anyway. Just in case.”
I followed her for three or four miles. We had just entered another ritzy suburb when she wheeled into an immense parking area surrounding a brick and glass restaurant-bar, perhaps two and a half stories tall. There were fifty or sixty cars already there, and five more pulled in as we walked to the door.
“This is Cointreau’s?” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
The bouncer at the door appeared to be examining the IDs of two guys in front of us. I didn’t get it, as they both looked at least mid-to-late twenties. He allowed them in, then waved us past without a word.
“Why the ID challenge for those guys?” I asked Bishop as we approached closed double doors, muffled music behind them.
“Tonight’s ‘over-thirty-only’ night. They’re real strict about it.” Then, assertively, “That bouncer’s already stopped me a few times.”
Uh-huh.
We pushed through the double doors. The music was courtesy of The Byrds. There was a wide, parquet dance floor, the largest I’d ever seen in the Boston area. A glitter globe rotated over the twenty or so dancers, flanked by two oblong butcher-block bars with brass rails high and low. Plants with thyroid conditions sprawled everywhere. The only places to sit were high stools around the bar.
“Hey, Lainie, very foxy tonight,” said a fortyish guy wearing a print body shirt opened to the navel, a peace medallion, and a gray-black toupee. I checked my watch. Six P.M. If I’d had a calendar, I would have checked the year as well.
“Thanks, Charley,” she said.
Charley moved on as three people brushed past us. We headed toward the bar on our right.
Bishop asked me what I was having. Given the name of the place, I ordered a vodka sidecar. When the bartender said, “A what?” I switched to a screwdriver. Bishop ordered the same.
“Well,” she said, “what do you think?”
“I’m not sure.”
She laughed, edging a little closer as our drinks arrived. “There’s a quieter room upstairs. Let me just visit the ladies’ room, and we can talk up there.”
“Fine.”
Bishop moved off, her hips swaying provocatively. I felt a hand on my arm.
The hand belonged to a woman with flowers in her hair, falling long and straight nearly to her waist. She wore strands of love beads around her neck and a sleeveless Grateful Dead T-shirt. Sleeves would have been better, her arms being a little puffier than they’d have been in ’68.
“I hope Lainie doesn’t think she’s bought you with that drink.”
“Probably not,” I said.
She slid the hand up my arm. “You’re in good shape. Aries?”
“No, Reliant K.”
She giggled, running her free hand down her hair. “I’m a Pisces. I think we’d be very syncopated.”
“I don’t syncopate like I used to.”
She giggled again. I was making a better first impression than usual. “I have some terrific grass in my car,” she said.
“No. Thank you, but no.”
She shrugged. “Maybe during another incarnation. Right now, you can call me Bliss.” She turned to go. High on her shoulder Bliss had a tattoo of a butterfly that looked as though it was changing back into a caterpillar.
“Forget about her,” said Bishop’s voice next to me. “She’s not your type.”
We picked up our drinks and walked toward and up a wide, spiral staircase. At the top was a toned-down version of the first floor. Subdued sound system and low glass tables, nubby carpeting and burlaped sectional furniture. Several couples, semi-reclined, already seemed to be getting acquainted. In fact, more than acquainted.
We took a corner piece off by itself. Bishop’s dress rode north again as she sat back.
“So,” she said, “where would you like to start?”
“What is this place?”
Bishop sipped her drink. “Basically, it’s a singles bar.”
“But the dancing and …” I looked around.
“And?”
“And, uh, so on. I mean, it’s barely six o’clock.”
She set her drink down on our little table as The
I followed her for three or four miles. We had just entered another ritzy suburb when she wheeled into an immense parking area surrounding a brick and glass restaurant-bar, perhaps two and a half stories tall. There were fifty or sixty cars already there, and five more pulled in as we walked to the door.
“This is Cointreau’s?” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
The bouncer at the door appeared to be examining the IDs of two guys in front of us. I didn’t get it, as they both looked at least mid-to-late twenties. He allowed them in, then waved us past without a word.
“Why the ID challenge for those guys?” I asked Bishop as we approached closed double doors, muffled music behind them.
“Tonight’s ‘over-thirty-only’ night. They’re real strict about it.” Then, assertively, “That bouncer’s already stopped me a few times.”
Uh-huh.
We pushed through the double doors. The music was courtesy of The Byrds. There was a wide, parquet dance floor, the largest I’d ever seen in the Boston area. A glitter globe rotated over the twenty or so dancers, flanked by two oblong butcher-block bars with brass rails high and low. Plants with thyroid conditions sprawled everywhere. The only places to sit were high stools around the bar.
“Hey, Lainie, very foxy tonight,” said a fortyish guy wearing a print body shirt opened to the navel, a peace medallion, and a gray-black toupee. I checked my watch. Six P.M. If I’d had a calendar, I would have checked the year as well.
“Thanks, Charley,” she said.
Charley moved on as three people brushed past us. We headed toward the bar on our right.
Bishop asked me what I was having. Given the name of the place, I ordered a vodka sidecar. When the bartender said, “A what?” I switched to a screwdriver. Bishop ordered the same.
“Well,” she said, “what do you think?”
“I’m not sure.”
She laughed, edging a little closer as our drinks arrived. “There’s a quieter room upstairs. Let me just visit the ladies’ room, and we can talk up there.”
“Fine.”
Bishop moved off, her hips swaying provocatively. I felt a hand on my arm.
The hand belonged to a woman with flowers in her hair, falling long and straight nearly to her waist. She wore strands of love beads around her neck and a sleeveless Grateful Dead T-shirt. Sleeves would have been better, her arms being a little puffier than they’d have been in ’68.
“I hope Lainie doesn’t think she’s bought you with that drink.”
“Probably not,” I said.
She slid the hand up my arm. “You’re in good shape. Aries?”
“No, Reliant K.”
She giggled, running her free hand down her hair. “I’m a Pisces. I think we’d be very syncopated.”
“I don’t syncopate like I used to.”
She giggled again. I was making a better first impression than usual. “I have some terrific grass in my car,” she said.
“No. Thank you, but no.”
She shrugged. “Maybe during another incarnation. Right now, you can call me Bliss.” She turned to go. High on her shoulder Bliss had a tattoo of a butterfly that looked as though it was changing back into a caterpillar.
“Forget about her,” said Bishop’s voice next to me. “She’s not your type.”
We picked up our drinks and walked toward and up a wide, spiral staircase. At the top was a toned-down version of the first floor. Subdued sound system and low glass tables, nubby carpeting and burlaped sectional furniture. Several couples, semi-reclined, already seemed to be getting acquainted. In fact, more than acquainted.
We took a corner piece off by itself. Bishop’s dress rode north again as she sat back.
“So,” she said, “where would you like to start?”
“What is this place?”
Bishop sipped her drink. “Basically, it’s a singles bar.”
“But the dancing and …” I looked around.
“And?”
“And, uh, so on. I mean, it’s barely six o’clock.”
She set her drink down on our little table as The
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