Mike Faricy: Bombshell

“I’ll have a pint of Summit and a Cosmopolitan,” I said, with all the thumping music in the place I had to lean halfway across the bar just to give my drink order.

The bartender nodded, maybe gave a slight sigh, I wasn’t sure.

“That Cosmo for you?” a woman next to me asked then yelled “Two Summits,” across to the bartender.

She stood about five three, brown hair, glasses, very nice figure. She had on really tight little shorts, black hose patterned to look like slinky nylons and a garter belt.

“I look like the Cosmo type?”

“Yeah, I knew it as soon as I saw you. You’re probably a big Sex in the City fan. I’m Justine,” she said and held out her hand.

“Dev.”

Her eyes bored into me as I held her hand. The music fired up again, so loud we had to speak into each other’s ear. We were in danger of getting body slammed by a half dozen twenty-something girls jumping up and down behind us. They were shaking their hair, waving their hands over their heads. Screaming “woo, woo,” as they twirled around.

“You come here often? You don’t really look the type,” she half shouted.

“Woo, woo,” the girls screamed, oblivious to all but themselves.

“I’ve managed to avoid this place thus far, not exactly my style. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I had to pay the cover charge at the door.”

She nodded toward the beer and the Cosmopolitan landing in front of me. I handed the bartender a couple of fives.

“Twelve-fifty,” he mouthed the words.

“Twelve?”

“Twelve-fifty,” he seemed to smile at the joke.

I gave him another five and shook my head.

“Apparently she’s got expensive tastes. Maybe you should think about finding a girl who likes beer.”

“Fortunately she has some good points, too,” I said into her ear.

“Don’t we all.” Then she gave me that stare again.

I raised my pint glass in a toast to Justine, knocked a couple of inches off the top and carefully picked up the Cosmopolitan.

“Be good,” I said.

“I have a lot more fun when I’m bad.”

“You’re telling me,” I said. Then thought it might be a wise idea to retreat to my table.

I delivered the Cosmopolitan to my date, Carol. She was nestled into a gang of girlfriends all talking about stars whose names I didn’t recognize. Each one held a different colored, overpriced drink in front of them. I reached over the shoulder of some long haired guy who had taken up residence on my stool and handed Carol her Cosmopolitan.

“Watch it, you’ll spill,” she snapped, then turned and shook her head at the guy on my stool. He smiled back at her, gave his head a shake to send his hair back over his shoulders, then used a finger to push misbehaving strands behind each ear.

“Dev, this is Nicholas, he’s from France,” Carol yelled over the noise.

I nodded and figured Nicholas was attracted to Carol by the same things that had attracted me.

“Dev, get Nicholas a drink, will you. What are you drinking?” Carol screamed then placed a hand on his wrist just as the music stopped.

“There is French beer, no?” Nicholas said, looking up at me hopefully.

“I don’t think so.” I said.

“No Caracole? No Saxo?” He sounded put out.

“No. Summit, Leinenkugel, Grain Belt and they got Guinness.

“Pity. French beer is the very best” Nicholas directed this toward Carol.

Carol smiled like she understood, like it was a fact everyone automatically knew, nodding as if she had a refrigerator full of French beer in her kitchen.

“Oh, I just love your accent,” she shrugged. “Maybe you’d like a Cosmopolitan?”

“I think I may try the Martini, yes?” he said, suggesting he’d never had one before.

“That sounds so cute.”

“A Martini?” I figured that would be at least six bucks.

“Yes, a vodka Martini, a double.” He sounded like he may have ordered one before.

“A double?” I asked.

“Where are the olives from?”

“The olives? A jar.” I was liking Nicholas less with every passing second.

“Dev, stop it. Just go and get Nicholas his Martini.” Carol glared, and then added “please,” as an after thought.

“And two olives,” Nicholas reminded.

Carol gave me a look that said, ‘ Don’t even think of causing a scene ,’ then turned back to focus on Nicholas.

“Double vodka Martini, your cheapest bar pour. I better have another Summit, too,” I said to the bartender.

“She’s onto Martini’s now?”

It was Justine, again. Actually, I was glad to see her.

“No, some jackass took my stool and somehow I end up buying him a drink, French guy.”

Justine looked over my shoulder and took a long sip from her beer. She moved to say something in my ear and brushed firmly against me.

“That guy with the long hair and the big ears?”

I hadn’t noticed the ears, but now that she mentioned it, “Yeah.”

“He’s chatting up the girl in the red?”

“Yeah, the one with the dreamy look on her face.”

“I’m guessing those aren’t her God given attributes.”

“You can tell that from across the room?”

“Hello, yes, God they’re fakes,” she said and shook her head.

“Yeah, they are, but that never really bothered me.”

“Ten bucks,” the bartender said, setting Nicholas’s Martini down in front of me.

I handed him a twenty. The look on my face must have given me away.

“Just isn’t shaping up to be your night, is it Cosmo?”

“Not exactly. Can you stay put for a minute while I deliver this to Pepe Le Pew over there?”

“Yeah, promise you won’t be long.”

“Not a problem, believe me.”

“Merci,” Nicholas said, quickly grabbing the drink out of my hand.

“Be careful, Dev, God you’ll spill again. Did he get any on you, Nicholas?” Carol said.

I could only hope, but didn’t wait for an answer and wandered back to Justine at the bar.

“So how long are they here?”

“Actually, she’s with me, so…”

“I got a beer says no way.”

“What?” I gave a shrug, then turned to look at Carol, she was laughing, stroking Nicholas’s arm. She saw me, raised her almost empty glass, signaling for another Cosmopolitan.

“Whoa, better get on that,” Justine said.

“Maybe not yet. You here alone?”

“More or less. She glanced over her shoulder toward a group of women dancing. One of the women wore a white veil and a sign around her neck that read ‘Child Bride’. She was twirling round and round in the center of the group. None of them seemed to be feeling any pain.

“So what do you do?”

“I’m a medical assistant by day. But at night, I’m a derby Bombshell, baby.” She cocked her hip, struck a pose and fluttered her eyes at me.

“Hunh?”

“Roller Derby, I skate with the Bombshells.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, it’s really fun don’t tell me you didn’t notice I was a Bombshell? What do you do?”

“You mean when I’m not getting drinks for jerks? I’m a PI.”

“PI?”

“Private Investigator.”

“You mean like a detective, like in the movies or CSI?”

“Yeah, exactly, only about a thousand times duller.”

“Do you carry a gun?”

“Sometimes.”

“Can I see it?”

“Fortunately I left it at home otherwise I would have blown my brains out about three minutes after coming into this place.”

“You know, do you have a card? We might have a need for your services.”

I dug a card out of my wallet, handed it to her.

“Devlin Haskell, Private Investigator,” she read.