TWENTY-SEVEN
Isqueezed in between two twenty-somethings and took the last stool at the bar. Mike planted himself behind me and threw down a fifty-dollar bill-mine, of course-to get the attention of one of the bartenders. The scene was too white and too young for an over-forty African-American, so Mercer waited in the car across the street
I'm surprised there was no line to get in," I said
It's not midnight yet, and that rain has to dampen the enthusiasm of even the most desperate broads looking to get lucky."
The downtown scene picked up between twelve o'clock and four on weekends. Velvet ropes blocked access to the hottest doors in town, and bouncers were usually on hand to dispatch the unruly as well as to select the sexiest to jump ahead of the crowd.
"Welcome to Ruffles," a short, stocky guy with sandy hair said, squaring off opposite me. "What are you drinking, sweetheart?"
"Sweetheart's starting with a club soda," Mike said. "She got hammered last night, so we'll tune her up a bit later. What have you got in single malts?"
"If this stuff is too heavy for you, I do a wicked watermelon martini." The bartender was talking to me as he handed over a small Lucite stand framing a list of drinks. Printed on one side were microbrews and wines by the glass; on the other was the assortment of fine Scotch.
As Mike looked over my shoulder, I pointed at the logo and message written in italics across the bottom of the page: Ruffle: To create a disturbance (Webster's Dictionary). Kiernan Dylan, Proprietor.
"Make a decision?"
"I'll take a Lagavulin. Neat," Mike said.
"Intense, man." The bartender turned to the well-stocked shelves behind him and brought over a full bottle of the smoky, amber-colored Scotch.
I swiveled on the stool and took in the scene. After Mike got the call about Ruffles, I had put my hair in a ponytail to affect my most youthful look and dressed in a tank top and tight jeans.
Fresh-faced young women continued to arrive in twos and threes. Guys at the bar looked them over, some moving in on the groups before they had even settled at one of the small round tables against the wall. The place was filling up, and while young men chatted up girls on their first and second drinks, those anxious to hook up with someone before last call would begin a more frantic pursuit as the hours wound down.
Waitresses in white ruffle-trimmed blouses and black cotton slacks worked the floor from the service bar, not far from where I sat.
"Dylan's Law," Mike said, pointing as new arrivals stood in the doorway. One looked poised for a walk down a Seventh Avenue runway, while the other had thick makeup troweled on and enough dark eyeliner to resemble a raccoon.
"What law would that be?"
"For every pretty girl, there's an ugly roommate."
"Jimmy Dylan?"
"You got it. I told you he was a pig. He'd stroll through the Brazen Head watching all his kids' friends getting their load on, passing judgment on the crowd."
The bartender was keeping an eye out for glasses that needed a refill.
"You Kiernan?" Mike asked.
"Nah. Wouldn't be working back here like an ordinary stiff if I was one of Dylan's kids," he said, wiping the water marks off the wood. "I'm Charlie."
"Good to meet you, Charlie. I'm Mike. I thought Kiernan takes a turn every now and then."
"Sure he does. Covers for us while we take our breaks, when he's here. For him, though, it's just amusement. He walks away when he's got something better to do and leaves me with all the drunks. You looking for Kiernan?"
"Nah," Mike said, "I know his big brother. Just thought I'd say hello."
"Junior? You a friend of Junior's?"
"Yeah, you could say that. I know him from uptown. From the Head. How long has Kiernan had this place?"
"His father set him up over the winter. Six, seven months now."
A girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen wedged herself between me and Mike, extending her arm and putting her empty glass on the bar top.
"What can I do for you, love?"
"Whatever that last one was you gave me? It was delicious. You know, that sort of blue thing with the vodka in it?" She was giggling and flirting with Charlie.
"Coming right up."
"That guy over there in the corner, with the navy blue T-shirt," she said. "He said to put it on his tab."
While Charlie stepped away to mix a concoction for the kid, Mike chatted her up. "I know I've seen you somewhere before. Do you go to Nightingale? I've got a little sister. Maybe you've been to a party at our apartment."
"Like, who's your sister?" she said, shaking her head. "I go to Spence, but I hang with a lot of girls from there. What's her name?"
Mike had made his point. He pretended he had a sister at one of the city's premier private schools and got the teenager to admit she was still a high school student.
"Ava. Ava Gardner," Mike said, knowing the kid wouldn't have a clue that he'd named his nonexistent sister for one of his favorite movie stars.
"I don't think I know who she is," the girl said with a pained expression, as if he had asked her to determine the square root of 327. She used Mike's arm to pivot away from the bar with a full glass of blue liquid, then sipped from it and giggled again. "Don't tell Ava, but I'm a senior at Princeton for the night. I've got an older sister, and she'd kill me if she caught me here. It's so fun, isn't it?"
She headed back to Mr. Navy Blue T-Shirt, who was surrounded by three other teenagers.
"I'd say we got Kiernan for serving minors, in case he turns uncooperative," Mike said to me. "It must be in his genes."
Charlie was at the service counter, filling an order for one of the waitresses, before he turned back to us. "Ready for something else?"
"Actually," Mike said, "I was hoping to talk to Kiernan. Is he still around?"
"What do you mean 'still'?"
"One of my buddies was in earlier tonight. A guy who knows him. Said he was here."
"You looking for a job? I'll give you a number to call."
"Nope. It's kind of a personal thing."
The bartender had braced his arms against the wooden counter, glancing from time to time at the narrow hallway at the rear of the room. "Then give him a personal call. This here's his business."
"Well, if I knew how to reach him, I might do that."
"If it's personal you should know how to reach him." His genial manner had turned cool.
A second girl, as young-looking as the first, wobbling on four-inch heels, stood behind Mike and asked for another margarita.
"Let me see that ID, will you?"
"C'mon, Charlie. It's still just me," she said, fumbling in her pants pocket for a driver's license that was undoubtedly fake.
I guessed that the bartender's sudden attention to the rules meant that he had figured Mike for a cop.
"Lucky for you," Mike said, "I'm a patient man. Don't you think if I wait long enough, Kiernan will come around?"
Charlie looked to his left again. There was something besides the rest rooms down that hallway.
"Lucky for me is that any minute now my two bouncers will show up and remind you where the door is."
"Even if I haven't ruffled anything? Caused any disturbance?"
"Hold my spot, will you, Mike? I need the ladies' room." I slipped off the stool and started for the hallway.
Charlie seemed to think about abandoning his busy post to follow me, but a tall, well-dressed young man moved in next to Mike, put down some bills, and ordered a Jack Daniel's and a Cosmopolitan.
The dark passageway had four marked doors. The first two had symbols for men and women posted above them. The one after them was tagged with a metal sign for the basement, and at the far end, I could read the word Office in the dim light from the overhead bulb.
Mike got off the stool as I approached and started to sit down.
"Look," Charlie said to me, "if you're not drinking, love, I've got people who'll be glad to give me the business. I can use your seat."