From The Dead by John Herrick

and had to smile at
the scene before him, in which the girl tugged at her dad’s
shirt.
     
     
    CHAPTER 11

     
    The birthday party was supposed to last until
evening. But when relatives tired sooner than expected, the group
opted to catch a movie instead. So Jesse’s Saturday night was
available after all. Jada had looked forward to an evening of rest,
which meant she planned to vegetate in front of the television and
indulge in her guilty pleasure: an old Cary Grant film.
    But it appeared she’d changed her plans.
    When he returned home late that afternoon, he found
Jada in the bathroom, where she put the finishing touches on her
makeup. Draped in a slinky black dress, she looked gorgeous.
    With a look of surprise, she paused with her
eyeliner. “You’re home early. I thought they’d keep you till after
dinner.”
    “They got sick of each other and wrapped up their
shindig,” he replied, then tried to recall whether his memory of
her free evening was wrong. “You’re headed out?”
    She nodded and returned to her eyes.
    “No Cary Grant after all?”
    “Huh?” She began her lipstick, a shade of smoky
maroon. After a beat, she replied, “Oh, I’m heading to the
Acoustica.”
    “Clubbing?”
    “Barry gave me a to-do. He wants me to check out the
band that’s scheduled to play tonight. Soundtrack potential---a
favor to a friend.”
    “Sorry, I must have forgotten.”
    “No, it was a last-minute task.”
    “You’re going alone?”
    “Why not? It’s business.”
    “Tell you what, I’ll hop in the shower and go with
you. It’ll give both of us something to do.”
    “Sure … sure, of course you should come. But I doubt
the band’s impressive; Barry would have gone himself if he thought
they were viable.”
    “Well, they must be decent if he told you to check
them out anyway.”
    “I suppose.”
    Jesse glanced at his watch. “Gimme fifteen
minutes.”
    “Fine.” Jada snapped her lipstick shut.
    * * *
    The Acoustica pulsated within. A small, retro outfit
tucked away in Pasadena, it catered to an artsy crowd with its
plush, mock-velvet furniture. The club’s cozy atmosphere was a
well-kept secret on its block.
    When they walked in that evening just past six, Jesse
felt the sound vibrations reverberate against his jaw. The
jazz-fusion band, in the midst of its first set, was a quartet. The
lead singer tackled bass guitar and vocals, and at present snaked
his way around a modern scat-rap mix.
    Jada appeared more preoccupied with the décor than
with the band. She tossed a quick glance in the singer’s direction
before she settled on a stool at the bar. After she ordered
vermouth, Jada scanned the room and crossed her legs. From the
stool beside her, Jesse followed the twists and turns of the
rubbery vocals that emanated from the platform. He placed a hand on
his girlfriend’s knee and ordered a Heineken for himself. As he
listened, Jesse couldn’t understand Barry Richert’s interest in
this particular band; but then again, Barry was the one with the
track record.
    “Jada?”
    His voice elevated over the music, the man sported a
broad smile and dark brown hair that had begun to gray along the
edges. Whiffs of Armani cologne permeated the air. He wore casual
attire. Expensive casual attire—the kind that goes well with both
jeans and khaki pants. The kind that downplays its cost, but whose
buttons reveal how much the customer forked over for it.
    Jesse turned to the stranger. So did Jada.
    “Dale! What are you doing here?” She laid a hand on
Jesse’s shoulder. “Have you met Jesse?”
    Dale’s mouth rounded as if he were about to say more,
then extended his hand. “I don’t think so. Dale Lugar.”
    Jesse and Dale shook hands.
    “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Jada continued.
“It’s such a tiny place.”
    “I’ve been known to stop by for a drink. Never been
here on a Saturday night; figured I might as well try it out. I’ve
never seen you here, though.”
    “Barry wanted