Several blocks away from Onderaya stood a famous old time tavern, The Old Duck. It had stood in the same spot downtown for almost twenty-five years. The brick exterior and glass pane windows gave it a look akin to that of a depression era storefront; even the green entrance door had the same feel; rectangular glass tiles that came down to your waist; sturdy, tough, with an actual door knob that one turned and pulled upon entering.
It was Saturday, early evening. Marquise Howard had just come from the mall. He was running low on shirts, since his dryer always managed to rip them up. The department store in the mall was having a sale and he could not afford to pass up on such a great deal.
The night was young. It was still light outside, but just barely. Marquise pulled open the Old Duck’s front door and entered. Although he had passed the place many times on his way to work, he had never been inside. It was an odd feeling that he was hit with–he almost felt as if he had just walked into Cheers, Boston’s famous tavern.
To his left men played billiards, while a large plasma tv on the wall displayed the latest sports scores and news of the day. In front of him was a dartboard, along with a long corridor that led to another section of the tavern, which he figured was nearly identical to the one he was in. Taxidermy was on display all along the walls; a moose; a couple of deer; an elk’s head; a boar,  and a bear, wearing an Old Duck T-shirt, standing in front of the stairs, which led to the second level.
Out of sheer instinct, Marquise found the bar–it stood to his right, at the end of a long hallway full of couches and coffee tables. The floors were wooden; they creaked in certain spots when walked on. He passed by an older gentleman, reading the racing forms, with a dark beer sitting on an end table next to him. He gave Marquise a nod, which he returned and kept going.
The long bar was solid oak. Behind it was Carl, the bartender, disgruntled and angry that he had wasted a good portion of his life serving drink. Behind Carl was a mirrored wall with glass shelves which displayed bottles of liquor, along with Carl’s depression each time he turned into it to grab a bottle–he was not a happy camper.
Standing nearly 6' 2", Carl was a college dropout, which resulted in his fiancee leaving, and him having no other alternative but to learn a quick trade. After a two-week course, he answered an ad in the newspaper. Fifteen years later, Carl was still tending bar at The Old Duck.
His thick brown hair, which he had always prided himself on, was graying; he wore the same dark-green polo shirt, with The Old Duck  in gold lettering on the left breast, for most of his tenure there. His belly, covered by a beige waist apron, was the cause of a lot of his madness–It depressed him to have to ask for a bigger size shirt every other year. Also, he was taking more and more liberty shots than he ever did in the past; he was usually half in the bag by noon.
“Whadda ya have?” Carl wiped down the portion of the bar where Marquise was about to occupy.
“Hen and coke.” Marquise sat on the old bar stool and pulled out the contents of his pocket, which stuck him every time he sat down.
Carl fixed the drink in no time. When Marquise looked up from checking the time on his cell phone, it was already in front of him with a napkin under it.
“Thanks.” He tipped the man, whose sideburns were graying, and took a sip. It went down smooth and had just the right amount of Hennessy and coke that the drink called for–Carl could mix a drink well, if nothing else.
Marquise had been given the day off from work. It shook him at first, thinking back on the events of the day before at the museum. However, two of his co-workers were also given the day off, so he put the idea in the back of his mind. After all, he hadn’t had a Saturday off since he could remember; it was always Onderaya’s busiest day.
He took another sip. A live band in another room started playing “Hold on, I’m coming.” It was low, but audible enough to make out the music, but not the words.
He relaxed, trying not to think of Lais and her thick thighs and silky skin. Baseball was on the television, which hung from a swivel shelf high above the bar. The home team was losing, but if it kept his mind off things he shouldn’t be thinking about, it was okay.
Footsteps were approaching–the creaking wood floors never lied.
“Keezy, what’s happenin’?” Ricardo sat down on the stool next to him. He wore stepping-out clothes, and smelled like cologne rubbed off from a magazine ad.
“There you are, you fucker.” Another sip–his drink was halfway gone.
“Sorry I’m late; it took me forever to find something nice to wear.”
“Going out with that girl again?”
“Yeah, buddy!”
“Whadda ya have?” Carl butted in.
Ricardo ordered his usual, a coffee beer. Carl brought it to him in a glass pint. He tossed the bottle in the trash and walked over to the end of the bar to watch the ball game.
“How was ya’ll’s date last night?”
“It was cool. We went to see some dumb play, then we went to eat at that new place on 7th Street.”
“You mean that Mediterranean joint?”
“Yeah.”
“That place is expensive; could you afford it?”
