by Elaine Fox
“She?” P.B. was instantly intrigued.
“Yeah. ‘Rox-Zilla.’ The new owner. She wants to turn it into some fancy little French bistro, complete with frog legs and stuffed shirts.”
“No.” P.B. groaned and lay his head on the bar. Picking it up again he said, “Where’s a guy gonna go to get a decent beer around here? This was one of the last great bars in town. I mean, look, you still use real pint glasses. Guess a woman wouldn’t appreciate something like that, though. What’d you call her?”
“Rox-Zilla. Her name’s Roxanne. Rita’s been riffing on it all night. That’s one of her better ones.”
“Hey.” Margarita Girl leaned forward and looked around P.B.’s shoulder to get his attention. “I’m a woman and I appreciate a good bar.”
P.B. swiveled to her and gave her another smile. “A woman who likes a good bar?”
She nodded. Her eyes were getting glazed. Steve could tell she was succumbing to the tequila. He scooped a glass of ice, filled it with water, and put it in front of her. If she ordered another drink he’d make it weaker.
“Naawww.” P.B. leaned back as if to see her more clearly, turning on the charm. “Women don’t like bars. Chicks do. And you’re a chick if I’ve ever seen one.”
The girl, looking as if she wanted to be pleased but wasn’t sure, rolled her eyes and nearly lost her balance. P.B. steadied her with a hand at the small of her back.
“What’re you drinking there? Can I buy you another one? Steve, another one of those.”
“Heads up,” Rita called from the waitress station. “‘Shock-Rox,’ coming to a theater near you.”
Steve glanced from Rita to the door and saw Roxanne Rayeaux enter the fray with the aplomb of a seasoned bullfighter. She was dressed to kill, too, in a form-fitting white sweater and black jeans with boots. Her hair tumbled around her head as if styled by Vidal Sassoon himself just outside the front door and her dark eyes had the mysterious look of an Egyptian goddess.
“Holy shit,” Steve heard P.B. say.
He looked over to see P.B. rise and move reverently forward, as if to greet the Pope. More power to him, Steve thought, then smiled to himself. Rox-Zilla might be the perfect challenge for his pal, who in Steve’s opinion did not suffer nearly enough rejection.
“That’s an evil smile,” Rita said, behind him.
Steve made no effort to conceal it. “Just thinking a little character-building experience might be coming up for old P.B.”
“At the hands of our fearless leader, you mean?”
“None other.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the back counter.
Roxanne entered the smoky bar with a mixture of surprise and distaste. On the few occasions she’d visited Charters prior to buying it the place had been empty, making it easy for her to see the space and imagine her own cozy restaurant instead.
Now, however, she could barely see across the room for all the smoke, and the loud music and smell of beer made her want to turn tail and run. As she walked toward the kitchen, her shoes stuck to the floor and she was reminded unpleasantly of college frat parties. On the mirror behind the bar, scrawled in what looked like lipstick, were the words BAR SPECIAL: CHARTERS SUNDOWNER, IN HONOR OF THE SUN SETTING ON THE OLD FISH HOUSE.
She turned back to her friend Skip and made a face. This was not going to give him a very accurate idea of what she was planning to do.
Skip had been her pal since high school. A short fireplug of a guy, he didn’t look like the type who’d be particularly sensitive. In fact, if anything, he looked like a Mafia thug. But something, perhaps growing up with the name “Skip,” had made him unusually sensitive to the world, and he’d always been the most perceptive of all her friends. Even if he did go out of his way to tell her exactly what he thought, and usually in no uncertain terms.
“I thought you said this place was dead.” He stepped close to be heard over the din.
“It is. Or it was.” She looked around in some confusion, her gaze coming to rest on a drunk young man throwing pretzels at a girl near the front window.
Roxanne leaned back toward Skip. “In any case, it will be. And I’m just the one to put the bullet through its head.”
