Free Three-Martini Lunch by Suzanne Rindell

manuscript.” He pointed back to my reader’s report.
    â€œOh, I will, sir! Right away,” I said. He vanished into his office, the door swinging shut behind him.
    I didn’t care if he’d been annoyed by my eager attitude. I was a reader! I was one tiny step closer to becoming an editor. Perhaps rubbing that statue was lucky after all. As I looked the submission log over in search of the unsolicited author’s address and telephone number, I picked up the telephone to dial someone else entirely.
    â€œJudy?” I spoke into the receiver. I could hear the clackity-clack of her uninterrupted typing.
    â€œMmm?”
    â€œSay, let’s go for a drink tonight. I’ve got something to celebrate!”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    L ater, when I told Judy the details, she was happy for me and eager to celebrate, but I had to twist her arm to get her to go down to the Village.
    â€œWhy not let’s go to a bar here in midtown, or else on the Upper East Side?” she complained, slicking on a fresh coat of red lipstick once the clocks had struck five and we were riding the elevator down. “That’s where all the eligible bachelors are.”
    â€œIt’s fun in the Village; you’ll see,” I promised. “There’s a real energy. I’ve met the most interesting people down there. You never know who you might meet: a painter or a musician or a poet!”
    Judy snapped her compact shut and slipped it back into her pocketbook. “
That’s
what I’m afraid of.”
    â€œOh, c’mon, Judy! Who knows? The next Hemingway or Salinger could be down there, and Torchon and Lyle might someday publish his book!”
    â€œYou forget,” she said. “
You’re
in it for the books.
I’m
in it for a husband.”
    She sniffed and pretended to pout, but followed me in good humor out to the street to catch a taxi. We rode down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square, giggling with excitement as the wedding-cake arch loomed into view. I had decided on the Minetta Tavern, over on MacDougal. It wascozy inside, dim, with lots of dark wood and a black-and-white checkerboard floor.
    â€œHow do you know about this place?” Judy asked, raising an eyebrow as we walked through the door. We pulled out two stools at the bar and wobbled onto them in our pencil skirts. I explained about the day I’d met Swish, and how he’d introduced me to a whole slew of bohemian cafés below Fourteenth Street.
    â€œI wish I could come down to the Village every day after work,” I said. “There’s always something interesting going on—some poetry reading or improvisational band or . . . well, some of it I don’t even quite know how to describe!”
    â€œYes, well, going out can get expensive,” Judy said. “Especially if you’re not out with the kind of gentleman who knows he’s supposed to foot the bill.” I could tell she had not liked the sound of Swish one bit.
    â€œWell, I’m not interested in him like that.”
    â€œSo?” Judy said. “He still ought to treat. It’s what a fella
does
.”
    â€œAnyway, you’ll find it’s not at all expensive down here. Most of the readings and art shows and music are free. It’s the time, not the money, that I can’t spare. Too many manuscripts to read!”
    Judy rolled her eyes. “You and your career gal ambitions,” she said in a mock-scolding voice. “What
am
I going to do with you?”
    Just then I felt someone brush by my elbow.
    â€œSay—Eden, right?”
    I looked in the direction of the voice and saw a man with a slight build, sandy hair, and pale blue eyes.
    â€œOh! Yes,” I replied. “How good to see you again. Judy, this is Cliff.”
    â€œHow d’you do?”
    Judy shook his hand and gave him an appraising look, but almost immediately her gaze slid to another boy