motorcycle.
‘Oh, Bunny, what a mind you have!’ her companion said. ‘Do you really see the same tragedy in a motorcycle accident as you do in global apocalypse?’ He was biting down on
a thin cigar and wore rimless spectacles. His gas-blue suit was snug on his shoulders.
‘Oh you do tease me so, Harry. You know perfectly well what I mean. How you die is immaterial. Whether alone or with the whole of the world: the effect is all very much the same,’
Bunny said. Her hair was braided, her dress a thin slip of black velvet.
‘This,’ an overweight yet not unattractive man said wagging his finger, ‘sounds dangerously close to politics. And we all know the rules where that’s
concerned.’
‘It’s more . . .’ Bunny said, drawing on her cigarette, ‘a philosophical issue, wouldn’t you say so, Harry?’
‘I wouldn’t know; I care little or nothing for either,’ Harry said. ‘What I can say is that no matter how much of a death trap it is, no matter if it could cause a
thermonuclear war, I wouldn’t give up that Thunderbird. Not ever.’
His wife, a bird-like woman with blonde bangs and a small scar on her chin, put her gloved hand on his jacket sleeve.
‘And I’m glad too. He’s such a dreamboat with that thing between his legs.’
They laughed, all of them, and David looked away hurriedly in case they caught him eavesdropping. He crushed out his cigarette and hunted in his pocket for the fold-up map of the strip and its
environs. Part of him felt vindicated for leaving the party; the other deeply disappointed that he hadn’t come across this place either online or in one of the many guidebooks he’d
bought. He opened out the map and took a sip of his cocktail. Then another more lengthy one. It was divine.
‘Is the drink to your satisfaction?’ the bartender said.
‘Yes,’ David said. ‘It is . . . delicious.’
‘Can I perhaps get you another, sir?’
‘That would be wonderful, thanks.’
But the bartender stopped his effortless drift to the bourbon and bitters and glanced down at the counter.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said with a bowed head. ‘But could you possibly refrain from reading at the bar? It is, I’m afraid, against the hotel rules.’
‘Oh,’ David said, ‘I’m sorry, I was just trying to —’
‘I understand of course, sir,’ the bartender said, deftly folding the map and handing it to David, ‘but this is a bar in which people should feel comfortable. And our patrons
tend not to feel comfortable with clientele who arrive alone and sit at the bar reading. I do hope you understand.’
David looked around the room and down at the space where his map had been. He put the folded-up map inside his coat pocket. The bartender placed a silver bowl filled with cashew nuts in front of
him.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the bartender said. ‘I’m glad you understand.’
By the second Manhattan, David wondered if he was drunk or simply hallucinating from the heat and the walking. To his right an amorous couple sat in a small two-person booth.
They were talking in low voices with a restrained, almost prudish vocabulary. Still it seemed to be doing the trick for them; the man’s hand was on her thigh and pressing for higher. His
partner – a woman who was not his wife – was only pretending to stop him. David felt hot under his suit and he undid the top button on his shirt. He tapped his hand
against his packet of cigarettes and wondered where the others were. In a limousine, more than likely, in a car taking them to the edge of the city.
The couple stopped their petting and stood, as did the three couples in the larger booth. David looked over his shoulder at them. They were like dolls, animated things swishing through large
double doors.
‘If you wish to catch Miss Amelia, sir,’ the bartender said, ‘it might be wise to make a move to the Oak Room. A waitress will serve you at your table.’
‘What kind of songs does she sing?’ David said. ‘I
‘Oh, Bunny, what a mind you have!’ her companion said. ‘Do you really see the same tragedy in a motorcycle accident as you do in global apocalypse?’ He was biting down on
a thin cigar and wore rimless spectacles. His gas-blue suit was snug on his shoulders.
‘Oh you do tease me so, Harry. You know perfectly well what I mean. How you die is immaterial. Whether alone or with the whole of the world: the effect is all very much the same,’
Bunny said. Her hair was braided, her dress a thin slip of black velvet.
‘This,’ an overweight yet not unattractive man said wagging his finger, ‘sounds dangerously close to politics. And we all know the rules where that’s
concerned.’
‘It’s more . . .’ Bunny said, drawing on her cigarette, ‘a philosophical issue, wouldn’t you say so, Harry?’
‘I wouldn’t know; I care little or nothing for either,’ Harry said. ‘What I can say is that no matter how much of a death trap it is, no matter if it could cause a
thermonuclear war, I wouldn’t give up that Thunderbird. Not ever.’
His wife, a bird-like woman with blonde bangs and a small scar on her chin, put her gloved hand on his jacket sleeve.
‘And I’m glad too. He’s such a dreamboat with that thing between his legs.’
They laughed, all of them, and David looked away hurriedly in case they caught him eavesdropping. He crushed out his cigarette and hunted in his pocket for the fold-up map of the strip and its
environs. Part of him felt vindicated for leaving the party; the other deeply disappointed that he hadn’t come across this place either online or in one of the many guidebooks he’d
bought. He opened out the map and took a sip of his cocktail. Then another more lengthy one. It was divine.
‘Is the drink to your satisfaction?’ the bartender said.
‘Yes,’ David said. ‘It is . . . delicious.’
‘Can I perhaps get you another, sir?’
‘That would be wonderful, thanks.’
But the bartender stopped his effortless drift to the bourbon and bitters and glanced down at the counter.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said with a bowed head. ‘But could you possibly refrain from reading at the bar? It is, I’m afraid, against the hotel rules.’
‘Oh,’ David said, ‘I’m sorry, I was just trying to —’
‘I understand of course, sir,’ the bartender said, deftly folding the map and handing it to David, ‘but this is a bar in which people should feel comfortable. And our patrons
tend not to feel comfortable with clientele who arrive alone and sit at the bar reading. I do hope you understand.’
David looked around the room and down at the space where his map had been. He put the folded-up map inside his coat pocket. The bartender placed a silver bowl filled with cashew nuts in front of
him.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the bartender said. ‘I’m glad you understand.’
By the second Manhattan, David wondered if he was drunk or simply hallucinating from the heat and the walking. To his right an amorous couple sat in a small two-person booth.
They were talking in low voices with a restrained, almost prudish vocabulary. Still it seemed to be doing the trick for them; the man’s hand was on her thigh and pressing for higher. His
partner – a woman who was not his wife – was only pretending to stop him. David felt hot under his suit and he undid the top button on his shirt. He tapped his hand
against his packet of cigarettes and wondered where the others were. In a limousine, more than likely, in a car taking them to the edge of the city.
The couple stopped their petting and stood, as did the three couples in the larger booth. David looked over his shoulder at them. They were like dolls, animated things swishing through large
double doors.
‘If you wish to catch Miss Amelia, sir,’ the bartender said, ‘it might be wise to make a move to the Oak Room. A waitress will serve you at your table.’
‘What kind of songs does she sing?’ David said. ‘I
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