Hooking Up
The Bar None was always lively on Friday nights, but because it was Halloween, the joint was really jumping. All the tables were taken by people in costumes: glamorous witches in pointed silk hats, wearing black lipstick and eyeliner, sat with elegant vampires in white tie and tails, their faces dead white, some even sporting fangs. There was a Frankenstein’s Monster, massive enough to be convincing, with scars on his forehead and bolts on the sides of his neck, knocking back jello shots with his Bride, who was even taller than he was, but properly slim. From his stool at the left end of the bar, Jude could see the Bride’s prominent Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed.
Jude himself was Harlequin: a black half-mask, a diamond-patterned doublet and matching leggings, and a jaunty cap with a red feather. He took a sip of his scotch and soda and swiveled around so he could take in the rest of the room. Across from the bar there was a low stage where a guy with a guitar, backed by a drummer and a bassist, was singing Donovan’s “Season of the Witch,” and being ignored by the revelers. Jude didn’t blame them. The guy wasn’t very good.
There were the predictable Spidermen and Catwomen, a Mummy whose bandages kept coming loose and having to be rewound by his partner, who was a little too zaftig for her Wonder Woman costume. A man in a dark suit and tie seemed out of place until Jude noticed his dark glasses and earbuds: either an FBI agent or a member of the Secret Service. The second guess was right: next to him stood Donny Pumpkinhead himself, complete with the stiff blond wig, the orange face, and the white rings around the eyes. The President caught Jude’s glance and gave him a thumbs-up. Jude applauded. Scariest costume in the place.
“You approve of that guy?” The voice belonged to a stunning woman sitting on the next stool. In keeping with the spirit of the evening, she wore a red domino mask, but she wasn’t in costume. Instead, she had on an unzipped black leather over a low-cut gray blouse, silk, by the look of it, and a tight green mini-skirt.
“The President, or the man dressed like him?”
“Both, I suppose.” Her accent was vaguely Slavic.
“Donald J. Trump is a sick joke,” Jude said. “The guy done up like him hasn’t quite got the hair right – it looks too real – but his makeup’s great, and I love it that he’s got a Secret Service agent with him.”
“The Secret Service agent is his boyfriend,” said the woman.
“I’ve always suspected that those agents took the term ‘bodyguard’ too literally,” said Jude.
“You’re funny,” the woman said. Her smile was as enchanting as the rest of her face. She leaned closer to him, and her jacket fell open, revealing the tops of her breasts.
Jude smiled back. “This is when I’m supposed to say, ‘Do you come here often?’” he said.
“Do you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you come here often?”
“Oh, sure. This is a great place. They’ve always got something going on. Like the Halloween party tonight, and you should see what they do on New Year’s Eve. The owner’s a friend of mine.”
“Do you own a bar, too?”
“No, no. I’m in finance.”
“You work in a bank?”
He laughed. “In a manner of speaking. I’m on the Street.”
She looked puzzled. “Please excuse me, I do not understand. English is not my native language, and sometimes I have trouble with the idiots.”
For a moment Jude thought she was putting him down. But she seemed genuinely concerned, so he asked, “Do you mean ‘idioms?’”
“Those, yes. Using them correctly is the hardest part of learning a new language, not so?”
“So they say. I took French for four years in prep school, but the first time I went to Paris, I had trouble understanding what people were saying, except for ‘Oui,’ ‘Non,’ and ‘L’addition, Monsieur.’”
“Vous n’avez pas eu d’affaires romantiques à Paris?” she asked.
“Love affairs? Not unless you count a night with a call girl. It was a working vacation. My client threw a big party at the Paris Ritz to celebrate the deal we made, and the girl was sort of a tip.”
“Ah,” she said, and finished her glass of red wine. “It must have been a big deal. Is that what you say, ‘big deal?’”
He smirked. “Yes, and yes it was. The deal was worth millions. I’m a Wall Street arbitrageur. What I do is kind of complicated, but it involves lots of money.”
“So you’re rich, then?”
“I do all right, honey.”
She gave him another smile, this one open-mouthed. Her tongue flicked out to lick her upper lip. “I like it that you call me ‘honey,’ even though it is not politically correct,” she said.
“Political correctness is for losers,” Jude said. “And I’m a winner.”
Her laugh was almost a growl. “Do you always win?” she asked.
“It depends on the circumstances. But I play the long game. Even if it looks like I’m losing at first, I usually win in the end.”
“It’s like you’re a hunter, no?” she said. “The hunter must be very patient and slow and quiet, until his prey is fooled into thinking he’s harmless. Then he attacks.”
“That’s a perfect description,” Jude said. “And you speak English very well.”
“I’m learning,” she said. “You have big confidence, don’t you?”
“I have big everything, darling,” said Jude.
She gave that throaty laugh again. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Jude. What’s your name?”
“Eva.”
“Ava?”
“No, with the ‘e.’”
“Ah, ‘Ehva.’like in German or Polish.”
“Like that, yes. But I’m not German, and I’m not Polish.”
“Russian, then?”
“Please, what does it matter where I come from? I’m here now.”
“You certainly are, Eva.” He held out his hand. Before taking it, she scratched the back of it lightly with her scarlet fingernails.
The singer launched into the Stones’ “Paint It Black.” His Mick Jagger wasn’t any better than his Donovan, and Jude said, “It’s getting noisy in here, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Would you like to go to my place? I live just a few blocks away.”
“That would be ab-so-lute-ly won-der-ful,” said Jude, punctuating each syllable by planting a kiss in the palm of her hand.
He used his credit card to pay the bill, but she insisted on leaving the tip, in cash. “Wow,” he said. “That’s almost as much as our drinks cost.”
“You take care of your money and I’ll take care of mine. OK?” There was an edge in her voice.
“Of course. I didn’t mean to be rude,” Jude said.
“No offense taken,” said Eva. The edge was gone.
It was a clear night, but the breeze had a bite to it, and Jude put his arm around her. An earlier drizzle had left the street wet and gleaming. They started to walk, and Eva put her head on his shoulder. “I’m a hunter too,” she said. “In my own way.”
“Do you always catch your prey?”
“Yes. But sometimes I let it go. As you said, it depends on the circumstances.” She turned her head up and kissed him on the mouth. They stopped walking, and she kissed him again, her nimble tongue tickling his.
Her building was a classic New York four-story brownstone, and she lived on the top floor. They took their time on the stairs, stopping to kiss again several times. By the time they entered her apartment, his erection was almost painful. She was panting, obviously as aroused as he was, and as soon as she locked the door, she shrugged off her coat and started undressing. He threw his cap to the floor and tore off his Harlequin outfit and his underpants. They staggered from the hall into the bedroom and fell onto the bed. He reached between her legs, but she grabbed his hand.
“Trick or Treat?” she asked
“Treat!” he said.
“Wrong answer. Halloween is when creatures from nightmares become real, yes?”
“Sure. Goblins and ghosties and long-leggity beasties.”
“Aren’t you afraid of them?”
“Scared to death,” he said, and cupped her left breast.
“You will be,” said Eva. “My legs aren’t very long, but my arms are. I left the hall light on. Let me turn it off.”
She reached out her arm. It stretched all the way into the hall. The light went out.
Note: I didn’t invent the basic plot of this story, but I can’t remember who did. I thought of Roald Dahl, but I couldn’t find the tale in any of his collections of horror stories. Harlan Ellison, who wrote some episodes of The Twilight Zone, and also published spooky stuff in various publications, was another candidate, but I had no luck with him, either. I want to give credit where credit is due, so if any reader of my blog can supply the name of the writer who created the plot, I would be very grateful.