The Ancient Nine

by Ian K. Smith, M. D.

  One of the servants pulled her seat out for her, and at Bickerstaff’s suggestion, the rest of us went around the table, offering our names and hometowns. She nodded her approval and then to the surprise of everyone but her husband, offered to tell a joke of her own. She formed her words with that thick Venezuelan accent, which made the delivery all the more wonderful, and zipped a practiced joke about a young nursing student and involuntary muscle contractions.

  When she finished, the room erupted in applause and Bickerstaff raised his glass. And that set the tone for the evening. “Domi,” as she liked to be called, may have looked like some delicate South American princess, but she kept up with us every step. She cursed as well as Bickers, enjoyed every dirty joke we told, and was openly flirtatious.

  I was having an extremely difficult time keeping my eyes off her. “You don’t think it bothers him even a little that every guy in here is undressing his wife with their eyes?” I said to Hutch.

  “Not at all,” Hutch said. “He’s completely secure.” I looked down, and there he was in the middle of another story, one hand gesturing in the air, the other holding on to what must’ve been his fifth vodka tonic. “Besides, why do you think he brought her back from Venezuela? It wasn’t for her advice on his stock portfolio.”

  The meat came out, several trays of it, piping hot and succulent. Then came the vegetables, an entire garden’s worth.

  “You fellas ever hear of the great Teddy Kennedy story?” Bickers called out from his end of the table. “It’s a testament to the power of money, even at a school like Harvard. When he was a freshman, I was a sophomore. He liked to party and chase the girls even back then. So here comes exam time and he has to take his Spanish A final. One of Teddy’s football teammates had a roommate, a guy they called El Señor, a skinny kid from the Bronx who was a master of Spanish. Teddy was a great athlete, very smart but not exactly the most diligent of students. So, on a whim, someone suggested that he have El Señor take the exam for him.

  “So, El Señor agrees to do it and reports to the examination room and starts the test. Problem is, the guy proctoring the exam recognizes El Señor and knows damn well he wasn’t enrolled in an entry-level Spanish course. It wasn’t five minutes after the exam had ended that Teddy got a call from Dean Leighton’s office. Nailed him to the wall. They didn’t permanently expel him like they would’ve if you or I had done it, but they kicked him out and told him they’d consider his readmission after a year off. He enlisted in the army during his time off, and sixteen months later, he went back to campus as a full-time student living in Winthrop House like his brothers before him. He went on to join the Owl Club, and the Pi.”

  “Is that really true?” Pollack asked.

  “Damn right it is,” Bickerstaff shot back.

  “How do you know it’s not just part of the Kennedy legend?” Claybrooke asked.

  “Because I was El Señor,” Bickerstaff said with a wide grin. “And the sonuvabitch never spoke to me again. He said I was a piece of shit for turning him in, which of course, I didn’t. I just got caught.”

  “You think he’s telling the truth?” I whispered to Hutch.

  “Every word of it,” Hutch said. “But he didn’t finish the story. Bickers was coming home one night from the Tasty about a week after that, and a group of thugs beat him so badly, they knocked him unconscious. That’s how he got that scar underneath his left ear.”

  “A very naughty girl,” Cards whispered. “She’s getting a kick outta Pollack and Buzz looking down her dress.”

  “I can’t stop looking at her either,” I said.

  “None of us can. And she knows it.”

  After we had gotten through dessert and another round of drinks, Bickerstaff looked down at his watch and suggested we get upstairs and change. “Now the real fun begins, gentlemen,” he said with a smile wide enough to swallow the room. He told us that Tiny was ours for as long as we wanted him, and the doormen had been instructed to give us full access to the building. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills big enough to choke an elephant. He handed it to Hutch, and told him to give us “the time of our life.” He delivered a parting joke about two monks in a Mexican whorehouse, then put his arm around his trophy and marched off down the hall. It was the last we would see of the great Weld Bickerstaff, class of ’53.

