Stunner (22 page)

“Hard to say. We’ll give him some time,” Will tells me. “We can always move ourselves to the bar.”

In the meantime, we watch two young women dressed in identical mini-skirts and tops with deep V-necks. Lots of leg and plenty of cleavage. Interestingly, they don’t actually look as if they’re on the make. Gorgeous hair and not too much make-up. Very natural.

As Tom serves us our beer and wine, I ask, “Are those beautiful young women some of the shot girls that Benny’s is so famous for?” Tom gives me a weird look. “Hey, I’m just a housewife from New Jersey…” I cough, adding, “…here with my nephew. What do you expect?” Will barely suppresses a laugh.

“The boss said he’ll be over soon,” Tom promises me. “Has to finish something first. And yes, Ma’am. Those are a couple of our shot girls, Chrissy and Melanie.” He looks amused. “Shall I send one of them over for any other orders?”

“No, no, no. We’ll stick with what we have. Thanks, Tom,” I say, cutting off Will before he can answer in the affirmative.

“You’re welcome, Ma’am.” He leaves.

When did
Ma’am
start to sound so old? I mean, I’m wearing expensive, but worn, tight jeans with black boots and a sleeveless fitted black tee-shirt. I’ve always had good, firm arms, and, OK, I admit I like to show them off. Does the waiter, Tom, think I’m the same age as his mother?

We’re well into dessert by the time the boss finally comes over. He gazes down at us through heavy-lidded eyes with dark circles underneath. Must be the hours he keeps. His dark hair is shot through with grey, and a cigarette’s tucked behind one ear. His face is unshaven, probably all the time, a sort of permanent five-o’clock shadow. I’m guessing it’s his look.

“Hi, I’m Benny Sullivan,” he says in a deep, whiskey-stained voice. “Tom told me you’d like to speak with me?” He looks back at the bar for a moment. “Is everything all right?”

I reach my hand out toward him. “Hi, I’m Ronnie Lake.” We shake. “This is Will Benson.” They shake hands, too.

I cough and shift into my lower register, to match Benny’s. “As the owner, you’re a busy man, I’m sure.” I flash a huge smile at him and hope the effect is a touch seductive. “May we have five minutes of your time? I’m trying to locate a relative, and I think she worked for you almost fifteen years ago.”

Benny stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s making up his mind. He looks at Will and back at me.

Will jumps in. “Hey, man, let us buy you a drink. We won’t take much of your time, and maybe you can help the lady out.”

Benny looks around his tavern and back at us. “OK. Things are under control, so I’ve got five minutes.” He sits down, and signals to Tom for the same imported beer that Will is drinking. “Now, who is it you think may have worked for me fifteen years ago?” He takes the cigarette from behind his ear and plays with it, rolling it through his fingers.

“Julie Jones,” I answer. Benny looks at me blankly, but then his expression evolves into one of recognition. He stops playing with the unlit smoke. I go on. “Dark haired and beautiful. She took college classes during the day and worked here in the evenings. Curious about everything, always learning as much as she could—”

Benny cuts me off. “I remember Julie.” He tucks the cigarette behind his ear again and takes a slow drink from his beer—and Will does, too. “She was as nice as she was gorgeous. Wasn’t stuck-up about her looks at all,” the bar owner says. “Julie had a lot of sparkle. She was great with the customers.”

The sound of laughter distracts all of us, and we watch Chrissy, one of the two shot girls we saw earlier, at a table where she sells a half-dozen Jell-O shots to a group of young professionals. The guys have shed their jackets, loosened their ties, and rolled up their sleeves. Her long, blonde hair and big blue eyes, in addition to the J.Crew-type uniform, make her look more like a college coed than a stereotypical barmaid.

Chrissy’s most impressive weapon is her perky personality. She’s got the table eating out of her hand. Once she passes around the drinks and collects the money, she flips her blonde mane and walks in our direction tucking the money in her pocket.

She smiles at us, and Will toasts her with his beer glass. He looks at her tray now only half-filled with shots. “I think I’ll take one of those,” Will says as she comes close. He pulls money out of his jeans.

“Well, thank you.” She beams at him.

“Chrissy, I’m conducting an informal survey,” Will says, as she hands him the Jell-O shot. “I’ve heard that most shot girls are college students when they’re not working their bar jobs. Is that true in your case?” I don’t think Will is on the make, but he does have a gleam in his eye.

