Part 9 (1/2)

”You got it,” she said. ”But I don't want to b.u.m you out.”

”You're not,” I said. I shook my head and sighed.

”What?” she said.

”Oh, it's just I wonder sometimes . . . when two people meet in a bar, why there's all this pressure to be witty and happy.”

I could see a certain measure of relief spread across her lovely face.

”That's true,” she said. ”Which is why I never come to bars.”

”So how come you're here tonight?” I said, doing my good-guy, smiley-face thing. (A cross between, say, rakish Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon Lethal Weapon and country-boy innocent Ron Howard playing Opie.) and country-boy innocent Ron Howard playing Opie.) ”Meeting my boss,” she said.

”But I thought you just said . . .”

”I did. But he wants to get together with me to 'discuss certain problems in our mission statement.'”

”Oh,” I said. ”I get it. And while he's explaining these deep problems, he's playing footsies with you under the table.”

”Exactly,” she said. ”Only it's more than footsies. He actually groped me during a presentation last week.”

”Jesus,” I said. ”What an a.s.shole.”

”Yeah,” Nicole said, smiling, ”but he's the top a.s.shole. Nothing I can do. Short of quit and bring in the lawyers, and you know where that gets you.”

I sighed and took a sip of my drink. What a b.u.mmer. We'd established a real connection, I mean, even a kind of rapport, and now her jerkazoid boss was coming and she'd have to leave.

I excused myself and went into the men's room, which was just opposite the bar.

Once I'd locked the battered old door, I put the toilet cover down, had a sit, took out my little vial of c.o.ke, and dipped in the spoon. The white flakes were big, chalky, and when I snorted them up, I was pleased to find they didn't burn the lining off the inside of my nostrils. Indeed, this stuff actually was was c.o.ke and not some weird Wease combination of Mannitol and greaser speed. Within a few seconds I felt that ebullient lift in my head and the racing of my heart. Ah, that was good, truly good, and if I could just add the fair, elegant Nicole to the mix . . . Images of delight flashed through my head: Nicole lying in bed in front of me with her garter belt on, her legs open, on her knees, her lovely lips parted. Ah, but what of the boss? How could we rid ourselves of the boss? c.o.ke and not some weird Wease combination of Mannitol and greaser speed. Within a few seconds I felt that ebullient lift in my head and the racing of my heart. Ah, that was good, truly good, and if I could just add the fair, elegant Nicole to the mix . . . Images of delight flashed through my head: Nicole lying in bed in front of me with her garter belt on, her legs open, on her knees, her lovely lips parted. Ah, but what of the boss? How could we rid ourselves of the boss?

I got up from the toilet, checked the mirror to see if I had any telltale white residue under my nose, and headed back to the bar.

She was still standing there, but she was no longer alone.

Looming next to her was a hulking guy with a $200 haircut and a tan Burberry coat, the kind that would have cost me a month's pay.

Obviously, the boss had arrived, and before I could walk the three or four feet to the bar, he'd edged even closer to her and put his arm on her back, moving it up and down in a familiar way.

Perhaps it was the drugs that made me do it, perhaps the challenge, but before I could think the thing through, I found myself opening my arms and stepping to Nicole's left.

”Nicole,” I said. ”I can't believe it.”

She turned and looked at me. Stunned. The boss, a big, dark guy with thick eyebrows and a broad bear's nose, was shocked and, better yet, annoyed.

”I was just over at your office and they told me you might be here.”

She hesitated for about a nanosecond, then went along with my performance.

”Terry,” she said, winging it and throwing herself into my arms.

The combo of her fabulous little b.r.e.a.s.t.s pus.h.i.+ng into my chest and my cocaine high filled me with a kind of soaring inspiration.

”It's so great to see you, baby,” I said.

I kissed her on the cheek, and after beaming at her like Mister Sun himself, I looked up at the boss, who stood looming, glowering, totally usurped.

I pretended not to notice the scowl on his broad, thick-lipped face.

”Hi,” I said. ”Terry Andrews. I'm Nicole's fiance. Just in for the night from Chicago.”

”Fiance?” he said, his head jerking like I'd backhanded him in the mouth. ”Nicole, you never mentioned that you were engaged.”

She smiled and looked at him with big, innocent eyes.

”You never asked, Ronnie,” she said.

”But I a.s.sumed that . . .”

She ignored him, put her arm around me, and beamed into my face.

”Terry, this is my boss, Ron Baines.”

”Hey, Ron,” I said. ”Great to meet you.”

I flashed my hand, but he pulled away from me like I had a fungus on my fingers.

”Yeah, well, you're from Chicago, how come you're here?” he said, blurting out the words with a barely disguised hostility.

”I had a few days off between meetings, so I got the first plane out this afternoon. Man, I miss my baby. She's a real great girl, huh, Ron?”

”Right,” Ron said, gritting his teeth and quickly tossing back his vodka. ”One in a million. You staying long?”

”Not that long,” I said. ”Just long enough to get married.”

There was a long silence after that. Finally, Nicole spoke up.

”Oh, Terry, you're serious?”

”Why not?” I said. ”That is, if Ron will give you the morning off. I bet he will, too. You're a married man, aren't you, Ron?”

”Well, yeah, technically,” he said, biting his lower lip.

”Oh, separated?” I asked.

”Not yet. I mean, practically.”

”Oh, you don't want to do that, Ron,” Nicole said. ”What about the kids?”

”Yeah, the kids,” I said. ”You have to consider them. How many do you have, Ron?”