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Bubbles was a Montebello wine-and-champagne bistro that had once done a lively business in concert with the Edgewater Hotel and another high-priced piano bar called Spirits. The three were in easy driving distance of one another and formed a triangle traveled by every rich, hot, single person on the market back then. All three places were heavy on atmosphere – glitz, glitter, live music, small dance floors, and low lights. Drinks were pricey, served in oversize glasses, and food was an afterthought, meant to get you home again without a fatal accident.
In the mid-seventies, for reasons unknown, Bubbles became a magnet for escort services, girls working high-end out-call and "models" from Los Angeles, who drove to Montebello cruising for love. Eventually cocaine became prevalent and the county sheriffs department stepped in and shut the place down. I'd been there on occasion because my second husband, Daniel, was a jazz pianist who played the three night spots in rotation. Early in the relationship, I realized if I didn't make a point of being there with him, I might not see him until breakfast the next day. He claimed he was out "jamming" with the guys, which turned out to be true, in both the literal and metaphorical senses.
We pulled up to the left of the entrance. Reba handed her car keys to the valet and we went in. Men in suits and sport coats stood five and six deep at the bar, checking out our boobs and butts as we passed. Reba did a quick search from table to table while I followed in her wake. Bubbles hadn't changed. Illumination was achieved primarily by way of massive fish tanks that lined the walls and separated one seating area from the next. In the main room, there was a bar with a U-shaped border of booths and a scattering of tables big enough for two. In the second room, through a wide arch, a jazz combo – piano, saxophone, and bass – was set up on a wide deck above a dance floor the size of a trampoline. The music was mellow – haunting melodies from the forties that stuck in your head for days. This was not a place where voices were raised or raucous laughter cut through the murmur of civilized conversation. No one got drunk and tumbled backward into other patrons. Women didn't weep or fling drinks on their dates. No one upchucked in the elegant restrooms with their marble floors and baskets of tiny terrycloth towels. Customers smoked, but the ventilation system was high-tech and a roving band of busboys whisked away dirty ashtrays and replaced them with clean ones every five minutes or so.
Reba put a hand out and slowed me to a halt. Like a pointer, she stood and pi
Reba moved forward with trumped-up exuberance. "O
"Hello, Reba." O
Reba said, "This is my friend Kinsey. I've been telling her about you." Her gaze settled on the two champagne flutes as though she'd just noticed. "I hope we're not cutting in on your action. Big hot date?"
"It's actually not a date. Beck and I had to work late so he suggested stopping off for a nightcap. I don't imagine we'll stay long."
"Beck's here? That's great. I don't see him."
"He's chatting with a friend. I'm sorry you canceled di
"I did a meeting already. I'm only required to do one a week." Reba helped herself to one of O
"Of course." O
"I wrote. I sent you a card. Didn't you get it?"
Reba took a drag of her cigarette, her smile still in place. "That's right. So you did. It had bu
"I'm sorry if that bothers you, but I was busy. You left the office in bad shape. It took me months to straighten it out."
"Yeah, well, the Department of Corrections had first claim. Whisk you off to prison, you don't have the option to stop by your workplace and tidy up your desk. I'm sure you have the situation well in hand."
"Finally. No thanks to you." O
Reba turned her head in time to see Beck approaching from the bar. He caught sight of her and his forward motion halted for a split second, like a few frames of film missing from a sequence. Reba's face brightened. She pushed out of the chair and moved toward him. When she reached him, her arms slid around his neck as though she meant to kiss him on the mouth.
He extracted himself gently. "Hey, hey, hey, gorgeous. We're in public. Remember?"
"I know, but I missed you."
"Well, I missed you, too, but suppose one of Tracy's girlfriends is here." He steered her back to her chair, sending me a smile in the process. "Good to see you again."
"Nice seeing you," I said, though it wasn't nice at all. Not surprisingly, my view of him had changed radically. When I'd met him in Rosie's, I'd thought he was handsome – long-limbed, loose-jointed, with that lazy half-smile. Even his eyes, which I'd thought were a rich chocolate brown, now looked as dark as volcanic stone. Seeing him with O
Of the three of them, Reba currently occupied the power position. O
Beck sat down in the remaining chair and slouched on his spine, extending his legs as though he were entitled to more space than we were. In the geography of body language, he and O