Free Three-Martini Lunch by Suzanne Rindell Page A

standing just over Cliff’s shoulder, and she blushed.
    â€œThis is my buddy Bobby,” he explained. “Bobby, meet the gals.”
    Bobby grinned in an extremely charming, lopsided way. He was tall and very good-looking, with the kind of relaxed, slouchy posture that suggested he was very reassured about how good-looking he was, too.
    â€œListen,” Cliff continued. “We were just headed over to Chumley’s. There’s a playwright who wants a few actors to do a cold reading of his new play, and Bobby is going to volunteer.”
    â€œWhat d’you say, Judy?” I asked. I wanted to go but I wanted her to feel comfortable, too.
    â€œAll right,” she agreed, still smiling at Bobby in a wistful fog.
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    T he play was fairly awful. It was obvious the playwright fancied himself some variety of absurdist, like Ionesco or Beckett, but possessed only a fraction of the talent. However, Bobby read his lines with fierce commitment, and the whole room sighed dreamily every time it was his turn to speak. When it was all over, we clapped Bobby on the back, and the boys suggested we relocate to the Cedar Tavern. I hadn’t planned on taking a tour of all the bars in the Village, but it seemed like that was what the night was shaping up to be. Once at the Cedar, a third man came over to join us. I was startled to recognize the bookish-looking Negro with horn-rimmed glasses.
    â€œI saw you this morning in front of the phoenix!” I exclaimed. He smiled and the sense of camaraderie we’d shared earlier that day returned.
    â€œYou’ve met?” Cliff asked.
    â€œWell, not formally,” I said, realizing we’d never introduced ourselves. “I’m Eden.”
    â€œMiles,” he said, extending a polite hand. We chatted a bit.
    â€œHow long have you been a bicycle messenger?” I asked.
    â€œFor almost a year. I only do it part-time,” he said. “I’m still in school.”
    â€œOh!” I said, cocking my head in confusion. He didn’t appear young enough to be high school age.
    â€œCollege,” he said, reading my misapprehension. “Columbia.”
    I was impressed, and was about to say so, but just then a stranger spilled a drink on Judy’s lap, and she leapt up from her barstool. I could see she’d had enough. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Cliff and Bobby wanted to go to yet another bar for more drinks, and looked slightly disappointed when Judy and I excused ourselves.
    â€œTime for us career gals to turn back into pumpkins,” I said, “or it’ll take a whole lot more than coffee to wake us up in the morning.”
    In the taxi on the way back uptown, Judy sat dabbing her skirt with a handkerchief.
    â€œWas it terrible?” I asked.
    â€œNot terrible,” she said. “But I’ll send you my dry-cleaning bill.”
    I asked her what she thought of them.
    â€œWell, that Bobby is about as handsome as they come,” she said, still blotting away at her skirt. “But he’s not marriage material. You can see he’s more trouble than the devil himself! And Cliff . . .” She considered for a moment. “Well, he might be different. He seems like he’s from a nice family, and a college boy, too: I noticed a class ring!” I was glad she liked Cliff. I liked him, too. “But I don’t know . . .” She qualified her endorsement: “He runs around with so many Village kids . . .”
    â€œMore of them might’ve gone to college than you’d think,” I murmured, lost in thought and watching the city flying by outside the taxi window as we zoomed up Third Avenue. “Miles told me he’s due to graduate Columbia this June.”
    â€œWho’s Miles?”
    â€œThat young man I was talking to just now.”
    â€œThe Negro?”
    I nodded, and she