“No, but that’s what credit cards are for.”
“Don’t tell me you pulled out the plastic!”
“Yep!”
“Man, tell me that you’ve hit it already; at least give me that much. I know you didn’t go out like that!” Marquise held a look of hope on his face.
“Yep!”
“Any good?”
“The bomb.” Ricardo sipped his beer and smiled his usual goofy grin.
“Tell me.”
“No! I don’t fuck and tell!”
“Come on, bro. I told you about me and Ebony; the least you could do is give me a little something about this wench.”
“All right.” He took another sip. “She does this thing with her tongue, right?”
“Never mind! Never mind! Don’t tell me no more!”
“You big baby!”
“I just wanted a few keywords: good head, raw energy, knows how to ride–I didn’t need graphic details.”
“You asked, didn’t you?”
“Anyway,” said Marquise, trying to get off the sex subject. “Where are ya’ll going tonight?”
“We’re going to see Spider-Man.”
“Where at?”
Ricardo pointed outside the big window to their right; there was a movie house, a club, and a bookstore, right across the street.
“Sounds like fun.”
“Indeed.”
“I have nothing going on tonight. I’m just gonna have a couple of drinks and maybe hit up the IHOP.” Marquise stared at the bottom of his glass; he motioned to Carl to fix him another drink.
“Man.  They got some good food here.” Ricardo pulled a paper menu out of the pint glass it was funneled into for display.
“Bar food.”
“Goat cheese pizza?” He pointed at one of the menu items.
“No, thanks. If I have to eat another fried mozzarella stick, chicken wing, or plate of nachos again, I may commit homicide!”
“You’re not even giving it a chance. They got some good stuff here.”
“I’ll pass.”
“So you’d rather have a plate of generic pancakes, than say . . . “ he paused, scanning the menu for something that would be to Marquise’s liking. “Here we go, a Quack Club Sandwich.”
“That sounds disgusting; what’s in it?”
“Honey-roasted ham, smoked turkey, apple-smoked bacon & tomato with Cheddar and Jack Cheese.” Ricardo read from the menu.
“The more you talk, the better a short stack of pancakes looks.”
“You have no taste.” He finished his beer and wiped the froth from his lips.
Carl came back around and collected the empty glass. He stuck it in the washer with the rest of the empties, and went back to watching his ball game. He knew that Ricardo, a regular customer, was only good for one beer.
“I’m not the one that’s playing way outside my league.” Marquise went for the jugular.
“That hurts.”
“I’m just here to speak the truth, brother.”
They both sat in silence for the next few minutes, opting instead to watch the game. An occasional hit, or strike-out would raise a few sounds of excitement from the bar, but other than that, it was quiet.
“Where is your date?” Marquise asked.
“She should be here soon.”
“Sorry about earlier, bro. I’m just trying to look out for you.”
“Don’t worry about it–it’s already forgotten.”
Marquise was starting to feel that the conversation was going in a direction that he didn’t have the stomach for. He had known Ricardo only for the few months they had worked together, and while they were good friends, they rarely ventured into the deep annals of communicating.
He remembered the first day he met Ricardo. Crescenzo had not made him a cook yet, and Marquise’s main job was expediting dishes from the kitchen for the wait staff. Lunch was over, and there was downtime ahead. He grabbed a magazine from his locker and sat down with it in one of the booths in the kitchen, which were specifically brought in for employees.
Quentin, one of the other bus boys, walked into the kitchen with a new guy, Ricardo. His uniform jacket was unzipped, his slacks kept trying to fall, and his white sneakers were painted with dull black shoe polish. The boy was obviously not prepared to come to work.
Bus boys at Onderaya were constantly in the kitchen, taking dishes to the dish washing people, helping the waiters take trays, and scavenging for unserved Baked Alaska. Over time, Marquise and Ricardo found common ground in hip-hop, cars, sneakers, movies, and finally, beautiful women.
“Where did you park your car?” Marquise checked the time on his cell phone again.
“In that big lot around the corner.” Ricardo pointed outside.
“What? You actually paid to park?”
“Well, yeah. Where did you park?”
“By the bank.”
“They don’t charge for parking?” He was stunned.
“Nope.”
Marquise took the final sip of his Hennessy & coke, then pushed the glass away. He turned around in his bar stool and surveyed the room.
An older couple sat at a table, sipping cognac from snifters, and enjoying each other’s company. He brushed her long hair back and told her she was beautiful. Her smile let the man know that he could still lay down the charm.
