Julie’s was the street-level watering hole in the McKinney Alitzer office tower. The room was dominated by an oval bar around which businesspeople freely and unapologetically invaded one another’s space. It was Friday and happy hour was just getting started. The folks who had gotten paid that day had an extra reason to celebrate. The eagle will soar.
Iris spotted an empty stool at the bar and nabbed it a second ahead of another woman. She was fifteen minutes late to meet Barbie Stringfellow, but there was no Barbie to be seen. Iris ordered a chardonnay and grabbed the last piece of focaccia from a napkin-lined basket. The flat bread was covered in an olive oil‒based paste of garlic, basil, and rosemary. Iris gobbled it down, then dabbed her finger in the basket to retrieve fallen basil and rosemary fragments. She asked the bartender for more.
Several televisions were hung around the oval bar, all tuned to the Lakers game. Most of the men and some of the women had tilted their heads to raptly watch big men skilled at running while bouncing and throwing a ball. Iris tried to become interested in the game as a way of passing the time, but watching the players run back and forth, back and forth soon bored her.
She was into her second basket of bread, the stress of the work week giving way to unrestrained consumption, when she caught a flash of purple out of the corner of her eye. Barbie had arrived, forty-five minutes late. Iris waved a piece of focaccia at her and Barbie returned the wave with fingers decorated with shiny nails and glittering rings.
The crowd prevented too breezy an entrance, but Barbie made the most of what was available. She wore a purple chiffon blouse that was sheer except for two patch pockets over her breasts. Her bra, visible through the blouse, was also purple, as was her leather miniskirt and the faux jewel-encrusted baseball cap perched at a jaunty angle on her abundant hair. She slid through the crowd, holding her hands above her head, pressing full body against the men she passed, momentarily drawing their attention away from the Lakers game.
“Iris! I love this! Out and amongst ‘em!” She threw her large, white purse on top of the bar, where it landed solidly. “Whatcha got? Wine again? Barkeep! Yoo-hoo! Barkeep! Bourbon and ginger ale in a tall glass with a lotta ice, if you please. Whatcha eatin’?” She leaned close to Iris, pressing her breasts against Iris’s arm to grab a piece of the focaccia. Iris leaned away.
Barbie laughed. “Sorry, honey. These enter a room before I do.” She bit into the bread, leaving a fuchsia lipstick mark. “Hmmm…different,” she said with her mouth full. “Sorry I’m late, sugar. This town, I’m tellin’ ya. I don’t know how y’all get anywhere. Well, how the heck are ya, Iris?”
“I’m good, thanks. I’ve done a lot of research and I’ve got a great plan laid out for you.” Iris started to reach down into her briefcase, which was sitting on the floor.
Barbie put her hand on her arm. “Darlin’! Always the businesswoman. Always on the go. Just go, go, go. Relax. Let’s have a drink. We can always talk about business. Good Lord, ain’t it the truth?” She started brushing at Iris’s shoulder. “What the heck you got on ya?”
Iris looked at her shoulder. “Oh. Coffee. It’s a long story.”
“Sounds like a doozy. Here’s my drink. Boy oh boy, is this gonna go down good. Let’s toast, sugar. To the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Remember that from Casablanca? I love that movie. Cry every time I see it.”
Iris lifted her glass to Barbie’s.
A man wearing an expensive suit and standing next to Barbie smiled with amusement at her.
Barbie spotted him. “You got a financial manager? I got a great one. Give him your card, Iris. You got a card? Give him your card.”
The man looked trapped.
“What do y’all do for a livin’?” she smiled.
“I’m unemployed,” he said.
“We got somethin’ in common.” She pushed his arm. “I’m unemployed too.”
Iris pulled a card from her inside jacket pocket and handed it to the man. “Aren’t you an attorney for O’Connell and Meyers? A friend of mine works in your office.”
The man pressed his index finger against his lips as if they were sharing a secret. He looked at the card and pocketed it.
Barbie took a long slug of her drink and turned back to Iris. “Betcha he calls you. Whatcha bet?”
“Hey! Lakers!” Art Silva walked up behind Iris, put his hands around her neck, and gave her a shake. “What did I miss, Iris? Give me the play-by-play. Ha, ha! Hey, Jeff.” Art reached across the bar to shake the bartender’s hand. “What up? What’s the score?”
“Lakers, fifty-two forty-seven.” He set a light beer in front of Art.
“Swee-eet! Awright…Here we go, boys…two points, Lakers.” The Lakers made a basket and Art slapped high fives with the bartender and two other men nearby. Art gulped the beer. “You know what I like about sports, Jeff?”
The bartender played along. “No, what do you like about sports, Art?”
“In sports, they don’t care where you come from, who you know, or what you look like. All that counts is how you play the game. Am I right?”
“When you’re right, you’re right.”
“Damn right I’m right.” The Lakers scored again. “All right!” He raised his hand for another round of high fives. Barbie put her palm in the air in Art’s direction and he slapped it.
Barbie slid close to Iris’s left ear. “Who’s your friend?”
Iris faced her. This close, she could see Barbie’s age through her makeup. “Art Silva. We work together.”
“I do believe he’s the most attractive man I’ve seen in Los Angle-lees.”
Iris looked at Art. He evoked a sensation of cool sheets and clean sweat. “He does have a certain animal magnetism.”
“He married?”
“Nope.”
“Got a girl?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s an investment counselor, like me.