  23

  OUR FIRST STOP was Oliver’s, a small preppie bar in the section of the city that Claybrooke called the Upper East Side and Hutch followed up with “a place where you’ll find a lot of his kind running around in boat shoes.” We stepped through the heavy oak door and found pristine blond girls in bright argyle sweaters flirting with country-club guys with upturned collars. Claybrooke spotted a group he regularly summered with in the Hamptons. The rest of us sidled up to the bar, and Hutch ordered us a round of shots, peeling a bill off Bickerstaff’s wad of cash.

  “So, what were you and Domi the Divine talking about all night?” Hutch asked Pollack. A question the rest of us had been dying to ask.

  “The usual.” Pollack shrugged. “The economy, political unrest in North Korea, and new efforts to preserve the Amazon jungle.”

  “Bullshit,” Hutch said, slapping Pollack on the back and sending him stumbling against the bar. “You were so far down her dress, I can see her panty marks around your neck.”

  “She’s one helluva woman,” Pollack said, shaking his head. “I talked to her through the entire dinner and can’t remember even half the things she said.”

  “You should’ve gotten her to come out with us,” Buzz said.

  “Don’t think I didn’t try,” Pollack said. “She said the next time we came down to give her a call and she’d be willing to show us her side of the city.”

  More preppies strode in with their wrinkled khakis and starched blazers and a whole bunch of attitude. Hutch bought a second round of shots before announcing it was time to leave. We turned and found Claybrooke whispering in the ear of some prissy blonde sitting on his lap. Hutch walked over and Claybrooke refused to get up, so Hutch grabbed him by the back of his collar and told him that he was coming with us or getting left behind. Seconds later, we were jumping in the back of the limo, Claybrooke yelling at Hutch about messing up his rap, Hutch yelling back at him that he couldn’t mess up something Claybrooke didn’t have.

  “Where to next?” Tiny said through the partition.

  “The Pink Bitch,” Hutch said.

  “Do we have to go there again?” Claybrooke sulked. “I hate that place.”

  “It’s about the team, Clay,” Hutch said. “Their trip won’t be complete unless they experience the Pink Bitch.”

  The limo flew down a long avenue as we passed skyscrapers, crowded restaurants, and dark bars, eventually stopping at a red light across the street from a crowd of people who looked like they were just leaving a formal. The men wore tuxedos, white silk evening scarves, and black cashmere coats while the women sparkled in elaborate ball gowns and long fur coats. They stood under a large steel-and-glass awning that stretched from the side of the building to the curb. An entanglement of limousines and chauffeured sedans snarled the northbound lanes of Park Avenue. This was the image I had always had of New York City.

  “What’s that building over there?” I asked.

  “The Waldorf Astoria,” Claybrooke said. “One of the city’s most famous landmark hotels. That’s where kings and presidents stay when they come to town.”

  I looked back at the art deco hotel and the flurry of activity bustling in the lobby and spilling into the streets. Then it struck me. A son of Waldorf not far from the Rhine. Was it possible the Waldorf in the poem was the same Waldorf of this hotel? It couldn’t be a very common name. I made a mental note to look into it once I got back to Cambridge.

  Several minutes later, we headed into a gritty working-class neighborhood. “This is the East Village,” Hutch explained. “No argyle or buckskins in this part of town. This is where it gets real.”
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br />   Tiny maneuvered the limo down several narrow streets. Gone were the scrubbed buildings and wide sidewalks of the Upper East Side. We now passed rows of squat tenements that looked old and tired, rusted signs hanging lopsided above crammed storefronts.

  “Stop here, Tiny,” Hutch called out. “We’ll walk from here.” Tiny pulled the limo to a stop just a few feet into the street.

  “Why did you tell him to stop?” Claybrooke asked. “The bar is all the way down the block.”

  “Because I’m not stupid enough to pull up to the Pink Bitch in a limo,” Hutch said. “That’s enough of a reason for someone inside to wanna kick our Ivy League asses.”

