“Tiki sent me,” Pascal said mysteriously. The door opened wider and Pascal flashed a victory smile back at them. The man with the mustache, a thin, dapper man in tan trousers and a white undershirt, snapped his red suspenders and turned on his heel. They followed him down a poorly-lit hallway and through another door into the club. About twenty round tables were surrounded by chairs. Nothing sinister, just a nightclub of the old style. Pascal and the host talked and the Frenchman drew some bills from his wallet, pressing them into the man’s hand.
“Welcome to the Black Dog,” he said expansively, arms wide, a bored smile on his face. “Seat yourself as you like. It’s bottles only here. Vodka, gin, bourbon?”
They settled on a bottle of vodka and a pitcher of grapefruit juice and made their way through the tables to one near the front. Pascal wanted a good view, he said, and also to see if he could speak to his brother’s friend before the show started.
The club was half full of mostly single men, a few couples, also male. As they sat down Annie leaned over to whisper to Merle. “Is Pascal’s brother gay?”
Merle shrugged, slipping out of her coat. At least it was warm in here. “I didn’t even know he had a brother.”
The club walls were painted black and the ceiling, though low, had been covered with mirrors, making it seem endless. Candles on each table twisted and winked in double. The low stage looked makeshift, a platform of plywood painted deep purple and ringed with shag carpet.
Their alcohol came in a huge bottle, along with juice and glasses. They occupied themselves making drinks. Pascal sipped his then set it down. “I’ll go see if my brother’s friend is backstage. Get the message in before it gets late.” He walked toward a velvet curtain where a thick-necked bouncer in black leather stopped him.
“What time is it?” Merle asked. She’d forgotten her watch in Pascal’s room and felt naked without it. How could she forget it? Her life ran on minutes, hours, calendars that kept everything in its place. Pascal was a bad influence.
“Nearly midnight,” Annie said. “When do you think this act starts?”
Callum made himself another drink. Pascal returned, frowning. “No one allowed backstage.”
Minutes later the man with the mustache jumped onto the stage and waited for their attention. He clasped his hands and tilted his head. “Gentlemen. And ladies. Welcome to the Black Dog. It’s that time again. You have your drinks? Everybody a-okay?” Somebody in the back called out something lewd. Laughter. “Oh, stuff it, Maxie,” mustache man called back. “I’ll get your champagne. Is everybody except Maxie a-okay?”
He looked left and right like a schoolteacher waiting for somebody to raise their hand. “All righty then. Here she is. The one the only.” A drumroll filled the room, then recorded music, too soft then turned up loud, sweet and jazzy.
“Miss Bosom Drearie!”
Four
Annie opened her mouth to say something to Merle but just then the velvet curtain was pulled back and a roundish woman in a tight, hot pink satin gown stepped out. She posed for a second, one fish-net knee through the high slit in her dress, arms on her hips. Her hair was platinum in a Marilyn Monroe-style flip and highly teased. Her lips were bright red and her eyelashes must have been two inches long and sparkly.
The crowd cheered noisily, stamping glasses on the wooden tables, hooting. At Merle’s table there was a stunned silence as they realized they were at a drag revue. This was no woman. Her breasts seemed real enough, pushed up with corset force to nearly overflow her dress. But her arms were thick and hairy above the pink gloves that covered her elbows. Callum made a coughing laugh that turned into a wide smile. Annie smirked, blinking her eyes as if to clear her vision. Merle glanced at Pascal, wondering if he knew all about this and had been saving it for the surprise factor. But he was sitting back in his chair, a stony look of wonder on his face. She leaned toward him and whispered, “Is this your brother’s friend?”
Pascal turned his chair back toward the table suddenly and took a long drink from his glass. “Not my — not actually my brother,” he muttered darkly.
Miss Bosom Drearie was now on the stage and adjusting the microphone as the music changed. She began to sing a jazz tune in a high larkish voice, moving sensually in her satin dress, hips this way then that. She wore glittery high heels but moved stiffly in them. Sitting close to the stage Merle could see she was not young and the hair on her chest shone through the makeup, a gray stubble. Thick foundation covered her face, cracking in lines around her mouth. At one point a rhinestone earring the size of a turtle dropped off her ear and hit the stage with a thunk.