A young hipster sat at a high table, crunching away at the keys on his laptop, while a half empty glass of Amber Ale grew warm next to him. He scratched his head and type again, reaching for his glass and making a face as he realized that his once cold beverage had since turned on him.
One of the waitresses strolled by carrying a tray with a plate of cheese fries on it. She wore a navy blue shirt with the words “Weiss Ass” on the front, and the name and address of the bar on the back. She was racially ambiguous, easily able to pass herself off as anything she wanted, depending on her customer’s taste.
Marquise could easily tell she had Black, Asian, and a dash of Anglo in her. It made him sick as he thought about what her response would be if he had asked her what her racial background was.
Near the door was a businessman, eating a bread bowl and reading the Wall Street Journal. He took off his rounded rim glasses and wiped them down with a wet nap, slipping them back on and yawning. He was obviously under a lot of stress at his job, judging by his amount of hair-loss at such an early age. Marquise couldn’t tell how old he was, but he ranged from late ‘20s to mid ‘30s.
Marquise laughed when he realized that the businessman looked like Andre Harrell, after Puffy Combs had run him ragged at Uptown Records.
“Hey, Keezy, what do you think of the boss?”
“Bruce Springsteen?” Marquise was still distracted.
“No, our boss.”
“What do you mean?” He turned back around to face Ricardo.
“What do you think of the guy? I know we don’t deal with him directly, but he’s always around, watching, listening; I don’t think anything goes on in that place without him knowing.”
“The guy is a bit rigid, but if he got the stick out of his ass, he’d be okay.”
“I’ve seen the guy flirting with women, and sometimes even taking numbers from them. That’s some lowdown shit, especially when his bride is in the other room actually working.”
“I don’t think he’s all that you say he is.” Marquise continued.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he probably doesn’t know each and every thing that happens around there–I’m sure some stuff occurs without his knowledge.”
“Like what?”
Marquise looked up at one of the large window panes that were in the slanted ceiling. He could see the building which housed Onderaya from where he sat. For a brief moment he imagined what was going on at exactly that moment. Perhaps Aldo was showing a female guest the special items on the menu, up close and personal. Perhaps Lais was playing hostess, greeting a state senator, millionaire philanthropist, or an ordinary joe taking his date out for a beautiful dinner. He didn’t know what was going on there, but whatever it was, it was not good.
“Nothing,” he finally answered.

The sun had finally set completely. Darkness blanketed the downtown streets. Lais Flores stood in the boardroom, lights off, gazing out the window, solemnly. The city lights were beautiful at night, especially from a view forty floors up.
Lais herself was looking radiant that evening. Her hair was pulled back into two puffs; a
choker made of red minerals, was around her neck; dark purple strapless dress with diamond shaped cuts on either side, to show off the hips; opened toe black heels, which were made especially for her, by her designer friend from France.
She took a drink from the champagne glass in her hand; the fizzy liquid tickling her throat. She was never a fan of champagne, preferring normal white wine for formal dinners.
Rich and full bodied, just like you, was something a past suitor once said about her penchant for Pinot Blanc.
The bell from the nearby church rang. It was almost time.
“Why are you standing here in the dark?” Aldo rubbed Lais’ shoulders from behind and gave a light peck to the back of her neck.
She threw her head back into his chest and gave a sigh.
“Do we really have to do this tonight?” She asked, neck turned, looking at him square in the eyes.
“He’s leaving town tomorrow. Be fair.”
“It’s not that; I’m leaving tomorrow morning; I need as much rest as possible.”
“And you’ll get it. It’s just dinner, dessert, maybe a drink or two.”
“Yeah, but she is gonna be here.” The emphasis could be heard in her voice.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Where should I start?” She turned around and rolled her eyes. “For one, she has no self-respect. She lets her man control her life, even going so far as to not letting the woman do what she’s best at; she can really sing!”
“That’s their business, not ours.”
“Oh, do you want me to start with him?”
“No, honey–you’ve made your point.”
Lais finished her wine in one gulp, and handed the glass to Aldo.
“What do you want me to do with this?”
“Get rid of that shit; it tastes nasty.”
“It’s top of the line!”
“Yeah, top of the line shit.” Lais walked away and entered the dining area of the board room.
She flicked on the lights and sucked her teeth after seeing the set-up.
There were four place settings in the center of the long glass table. Green cloth place mats held the gold trimmed dinnerware within their area of coverage. The expensive china, which was only brought out for occasions such as this, had a golden O, written in dauphin, in the center. The same golden O was also etched into all the crystal drinking glasses.