  I looked down the street and understood exactly what he meant. A long chain of Harleys was lined up in the middle of the block, their polished chrome handlebars shining under the streetlights. We marched off toward the official start of what Bickerstaff had called the fun part of the evening. The front window was made of thick black glass blocking out the bar’s interior, and the big steel door had the bright pink letters PB painted on it with the silhouette of a naked woman. Hutch pulled open the door, and it seemed like we had walked into the middle of a rock concert and strip club all rolled up in one. There were bodies everywhere, a sea of tattooed, ponytailed men covered from head to toe in black leather and silver chains. Women wore tight pink T-shirts and lots of lip gloss. Motorcycles hung from the high ceiling along with helmets, leathers, boots, and Harley-Davidson paraphernalia. The floor was covered with wood chips and sawdust.

  Hutch elbowed a path for us through the crowd, carving out a spot in the middle of the bar with its long stainless-steel top and pink track lights running underneath it. The four bartenders all looked like they could be Playboy centerfolds. Skimpy bikini tops, tight leather miniskirts, and biker boots strapped just above their knees—everything was hot pink. They screamed and poured, smiled and flirted, and every fifteen minutes, one of them would jump up on the bar to dance, ripping off her skirt and revealing a bikini bottom that was nothing more than a tiny slit of fabric held together by a precarious knot. After the dance had ended, she’d pick up a pink cowboy hat, then strut her wares the entire length of the bar as patrons whistled and pelted her with balls of money that she happily caught in the hat.

  “Welcome to the Pink Bitch,” Hutch said, passing out a round of shots. “No place like it anywhere in the world. If you can’t find what you need here, you can’t find it anywhere.”

  By this time, most of us were starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. I was feeling good, confident I hadn’t made a fool of myself at Bickerstaff’s dinner table, and happy that Hutch had insisted we leave Oliver’s and cut our teeth on the Pink Bitch.

  Pollack nudged my shoulder. “What do you think about those two over there against the wall?” he said.

  I followed his finger and immediately saw what had gotten his attention, one a brunette with enormous breasts, the other a strawberry blonde with bright blue eyes. They stood against the wall, shaking their heads to the music and sipping Guinness. They smiled at us when I looked over. I kept my eyes on the brunette.

  “So, what do you think?” Pollack said.

  “They could be fun,” I said.

  “You game?”

  I took another pull of beer and looked over at them again.

  “What do we have to lose?” I said.

  “Which one you want?” Pollack said.

  “I’ll take the brunette.”

  “Perfect, ’cause I’m feeling vibes from the blonde. Whatever you do, don’t tell ’em we go to Harvard. Just say we’re from out of town.”

  “Copy that.”

  We cut our way through the mass of sweaty bodies. Pollack, a handsome-enough guy and much smoother than I would’ve expected, cozied up to the blonde while I slid over to the brunette. They were all smiles.

  “What’s going on?” Pollack said.

  “Nothing much,” the blonde answered. “What’s up with you guys?”

  “Just trying to have a good time,” Pollack said. “What are your names?”

  The blonde smiled. “Cindy.”

  “Becky,” came the brunette.

  “I’m Brandon,” Pollack said. “This here is Spenser.”

  I nodded. They were two knockouts, and I couldn’t believe our luck of reaching them before anyone else did. “Nice to meet you both,” I said.

  “Where are you guys from?” Becky asked. “You’re not from around here.”

  “How could you tell?” Pollack said.

  “You don’t have the look.” She smiled. “Too clean.”

  “I’m from L.A.,” Pollack said.

  Their eyes moved to me. “Chicago,” I said.

  “What brings you to the city?” Cindy said. I thought I heard traces of an Eastern European accent.

  “We’re here on a little business, a little pleasure,” he said nonchalantly. “How about you guys?”

  “Jersey,” Becky said. “And we’re here all for pleasure.”

  “Then no need standing around empty-handed,” Pollack said. “Let’s get you some more drinks.”

  They looked at each other and giggled. “Two mojitos,” Cindy said.

  Pollack went to collect the drinks, leaving me with the lovelies. I tried looking Becky in the eyes, but I was having a difficult time not staring at her gigantic chest. Her T-shirt had J-U-I-C-Y spread across it in small crystals, and the fabric was under so much tension, I thought the I was going to pop off and hit me in the face.

