The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [16]
As we negotiated our way forward, we were unable to avoid jostling those seated at the tables on either side of us, but no one protested. Many of the patrons appeared to be seamen, most of the lowest stripe, although I was sure that rogues of all occupations were amply represented. A goodly number of cheap and heavily made-up women were interspersed throughout the bar, and caused the room to reek of an odd mixture of sweat, stale beer, cigar smoke, and flowery perfume.
Suzette kept both of her arms grasped around Turk, pressing against him, and Monique took the same attitude with me. The soft flesh of her breasts and thighs now fully rubbed against me and I felt the beginnings of arousal, which, even in these circumstances, was highly embarrassing. Monique noticed it as well, and pressed even closer. As much as I wanted her to continue, I hardly wanted to announce my condition to the other patrons. I kept looking forward, following the other two, hoping it would pass before it became more obvious.
Finally, we reached an empty table at the far corner of the room, one which ordinarily would have been barely comfortable for two. Monique released my arm, and, mercifully, the fullness receded. Turk slipped a coin into the small man’s hand and I thought it ironic that someone would pay to get a table in this establishment.
A thickly rouged young woman in a plunging white blouse and black bodice appeared immediately to take our order.
“Let’s have champagne,” decreed Turk gaily. “Ephraim here has generously offered to pay.”
I hadn’t, of course, and I suspected it would be costly, but it seemed only fair after the expense Turk had gone to for the tickets and dinner.
“Indeed,” I said, “champagne it shall be.”
Monique reached out and clasped my hand. “Oh, Ephie, I knew you’d be nice.”
The bottle seemed to be at our table the next second. We toasted to life, and drank. The “champagne” had a tart, acrid taste, but none of my companions seemed to care. The first glasses were downed almost instantly, even mine, and then seconds. Soon, the bottle was empty. Another swiftly replaced it.
Monique, who admitted she was not French, claimed to be nineteen. Like Turk, she had been raised in an orphanage, where she had danced so avidly that the administrators had actually engaged an instructor to teach her the rudiments of ballet. She had shown promise and, two years ago, had gone into the world to seek employment with a dance company.
“I tried everywhere,” she said, shaking her head in dismay. I realized that she was far more attractive than I had first thought. “It’s just too hard for a girl like me … who doesn’t know anyone …”
“One more?” I looked up; the waitress was holding up an empty bottle.
There are two types of inebriation. With the first, one knows one is drunk and attempts to be on guard, albeit with varying degrees of success. With the second, far more dangerous, one has no idea that one’s decisions and behavior have been slurred and thus proceeds as if nothing at all were amiss. At that moment, as I peered at the blurred bottle in the waitress’s hand, I passed from one type to the other.
“Certainly,” I agreed. “Let us have another.”
The more Monique confided her travails in the world of dance, the closer she moved to me. She leaned forward, offering me her breasts. I could feel the heat come off her and she smelled of roses, yet slightly musky. Her lips shone and when they parted, I was aware of nothing else. I felt I would reach for her on the spot, when suddenly she leaned back with a smile.
“Suzette and I are going to the powder room for a moment, Ephie.”
I was watching them move through the tables toward the rear, Monique’s hips moving back and forth liquidly, when Turk interrupted my reverie in speech that seemed to slur. “I’ve been thinking, old boy, perhaps you were right about Osler. Why do you think he refused to autopsy that girl?”
I still retained just enough of my wits to remember that he was asking the same question I had put to him earlier.