“What’s wrong?”
“You went all out, eh?”
“What are you talking about?” Aldo tapped at a wine glass with his finger, making it clink.
“Why must you always acquiesce to this guy?” Lais looked disgusted.
“Honey, baby,” Aldo started, caressing her hands. “This man can make us a lot of money.”
“You know I don’t care about that.”
“I do. Lais, I was born poor. I’m not about to let my bride live like a fucking plebeian.”
“Oh, don’t act like you’re doing this for me.”
“Lais, I’m doing this for us.” He gave her a stern look.
She looked into his eyes and believed him.
“Aldo, I was born poor too.” She had calmed down. “I just don’t think you have to kiss this guy’s ass every time he snaps his fingers.”
“It ain’t that. This man is a good friend. He gave me my big break.”
“I know.”
“If not for him, we would not be here.”
“Where would we be?” She was curious.
“You would be in a music video, half naked, shaking your ass to the beat, while fake hundred dollar bills fell from the sky.”
She laughed.
“Where would you be?”
“I’d be running your website, overcharging horny men, who pay to see pictures of you in your underwear.”
“I see you’ve got this all worked out.”
“My mind is like a hamster wheel, constantly moving.” He thought for a second while Lais laughed. “Wait, bad analogy!”
She  kissed him, passionately.
Hearing footsteps down the hall, they quickly straightened up, almost like school children getting caught stealing a quick kiss by the lockers.
“Hello.” Derek Adams appeared at the door with his wife. She clung to his left arm as if she were his personal bracelet.
“Hey, come on in.” Aldo waved both of them over to the table.
“How are you doing, honey?” Lais hugged Donya the moment she was freed from her arm duties.
“Can’t complain.” Donya slipped off her mink coat and handed it to one of her bulky bodyguards, who had walked in behind the couple.
Adams snapped his fingers at the taller one, and he handed Adams a bottle of Chateau Latour, one of the world’s most expensive wines. He in turn handed it to Aldo.
“A gift. You don’t have to open it tonight, save it for something special.”
“Mr. Adams, you shouldn’t have.” He placed the bottle on a desk and grabbed a couple of cigars, showing them to Adams. “For later.”
“That’d be great.”
“Oh, I love your dress!” Donya marveled at its originality.
“Thanks. I love your mink coat.” Lais suddenly realized that she would rather be drinking.
“Isn’t it fabulous?”
“Okay, “ Adams butted in. “There will be plenty of time for that later. Right now, I’m starving!”
A waiter, who had entered from the kitchenette, on the other side of the boardroom, led the foursome to the dinner table.
As they were being seated by a couple of bus boys, the waiter informed the party of the evening’s menu.
Dinner came in three courses.
The first course consisted of red snapper, Black Olive Tapenade, Fine bean salad, tomato
salsa, and lime dressing, paired with a whine wine.
The second course was Five spiced breast of duck with pak choi and mange tout, red peppers, yams, apricot sauce, paired with a light red wine–specifically, pinot noir.
The third course was dessert: chocolate meringue cake, raspberries, and chocolate tuille.
As they sat down for their first course, Lais couldn’t think of a thing to say. She had once read a book about the many ways one could start a dinner conversation. At that very moment, she had forgotten every word she had memorized from that book; she was drawing a blank.
She looked up at Donya, who sat across from her, and noticed her blank expression. The mink coat; the exquisite diamond ring, all tools to complete Adams’ posturing. Donya was the happy wife, whose sole purpose was to enhance her husband’s image–she played the part well.
At one time, Lais had a huge problem with Donya; she often saw herself in her. She was always able to convince herself that their situations were entirely different–but at times she thought herself as Aldo’s trophy: the world famous model, who turned in the runway for the matrimonial experience.
She was nothing like Donya; it took her awhile to realize that fact. Donya’s plastic smile and improved status came at the price of a career and certain inalienable freedoms. She could not leave the house without her husband knowing, she could not associate with people her husband deemed as undesirable, including lifelong friends. Those were just some of the ways he kept her locked up in his world.
Lais took a bite of her red snapper, and for the moment, just forgot about it.

Back at the Old Duck, the Saturday night crowd had come in. Nearly every table and couch was full. The billiards players racked up and broke pool balls, as friendly wagers turned into hustles, and a streak of bad luck could turn or continue to haunt the gambler.
