The Leopard Lounge

I want to thank my editor SlaveGirl70 for her edits. I appreciate everyone's comments and suggestions. Please note that I have recently rewritten my past stories with the help of editors like SlaveGirl70. If you liked them before, I think you will like them even more now, and if you like this story, I think you might enjoy reading my others as well.

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I got lucky. My prospective client was an investment management company located in Palm Beach Florida, it is February 1

st

and freezing in my hometown. Given my recent luck, it could have been in Juneau. Sometimes you win.

My meeting was scheduled for the next morning, a Friday, at 10 am. I got a flight into West Palm Beach that arrived at 5 pm and took an Uber to my hotel on the island. I was able to get a pretty good deal at the Chesterfield Hotel. Usually the rooms are $400 a night, but I again got lucky, and via a discount hotel room site found a room with a king-size bed for only $225. That is a steal on Palm Beach Island, the home of 35 billionaires and uncountable millionaires. Howard Stern, James Patterson, Rush Limbaugh, and Jimmy Buffet all have homes in this exclusive community. I would only be here one night and was looking forward to a nice dinner and some good wine.

The Chesterfield Hotel is in the Mediterranean style, built in 1928 and is located two blocks from Worth Ave., the Rodeo Drive of the east coast. The rooms are well appointed and reasonable in size for a hotel of that era. I checked into my room and took a quick shower to wash the 'travel' from my body and put on fresh clothes. Once that was done, feeling better and cleaner, I went down to the lobby to get recommendations for dinner. There appeared to be no concierge working, so I decided to ask the front desk for a restaurant suggestion.

The handsome blond Russian at the front desk suggested the Leopard Lounge, the hotel restaurant.

"I don't eat where I sleep," I indicated with a smile.

He looked over at the older gentleman at the edge of the lobby involved in a conversation with a couple. I assumed this was the manager on duty. The blond man then leaned over the desk to say in a soft voice, "I understand. Our restaurant normally attracts a more..." he stumbled for the word and continued, "mature crowd."

I nodded and he continued, "If I were you, I would try Buccan. Not inexpensive, but a good restaurant with a younger crowd."

I thanked him, and he gave me directions to Buccan, just a short walk away on South Country Road.

Buccan seemed like a smart choice. The restaurant specialized in inventive American cuisine. I picked a seat at the bar next to an attractive woman about my age, which is 35. I'm no dummy.

"Mind if I sit here?" I asked politely to the attractive brunette.

She looked at me, smiled and nodded yes. I made myself comfortable on the bar chair, and struggled to get the female bartender's attention. When I did, it was not a particularly friendly interaction, but I finally ordered a glass of Clyde May's bourbon on the rocks. Clyde May's is an Alabama style bourbon that I had discovered and started to drink a few months earlier. My drink perfunctorily delivered (no smile), I thanked the bartender and asked to see a menu. She grunted and turned back to the bar.

The attractive woman that sat next to me turned and said, "don't take it personally, she's a bitch and she treats everyone like that. Lucky you're not a woman. She is even worse to us."

"Strange way to do business," I replied and added, "my name is Steve."

"Sally," she added as she shook my extended hand. "Fortunately, the food here is good. The service..." she paused, "not so much." She indicated with a head nod at the bartender.

Several minutes later our server finally provided me the menu I requested. The dinner prices were more reasonable than I had expected. I ordered the roasted ½ chicken with mole invierno, zucchini, almonds, radish, and chayote.

I chatted with Sally while we were eating. She was recently divorced and a realtor in Palm Beach. Her ex-husband was a local attorney. I explained that I was from Chicago and had just ended a long-term relationship a few of months before. I was consulting for a Palm Beach investment company as a forensic accountant.

"Funny, you are too cute and seem too interesting to be an accountant," she teased.

"Hey, don't believe everything you hear about accountants. Do you know how you can identify an extroverted accountant?" I asked.

Sally shrugged while slightly shaking her head.

"He looks at your shoes instead of his own," I continued.

Sally groaned, and I noticed her shoes. "Christian Louboutin?" I asked and pointed to her very sexy pumps.

"Very good," she said with surprise, "Steve, I see you have been well trained."

I laughed, "It was EXPENSIVE training." I toasted to thin air and drained the remainder of the white wine that I ordered with dinner.

"I don't suppose you have any plans on moving to the area. I know a great realtor," she added with a wink and shy smile.

"I wish," I added with a shake of the head.

She took a drink of her wine and said, "Too bad. The only guys I meet seem to be old enough to be my grandfather, married, gay, or," pausing, "all the above."

"No, no, no," and with a pause, "no," I replied. Sally laughed.

We continued to chat for quite a while, and discovered we shared quite a bit in common, from cooking to bridge. It turned out that Sally and her ex-husband were master level bridge players. While I have not achieved that distinction, I was a pretty good recreational player.

Sally finally glanced at her watch, and she apologized for having to leave so soon, as she'd enjoyed our conversation. She explained that she had promised to pick up a girlfriend at the airport.

After she paid her bill, she took out one of her business cards and wrote something on the back.

"Steve, I enjoyed our conversation," she said and left her card face up on the bar in front of me. "Let me know if you get back to Palm Beach. Maybe we can have dinner again."