“I don’t know if I’d be sneering at a crowd this size.” Skip’s head swiveled left, then right, to illustrate his point. The place was wall-to-wall people. “Not if I owned the place. Are you sure you want to change it?”
“Skip, take a look at the floor. It’s covered with peanut shells. And it smells like Sigma Nu after Fat Tuesday. You think this is the kind of place I had in mind? Come on.”
She elbowed her way through the crowd until she met head-on with a tall, blond man wearing a beaming smile.
“You must be the renowned Roxanne.” He was good-looking, in a Ken-doll kind of way, and had to bend close to speak over the music. So close that his breath brushed her cheek. He smelled like Binaca.
Roxanne backed up a step, suspicion crawling along her nerves. Renowned? He looked like just the type to have the last ten years’ worth of Sports Illustrated indexed in his closet.
She raised her chin. “Have we met?”
“We’re meeting now.” He took her hand in both of his and showered her with another smile. “I’m Peter Baron. Here, let me get you a seat.”
Roxanne’s brows rose and she looked back at her friend Skip skeptically.
But Peter Baron was taking her in the direction she wanted to go, so she let the man lead her by the hand. She was not going to make the same mistake she made with Steve Serrano and assume the worst. She’d wait until he proved himself a snake and then take him down.
They stopped at the far end of the bar, next to the last two bar stools. A girl with big hair was being helped off one of them and into her coat by another girl.
“Do you want to go get sick first?” the helper girl asked. “That’s what I did. I feel much better.”
The girl with the big hair shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine once I get in my car.”
Roxanne stopped dead in her tracks. “Let me call you a cab, all right? You’re in no shape to drive.”
Both girls looked at her as if she’d offered to slap their faces. “We’re fine,” the first girl said. “As if it’s any of your business.”
“Actually, it is my business. This whole place is my business.” Roxanne spread her hands to encompass the stinky bar. “So let me call you both a cab. I’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll do it,” the blond man—Peter—said with an indulgent smile. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“That’s all right,” Roxanne said. Her eyes scanned the bar. “I’ll just get Steve to call—”
“It’s not a problem.” Peter held up a hand. Then, with gallant aplomb, he offered each drunk girl an arm. “Hey, aren’t you the girl who said she knew a good bar when she saw one? I couldn’t agree with you more. Look, there’s a chair by the front door. Let’s go sit there and wait for the cab.”
Roxanne watched them go. “Who the heck was that?” she asked, as Rita marched up with another order.
“Who? The blond guy? That’s Steve’s friend P.B.,” Rita said. “Two more Jaegermeisters,” she called to Steve.
Roxanne and Skip sat on the two stools the girls had vacated.
“Well, that was really something,” Roxanne mused, looking after the blond. “He just took care of it. Look, they’re even sitting down to wait. Smiling.”
“Wonder what he said to make them listen.” Skip looked over his shoulder at them.
“Probably told them he’s a cop,” Rita offered. “That usually makes ’em listen.”
Roxanne turned back to her. “He’s a cop?”
“You bet. Hey, Candyass!” she yelled to Steve. “I said two Jaegermeisters. Did you hear me? Those guys threatened to drop trou if I didn’t get back to them within five minutes.”
“Drop trow?” Roxanne repeated.
“Drop their trousers,” Skip supplied. “Where’ve yo
u been? You’re like the parent who wanders into their kids’ keg party, Rox.”
“Please. I’m not going to feel bad about not knowing what ‘drop trou’ means. And that is exactly why I have to change this place.” Roxanne spun on her seat to look out over a crowd that almost looked dusty with all the smoke in the room. “I have no desire to play mom to a bunch of rowdy kids at a keg party every night.”
“I doubt that’s the role they’d want you to play either,” Steve said, plopping two shots on Rita’s tray.
Roxanne turned back to the bar. She had to admit, Steve looked pretty at home in this atmosphere. With his slightly too-long hair, his black shirt and that play with me grin, he was just appealing enough to have every big-haired girl in town sucking down drinks at the bar in hopes of getting a flirtatious word from him.