Groups of patrons stood near the sole big screen tv and watched the latest pay-per-view boxing match. Waitresses scurried everywhere, trying to get cold beer and hot food orders to their customers in a timely manner. Some of the young guys played darts and told tales of their recent kayaking trips, while the older crowd chose the rooftop area, where they could smoke their cigars and be in absolute peace.
It was the zero hour, the time during the workday where Carl shined. He opened bottles, poured pints of beer and mixed drinks on pure instinct. Any short comings he had in life, or as it pertained to his psyche, were erased during the night.
By the end of the night, he would be tired and frustrated, but he’d get the job done.
Ebony Marshall walked over to the bar. Her striped red blouse and black slacks set off her new hairstyle, a medium length cut with side-swept bangs. Her black platform shoes tapped along to the beat of the band, now audible, thanks to the bar’s speaker system, playing “Shotgun.”
“Whadda ya have?” Carl pointed at Ebony, while fixing another customer a screwdriver.
“A Sydney Sling, with Saphire, please.” She crossed her fingers, hoping he knew how to make one.
Carl pulled out a long flute and quickly reviewed his mental mixed-drink Rolodex. With lightning-fast speed, he reviewed and created a Sydney Sling.
15ml Bombay Saphire Gin
Juice of 1 fresh lemon and lime
10ml of Midori topped with Sydney Cider over ice
In flute or tall glass garnish with lime wedge
“Thank you,” she yelled over the music.
He nodded, then was paid, along with a generous tip.
Amid the crowd of people, Ebony saw a familiar face sitting by himself at the end of the bar. Someone moved out of the way.  She then saw that the face did in fact belong to Marquise. He was sitting alone, peeling away at a bowl of white pistachios, and drinking a beer.
“Hey, stranger.” Ebony slid into the stool next to him and set her drink down.
“Hello, Ms. Ebony. What brings you here?” He turned in his seat to face her.
“Funny thing,” she said after taking a quick sip of her drink. “I just got off work and was on my way to the parking garage, then I ran into Ricardo and some girl.”
“Yeah. Her name is Veronica.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“Yeah.” Marquise took a drink of his beer.
“Anyway, he told me that you were here, so I decided to stop in.”
“Oh, you came here to see Lil’ ol’ me?” He smiled.
Ebony returned the smile. She knew she had been caught, so there was no need to keep up the pretense. She never felt she had to do with Marquise. He was an honest guy, and she was an honest gal-no need for any bullshit.
“Yes. Also, it doesn’t hurt that they make a mean Sydney Sling.”
“You know, Ebony: I’ve been sitting here for most of the night, and I’ve realized something.”
“What’s that?” She finished her drink and pushed the empty flute away from her.
“I have no life.”
Her immature side wanted to laugh. She wasn’t sure why, but an image of Fred Flintstone getting kicked out of his home during the end credits, popped into her head, complete with the music.
“What do you mean?” She brushed off a piece of lint that had fallen into his hair.
“I’m saying, I moved back into town when this place opened, and I’ve yet to make a friend outside of work. Every day after work, I go home, make a ham sandwich with cheese, crack open a beer, and sit down to watch Drew Carey reruns.”
“But you’re from here; what happened to all your old friends?”
He gave her a sheepish look, then took another sip.
“Where should I start?” He asked, stroking his chin. “Sergio went to jail and was shanked in the shower, Steve moved to Atlanta, Anita went to college and got married, Rodney disappeared with his gold digger girlfriend, and James was drafted by the Tennessee Titans.”
“Sorry to hear all that.” She put a hand on his right shoulder.
“It’s okay. I guess I just gotta learn to deal.”
“Eh, I actually envy your situation.”
“Why’s that?”
“Take tonight, for example: I have to meet an old friend of mine for dinner in about an hour.”
“Boy or girl?” Marquise interrupted.
“A wo-man.”
“Okay.”
“I haven’t seen her in about a year–but I already know what to expect from her.”
“What’s that?”
She made eye contact with Carl, then lifted her empty flute up and tapped it, signifying that she needed another.
“She’s gonna tell me how great her life has been, and how she and her husband just got back from some Caribbean island, after spending a week there, tanning and relaxing.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“The bitch doesn’t have a job.”
“I hate people like that.” Marquise brushed back some hair that had fallen in Ebony’s eyes.
Carl came by with her drink, for which he was paid and tipped.
“It’s not that I’m envious, but she’s always been like that. I mean, doesn’t she realize that I have to dodge the fucking student-loan people whenever I’m short? Doesn’t she realize that talking about your good fortune to those who’ve had to beg the electric company not to shut her off is downright sadistic!”
