WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [64]
We’re in an alley surrounded by large redbrick warehouses. The streetlights illuminate the asphalt’s rough texture. On one side of the alley trash is blown up against the wall. On the other are parked cars—roadsters, coupes, sedans, even limousines—all flashy, all new.
August stops in front of a recessed wooden door. He raps sharply and then stands, tapping his foot. A rectangular peephole slides open, revealing male eyes under a single bushy brow. The sounds of a party pulse from behind him.
“Yeah?”
“We’re here for the show,” says August.
“What show?”
“Why, Frankie’s, of course,” August says, smiling.
The peephole shuts. There’s clicking and clanking followed by the unmistakable sound of a deadbolt. The door swings open.
The man looks us over quickly. Then he beckons us inside and slams the door. We step through a tiled foyer, past a coat check with uniformed clerks, and descend a few steps into a marble-floored dance hall. Elaborate crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceiling. A band plays on a raised platform, and the dance floor is jammed with couples. Tables and U-shaped booths surround the dance floor. Up a few steps and along the back wall is a wood-paneled bar with tuxedoed bartenders and hundreds of bottles lined up on shelves in front of a smoky mirror.
Marlena and I wait in one of the leather-lined booths while August goes to get the drinks. Marlena watches the band. Her legs are crossed and that foot is bobbing again. She moves it in time with the music, rolling her ankle.
A glass is plunked in front of me. A second later August drops down beside Marlena. I investigate the glass and find it contains ice cubes and scotch.
“You okay?” says Marlena.
“Fine,” I say.
“You look a little green,” she continues.
“Our Jacob here is suffering from a teensy hangover,” says August. “We’re trying the hair of the dog.”
“Well, make sure you let me know if I need to get out of the way,” Marlena says dubiously, turning back to the band.
August lifts his glass. “To friends!”
Marlena looks back just long enough to locate her frothy drink and then holds it over the table while we clink. She sips daintily from her straw, fingering it with lacquered nails. August tosses his scotch back. The second mine hits my lips, my tongue instinctively blocks its progress. August is watching, so I pretend to swallow before setting the glass down.
“There you are, my boy. A few more of those and you’ll be right as rain.”
I don’t know about me, but after a second brandy alexander Marlena certainly comes to life. She drags August onto the dance floor. As he twirls her around, I lean over and tip the contents of my scotch into a potted palm.
Marlena and August return to the booth, flushed from dancing. Marlena sighs and fans herself with a menu. August lights a cigarette.
His eyes land on my empty glass. “Oh—I see I’ve been neglectful,” he says. He stands up. “Same again?”
“Oh, what the hell,” I say without enthusiasm. Marlena simply nods, once again absorbed by what’s happening on the dance floor.
August is gone about thirty seconds when she leaps up and grabs my hand.
“What are you doing?” I say, laughing as she yanks my arm.
“Come on! Let’s dance!”
“What?”
“I love this song!”
“No—I—”
But it’s no use. I’m already on my feet. She drags me onto the dance floor, jiving and snapping her fingers. When we’re surrounded by other couples she turns to me. I take a deep breath and then take her in my arms. We wait a couple of beats and then we’re off, floating around the dance floor in a swirling sea of people.
She’s light as air—doesn’t miss a step, and that’s a feat considering how clumsy I am. And it’s not as though I don’t know how to dance, because I do. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I’m sure as hell not drunk.
She spins away from me and then returns, passing beneath my arm so her back is pressed against me. My forearm rests on her collarbone, skin to skin. Her chest rises and falls under my arm. Her head is under my chin, her hair fragrant, her body warm from exertion. And then she