“That’s right. Many of us are college students,” Chrissy answers, “or we have good day jobs.”

“And how about you, Chrissy?” Maybe Will is actually flirting with her.

“Halfway through my Ph.D.!” she says with spunk. You know she’s proud, and rightfully so.

“What’s your subject?”

“Child psychology!” She smiles at Will, flips her hair, and she’s off to another table.

“It’s all about their personalities,” Benny says, watching Chrissy go. “Customers love the positive energy. It makes the evening more fun for everyone, and it’s great for business.”

“How about Julie Jones?” I ask. “Did her sparkle measure up to Chrissy’s pizzazz?”

Benny nods. “Absolutely. We’d been open less than a year, and we hired three girls. They were all terrific, real stars. Julie was part of that original group, although we didn’t call them shot girls in those days.” He takes another drink from his beer. “Yeah, Julie definitely had a special knack with the customers. Some of them became regulars here because of her.”

He then pushes his glass aside and leans forward on the table. “Now, Ms. Lake, what leads you to look for Julie?”

“Please call me Ronnie.” Once again, I turn on the smile. “She’s part of my extended family, and I’m organizing a reunion.”

Benny stares at me hard. “Nah, it’s not that simple, Ronnie.” A look of concern flashes across his face. “I’m not buying it. What’s happened to make you go back fifteen years to try to find her? I was worried about her then, and now I’m starting to worry all over again.”

Will gives me a quick glance, and I continue. “Benny, Julie’s been out of touch with the family for a long time.”

“Maybe she has good reason to be,” he responds.

“Don’t know her reasons, but on my end it’s simply a family reunion.” I shrug. “Every time I’ve tried to track her down, I hit a dead end. So I’ve pushed further and further into her past, trying to find a moment that would help me link up with her.”

I take a deep breath and look at Will, who quietly finishes his dessert. I take another bite of my pie. “Benny, you said you were worried about her then. Why?”

“She only worked here for about six months,” he says. “But it was a memorable time. The dot-com era was at its height. It seemed like anything was possible. And as I said, the bar was new, and we all worked hard. The business was taking off—it was exciting, and Julie was part of it. Then one day, she was gone.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Well, she gave one of the other girls who worked with her a note for me saying she was quitting immediately. No notice,” he says. “Frankly though, I wasn’t surprised.”

“Why?” Will asks. “I thought you said she was a star.”

“She was, but a guy started turning up and bothering her the last couple of weeks before she left,” Benny says. “Billy? Bobby? Yeah. Bobby, uh, Turner?”

“Bobby Taylor?” I throw out.

“That’s it,” Benny says. “Bobby Taylor. He was some guy she’d known way back when. Sounds as if you know him, too?”

“Well, sort of—”

“This Bobby Taylor started bothering her at work, and it escalated. A couple of times he really made a scene in here. Almost attacked her the last time. Then she took off,” he says. “This Bobby guy came back one more time. He threatened me, tried to force me to tell him where she’d gone. Of course, I was in the dark as much as he was. I told the guy if he ever set foot in my place again, I’d call the police. That was it. Never saw him after that.”

“Sounds like a lot of drama,” Will says.

“But that wasn’t the end of it.” Benny snorts with a half-laugh. “Some detective showed up a month later trying to find Julie. I guess his boss had been her fiancé.” Benny rubs his whisker-shadowed chin. “We couldn’t help him either at that point since none of us had heard from her.”

I look at Will. “Sounds like another dead end.” I push aside my plate.

“Hold on,” the tavern owner says, getting up. “Be right back.” He walks over to the bar, opens a black leather binder, and flips through the pages. Then he writes on a piece of paper and returns to our table.

“Give Mara Smith a call. She was one of the three original shot girls, and she and Julie became close friends. I remember she heard from Julie sometime after that detective came by. Maybe Mara’s still in touch with Julie.” He hands me the paper with the number on it. “These days Mara’s in Greenwich married with kids. Don’t mean to rush off, but I’ve got to get back to work.” He shakes our hands and walks up a stairway, most likely to his office.

Will and I decide to stick around and enjoy people-watching. It turns out to be beer pong night. Several long, rectangular tables have been set up with six-cup triangles at each end.

