when, in the dim light, Julie Albright suddenly appeared like a beautiful apparition. She’d been sitting in a back corner talking with three men, and I couldn’t help but suspect she’d been keeping an eye on the bar’s entrance. I say that because I hadn’t been standing there but a few seconds when she quickly rose from her chair and started making her way toward me. As she slid between two couples, each of them grinding away on the makeshift dance floor, Julie looked more intoxicating than straight tequila. She was wearing snug, white jeans and a black halter-top that really enhanced the fullness of her breasts. The white hoops that danced beneath her ears as she strode in my direction contrasted beautifully with her flowing raven hair. She was totally female alright – the rare kind of women that could turn the head of a celibate monk.
Funny thing was, even though her smile was wide when she came up to me, she seemed a tad shy. I couldn’t help it, but she put me to mind of a smitten schoolgirl when she said, “I’m glad you could make it, Sonny. Did you have a good time in Key West?”
“ A real trip!” I said in a tongue-in-cheek tone before quickly catching myself. “Yes ... it was nice down there, kind of like a tropical Greenwich Village.”
“ That’s one fitting analogy if I ever heard one,” she said, taking my hand.
All of a sudden I thought she might not have been all that bashful after all. With my hand now in hers – tight as she was holding it – I was the one feeling embarrassed. Just like an adrenaline rush does, an arousing flood of heat suddenly coursed through my entire body. Now I was the one feeling like a school kid, and I didn’t like it. I was just about to give myself a mental lambasting but before I could Julie said, “Come with me. I want you to meet some of the locals.” Still hand in hand, feeling as if she were a teacher and I a student in tow, she led me to a wooden table where the three men sat.
“ Guys, this is Sonny Raines. He just came down from Long Island, and he’ll be staying in Mr. Doyle’s trailer for a few days. “Sonny, this is Jack, Buster, and Fred.”
As I shook hands with them they a ll seemed friendly enough. When I stretched my arm across the table to shake Jack’s hand, I noticed that he was sitting in a wheelchair. After that I settled into the empty seat next to Julie.
“ What part of Long Island you from?” the stocky, red-headed Jack Beers asked.
“ I grew up in Queens ... but I’ve been out in Smithtown for about 15 years.”
“ Jack’s an ex-Brooklyn policeman,” Julie interjected; obviously intent on making this meeting go smoothly.
I was about to glance at the wheelchair again but caught myself and said, “ This is a long way from Brooklyn, how do you like it down here?”
“ This is as close to heaven as I’ve ever been ... right here on Wreckers Key. Ain’t no other place for me,” Jack said, his neck seemingly having a tough time supporting his slightly bobbing and wavering head. I wondered if he had some kind of physical impairment or if he was just lubed-up from too much beer. There were quite a few empty bottles on the table.
A moment later t he astute-looking, bald guy, Fred Sampson, turned to the ex-cop and said, “Yeah, you were just what we needed here, Beers, another New Yorker.”
“Okay,” Jack came back, “lighten up there plowboy. Otherwise I might just run you over with my chair.”
Fred Sampson only smiled. It was obvious the two men were good friends. Fred then turned to me asking, “How are things up north ... the economy picking up at all?”
“ Nope, it’s getting worse all the time.”
“I hear you ,” Fred Sampson came back, as if we were both on the same page. He then laid the cigar he’d been holding in an ashtray, straightened up in his chair a bit, downed a shot of whiskey in one motion and continued, “I used to be a pretty a well-paid
Funny thing was, even though her smile was wide when she came up to me, she seemed a tad shy. I couldn’t help it, but she put me to mind of a smitten schoolgirl when she said, “I’m glad you could make it, Sonny. Did you have a good time in Key West?”
“ A real trip!” I said in a tongue-in-cheek tone before quickly catching myself. “Yes ... it was nice down there, kind of like a tropical Greenwich Village.”
“ That’s one fitting analogy if I ever heard one,” she said, taking my hand.
All of a sudden I thought she might not have been all that bashful after all. With my hand now in hers – tight as she was holding it – I was the one feeling embarrassed. Just like an adrenaline rush does, an arousing flood of heat suddenly coursed through my entire body. Now I was the one feeling like a school kid, and I didn’t like it. I was just about to give myself a mental lambasting but before I could Julie said, “Come with me. I want you to meet some of the locals.” Still hand in hand, feeling as if she were a teacher and I a student in tow, she led me to a wooden table where the three men sat.
“ Guys, this is Sonny Raines. He just came down from Long Island, and he’ll be staying in Mr. Doyle’s trailer for a few days. “Sonny, this is Jack, Buster, and Fred.”
As I shook hands with them they a ll seemed friendly enough. When I stretched my arm across the table to shake Jack’s hand, I noticed that he was sitting in a wheelchair. After that I settled into the empty seat next to Julie.
“ What part of Long Island you from?” the stocky, red-headed Jack Beers asked.
“ I grew up in Queens ... but I’ve been out in Smithtown for about 15 years.”
“ Jack’s an ex-Brooklyn policeman,” Julie interjected; obviously intent on making this meeting go smoothly.
I was about to glance at the wheelchair again but caught myself and said, “ This is a long way from Brooklyn, how do you like it down here?”
“ This is as close to heaven as I’ve ever been ... right here on Wreckers Key. Ain’t no other place for me,” Jack said, his neck seemingly having a tough time supporting his slightly bobbing and wavering head. I wondered if he had some kind of physical impairment or if he was just lubed-up from too much beer. There were quite a few empty bottles on the table.
A moment later t he astute-looking, bald guy, Fred Sampson, turned to the ex-cop and said, “Yeah, you were just what we needed here, Beers, another New Yorker.”
“Okay,” Jack came back, “lighten up there plowboy. Otherwise I might just run you over with my chair.”
Fred Sampson only smiled. It was obvious the two men were good friends. Fred then turned to me asking, “How are things up north ... the economy picking up at all?”
“ Nope, it’s getting worse all the time.”
“I hear you ,” Fred Sampson came back, as if we were both on the same page. He then laid the cigar he’d been holding in an ashtray, straightened up in his chair a bit, downed a shot of whiskey in one motion and continued, “I used to be a pretty a well-paid
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