  “I’ve never been to Chicago,” Becky said. “Is it as cold as everyone says it is?”

  “The winters can be hard,” I said. “But you get used to it after a while.”

  “You ever see a Bulls game?” Cindy asked. “I don’t know a lot about basketball, but I love Michael Jordan. He’s so cute.”

  “I’ve been to a couple,” I said. “But it’s the toughest ticket in town. They’re sold out three years in advance.”

  “I saw him once in an airport,” Becky said. “He wasn’t all stuck up like some of those other athletes. He signed autographs for everybody.”

  “You guys come here a lot?” I asked.

  “Every couple of weeks,” Cindy said. “But Thursdays are the best nights. Everyone comes for the midnight countdown.”

  “What’s that?”

  “At twelve, they play ‘Midnight Cowboy’ and everyone sings along, drinks a shot when it’s done, then kisses the person next to them for an entire minute.”

  I looked down at my watch. It was a quarter to twelve. Our timing couldn’t be more perfect. Pollack returned loaded with drinks. He handed them out and we toasted to new friendships formed at the Pink Bitch as well as Joni Mitchell and her classic “Midnight Cowboy.”

  Becky moved closer to me and I could feel her on my arm. She stood on her toes and said, “So, how long you boys in town for?”

  “Just till the morning,” I said.

  “Where ya staying?” Cindy asked.

  “At a friend’s place,” Pollack said.

  “What do you say we go back there after this and really party?” Becky said.

  New York was fast becoming my favorite city. I looked over at Pollack, and he too had made his move. Cindy was running her hands through his hair and he was leaning into her ear whispering something that was making her laugh. How in the hell could we get so lucky?

  I looked down at my watch. “Let’s wait till after midnight, then we’ll leave,” I said.

  “Can Cindy come along?” she asked.

  I looked over at Pollack, who had his hand around Cindy’s waist and his face nestled in her hair. “Of course,” I said. “It looks like that was probably their plan anyway.”

  The music suddenly got louder, and another bartender jumped up on the stage. Free shots were being passed around, and everyone started singing the words to “Midnight Cowboy.” I didn’t know all of them, but I knew enough to fake it. It was one of the craziest things I had ever seen, burly biker dudes t
ilting their heads back and screaming their lungs out, women in their tight tees parading around to the pleasure of roaming hands. Then the song finally ended, and everyone downed their shots before the kissing began. Becky was a spectacular kisser, and her tongue was remarkably strong. She placed one hand behind my head and rested the other between my legs. My response was immediate. I opened my eyes for a brief moment and saw Pollack enjoying Cindy’s full attention. I saw Hutch across the room getting some action.

  A loud horn blew to let us know the minute was up, and the entire bar rocked with a deafening explosion of whistles and applause. Pollack and I locked eyes and exchanged the nonverbal equivalent of a high five.

  “Ready to go?” Becky whispered in my ear.

  I looked at Pollack, and he gave me the let’s-get-the-hell-outta-here nod. I turned back to kiss Becky, and that’s when I felt it. I thought it was her pocketbook at first, but then I looked at her shoulders and there wasn’t a strap. I thought it might be something in her hands, but her hands were around my waist. I reached down in the dark, moving my hands around, trying to find it. I did. I screamed. Becky backed up against the wall, a look of horror stretching her eyelids to the top of her forehead. I tried to say something, but my mouth wouldn’t form words. So I just screamed again.

  I looked over at Cindy. I could tell by the look on her face that she knew what had happened. Pollack put his arm around my shoulder. “You all right, Spenser?” he said.

  “Holy shit!” I yelled. “We have to get the hell outta here! Now!”

  “What’s wrong with you?” he said. “Things are going great. Cindy wants me to take her home. Chill before you mess us up.”

  I grabbed Pollack by the collar. “They’re guys,” I said. “They’re not girls.”

  He pushed my hand away. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Becky and Cindy are guys! They’re not girls. They’re guys dressed up like girls.”

  “You’re drunk, Spenser.” He laughed, throwing his hand around my shoulder. “We got two of the hottest girls in here. You’re drunk. Stay cool.”