Strolling past tables packed with evening dress and tuxedo-wearing couples, a suited man arrived at a bar, set a glass before a man on a stool, and stood, holding his own glass, beaming at and nodding to a lounge singer’s performance.
“Pierre, where the hell have you been?” the seated man said and pointed at the stage. “Her number’s almost done.”
Pierre shook his head. “We’ve plenty of time, Terrano.” He tapped the glass on the bar. “Drink up.”
“What is it?”
“Bourbon.”
“This isn’t a social call. We have to focus.”
Pierre nodded. “Which is why I got you bourbon.” He watched Terrano smirk, toss the glass back, and slap it atop the bar. “Now, how’s you focus?”
Terrano huffed and pointed at the stage where, arms wide and head back, a shimmery-gowned singer along with gleaming trumpets, trombones, and saxophones delivered a lengthy, final note and then couples at every table sprung upon their feet in squinted-eyed smiles and applause.
Pierre and Terrano clapped and whistled and watched someone amid the audience bring the singer a long-stemmed rose bouquet which she took in one arm and bowed. Soon however, someone else brought her a bouquet, and she took it in her other arm. Once a third bouquet arrived, a bandleader ambled to a centerstage microphone stand.
“Please, folks, no more floral arrangements,” he said. “Our lovely Nadine’s only got two hands.”
The audience laughed.
“Well,” the bandleader said. “On behalf of the Nadine, Calvin Cafferty’s Band, and Club Monroe, I bid you all a tremendous evening.” He gestured toward the band who played an upbeat tune, and the audience applauded, watched Nadine smile and walk backstage, and began filing out a main door.
Pierre finished his glass and then nodded at Torrano. “Show time.”
They slipped through a crowd, through a doorway near the stage, and into a narrow hall, and a huge man tailed them.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” the man said, and Torrano and Pierre turned.
“Sorry?” Torrano said.
The man pointed behind them. “The club’s closing, and you were headed backstage. May I ask why?”
“Oh, that’s backstage?” Torrano said. “Well, our apologies. We were looking for the little boys’ room.” He pointed at a door behind the man. “Oh, there it is.”
The man glimpsed at the door. “That’s not a lavatory.”
“What?!” Torrano slipped by the man to the door labeled ‘Broom Closet’ and tapped the signage. “Well, it says ‘lavatory’ plain as day.” He entered the room, strolled past numerous mop and buckets and cleaning supply cabinets, and halted at a back wall where he unzipped his pants.
The man barreled inside the closet. “Sir, what do you think you’re doing??”
Suddenly, the closet door closed, a hushed pop and flash ensued, and the man collapsed to the floor. Thereafter, a liquid splashed against a wall, and after a moment, Torrano zipped his pants, said to the laying body, ‘I told you this was a lavatory’, and ambled to Pierrie who was peeking out the door.
“We’re clear,” Pierre said, and they walked out the closet, down the hall, and into a short stairwell. They climbed the stairs, opened a door, and glimpsed at each other. Beyond a grand drape’s edge, amid pulleys, levers, and prop tables, Nadine laughed with the bandleader and man holding a trumpet.
“Did you see his face?” Nadine said.
The trumpeter nodded. “Did I?” he said and chuckled. “Took everything in me not to finger a sour note.”
“Well, if he keeps it up,” the bandleader said. “He’ll be lucky if a sour notes all he can play.”
They giggled, and Nadine shook her head. “And I’d wondered why a front table-regular would up-and-leave mid-number. I’d thought something in my singing was off until I’d realized he’d looked around the crowd and seen his wife.”
“Well, that just goes to show you,” the bandleader said. “If you’re going to step out on your spouse, don’t drag your ‘date’ to a club you and your spouse frequent.”