“We have to get out of here,” I murmured, finally breaking free. “Or I may never let you leave.”
***
Our cab driver didn’t exactly have to fight for a spot when we pulled up outside the club. The real estate surrounding it was predominantly residential, so traffic was at a minimum.
“Are you sure this is it?” asked Bente, leaning across me to look out the window. Her caution was understandable. The place looked deserted. “It looks rough, Ryan.”
I got out and reached for her hand. “It’s not rough,” I assured her. “Just unpolished.”
Bente skipped to keep up as I led her to the steps. “Are you going to buy it?” she asked.
“I don’t think it’s for sale any more.”
She yanked on my hand, pulling me to a stop. “So why are we here, then?”
“Because the cranky old owner invited us here. He wants to meet my gorgeous girl.” I leaned in and kissed her ruby lips. “I’m not above showing you off.”
I wasn’t hopeful of anyone answering if I knocked, so I tried my luck and turned the handle. The old door creaked open. Bente clung to my hand just like Bridget does when she’s scared. We took a few measured steps into the deserted foyer as if we’d just entered a haunted house.
Being alone in the room gave me a chance to check it out properly. There really wasn’t much to it. A small coat check area to my left, double doors leading into the main room, and a staircase to my right that was roped off with a ‘staff only’ sign.
“It’s lucky we’re not wearing coats,” commented Bente, running her finger along the dusty counter. “I wouldn’t be checking mine.”
I spun to face her. “It’s great, isn’t it?”
She dusted off her hands. “It has a certain something,” she conceded.
The whole place screamed intangible charm. Even the old fashioned flowery carpet was endearing, despite the fact it felt sticky beneath my feet.
The more time I spent there, the more I wanted it. It was almost cruel that it was off the market.
My moment of dwelling came to an end when Tiger burst through the double doors. Poor Bente nearly jumped out of her dress, and judging by the look on Tiger’s face, he would’ve appreciated the show.
“Welcome,” he announced, gritting his teeth to keep a grip on his cigar.
Bente maintained her hold on my arm and stepped with me as I moved to shake his hand. “Thanks for inviting us,” I replied. I still wasn’t sure what we were doing there, but got the impression the answers were behind the doors he’d just crashed through. I could hear faint chatter on the other side.
I introduced him to Bente. Tiger Malone was a player. He took the cigar from his mouth and kissed her hand.
“Pretty girl,” he gazed into Bente’s eyes, “what are you doing with a schmuck like him?”
Bente dropped her head, chuckling down at the floor.
I pretended to be outraged. “You wouldn’t be making a move on my girl, would you, Tiger?” It would be a slow move if he was. Tiger Malone couldn’t have been a day under eighty. If he were my age, he might’ve given me a run for my money. He seemed to possess the same je ne sais quoi as his building.
Tiger was dressed to the hilt in club owner mode, rocking a black suit that probably had fitted well when he bought it thirty years ago.
“Did you bring your dancing shoes?” he asked, looking at Bente’s feet.
She looked at me quizzically. I hadn’t mentioned dancing, mainly because I didn’t think she’d be doing any. The venue I’d viewed a few days earlier was in no fit state for tripping the light fantastic.
“I’ll make do,” she replied.
Tiger leaned back on one of the doors, using his weight to push it open. “After you,” he announced.
Bente and I had no chance of slipping in unnoticed. We stuck out like sore thumbs, mainly because we were the only ones there with our own teeth. We’d somehow stumbled into a senior citizen’s convention.
“You like what I’ve done with the place?” asked Tiger, slapping me on the back.
I glanced at him only briefly. My focus was on trying to work out what he’d done with the place. The only noticeable change was the addition of some tables and chairs. The floor was still dusty and the paint on the walls was still peeling.
A serious-looking game of poker was being played at one table. Plastic chips were being tossed around and a toxic plume of smoke billowed above. How the old men had lived such long lives with smoking habits like that was beyond me. The other tables were a bit more laid back, but judging by the laughter and constant chatter these people were not typical oldies.