“Oh, come on, Ebs. You women have it a lot easier than us men when it comes to getting away with shit.”
“Like what?”
“I once knew a girl who slept with the cable guy for free cable.” He laughed. “That shit must have been good, cause he hooked her up with the premium channels!”
“Yeah, honey.  That’s called a whore!”
“I’m just saying; I could never get away with something like that. The cable girl would just tell me to piss off.”
“That’s such a male-minded example. You men never cease to amaze me.”
“You want me to keep going? Okay: I dated a girl once who got out of big dinner bills by squirting a few tears, and then . . . ”
“Okay, I got it. Just stop before you hurt yourself.”
“I’m just speaking the truth.”
“Think about it this way; it’s a man’s world out there. Sometimes, we just gotta do something to level the playing field.”
“Whatever.”
Marquise watched, as Carl mixed a drink and flirted with one of the waitresses. He called her a pretty young thing, and how her eyes matched the blue of the hpnotiq he had just placed on her tray. The young waitress, a sophomore in college, smiled and was flattered by his advances. She was hit on often, being in college and working in a bar–but Carl, in all his experience, knew just how to charm a woman, especially one as young and gullible as she.
Ebony smiled at Marquise. She adored him for what he was: a simple, caring man. However, she was often puzzled by his lack of ability to see what was right in front of his face. She was upset by his recent delusions about Lais.
All of her posturing and telling him that Lais would never go for such a young guy, with no true career goals, was simply a veiled attack at his ego. Ebony wanted Marquise for herself.
“I can’t believe you haven’t once mentioned my haircut.”
“Actually, I’ve been debating on it.” His eyes were still on Carl and his flirting.
“Why?”
“I haven’t decided if I like it or not.”
“Well, I like it. I had my hair like this in college.”
“Really?” He turned to face her, elbow on the bar, chin on his palm.
“Yup.”
He looked into her eyes, then changed the subject.
“Tell me something; your marriage was an open marriage, right?”
“Yup.”
“You’ve never told me much about it. Was the open part the reason you divorced?”
Ebony thought for a second. She thought back on the two years of wedded bliss, then the verbal abuse and days in the hospital with a cracked jaw.
“I married young, as you know. We were a couple of youngsters, and at the time, I loved him so much that I agreed to anything he said, including an open marriage. Neither one of us acted upon it–but I suspect that he kept a few skeletons in his sheets.”
“How did you know that?”
“A woman knows. No matter how well you hide it, a woman knows.”
“And what did you know?”
“I think it was his seceratary. He had no reason to hide it, but he felt guilty about it for some reason. I’m guessing he was ashamed because she was a white girl. Anybody else, I could accept–but dissing me for a white bitch, that was cold.”
“Damn!”
“Exactly. He knew better.”
Marquise nodded, then dusted pistachio dust off his hands.
“I’m not trying to get into your business; I just wanted to know if your open relationship had anything to do with your divorce.”
“Nah. Can’t say that it did.”
“I was just wondering because I read a study that said that most open marriages last no more than two years. That the cause was usually jealousy on one person’s part, or the open relationship being just about one person wanting to be a freak and stay married.”
“No. That was not the case.” She sipped her drink again. “Now, our bosses, they had something like that at one point in their marriage.”
“Say what?” He was intrigued.
“Yeah. I can’t believe you never heard.”
“I don’t gossip.”
“Lies!” She smiled.
“I don’t.”
“Well, yeah. They had a sexual relationship with this one girl. Her name was Jahirah, she was about twenty years old, and she was very pretty. Light skinned, short, baby-faced; she could have easily passed for any age ranging from fourteen to twenty-two. Plus, I don’t mind telling you, that little girl had a body on her!”
“That’s kinda disgusting.”
“What? The relationship?”
“No, the fact that they had relations with someone who looked fourteen.”
“Men love young women; R.Kelly is living proof.” She took another sip and pushed the rest away, half full. “However, unlike Kelly, Mr. Aldo did things to a girl who could pass for fourteen, not someone who actually was.”
“Still . . . ”
“I’m not saying it’s right–but Aldo isn’t gonna be the one hauled off at the end of the evening.”
Marquise rubbed his pint glass up and down with his fingers, the condensation had soaked through the napkin it rested on. He had been nursing the drink for so long that it turned warm on him.
“How do you know all this stuff about that girl?”
“I had class with her in college.” Ebony smiled.
“And she told you all this?” His eyes looked as if they were going to bug out from shock.
