Free Shooting Gallery by Hailey Lind Page B

surfaces.
    That Flor de Caña rum really packed a punch.
    All things considered, it was just as well Frank seemed to have stood us up.
    While the rest of us debated our next choral selection, Tom and Pete huddled in a corner, gesticulating wildly. “What’s going on over there?” I demanded.
    â€œWe have A Plan,” Tom said, his blue eyes shining. Pete giggled and Tom shot him a severe look.
    â€œUh-oh,” Sherri said, perusing a box of chocolate truffles. “This has the earmarks of a Truly Bad Idea.”
    â€œListen, you guys . . .” I began.
    â€œDon’t worry. We know what we’re doing,” Tom said, flexing his muscles and pounding his right fist into his left palm. “Bryan, Levine: You men keep an eye on the girls. I’ve got something in mind. Pete and I are going to check it out.”
    â€œYeah,” Pete echoed, mimicking Tom’s flexing and pounding. “We’re going to chicken out.”
    Tom sent Pete a withering look. “ Check it out, Pete. Check it out.”
    â€œYeah,” Pete murmured. “ Check it out.”
    â€œC’mon, dude. Time to rock ’n’ roll! ” Tom roared and thundered down the stairs, his arms and legs pumping furiously.
    â€œYeah, rock ’n’ roll ,” Pete repeated less maniacally. At the top of the stairs he sketched a wave and proceeded down cautiously.
    â€œCall me crazy,” I said as Bryan topped off my glass of rum, “but I’m getting the distinct impression those two are a bit liquored up.”
    â€œDon’t you worry none, baby doll,” Bryan volunteered, a plate of hors d’oeuvres perched on one hip and a crystal goblet of wine in one hand. “Levine and I will protect you.” He popped a shrimp canapé into his mouth and delicately brushed away an imaginary crumb.
    Bryan was gym-toned and gorgeous, but the thought of his going toe-to-toe with anyone, even a little old sculptor, seemed ludicrous. Levine, meanwhile, was decidedly elfin and looked as if he could be blown away by a strong gust of wind. On the distaff side, Mary could likely inflict some real damage, and there was no telling what I could do given the proper motivation. After all, I had once knocked out a bad guy with a bronze garden elf. And Sherri, though petite, had a cooler head and more common sense than all the rest of us put together. If a brawl were to break out in the hallway, it seemed to me the women were likely to carry the day.
    For several moments the hallway was quiet as we watched the sky outside the window change from a gaudy pink to a bright orange to a flaming red. Then Bryan started humming the overture from My Fair Lady, and before long we were performing “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly,” starring Bryan as Eliza Doolittle and featuring the rest of us as assorted street people, skipping up and down and singing off-key in atrocious cockney accents. We collapsed on the floor, laughing, and had just swung into a rollicking rendition of “I Could Have Danced All Night” when Pascal’s studio door smashed open and a short, balding, unshaven man in a dirty white sleeveless undershirt and baggy cargo pants stepped into the hallway. So pale that his skin had a bluish cast, Robert Pascal was covered in stone dust and quivering with rage.
    â€œ What in the name of God in heaven is going on out here!” he screamed. “Will you people please shut the fuck up !”
    â€œMr. Pascal, I—” Scrambling over the detritus from our picnic, I knocked over a glass of wine and stumbled on a satin pillow. Bryan leaped up to steady me but stepped on a plate, sending shrimp canapés skittering across the linoleum, stomped heavily on Levine’s sandal-clad toes, slipped on a rind of brie, and landed on the floor with a splat. Levine began hopping around screeching, holding his injured foot in the air, and when Sherri and Mary leaned over to help him