“Is this the music, Malone?” shouted one old man. “Are they the band?”
“Maybe,” replied Tiger, throwing his gruff voice across the room. He turned to Bente. “Do you sing, Ginger Rogers?” Bente shook her head but said nothing. It was a first. I’d never seen her at a loss for words before. “They’re not the band, Earl,” he yelled to his friend. “You’re going to have to wait.”
“I’m eighty-two,” Earl shot back. “How long do you think I have?”
The whole room dissolved into hearty chuckles. I couldn’t help smiling, especially when Bente started giggling too.
Tiger checked his watch. “The band was supposed to show at seven,” he explained. “I guess you get what you pay for.”
“Is this a regular Saturday night for you, Tiger?” I asked.
“Not really,” he admitted. “We haven’t been open for business in a while.”
“Are these people your friends?” asked Bente.
“Some are friends,” he replied, looking out at the tables ahead. “And some I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw them.” He cupped his hand to his mouth to throw his voice. “I’m talking about you, Grover Irwin.”
An old man at the poker table looked up at the sound of his name. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tiger smirk at him. Grover responded in a way I wasn’t expecting. He flipped him the bird. Bente turned her head, burying her face in my shoulder to muffle her laugh.
My plan was to make polite excuses, grab my girlfriend and leave. It fell apart quickly when one of the old women waved Bente over to her table. She dropped my hand and wandered over as if she had no choice but to.
“Looks like your lady found some friends.” Tiger took a silver cigar cutter out of his pocket and snipped the end off a cigar, which troubled me. I hadn’t seen him discard the one he was just smoking. “You might be in for the long haul,” he warned. “Women like to talk.”
Bente certainly liked to talk. She was already in deep conversation. When she fanned out the bottom of her dress, I realised it was probably fashion-related and boring so I decided to stick with Tiger.
“What’s tonight in aid of, Tiger?” I asked. “I don’t know why you wanted us here.” I’d had no luck in getting any information out of him so far, and that wasn’t about to change. The doors swung open. The band had arrived, which pleased the partygoers no end. Even Grover Irwin started clapping and cheering. Old people can really whoop it up when they’re excited – but I’d known that for a while. All Grandma Nellie needed to become wild and antisocial was one stiff drink.
“Where do you want us?” asked a guy carrying the biggest upright base I’d ever seen.
“The stage is yours,” replied Tiger, pointing at it.
Three more people filed through the door, each carrying instruments, or parts of instruments. It took a couple of trips back and forth before they were set up, and before they started playing there was a bill to settle.
The singer approached Tiger while the sound check was going on. “We can take a cheque or cash,” she told him. “Cash is better.”
Tiger turned his attention to me. “Are you paying cash or cheque, kid?”
Deep down I wasn’t surprised that he’d hit me up for the bill; perhaps that’s why I couldn’t pretend to be outraged. I asked how much was owed.
“Five hundred and f
ifty dollars,” replied the singer.
I put my wallet back in my pocket. No one carries that kind of cash around, except my father. “It’ll be cheque then,” I told her. “I’m paying by cheque.”
Tiger didn’t say a word until the singer was on stage, gleefully waving my cheque at her band mates.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think you’re a shrewd old bastard,” I told him.
He chomped his cigar, teeth gleaming. “It’ll be worth it,” he said. “Wait till you see this place come alive.”
42. HISTORY
Bente
This would have to go down in history as one of the strangest evenings I’d ever had. Clearly Ryan had no idea what we were in for when he accepted Tiger’s invitation, and I was glad. I don’t think we would’ve gone if he had. The band was wonderful, and they couldn’t have asked for a better audience. Despite their advanced age, every person in the room could dance. Really dance.
Ryan pretended to be upset when I dragged him away from Tiger and out onto the dance floor. “It’s not even a dance floor, Bente,” he grumbled.