I smile at the lyrics of a favorite Leonard Cohen song, “Closing Time,” coming through the bar’s sound system. Two-man teams gather, pour beer into the cups on each edge, and commence aiming at the cups with ping pong balls. A ball dunks in, and the team whose cup it is must drink the beer. People circle around the tables cheering their friends, who shoot a variety of arc, bounce, and fastballs while the rowdiness factor grows.

The teams become increasingly raucous as they swill down the beer and play, and the now unruly crowd cheers them on. Hearing Leonard Cohen’s gravelly voice is getting harder.

“Am I showing my age, Will, if I tell you all this noise—not Leonard Cohen by the way—the nonmusic noise is giving me a headache?”

“Decibel level is pretty high,” he agrees. “Want to call it a night?” We walk in the direction of the front door, passing one of the beer pong tables.

I notice what sounds like an argument coming from the table, this one about four deep in spectators. A crashing noise interrupts a booming voice yelling, “You mother—”

I stand frozen, watching the group, even though Will is tugging at my arm.

A woman screams, “Watch out! Baby, watch out—”

Suddenly a tall, burly guy in a do-rag, sleeveless shirt, torn jeans, and combat boots comes flying at me through a break in the crowd. All I can think as everything goes slow motion for me is how did this guy get in dressed like that? Benny’s has a clearly stated dress code on the website—no do-rags, no sleeveless shirts, and no combat boots.

He’s huge, and he’s hurtling right toward me. If he hits me, I’m toast. I see the crowd turn to follow the guy’s trajectory, and I see Will, out of the corner of my eye, focus on a different big guy, also breaking dress code, who moves toward him.

Just as my guy is ready to slam into me, I duck down, sideways, into a crouch. Since this giant is now connecting with thin air where I once stood, and since he’s sailing over my crouched body, he falls. His head bangs into a table, and his body crashes into empty chairs, knocking everything over.

When we practice this in class, the person who attacks moves into a graceful forward roll rather than slamming onto the floor. But this is real life, and the guy is out for a while.

I look over again at Will. Guy number two must think Will is part of the reason his friend is out cold on the floor, and he comes at Will with an overhead strike. I watch my third-degree black belt buddy go on the offensive.

Will gets right into the guy’s space on the side, grabbing the striking arm at the elbow, where he can control him. In my mind I hear Isabella
Sensei
telling class how important it is to control your opponent’s elbow in certain techniques. In a split second I know that Will plans a
kaitenage
, or rotary-type throw.

Will quickly and firmly grips the man’s neck with his other hand and pushes his attacker low to the ground. Simultaneously with this movement, Will also shoves the guy’s elbow-held arm into his side throwing the attacker forward and down with a turn of his hips. This guy, just like his friend, crashes into some chairs, finally coming to his own dead stop. He raises himself, dazed, moaning and barely moving.

The beer pong game has stopped, of course, and the crowd watches the two of us in stunned silence. I smile at Will and notice a flash to the side. I turn in time to see a woman in cut-off short-shorts with chains and a hoodie rush at me. From the angle of her arm, I’m certain she plans to attack me with a cross-hand strike.

I’m shocked to see a knife in her striking hand. OK, OK, OK—I’ve practiced this a thousand times in class (slight exaggeration), and I hope the technique works. Do not panic. Breathe.

Sliding in for a direct entry, I bring my arms up my center, almost as if I’m starting to pray. One of my hands explodes toward her face and shoves her chin back. My other hand clamps overhand between the elbow and wrist of her knife-wielding arm.

My arm that originally went for her face now crosses over my other arm and grabs her wrist overhand. I extend my arms to keep her blade at a distance so that it can’t slash me and execute a quick pivot while I push her down to the floor. She screams out a string of profanities as her knee hits the floor first and takes the painful weight of her fall.

Ms. Short Cut-offs is now flat on the floor with her knife-wielding arm straight out, palm up. I quickly pull up her elbow, which positions her wrist at an ugly angle, and she immediately releases the knife. Will kicks it away from all three attackers, and our waiter, Tom, stops it with his foot before someone else can go for it. Other barmen step in to secure the wrists of the three attackers with plastic ties.

Will grabs my arm, pulling me up. “Good job, Ms.
Shodan
, but quit while you’re ahead. Let’s get out of here.”