“Hey, I studied journalism; I’m pretty good at finding shit out.”
Suddenly, without warning, Marquise leaned in and gave Ebony an open mouth kiss. He tasted the Sydney sling on her lips, guaging that Carl used a tad too much Midori.
She kissed back, eyes closed, tongue at the ready. For those few seconds, there was no one else in the room but the two of them. Carl had disappeared, the music died, and the patrons had decided to leave.
She broke the kiss and swallowed down her drink, which was still resting on the bar. She could not believe what had just happened. In the past they had hooked up, but never did it ever feel as good as it just did.
She was suddenly reinvigorated.
Her panties were wet.
Shit.
“Look, Ebony, if you’re really dreading going out with this chick, call her up and cancel.”
“Then how would I spend my evening?” She played coy.
“I’ll take you to dinner myself.”
“Where would we go?”
“Wherever the fuck you wanna go!” Marquise gazed into her eyes and she knew he was serious.
“Well, you drive a hard bargain, my friend.” Ebony reached into her purse for her cell phone. “I’ll see what I can do.”
They kissed again, then Ebony walked outside to make her phone call.

Back at Onderaya, the lounge was jumping, as it usually was on a Saturday night. Once again wearing his blue vest, Dru served up cold beer and fruity daiquiris. Mini juice cans lay empty; lined up on the small refrigerator kept underneath the bar. A read-through newspaper was visibly crammed inside one of the empty holes in the wine cabinet on display.
The neo-soul band, who had been tuning up, started playing Erykah Badu’s “Green Eyes.” The lead singer voice had a sultry voice, but for “Green Eyes” she went out of her way to channel Ms. Badu. If one closed their eyes, they would swear it was the cd playing.
Dru poured a shot of brandy for a patron sitting at the bar. The light from the touch screen register illuminated his face as he rang up the sale. A game of solitaire, which he was playing before business started picking up, was minimized on the desktop.
Never one to listen in on conversation, Dru picked up plenty of idle chatter throughout the evening.
“Dude, if you order a Budweiser, they’ll laugh your ass out of here.”

“You know what’s nasty? Barley wine, yuck!”

“We’re going to Italy next week; that’s why I’ve been playing the Godfather music.”

“They put up some good shots, but they screwed up the finish.”

“So, I took the ticket, and mumbled, ‘Bitch, take me to dinner first before you fuck me!’ I forgot the window was still open.”

Dru looked up from his register and saw Lais and Donya standing before him, anticipating their first drink. The two women set changed the aura of the room; most of the men turned to catch a glimpse of the dazzling beauties.
“Two chocolate soldiers, please.” Donya leaned forward, pressing her chest against the bar, making sure that Dru got an eyeful.
He could barely focus, seeing her cleavage on display in that manner. If he had his way, he would tear her black dress off right there and have sex with her on top of the bar.
He fumbled the tumbler and almost dropped it, thinking back on what he just saw. He reached for two cocktail glasses which hung upside down on the overhead rack, and placed them on the tempered glass on top of the bar.
“You ladies don’t get too crazy tonight, now.” He poured their cocktails for them and smiled at Donya.
She walked away and turned her head, returning the smile.
“Damn! Who were they?” A patron leaning against the bar asked.
“Married women.” Dru eyed Donya as she sat down with Lais at one of the comfy couches in the lounge. She crossed her legs, exposing her strong thighs, enticing any and all men who happened to get a peek.
“Shoot, that never stopped me.”
The patron wore a bright red suit; reminiscent of the clothes sold at stores like Chess King and Gadzooks. His hat matched his suit, and his glasses were oval shaped and dark rimmed. His mustache made him look like a ‘70s porn-star reject, while his big rings made him look like a member of the Wu-Tang Clan.
“Trust me, guy; you don’t want any part of that.” Dru leaned over the bar with a red coffee stir in his mouth.
“What you mean?” He took a sip of the gin and juice in his left hand, then a drag of the twisted backwood cigar in his right.
“You see the one in the purple dress with the sides cuts out?” Dru pointed.
“Yeah.”
“Her husband owns this place. He’s got money out the wazoo, and a bangin’ broad to boot.”
“Is that so? What about the other one, the Latina?”
“You ever been to the Adams Hotel?”
“A couple of times.”
“Her husband is Derek Adams.”
“Oh, my damn!”
“Exactly.”
The patron finished his drink and placed the glass on the bar. He straightened out his coat and swaggered over to where Lais and Donya were sitting, backwood still in hand.
“Good evening, ladies.”