I pressed myself against him and linked my arms around his neck. “It is tonight,” I replied, raising a smile.
“Did you know that the last time a band played on that stage was in 1982?” he asked.
“No.” I smiled. “How would I know that?”
“You wouldn’t.” He shook his head the tiniest bit. “Tiger just told me.”
Ryan stepped to the side, positioning me to glance across at Tiger. He was sitting at the poker table with cards in one hand, a cigar in the other, and a glass of whiskey in front of him.
“He’s owned this place since the late fifties,” Ryan continued. “Apparently it used to be the place to be back then.”
“So what happened?”
“I get the impression he’s a bit of a wheeler and dealer.” His low murmur tickled my ear. “And the dice haven’t rolled his way for a while.”
Probably since 1982.
I dropped my hold on his neck and put my hand on his shoulder. Ryan pulled us into a more traditional dance pose by taking my hand.
“But he won’t sell? Why?”
“Look around, sweetheart,” he urged. “This is his baby. It’s probably all he has left in the world.”
I took my time and glanced in every direction as Ryan danced us around the huge floor. “So who are all these people?”
“According to Tiger, they all used to frequent this club back in the day. See the lady in the purple dress?” He twirled me around so I’d get a better look. “Her name is Connie. She was the coat check girl in the sixties. The old broad next to her is Marta. She was a cocktail waitress.”
I could believe it. Marta was the lady who’d called me over. We’d had a long conversation about my dress. “Don’t be afraid to hitch up that skirt, princess,” she told me. “That boy looks like he could handle it.”
The run-down old club had a history older than Ryan and I put together. I felt strangely humble being there, and I wasn’t the only one who’d fallen under its spell. “I want to buy it so bad.” Ryan breathed the words into my hair.
“What would you do with it?”
He twirled me as he mulled over my question. “Bring her back from the dead,” he finally replied. I wondered how, but held off asking. Ryan didn’t look like he needed the torture. It was probably one of the first times he’d ever stumbled across something he couldn’t have.
I didn’t get a chance to console him. Marta spotted us looking at her, wandered over to us and cut in. “May I?” I think she was asking me, but it was hard to tell. She only had eyes for Ryan.
If Ryan was unhappy, he didn’t let on. He was at his best when charming, and Marta wasn’t hard to woo. Dancing was a sexy skill, and thanks to his private school education, Ryan could dance. The fact that he was gorgeous and debonair didn’t hurt either.
I wasn’t up to finding myself another dance partner. I avoided making eye contact with the old men checking me out from the sidelines and made my way to the stage instead. When the band wrapped up their version of “Tears On My Pillow” I asked the lead vocalist if they took requests. “Maybe a bit of Etta James?”
“You want to hear ‘At Last’? We get that a lot.”
I shook my head. “No, ‘Anything To Say You’re Mine’. Do you know it?”
On cue, the band started playing the song that had been mine for as long as I could remember. I was so excited to hear it that the next words tumbled out of my mouth in a rush. “I want to sing it.”
The lead singer didn’t seem too put out by my demand. She motioned to the microphone and stepped aside.
43. LITTLE RED FIRECRACKER
Ryan
Some things are just wrong – like Bridget’s penchant for chicken nuggets and Tiger Malone’s disgusting cigar habit. But some things are really wrong, like the injustice of finally witnessing a live singing performance by my sexy-as-hell girlfriend while I was trapped in the arms of Marta the ancient cocktail waitress.
I wrestled free and bowed out.
“You watch your little red firecracker,” permitted Marta, patting my chest. “You know where I’ll be when you’re ready.”
I wasn’t likely to ever be ready for Marta, but I nodded and thanked her. I would’ve helped her to a seat if I’d had the will to move but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the stage.