The song sounded familiar, like Cole Porter or one of those tricky lyric guys from the Twenties. Miss Bosom kept up the act of seduction especially when the line repeated, “Give him that ooh-la-la,” punctuated by hip grinds. By the end of the song half the club was singing along. Callum mixed Pascal another drink, heavy on the vodka.
The crowd cheered and jeered as the tune ended and the coquettish Miss Bosom walked through the crowd, working it, pinching cheeks, slapping asses, and planting kisses. When she came to their table she paused, appraising them with bloodshot blue eyes. For a drag queen — not that Merle had seen many up close — she veered toward camp with impressive magenta eyeshadow, a five o’clock shadow, massive lips, and an enormous wig dotted with rhinestones. For someone named ‘Bosom’ hers was more man boob than sexy. Maybe that was the point, she thought. She wasn’t trying hard to look like a woman. As she wound her pink feather boa around Pascal’s neck and pressed her chest into his shoulder, the rest of the crowd hooted louder.
Pascal turned the same shade as the boa. Annie began to laugh uncontrollably, a high peal that made Merle giggle, shaking all over and covering her mouth with one hand. Callum emptied his glass and stood up suddenly as if to defend Pascal’s honor. Instead he took Miss Drearie’s gloved hand and twirled her gracefully then dipped her tango-style. One muscular leg and high heel pointed toward the ceiling as they all got a good, long glimpse up Bosom’s gown. Annie almost fell off her chair. Pascal couldn’t take his eyes off them.
They had all clearly not had enough to drink.
Callum returned to the table and Bosom Drearie went back to singing and wiggling. She swayed through a breathy rendition of “Someone to Watch Over Me” then a French song, “Je T‘Embrasse,” a sign-off on correspondence Merle recognized. Pascal often wrote that on letters to her. It meant “I hug you” or “I kiss you,” akin to “Love, Pascal.” The way Bosom sang it, in a shaky but brave falsetto with an excellent French accent and monster pout, made it seem quite dirty.
The act lasted about a half hour. The performer announced a break, reassuring everyone in a breathy voice that she would return very shortly. As soon as she left the stage Pascal was on his feet. “On y va,” he said. Let’s go.
Out on the sidewalk, still pulling on coats and gloves, the sisters smiled to each other but said no more. Pascal looked angry and went to the curb to look for a cab. Merle suggested they walk to a busier street and they plowed forward, a silent, stunned party crowd. It wasn’t until they finally found a cab and had settled in that Annie spoke.
“So, Pascal, wrong address?”
He was silent, staring forward in the front seat.
“Best engagement party ever,” Callum said. “Wouldn’t you say, me lovely?”
“Absolutely,” Annie said, starting to laugh again. Merle tapped her thigh to shush her. She had no idea what Pascal was thinking, or why he’d taken them to that club but he was already mad about it.
Who was this Bosom Drearie anyway? Possibly French? Someone Pascal knew? If he knew her what did that mean? Merle got out her phone in the dark cab and did a search. Google replied: Did you mean Blossom Dearie?
Maybe she did. She began to read about a jazz singer, a real person, a blonde American who worked the Paris nightclubs in the ‘50s and ‘60s. She had a light, girlish voice and recorded many albums including one called “Give H
im That Ooh-la-la.” So Bosom was covering the same songs, in her special way. Blossom Dearie appeared to be dead and thus beyond filing defamation of character lawsuits.
Merle read more but her eyes felt hot and dry despite the weather. They rode in awkward silence to midtown and piled out onto the sidewalk in front of the Hilton as it began to rain again. As Merle told her sister and Callum good night, Pascal waved goodbye and headed to the lobby bar, still humming with customers.
Merle hesitated, watching his retreating back, hands in his pockets, head bent. It had been a very long day. She was tired. Whatever was going on with Pascal could wait until morning, couldn’t it? He’d given her a key to his room and she had put her things in there. Tristan had gone home with Stasia and Rick. She didn’t need any more to drink. Why Pascal needed more was his own business.