Lais and Donya were sharing a laugh when they heard the patron addressing them. Lais decided to play a role that she had not played in a long time.
“Just play along; this will be fun.” Lais muttered in French.
“He looks like a big banana.”
“No. It’s as if big bird threw up all over him.”
“I see ya’ll trying to play me with this ‘no speak English’ bit.” The patron was getting frustrated.
“We’re married.” Lais declared, with a commanding voice, in English.
“Too each other” He tried to lighten the mood.
“No, smart ass.” Donya snapped at him, revealing her own knowledge of the English language.
“Look; I don’t care. I ain’t into all that.” He waved his hands back and forth. “I’m just wondering if I could get a drink with ya’ll or something.”
“We don’t drink Coronas, dear.” Lais lit up a Sobranie cocktail with her gold lighter and made no eye contact with him, barely acknowledging his presence.
“That’s fucked up, mami!”
“Yeah, now . . . off you go.” Donya dismissed him with a backhanded wave.
His soul crushed, the patron finally admitted defeat, and walked away. He stopped by the bar and settled up his tab, muttering under his breath.
One of Adams’ bodyguards stood by the door, ready to be called upon. He chose not to intervene in the situation, preferring to let Ms. Donya handle herself.
“I told you that would be fun.” Lais held up her pack of Sobranie’s, offering one to Donya.
She refused.
“Dinner was good, yes?” Donya sipped her chocolate soldier and made eyes at the band’s piano player, while he was too far away to notice.
“Dinner was good, but the conversation I could have done without.”
“Which is why they took pity on us.”
“Yup. They’re in there right now, talking business and smoking Cubans.”
“Please, I wanted to die!”
Lais laughed to herself. She loved Donya’s thick accent. Simply by listening to her speak, one could tell Donya grew up in Latin America. Born and raised in Colombia, by Afro-Cuban parents, Donya tried her best to hide her accent, even so far as hiring voice coaches. Nothing worked and she was stuck with the accent she was given.
Lais herself was never actually cognitive of her own accent. It was a beautiful blend of her Nigerian heritage and French upbringing. She lived most of her life not even knowing that she had an accent until she left France to trek the globe, modeling in various countries.
She had put it in the back of her mind, only being aware of it when Aldo brought it up. He loved for her to speak French to him during intercourse. He always told her that her voice and accent were both so sexy that he proved it to her as he masturbated in bed one evening, while she read him excerpts from The Invisible Man. He climaxed near the two minute mark.
“Lais, I’ve taken on a lover.” Donya announced out of nowhere.
“Say what?” She choked on her Chocolate soldier as it ran down her throat.
Her coughing aroused suspicion–a cocktail waitress came around to see if she was okay.
Lais waved her away, coughing into a napkin, which she then used to wipe her mouth.
“I’ve taken on a lover.”
“How? Doesn’t he keep an eagle eye on you?” Her coughing subsided and she patted her chest.
“My bodyguards give me plenty of leash when I leave the house. They’re very understanding.”
“So, who is this guy?”
“In town there is a bake shop. I stop in sometimes for cookies and pastries.”
“He’s a baker?” A sickening image of someone like Crescenzo and Donya came to mind.
“No, he’s the lowly assistant.”
“A commoner, why?”
“Because I’m tired of the bullshit. I need someone real in my life. I spend my days stuck in a house full of fake people who comply with your every wish, no matter what.”
“I see.” She was still not sure how to react. If she showed any support for Donya, Adams would blow a gasket when he found out, then it would ruin Aldo’s chances of getting his hotel, all because of Lais.
“Then at night, I lay there in my lingerie, spread my legs and let the old man fuck me. Fuck me with his wrinkled dick and his pills. I refuse to believe that my lot in life is to service the old coot whenever he wants.”
Tears were in her eyes. One rolled down her cheek and trickled down to her neck, falling on her lavish dress.
“I’m sorry, Lais. I’ll be right back.” Donya stood up, eyes watering.
She quickly trotted in the direction of the bathroom, sobbing profusely.
Lais sat there, crossed her legs and thought to herself.
She thought hard about what Donya had just said, reevaluating her own lot in life, wondering if it was what she had hoped for when she first stepped out into the world.
She lit up another Sobranie cocktail and threw her head back as the band began an instrumental version of The Roots “You got me.”
The blue lights came on for effect.
           A sudden smile came over Lais’ beautiful face. They may have been just fleeting thoughts, perhaps not even worth exploring–But a woman most certainly had the right to dream.