“Wasn’t meant to be.”
“—but as long as you are standing, let’s get rolling.”
“Yes, dear.” Joan Eunice put on a matching opaque yashmak, let Jake lay an evening cloak around her shoulders. Jake hooked on a maroon domino which covered his distinctive aquiline nose—he had been too often on video lately and felt that there was no point on concealing Miss J. S. B. Smith’s face if his own face broke her cover. The Doctor donned a small white domino—having been asked to help keep the party in character—and Winifred wore a filmy green harem veil that was only a symbol, being of the same material as her skirt.
As they entered the lift Joan Eunice said, “Where are we going, Jake?”
“Woman, you aren’t supposed to ask. The Gaslight Club, as a starter.”
“It sounds like fun,” Joan agreed. “A piano player with sleeve garters and such?”
“And derby hat and fake cigar—he can sing and play anything written a hundred years back. Or fake it.”
“I want to hear him. But, Jake, since this is to celebrate my uhuru, would you indulge me a little?”
“Probably. Show your openers.”
“There’s a club I’ve heard about…and while you were napping, I reserved a table for four for twenty-two thirty.
I’d like to try it.”
“Winnie, you haven’t been coaching her enough. Eunice, you’re not supposed to be capable of making such a decision—less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels and all that. All right, where is this dive? What’s its name? We’ll try the Gaslight later—there is a waitress there alleged to have the most pinchable bottom in the state.”
“Probably foam rubber; Winnie has that distinction. It’s the Pompeii-Now, Jake—I have the address in my purse.”
Mr. Salomon’s eyebrows appeared over his domino.
“We won’t need it, Eunice. That box is in an Abandoned Area.”
“Does that matter? They have inside parking and assured me that they are armored against anything short of a nuke bomb.”
“We would still have to get there and back.”
“Oh, I have confidence in Finchley and Shorty. Don’t you?” (Twin, that’s a crotch chop. Not nice.) (Big sister, do you want to go to the Gaslight and listen to bad piano and watch Jake pinch bottoms? If so, say so.) (I just said it wasn’t nice.) (So you phrase the next answer. Jake’s a tough case.)
“Joan Eunice, when I take a lady out for the evening, we go in my car. Not hers.”
“Whatever you say, Jake; I was trying to be helpful. I asked Finchley and he said there was a route in that the—what do they call it?—the Organization—keeps open. No doubt Finchley can tell Rockford.”
“I call it the, Mafia. If there is an acceptably safe route, Rockford knows it; he’s the most expert driver in town—more experienced than your boys, he drives more.”
“Jake, you don’t want to go there. So let’s go to the Gaslight. I want to try sticking a pin in that rubber fanny.”
They went to the Pompeii-Now.
There was no trouble getting inside and the club had a card lounge for its patrons’ mobile guards. The maitre d’hôtel led them to a ringside table across from the orchestra, swept a “Reserved” sign from it. “Will this be suitable, Mr. ‘Jones’?”
“Yes, thank you,” agreed Salomon. Two silver-bucket stands with champagne appeared as they sat down; the maître d’hôtel took a magnum from the sommelier and displayed it to Salomon, who said, “That’s a poor year for Pol Roger. No Dom Perignon ninety-five?”
“At once, sir.” The sommelier hurried away. The maître d’hôtel asked, “Is there anything else not to your liking, sir?”
Joan Eunice leaned toward Jake. “Please tell him that I don’t like this chair. It was designed by Torquemada.”
The floor manager looked upset. “I’m sorry Madame feels that way about our chairs. They were supplied by the number-one hotel and restaurant supply company.”
“As may be,” Joan answered, “but if you think I’m going to spend an evening perched on a shooting stick and pretend that it’s fun, you are mistaken. Jake, we should have gone to the Gaslight.”
“Perhaps, but we’re here now. Just a moment, dear. Maître d’hôtel—”