Would he turn around, come back for her? Was this some kind of test, a new hurdle in their so-called relationship? Did his walking away represent some future where he simply disappeared into a crowd one day, never to be seen again, only a pleasant memory for her dotage? Or was the moment testing her, making her choose finally between her ordinary life where bedtime consisted of sleep, law briefs, and occasional insomnia, and a sexy, thrilling, albeit long-distance affair with a fine young Frenchman?
The elevator doors slid open, asking her silently if she was going up.
She looked down at her key card, fingering it through her leather gloves. Sleep sounded so good, her head relaxed, her neck loosened, her feet up. She shook herself. God, she was getting old. Choosing sleep over a man as, well, as hot as Pascal? He wasn’t as young as Callum, he only had eight or so years on her. Still he was a child. Was this what happened when you passed fifty, your body just couldn’t function past one a.m.? You chose unconsciousness instead of life? Was this all she had to look forward to, memories built on fantasies? She flipped the card idly, as if flipping a coin, then looked again toward Pascal.
He had stopped ten or twelve feet away, and turned, waiting, a sheepish look on his face. The lamplight cut across his Gallic features, the strong chin, the black hair, the Roman nose, making him look suave and mysterious like a character out a film noir. One hand emerged from a pocket and extended toward her. He flicked his head toward the bar encouragingly. She raised one shoulder in question.
He flicked his head again and mouthed ‘please.’
Five
They observed a truce as they slid onto barstools and ordered yet another alcoholic beverage. Would this night never end? Merle ordered white wine and seltzer. Pascal ordered a whisky. They took sips. The conversation around them was a low hum, almost soothing. Merle hoped she didn’t doze off. Pascal cleared his throat.
“That man,” he shrugged and corrected himself, “or woman, whatever, she is not a friend of my brother.”
“Do you have a brother?” Merle asked. She didn’t really care about Bosom Drearie, not this late at night.
“Two sisters only. And a step brother I rarely see.” He looked at her. “I never told you?”
“No.”
“They are older, five, eight years older. One lives in Aix and one in Normandy.” He took a swig of whisky. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me, Pascal.” She kept her voice light, a victory at this hour. He was staring at her profile. She flicked her eyes toward him and smiled. “We can wait until tomorrow.”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
She shook her head. It was the weekend now, and she had a thousand things to do before Christmas, but not at work. He took her hand, pulling it away from the frosty glass and warming it in his. “That was… how do you say? Interesting. At the club.”
Merle nodded. “Not what you expected?”
He spit out his whisky mid-sip, catching it in his glass. His face broke, a huge French guffaw that bounced off the modern bar. “Pas exactement.” Not quite.
He told her that one of his supervisors in the Police Nationale had given him the information about the club and the performer. The supervisor would get an earful, Pascal promised, as he had only said that the person worked on stage at a nightclub and was French. Merle wanted to ask why the French police were interested in Bosom Drearie but Pascal rattled on, telling her as little as possible, as usual. He could work around a subject for hours without saying much of anything.
Miss Drearie, as near as Merle could tell, was not a wanted man or woman. An informant perhaps? Probably someone with information they needed for some case back home. Pascal was sure the supervisor had known what the club was, had set him up and they were all going to laugh at him when he returned. Frenchmen, not to mention French policemen, were relentlessly heterosexual.
“This cross-dressing thing, it is known of course in France. But not like the US.” He explained morosely that he was only a country policeman who knew wine and vineyards and the criminals who worked there.
“It’s not a big deal,” Merle said. “It was fun. We had some laughs. I think it was meant to be fun. Bosom Drearie seemed to be having a riot.” He continued with the hang-dog look. “Do you think your colleagues thought you would enjoy it? That you, you know, swung that way?”
His spine straightened and he hissed: “Of course not.”
She rattled her ice cubes and arched an eyebrow. “I think you’re going to have to prove yourself to your fellow officers. And me. As soon as humanly possible.”