Bente’s raspy voice was liquid gold. The way she leaned into the microphone and absently gestured was gorgeous too. I wasn’t the only one who thought so. By the time she was midway through her song, all eyes were on her. Even the poker players took a break to watch.
There wasn’t a hint of nervousness about her, which proved her mind was elsewhere and she was unaware of the attention she was receiving. The rare lack of inhibition made for the sexiest display I’d ever seen. The desire to get her home and naked was strong, but not the prime emotion. I felt proud, lucky – and completely and utterly in love.
Marta was right. At that moment she was a little red firecracker, but I enjoyed the other side of Bente more – the soft, bright, forgiving woman who chose to overlook my terrible past indiscretions in favour of loving me.
I didn’t notice Tiger beside me until he spoke. “Did you know she could sing like that?”
I glanced at him and smiled. “Yeah. She doesn’t do it often, though.”
“You should encourage her more,” he urged, staring at the stage. “The bright lights suit her. Nothing grows in the shade.”
***
The second the song ended, I took Bente in my arms and lifted her off the stage. She seemed embarrassed by her audience’s chants for an encore, and my weird caveman response was to save her.
“Are you going to carry me out of here, Ryan?” she asked.
“I might.” I lowered her to her feet.
Bente turned back to the band and thanked them, and I leaned across to speak to the singer. “What time are you finishing?”
“You paid us until midnight.”
It was just after ten. I grabbed all the money I had in my wallet. “Play until two,” I told her.
She looked at the handful of elderly rockers, still dancing although the music had ended. “Do you think they’ll last that long?” she teased.
I grinned up at her. “I think they’ll out-dance your singing.”
The girl straightened, smiling. “Challenge accepted.”
I practically dragged Bente toward the door. The music started again and I was hopeful the distraction would make for a clean getaway.
“Where’s the fire?” Bente joked, nearly running to keep up.
“In places you can’t even imagine, sweetheart.”
Her x-rated laugh did little to help the situation but having Tiger stop us at the door quickly put the fire out. “I want you to come back on Monday,” he instructed.
“I can’t, Tiger. I have restaurants to run.”
“You’ll be here,” he sa
id knowingly. “At three. Not a minute later.”
I didn’t stop to argue. All my focus was on getting my little red firecracker home.
***
I had nothing to gain by going back to the club. I would’ve been well within my rights to ignore Tiger’s demand; the only reason I went was to show it to Bridget. If anyone would get a kick out of the glittery dust and flowery carpet, it was her.
“Then can we go to the park?” she asked.
I trailed behind as she climbed the steps. It took forever to reach the door but I didn’t complain. I was getting used to spending the hours between two and five moving at Bridget speed. “If we’ve got time,” I promised
“I have my finder in my boot today.” She held the iron balustrade and wiggled her foot at me. “I don’t have any pockets.”
“What else do you keep in those boots, Bridge?”
She looked down. “Just toes and feet.”
My ensuing laugh was cut short when the front door swung open. Bridget got such a fright that she stumbled backward off the top step. I scooped her up in the nick of time.
I couldn’t blame her for being frightened. Tiger Malone cut a menacing form, standing in the doorway puffing smoke like an old dragon.
“Does Ginger know you’re seeing other broads?” he asked, grinning at Bridget. Bridget buried her head in the crook of my neck.
“How are you, Tiger?” I asked, intentionally ignoring his question.
Bridget lifted her head to whisper in my ear, “Is he really a tiger?”
Mr Malone might have been old, but there was nothing wrong with his hearing. “I’m not really a tiger.” His low tone was probably designed to calm her. In truth, it sounded more menacing than his normal voice – but it paled in comparison to the horror of his next move. He whipped out his teeth and waved them at Bridget. “Do these look like the teeth of a tiger?” he garbled.
A normal child would’ve screamed in horror. Malibu Denison scared Bridget, but a toothless old man did not. She giggled – softly at first – but when Tiger started guffawing she lost the plot completely, cackling as hard as I’d ever heard her.