black jeans he’d never worn, some Western style boots and a newly-purchased black leather motorcycle jacket, the same style as worn by Marlon Brando in The Wild Ones. Shiny and stiff, it squeaked whenever he made a move in it.
Zipping up the jacket, he turned up the collar and glanced at his image in the mirror. He had to admit it did make him look a bit dangerous. The hair was where he drew the line, however. His was so baby-fine, he would have looked like a wet Pekingese if he’d tried to pomade it. He gave himself a thumbs-up, a final spritz of Halston Z-14 and was out the door.
Bob’s car, a three-year-old gray Honda Accord, idled at the curb. Brian slipped into the back seat, grateful to be out of the biting cold. The motorcycle jacket squeaked loudly and Bob eyed him in the rearview. With a sinking sensation Brian saw that neither Bob nor his wife, Debbie, were dressed in anything resembling Fifties attire.
“Oh, great, I’m probably going to be the only one dressed like this. I’ll look like a fool.”
“No more than you usually do,” Debbie said, giggling.
“Thanks,” he said, grimacing. The jacket squeaked again.
“Actually,” she said, “I think you look kind of cute. Doesn’t he look, cute, Sweetie?”
“Very cute,” Bob said, smirking.
They pulled out into traffic a moment later. The ride to the Metropolis Club was a little less than a mile straight down Beacon Street, through Kenmore Square now choked with crowds of restless college students hitting the clubs and bars, up Brookline Avenue and over the Pike, with an immediate left onto Lansdowne.
The club occupied a long two-story cinderblock building crouched in the shadow of Fenway Park’s titanic green carcass. The only indicator the building housed anything other than non-descript industrial space was the large blue neon “M” mounted above the thick polished stainless-steel doors.
Amazingly, they found a space near the other end of the street and walked back to the club, joining a small crowd poised outside the vault-like doors. A tall muscular bouncer dressed in black, holding a stainless steel clipboard, turned some of the people away as they approached.
“Private party, ladies and gents. Invitation only,” the bouncer said, moving to bar the door. “You can’t enter, if you’re not on the list.”
Several couples groaned their displeasure and left.
A moment later, when the three of them reached the head of the line, the bouncer eyed them, his thick brows arching inquisitively.
“Bob Nolan and guest,” Bob said.
The bouncer consulted the list on his clipboard and nodded toward the door.
Brian gave his name and watched the big man flip through several pages. Brian did some quick math in his head. At roughly fifty names per page, that meant at least three hundred invitees. Nick had to be spending a bloody fortune. I’m in the wrong business, Brian mused.
“You’re cool. Go on in,” the bouncer said finally.
Brian eased through the steel door and found his friends standing in an impromptu receiving line in the reception area. The room was easily twenty by twenty feet with black walls, charcoal-gray carpeting, and stainless-steel sconces shooting white-hot beams of light upward toward the fifteen-foot ceiling. Watching over all of this was a twice life-size replica of “Maria” the sexy Metropolis robotrix, her metallic curves gleaming. He could hear music thumping through the walls, the beat shaking the floor.
Nick and his partner, Cassie Bailey, stood at the head of the line greeting their guests. To Brian’s relief, both Nick and Cassie wore clothing similar to his own. In fact, except for the cowboy boots Brian wore, Nick could have been his clone. The similarity ended there, however. Nick stood a hair over five-foot-seven, had dark unruly hair poised like a crag over a lean face that bore more than a passing resemblance to Matthew Broderick.
Cassie, taller by a good two inches, wore a battered
Zipping up the jacket, he turned up the collar and glanced at his image in the mirror. He had to admit it did make him look a bit dangerous. The hair was where he drew the line, however. His was so baby-fine, he would have looked like a wet Pekingese if he’d tried to pomade it. He gave himself a thumbs-up, a final spritz of Halston Z-14 and was out the door.
Bob’s car, a three-year-old gray Honda Accord, idled at the curb. Brian slipped into the back seat, grateful to be out of the biting cold. The motorcycle jacket squeaked loudly and Bob eyed him in the rearview. With a sinking sensation Brian saw that neither Bob nor his wife, Debbie, were dressed in anything resembling Fifties attire.
“Oh, great, I’m probably going to be the only one dressed like this. I’ll look like a fool.”
“No more than you usually do,” Debbie said, giggling.
“Thanks,” he said, grimacing. The jacket squeaked again.
“Actually,” she said, “I think you look kind of cute. Doesn’t he look, cute, Sweetie?”
“Very cute,” Bob said, smirking.
They pulled out into traffic a moment later. The ride to the Metropolis Club was a little less than a mile straight down Beacon Street, through Kenmore Square now choked with crowds of restless college students hitting the clubs and bars, up Brookline Avenue and over the Pike, with an immediate left onto Lansdowne.
The club occupied a long two-story cinderblock building crouched in the shadow of Fenway Park’s titanic green carcass. The only indicator the building housed anything other than non-descript industrial space was the large blue neon “M” mounted above the thick polished stainless-steel doors.
Amazingly, they found a space near the other end of the street and walked back to the club, joining a small crowd poised outside the vault-like doors. A tall muscular bouncer dressed in black, holding a stainless steel clipboard, turned some of the people away as they approached.
“Private party, ladies and gents. Invitation only,” the bouncer said, moving to bar the door. “You can’t enter, if you’re not on the list.”
Several couples groaned their displeasure and left.
A moment later, when the three of them reached the head of the line, the bouncer eyed them, his thick brows arching inquisitively.
“Bob Nolan and guest,” Bob said.
The bouncer consulted the list on his clipboard and nodded toward the door.
Brian gave his name and watched the big man flip through several pages. Brian did some quick math in his head. At roughly fifty names per page, that meant at least three hundred invitees. Nick had to be spending a bloody fortune. I’m in the wrong business, Brian mused.
“You’re cool. Go on in,” the bouncer said finally.
Brian eased through the steel door and found his friends standing in an impromptu receiving line in the reception area. The room was easily twenty by twenty feet with black walls, charcoal-gray carpeting, and stainless-steel sconces shooting white-hot beams of light upward toward the fifteen-foot ceiling. Watching over all of this was a twice life-size replica of “Maria” the sexy Metropolis robotrix, her metallic curves gleaming. He could hear music thumping through the walls, the beat shaking the floor.
Nick and his partner, Cassie Bailey, stood at the head of the line greeting their guests. To Brian’s relief, both Nick and Cassie wore clothing similar to his own. In fact, except for the cowboy boots Brian wore, Nick could have been his clone. The similarity ended there, however. Nick stood a hair over five-foot-seven, had dark unruly hair poised like a crag over a lean face that bore more than a passing resemblance to Matthew Broderick.
Cassie, taller by a good two inches, wore a battered
Similar Books