*
They were groggy, spooned under the covers, when Francie and Elise knocked on their door, reminding them of breakfast plans. With all due speed and several aspirin they showered and dressed and made it to the lobby. Merle hated to be late and with relief saw that Annie and Callum hadn’t arrived yet. She and Pascal chatted with her two youngest sisters for a moment, then the fiancees arrived.
The morning had a crisp bite, frosty and clear. Pascal didn’t bring a winter coat and shivered along the three blocks to the restaurant. As they turned to go inside he touched Merle’s arm. “I have to go. Do something,” he said, glancing away.
Christmas surprises? She narrowed her eyes, smiling. Then panicked. What should she buy Pascal? How much should she spend? How personal? So many early-relationship questions, and yet here he was, off to Bloomingdales or somewhere.
She promised to call when they finished brunch and he trotted off, holding his arms close for warmth. A scarf, she thought. Gloves. Or a knit cap? No meaning in that, was there? Just: Don’t get frostbite in the USA.
The sisters were in fine form, teasing Callum about his accent and his kilt, giddy with excitement about Annie’s wedding. They would all be bridesmaids, she’d told them, no “best” one. The word was they were going to wear tartan too but all they’d done was send their measurements to Callum’s mother. It was a mystery or Annie and Callum were excellent keepers of secrets.
Elise, the youngest sister and the only other one to have never had a wedding, was bursting with questions. She wore a bright red Christmas sweater. Perhaps not her best look, Merle thought. Francie kept her opinions of sweaters and marriage to herself. She’d had a rough year with the events during their walking tour and had lost a little of her sparkle. Merle squeezed her hand just to see a flash of her winning smile and green eyes. Even a touch of melancholy couldn’t spoil Francie’s good looks. She would always be the prettiest sister.
Number two sister, Stasia, who some sisters called ‘Sadie Sadie Married Lady’ behind her back, arrived from the suburbs, a little late. Snow on the tracks, she told them, then joined in the ribbing of Callum, the cacophony of Christmas plans, and the displaying of shopping lists.
“Your Aunt Amanda called this morning,” Stasia grumbled to Merle. “Looking for you.” Stasia worked at a fashion magazine and had three kids. Capable and organized, she worked harder than Martha Stewart to make it all look easy. Today she wore her weekender uniform, jeans with a crease, a crisp white blouse, a quilted vest, and tall leather boots.
“Amanda?” She rarely called
and didn’t have Merle’s cell number. Since Harry had died the connection with his aunt had faded to almost nothing. Merle felt a pang of guilt. Amanda had no children of her own, only Harry and he was gone. “Is there a problem?” She rummaged in her purse for her phone.
“I told her you were still in the city. She said it was nothing, she just wanted to chat.” Stasia pursed her lips. “She was a little strange.”
“That’s not unusual,” Annie said. “She probably wants to gossip about the party. Or complain about her new husband. He’s a peach. When I danced with him he sort of felt me up.”
The sisters gasped. “What?” Stasia asked.
“It was nothing. I mean, I won’t say I wasn’t flattered.” Annie gave a wry smile. “But he is pretty skeezy.”
“Did she mention Clifton?” Merle asked Stasia. “Is it a health thing?”
“Didn’t sound serious. Call her when you get home.”
“You want to hear about strange?” Annie asked, eyes twinkling. “Pascal took us to see a drag queen named Bosom Drearie last night. I wish I had a picture of his face when she wound the boa around his neck.” They all talked at once. Except for Merle. They stared at her, the questions flying.
Merle explained that it was for his work as a policeman and that he didn’t know it was a drag revue. They didn’t believe her. Francie wanted details. She had seen Bosom Drearie years before, at a party thrown by some gallery owners in Chelsea.
“Her name wasn’t Bosom Drearie then,” Francie said. “What a name! I heard she got fired and had to reinvent herself.” She was called Fleur Chérie then, a rough translation of Blossom Dearie. Thinner, curvier, and less hairy, she did a sort-of-straight impersonation of the singer. “She’s kind of famous in that world, Merle. You guys are so lucky. You have to know some kind of password to get in to see her, like at a speakeasy.”
“You know a lot,” Elise smirked.
“I lived downtown after college, remember?”
Give Him the Ooh-la-la Page 2
