In a Place Like No Other
"You're about to meet the infamous Bobby Crosby," Jack chortled. "You'd better make him a drink fast, Frank, before he sobers up and sees how much pain he's really in."
Jack whispered to Missy and Annie; Frank walked over to wait on his new customers. "What can I get you, folks?" Frank asked.
"Folks?" Bobby Crosby queried. He removed his dark glasses to uncover deep green eyes that darted up and down and sideways - endlessly. "We, my friend, are not folks. We are hip. New York hip, by the way. Folks, my dear boy, are country people. Farmers, truck drivers, the like. We, on the other hand, are urbanites - sophisticated city dwellers."
The entourage twisted and twirled, giving Frank a fuller picture than he needed. The tall redhead turned sharply several times, offering profiles and full front and rear views. Posing a glimpse of her stunning bottom, she cocked her head back and scrutinized Frank with sassy green eyes, chin resting on her shoulder. Winking, she stretched a strand of her tightly curled hair to her mouth and nibbled; Frank admired appropriately: smacked his lips, raised his eyebrows and nodded. Then he looked directly at Bobby Crosby and said, "Whatever you say. Let me rephrase that. What the fuck can I get you folks?"
The entourage sniggered. "Fabulous, fucking fabulous," Bobby Crosby howled. "Yahoo! Jack's finally hired a bartender with a . . . Great!"
The entourage applauded. "Fantastic. Super. Stupendous. Marvellous," they chimed. . .
Winter at the bar - the challenge
A late morning rain had subsided but its grey brackish residue drifted through the streets as Frank walked to Jerry's. The fog horn brayed. As night fell, the haze, pale yellow in the lights from the ghosts of buildings looming along the harbor, grew more dense, seemingly impenetrable. At eight o'clock, Captain Jerry's was empty except for Frank watching the street from the front window, hoping to see Donna walk up. When a black sedan stopped across the street, Frank watched as a woman with a black scarf over her head stepped up to the side walk. The car pulled away and she walked through the mist toward the bar. Frank laughed when he noticed her sunglasses. "Stoned," he thought.
Frank busied himself behind the bar hoping maybe the only customer he'd seen since seven wouldn't turn around and leave. She sauntered through the door and the heels of her black leather boots clicked on the floor as she walked to the bar. Her black leather jacket and matching pants creaked softly as she sat. When she took off the sunglasses and the scarf, soughing, "Bartender, Johnny Walker Black, neat, please," Frank recognized Stephanie.
She purred, "Hello, Frank," as she wriggled from her jacket. Reaching to remove a comb, she tossed her
head wantonly and lush blonde hair fell to her shoulders. Blouseless, she tugged at the lapels of a black leather
vest, exposing more of her chest, but Frank's eyes fixed on the stone studded leather dog collar that wrapped her
graceful neck. She joked about the weather and the dearth of customers. When Frank placed a tumbler in front of her,
she reached suddenly and caught Frank's hand. Frank looked down and said, "Yeah, fog's murder on business,"
realizing the gargantuan rings no longer adorned her left hand. Then . . .
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