Free My Father's Wives by Mike Greenberg Page B

are.”
    WHEN WE GOT TO the car four people were waiting. One of them was a man who appeared in every way out of place: notably older, probably seventy, with white hair and a neatly trimmed white beard, dressed impeccably in a tuxedo and bowler. His presence was curious, but the curiosity lasted only as long as it took for the three women to pile in behind him, dressed to kill, a dizzying array of hair and perfume. The older man did not say a word, but the women were all friendly; one of them goosed me as I slid around to an unoccupied seat. “Champagne?” She giggled, along with the other two.
    Then we were rolling and drinking and Bruce was singing, at firstalone but soon everyone joined him, including me, singing even though I couldn’t hear the music. Eventually we pulled up in a darkened alley uptown and two cars pulled in behind us, headlights blaring; only then did I realize we had been leading a caravan. A dozen people spilled from the cars, looking exactly as we did, drunk and sensational, the women dripping with diamonds, teetering precariously on towering heels.
    There was a sharp, intense popping sound right behind me, like someone had fired a very small gun, and I spun to find one of the younger and sexier women had popped the cork on a bottle of champagne with her teeth. The crowd cheered as she pulled back her lips and displayed the prize, holding aloft the bottle, a bit of the bubbly spilling onto her hand. I was the nearest to her, and she quickly jammed her face into mine as though she was going to kiss me, but instead forced the cork into my mouth. Then she took a swig directly out of the bottle and held it up again. “How do you like that, boy?!” she cried. Her eyes were crazy, wide and shining. With no warning, she snatched the cork from between my lips with her free hand, took another swig from the bottle, and then passed it to me. The rest of the group was still buzzing as I took a swig and passed it along, and when I turned back the woman was wiping her mouth with the palm of her hand and coming toward me again. Once more she jammed her lips into mine, only this time there was nothing between them but her tongue.
    Then a door burst open right from the center of the bricks and a greasy fellow in a leather jacket and baseball cap came out. “You all with Bruce?” he asked.
    Bruce emerged from the rear of our pack. “Eddie,” he said, and raised his hand.
    The greasy fellow nodded and, without another word, started counting us.
    “Fourteen,” Bruce said.
    The guy nodded once more, then motioned for us to follow and went back inside.
    THE ROOM WASN’T NOISY at all. The rhythm of the music and thumping of the beat provided ambience but they didn’t drown out conversation; no one had to shout in order to be heard. That was the first thing I noticed. The next was the decor, surprisingly grown-up, like an old-time bar you’d find in an elegant hotel: wood, red leather, velvet, spacious booths in a ring around small wooden tables. All of the booths had been set aside for our group. Bruce slid into the first and motioned for me to slide beside him. “Not bad, huh?” he asked.
    “Outstanding,” I said. I chose that word because it is one Claire uses often, and certainly how she would have described this. Claire detests having to shout to be heard. She’d have been even more delighted than I was to be carrying on this conversation in a normal tone of voice.
    The music and thumping bass were coming from another room. I looked around but couldn’t find it. “Through that door,” Bruce said, pointing past the bar. “Dancing all night. In here, we just hang out.”
    “Do we dance?”
    “I have no idea what you do,” he said with a smile, “but I dance my ass off.”
    Bruce motioned for our server, a stunning woman in a black blouse unbuttoned halfway, breasts bursting from within. “Table service?” she asked.
    “Yes, Belvedere,” Bruce replied. “And champagne.”
    The waitress then