the offer.
At that time, discotheques were exclusive dancing clubs on the East Side of Manhattan where the rich and famous hung out. The place was exclusive, all right. The sort of fancy defined by understatement and the newest fashions in black and white. We were met at the door by the manager, who did not look twice at my jacket or once at my boots. Instead he looked me straight in the eye and introduced himself as Roger.
The dance floor was small. Half-naked women and glamorous men dodged the flying squares of light that spun the room around the dancers. The wonderful thing about narcissists is that they pay no attention to what anyone else wears or how anyone else dances, so when Michael and Roger sat down in the corner, I accepted Big Ron's offer to take a spin on the floor. I stood right out there in the center of the music, feeling quite groovy and not the slightest underdressed. My giant shoes grounded me securely to the floor and the joint I had smoked earlier added a nice sway to my hips.
Ron, however, was easily distracted. He kept leaping aside with undue exaggeration every time one of my clodhoppers landed on his dainty loafer. I had the unmistakable feeling that he thought
I
was the oaf, and after a couple of spins we returned to the table.
There, he and Michael left me alone with Roger while they retreated to the inner room.
“What are you doing hanging out with these guys?” Roger asked. It was a brotherly question; he was Irish, so was I.
“Should I get out while I can?” I wanted to know.
“If you stick with the younger guy you'll be okay. But stay away from the other one. I think he's bad news.”
“Who are they?”
“Michael's the son of a Godfather.”
“Which Godfather?”
“A big don from Brooklyn.”
“And Ron?”
“I don't know who he is. I'm not too interested in finding out.”
The information on Michael made him more appealing than ever. I thought intently about what I might say or do to arouse his attention and insure future contact. When he returned from the inner room and slid into the booth next to me, my thigh pushed against his; the seams of our pants kissed right down the line.
“Come here often?” I asked very casually.
“Couple times a week.”
“Seems pretty exclusive.”
“It is.”
“And expensive.”
“I don't pay.”
“How come?”
“A lot of places are like that. If a guy's young and handsome he'll attract pretty women. If a place has pretty women, it will draw the rich men.”
“What's my function?”
“You can be my bodyguard,” he said.
“What's wrong with the one you already have?”
“He's gone.”
“Lucky me.”
“Let's go home.”
“Where's that?”
“By the ocean.”
We had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge before I asked where we were going. He told me to be patient, that I'd see soon enough. I had visions of a Tudor mansion looking out onto a vast lawn, ending at a sea wall overlooking the ocean. But he pulled onto an ordinary neighborhood street and parked in front of a small split-level home.
Inside, the carpeting was red. The French provincial furniture was new. There was a crystal chandelier over the dining room table. On a smaller table under a mirror in the entrance hall sat several color photographs of a wedding in white frames.
“Who got married?”
“My sister.”
I thought it was strange that he would keep pictures of his sister's wedding in the entrance hall of his bachelor pad, until I found out that it was his mother's house. His mother was in Miami.
“You live with your mother?”
“No. I sometimes stay here when she's out of town.”
I had mixed feelings about being seduced in his mother's bed, but it seemed that seduction was not exactly what he had in mind. Michael probably wasn't used to going to all that trouble. He was the type who stepped out of his trousers and women begged for the rest.
He stepped out of his trousers while I sat on the bed pressing the soles of my combat boots together.
At that time, discotheques were exclusive dancing clubs on the East Side of Manhattan where the rich and famous hung out. The place was exclusive, all right. The sort of fancy defined by understatement and the newest fashions in black and white. We were met at the door by the manager, who did not look twice at my jacket or once at my boots. Instead he looked me straight in the eye and introduced himself as Roger.
The dance floor was small. Half-naked women and glamorous men dodged the flying squares of light that spun the room around the dancers. The wonderful thing about narcissists is that they pay no attention to what anyone else wears or how anyone else dances, so when Michael and Roger sat down in the corner, I accepted Big Ron's offer to take a spin on the floor. I stood right out there in the center of the music, feeling quite groovy and not the slightest underdressed. My giant shoes grounded me securely to the floor and the joint I had smoked earlier added a nice sway to my hips.
Ron, however, was easily distracted. He kept leaping aside with undue exaggeration every time one of my clodhoppers landed on his dainty loafer. I had the unmistakable feeling that he thought
I
was the oaf, and after a couple of spins we returned to the table.
There, he and Michael left me alone with Roger while they retreated to the inner room.
“What are you doing hanging out with these guys?” Roger asked. It was a brotherly question; he was Irish, so was I.
“Should I get out while I can?” I wanted to know.
“If you stick with the younger guy you'll be okay. But stay away from the other one. I think he's bad news.”
“Who are they?”
“Michael's the son of a Godfather.”
“Which Godfather?”
“A big don from Brooklyn.”
“And Ron?”
“I don't know who he is. I'm not too interested in finding out.”
The information on Michael made him more appealing than ever. I thought intently about what I might say or do to arouse his attention and insure future contact. When he returned from the inner room and slid into the booth next to me, my thigh pushed against his; the seams of our pants kissed right down the line.
“Come here often?” I asked very casually.
“Couple times a week.”
“Seems pretty exclusive.”
“It is.”
“And expensive.”
“I don't pay.”
“How come?”
“A lot of places are like that. If a guy's young and handsome he'll attract pretty women. If a place has pretty women, it will draw the rich men.”
“What's my function?”
“You can be my bodyguard,” he said.
“What's wrong with the one you already have?”
“He's gone.”
“Lucky me.”
“Let's go home.”
“Where's that?”
“By the ocean.”
We had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge before I asked where we were going. He told me to be patient, that I'd see soon enough. I had visions of a Tudor mansion looking out onto a vast lawn, ending at a sea wall overlooking the ocean. But he pulled onto an ordinary neighborhood street and parked in front of a small split-level home.
Inside, the carpeting was red. The French provincial furniture was new. There was a crystal chandelier over the dining room table. On a smaller table under a mirror in the entrance hall sat several color photographs of a wedding in white frames.
“Who got married?”
“My sister.”
I thought it was strange that he would keep pictures of his sister's wedding in the entrance hall of his bachelor pad, until I found out that it was his mother's house. His mother was in Miami.
“You live with your mother?”
“No. I sometimes stay here when she's out of town.”
I had mixed feelings about being seduced in his mother's bed, but it seemed that seduction was not exactly what he had in mind. Michael probably wasn't used to going to all that trouble. He was the type who stepped out of his trousers and women begged for the rest.
He stepped out of his trousers while I sat on the bed pressing the soles of my combat boots together.
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