s large cocktail bar.

We both took a deep breath and giving us a chance to observe the crazy scene that presented itself in front of us. The place was huge, and I estimated that it was already filled beyond the allowed capacity. I noticed three dancing areas, and all of them were full. They all had their individual speaker systems blasting disco music at the dancers with a power only surpassed by the jet engines of an airplane. It seemed the body-guard-style door people checking IDs had also strict instructions to be very particular about the dress code. This was not a place for blue jeans. Like Dennis and I, most of the guys wore black suits, and I didn’t see a single woman in pants.

“You’re on your own now,” Dennis yelled into my ear, fighting hard against the noise level. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to be seen with me.”

He winked.

“Taxis are outside.”

He pointed toward the front door.

“Well, if you’re lucky you won’t need a taxi, anyways.”

Without waiting for a response he padded my shoulder, turned around, and disappeared into the crowd. His quick farewell took me by surprise, and I was stunned for a moment, but then again, what he said made sense.

I started surveilling the scenery in more detail and wondered how on earth I might find anybody in this vast mess. I decided to stay at the bar until I was more familiar with the surroundings, and I ordered a martini. There were about six, very busy and noticeably sweaty bartenders, all with the sleeves of their white shirts rolled up, taking care of their customers. Judging from my recent experience as a frequent drinker, they were the most effective of their trade I had ever seen. It took less than a minute between ordering and taking my first sip. Tips were left in large glass containers at the counter, and they were emptied time and again. I estimated these guys made several hundred of Dollars per head in one night, if not more, and I doubted they reported the full proceeds to the IRS.

My fascination with the bar’s operation had taken my attention away from the crowd for a few minutes, and I was not aware of the woman who stood right next to me ordering her drink. When I turned around she looked right into my eyes, and she smiled.

“Hi Stuart,” Sandie said.

Stuart Martin Berry, you are indeed a lucky bastard, I thought, and I grinned. Only a second later it dawned to me. This was getting serious, and for a brief moment I wondered if I was made for the task ahead of me.