“Really! He as good as you?”
“No. But he’s good. He’s learning.”
“Silva. What kinda name is that?”
“Mexican-American. He’s from East L.A.”
Art was wedged next to Iris on her right. Barbie leaned back and looked around Iris for a complete view. Art’s shirt cuffs were unbuttoned and rolled back, revealing olive skin, dark hair, and strong wrists with lean muscles running up beneath the sleeves. His suit pants revealed tight buttocks that the muscles had pulled into hollows on each side. Barbie didn’t miss any of it.
“He’s a young ‘un, ain’t he?”
“I think he’s in his late twenties.”
“Just a pup. I love these Latin men y’all got out here.”
Iris looked at her and was about to speak when Barbie responded for her. “I know! What men don’t I like?” She butted Iris’s shoulder with her own, then raised her glass. Iris clinked her glass against it. “What can I say, honey? Goin’ without for as long as I have can make a woman real cranky. That’s one reason I wanted to get out of Atlanta. Everyone watching the Widow Stringfellow to make sure she behaved appropriately.”
The Lakers scored two free throws and Art high-fived everyone within arm’s reach. Barbie put her hand up again and when Art slapped it, she closed her fingers around his, winking at him before letting go.
Art leaned back around Iris and stole an appraising look at Barbie. “Who’s your friend?” he said into her right ear.
“My new client, Barbie Stringfellow.”
“Yeah? Tell me about her.”
“She’s wealthy, lonely, and horny, and she’s too old for you, sweet meat, and she’s my client.”
“So she’s your client, so what?” Art leaned forward against the bar and looked at Barbie from the front. She leaned forward at the same time.
“Peek-a-boo.” Barbie grinned.
Iris said, “I like to keep business and pleasure separate.”
Art spoke into Iris’s ear. “She’s not my client. She’s good-looking even though she’s got a little age on her.”
“Happens to the best of us.”
“But I can do that. Especially if she’s got dough.”
Iris threw up her hands. “Would you like me to introduce you?”
Art’s bright smile answered for him.
Iris stepped back from the bar so that Art and Barbie could face each other. “Arturo Silva”—Iris held her right hand in Art’s direction, then held her left toward Barbie—“may I present Mrs. Barbie Stringfellow of Atlanta.”
Art extended his hand toward Barbie and she delicately shook it.
“Pleased to meet you, Arturo.”
“Everyone calls me Art.”
“You are a work of art…”
Iris rolled her eyes.
“But I’ll call you Arturo.” Barbie rolled the last r on her tongue. She jerked her head toward Iris. “She’s not used to me. I just say whatever’s on my mind. It can be a frightenin’ prospect sometimes, I admit.”
“I’m scared right now,” Iris said.
Barbie picked up Art’s tie and slid it between her fingers. “You a gamblin’ man, Arturo?”
He smiled. “Roll the dice.”
“Since you’re a gamblin’ man, maybe you’d honor us with your presence at dinner.”
Art shrugged his shoulders and looked at Iris. “Sure I won’t be in the way?”
“Barbie, we were going to discuss my investment strategy for you. I’d like to get going on it Monday morning.”
“Well, honey, we’ll snatch a few minutes. You got that cop of yours waitin’ at home?”
“He’s working tonight.”
“Well, let’s make a night of it.”
“Yeah! Let’s party,” Art exclaimed.
“Now I’m not so sure I won’t be in the way,” Iris said.
The Lakers game was interrupted by a news broadcast.
“What is this bullshit?” A man at the other end of the bar gestured toward the television with a lager glass that was half full of beer. “Put the game back on!”
“The trial of four white LAPD officers accused of using excessive force in the arrest of black motorist Rodney King has been moved from Los Angeles to Simi Valley in Ventura County. Attorneys for the officers claimed their clients could not get a fair trial in Los Angeles County.”
“Simi Valley,” another man said. “It’s a redneck town.”
The man with the lager glass shouted, “Who the hell cares? Put the game back on!”
The station played the shadowy videotape of the motorist being beaten by the police. Iris looked away. Barbie watched with fascination.
Someone else shouted, “They stopped the game to show this drunk being beat up for the millionth time?”
“If he’d stayed on the ground, they wouldn’t have had to hit him like that,” a woman said.
“There were four guys kicking him in the head,” Art said. “He didn’t know which way was up.”
“It was his own fault,” the woman continued.
The man with the lager glass said, “The cops should have taken out the cameraman, too.”
The game resumed. Several people clapped.
“Let’s get out of here before I punch somebody,” Art said.
“Sounds good to me,” Barbie said. “I heard about this new place…Tangerine?”
“We’ll never get in there on a Friday night,” Iris said. “They’re booked three weeks in advance.”
Barbie grabbed her purse off the bar and it swung heavily from its strap. She reached in, pulled out enough money to pay for all their drinks, and tossed it on the bar. “We’ll just see about that. That okay with you, Arturo?” She adjusted her baseball cap.
“Whatever’s your pleasure.”
Barbie put her hand on Art’s cheek. “I love this man.” She turned on her heel and started making her way through the crowd. After a few steps, she looked back. “Y’all comin’?”
Iris grabbed her purse and briefcase. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned to Art. “After you, work of art.”
Art spoke into Iris’s ear. “I feel like she wants to eat me with a spoon.”
“She does. Sprinkled with a li’l sugah on top.”
“Oohh,” he said. “That gave me a chill.”