“Steve.” Roxanne held a hand out toward her friend, “This is my friend Skip Williams. Skip, this is Steve Serrano, the bartender.”
The two shook hands.
Skip laughed. “Oh, the bartender. I thought maybe he was just a privileged guest, being on that side of the bar and all.”
“Very funny. I meant, well, never mind.” Roxanne meant that he would probably be the bartender for Chez Soi, too, but she didn’t want to give Steve that reassurance just yet. She wasn’t sure why. Something about wanting to keep him off balance, she thought, instead of letting him keep her that way.
“So, how long you two been together?” Steve asked, picking up a rag and fisting his hand in it to dry the inside of a glass.
Roxanne blushed, grateful to the smoke for at least hiding that. “Oh, we’re not—”
Skip laughed. “We’re just friends. We’ve been friends since high school, so we know far too much about each other to ever get involved. Besides, I’ve got a girlfriend.”
Roxanne mentally cursed herself. All Steve had to do was ask one question and he had her flustered. What was with that?
Steve’s expression was intrigued and he cocked his head toward Roxanne. “So what do you think of your friend’s new venture?”
Skip scratched the side of his face and looked dubiously around them. “I think she’s nuts.”
“Way to make me look good,” she said in Skip’s ear as Peter—the “Viking,” as she had come to think of him—showed up at her elbow again.
“No need to worry.” Peter settled himself against the bar next to Roxanne with a confident smile. “The girls are safely in a cab and out of harm’s way.” Relieved, Roxanne smiled back at him. “Thank you so much.”
“You know, Steve,” Peter continued, “bartenders get sued all the time for things their drunken customers do. You ought to be careful.”
Steve shot his friend an ironic look. “Thanks, buddy. I’ll remember that.”
Peter’s face was somber. “No really. It’s serious business.”
“I know that, P.B., and if I could have stopped the last asshole from buying them a drink, I would have.” Steve’s gaze was pointed, his eyes amused.
“Oh well.” Peter shrugged and hunkered himself down, one elbow on the bar. “Those girls were drunk when they got here anyway. So Roxanne, tell me about you. How did such a sweet, beautiful woman, such as yourself, come to be the owner of a place like Charters?”
Roxanne scooted her chair back a tad from the bar to include Skip in their conversation. “It’s kind of you to assume that I’m sweet but I can assure you I’m not. And as for ending up the owner of Charters, I have really only bought the building. Charters just happens to be what’s in it at the moment.”
Steve leaned over at that. “I’m sorry, I missed that last part. Did you say you bought the building?”
Roxanne’s cheeks heated. Damn. She had not meant to reveal that she had in fact bought the whole building, instead of just leasing the restaurant space, though she wasn’t sure why. Something about keeping her past in the past. She didn’t want to be known as the model who was trying to open a restaurant. Having people come to Chez Soi with the idea of seeing her or thinking they were going to a celebrity restaurant was precisely what she didn’t want.
But then, if nobody had recognized her yet—and it had been a few years since her modeling heyday—chances were they wouldn’t. They would just have to guess how she’d gotten her money, if they were so inclined.
“Yes, I did say that.” She looked Steve dead in the eye as calmly as she could, almost daring him to ask the crass question.
But he just nodded and went back to drying glasses. His gaze was disturbingly shrewd, though.
“So Steve says you’re turning the place into a French restaurant,” Peter continued. “I think that’s a great idea.”
Steve’s smile turned wry and his eyes rolled briefly up into his head.
Roxanne’s mood was restored.
“Do you really?” She turned to Peter. He was the first person she knew to say her venture was a good idea, and she was filled with a ridiculous gratitude. Who was he, after all?
“Yes, really. There aren’t nearly enough white-tablecloth restaurants down here. And certainly nobody doing French the way it should be done.”
“Which is…?” Skip muttered next to her.
Roxanne tilted her head at Peter. “So you know French food?”
“I love it. It’s my favorite.” He produced his signature smile again.
“I don’t.”
All eyes turned to Steve.
“You don’t what? Like French food?” Roxanne asked. Did he not want the job?
She glanced at Skip, who shot back an I’m-not-saying-anything look. He’d already made it abundantly clear he didn’t think she should be doing this.
“I don’t like French anything,” Steve said. His play with me smile was back and Roxanne wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not.
She leaned forward on the bar. “Nothing?”
He acted like he was thinking, then said, “Nope. Not a thing.”
She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. He was kidding. He had to be. “Not even French fries?”
Steve shook his head. “They’re not French.”
“All right then.” Roxanne paused and looked toward the ceiling contemplatively. “French poodles.”
Steve laughed and despite herself she felt warmed by it. “Too ridiculous.”
“French films?”
“Too pretentious.”
“I’m with you there,” Skip said.
Roxanne’s lips curved. “How about French bread? Everybody likes French bread.”
A short shake of the head. “Too crumby.”
“Hmm. French toast?”
He shrugged. “Too rich.”
She raised one brow and sat forward. “French women?”
Steve’s eyes grew subtly more attentive and he gave a low chuckle. “Too…scary.”
“I know…” Roxanne paused, studied the challenging look he was giving her and said, “French kisses.”
Peter and Skip laughed. Steve eyed his adversary with fresh respect.
Roxanne continued to look at him, a beguiling half smile on her lips. She knew she had him.
He hesitated a fraction of a second, then returned a smile that was probably a tad less confident than usual. “You might have me there.”
Roxanne sat back with a triumphant grin and glanced at Skip. “Well, then.”
“I know you’ve got me.” Peter put a hand lightly on her back. “Let me buy you a drink.”
Roxanne turned to him and smiled. “No, let me buy you one. I appreciate your taking care of those girls. Did they give you a hard time?”
So much for P.B. getting a little of what was coming to him, Steve thought.
“Not a bit.” P.B. was all graciousness. “And I would never let a lady buy me a drink.”
Uh-oh. Maybe there was hope. Steve had been about to check in with the customers down the bar but he decided he had to wait to hear her response.
Roxanne’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t? Isn’t that a bit c
hauvinistic?”
Oblivious, P.B. laughed. “Absolutely not. I just would never want a woman to think I needed that kind of persuasion to…appreciate her.”
Steve tried to stop the smile that hit his face but he couldn’t do it.
Roxanne laughed. “I hate to disappoint you, Peter, but I only meant to thank you for your help. Not…how did you put it?”
Steve leaned in. “I believe he wanted to be persuaded to appreciate you.”
P.B. shot him a look. “That’s not what I said.”
Roxanne put a hand on P.B.’s forearm, which lay on the bar. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just teasing you. Steve, whatever he’s drinking.” She made a motion with her hand that told him to get whatever it was.
Steve executed a short bow—which Roxanne didn’t even notice as she smiled at P.B.—and grabbed a glass. This time, Steve thought, P.B. was drinking Bud on tap.
3
Bar Special
Cuban Tango—because it only takes two…
Curacao, pineapple juice, lime juice, white rum, with a twist
There was no disguising it this evening, Steve thought, as he dusted the bottles behind the bar for the third time. Charters was dead and there was no reviving it. The only sign that there had been any recent life in the place was a telltale stickiness on the floor today. Something the busboys would have mopped last night, if not for the fact that by the end of the evening, even the staff was pretty much sloshed.
Except Steve. He had learned long ago that to drink on the job was to invite trouble. Big trouble. Bartending was fun, but not when you woke up every morning of your life with a hangover. At that point, the only thing scarier than that was not waking up with a hangover—which was when you should know you were well on your way to alcoholism.
He had the music on low this evening, though he chose Stevie Ray Vaughan—something with some energy so he didn’t risk actually drifting into a coma. There were two people having drinks in the dining room with little chance of ordering dinner. In fact, they looked like a couple discussing the particulars of a breakup.