She gave me a peck on the cheek and left the restaurant.

As Sally was walking out the door, I turned over Sally's business card to see what she had written on the back.

There, in her elegant script, "Prove to me you are not gay."

Damn

, I thought.

That one got away

.

Oh well, I have not had much luck lately with women. I have been traveling non-stop for well over a year, and that was one of the reasons for my breakup with Heidi, my ex-girlfriend.

I paid my bill, and tossed back the last of my scotch. It was now about 9:30 pm, so I took a slow walk back to my hotel, playing voyeur as I walked past enormous gates hiding fantastic houses. I knew that I could not afford to pay the annual taxes on these small mansions, and they were not even the most expensive homes on the island. Those were located on the beach and ranged to well over 100 million dollars.

I got back to the Chesterfield, feeling a bit horny after my encounter with Sally. I realized how much I missed my girlfriend Heidi. She was uninhibited and an incredible sex partner. Heidi was bi-sexual and ultimately left me for a female friend, Paula. I understood why—we had both enjoyed Paula several times. She was a beautiful, wealthy, intelligent, and most importantly sweet, woman.

Instead of heading directly up to my room and bed, I decided to have a nightcap. I went into the Leopard Lounge, a large dark room with a dark wood bar. The waiters, waitress, and bartenders were all in their 40s or 50s, while the clientele was much closer to their late-60s.

I moved to the bar and ordered a bourbon. A three-piece group played dance music. "Fly me to the moon," was the current song. I remembered my father sang it to me on trips in the car. There were four couples on the dance floor. Most looked like they were holding each other up, but there was one couple where the woman was stunning. Apparently older than I, with short silver hair, a tight-fitting blue dress, great legs and blue eyes.

She noticed me staring at her and she winked at me as she danced gracefully with a partner that must have been in his 80s.

The song stopped, and to my surprise, she walked straight over to the bar where I stood. She ordered a glass of Champagne and said, "Hello, my name is Gale." She held out her hand to shake mine.

Her directness surprised me, and it took me a second to move my glass from my right hand to my left so I could shake her outstretched hand and I said, "Steve. Nice to meet you."

"Have we met before?" she asked me, and stared into my eyes with her bright blue ones.

I now noticed her chest. Her breasts strained in her clingy dress. I guessed that they were enhanced at some point, but they were not out of proportion with rest of her figure. I looked over at the man that had just danced with Gale. He gave me the evil eye.

I then realized I hadn't answered Gale's question. "I don't think so," I smiled.

"Do you live on the Island?" she asked.

"No. I'm from Chicago," I replied.

She noticed me glancing over at her last dance partner, laughed and said, "That's Paul. He's harmless. Trust me, totally harmless. Well, unless he gets you in the back seat of his Rolls."

It was my turn to laugh, "I don't think there is any chance he will be getting me in his back seat. Rolls or no Rolls."

Gale laughed and raised her glass, and we toasted on that thought.

"How long are you in town for?" she asked as she sipped her drink.

"I leave tomorrow night," I responded, thinking about Sally and wished I had another evening and the chance to prove to her that I was not gay.

"Oh, too bad. The group playing tomorrow is much better than this one. Do you dance?" Gale asked and pointed to the dance floor.

"Only under duress," I chuckled. The band began their next song.

"Consider this duress," she said as she took the glass from my hand and placed it on the bar along with hers. She then took my hand and led me to the tiny dance floor.

The song was "The Nearest of You" written by Hoagy Carmichael. I knew this song as well. I played piano for years and learned his piece by heart. Gale held me close, with her hand on my shoulder. She was about 5'4" and about 110 lbs. Her 4-inch heels brought her closer to my 6' height. I could smell her perfume and felt her head rest on my shoulder, and of course, I could feel her large breasts against my chest. I figured Gail was about 45 with premature grey hair.

I noticed that she began to lead me.

Well, that had to stop,

I thought. I had lied about my dancing expertise. In college, I had learned west coast swing dancing, and I was quite good at it back then. I now exerted control putting pressure on the middle of Gale's back, led her on several quick turns and back steps. They were similar to west coast swing steps.

She pulled her head off my shoulder and looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes, said "Duress my ass. You are a wonderful dancer."

"Well you know the old saying, the man does all the work, and the woman makes the man look good," I said into her ear as we spun around in a tight circle.

The song ended and I "dipped" her at the end and gave her a formal bow as I returned her to her vertical position.

We walked back to our drinks. Gale explained that she was a widow of the man who had started Kimber Manufacturing Company in Kansas City. She met him 40 years earlier when she was an actress in LA. He had died five years ago from a heart attack. She had a small house on the north end of the island, and a place in Nantucket where she spent her summers.

Now my estimate of her age needed to change. If you assumed she did not date her late husband at the age of five, she now had to be at least 58. Wow, if she was 58, she was in amazing shape. She showed no wrinkles what so ever.

She asked me to get her another drink, and she when to the band and spoke to the piano player who smiled and nodded. Gale returned to my side and accepted her refreshed drink.

She took a sip and then said, "They are going on break after this song. Then I will see what kind of dancer you are."

I was confused. The bourbon was having its effect on me. The song the trio played ended. The bass player put down his instrument; he turned on what I assumed was a CD or an electronic music player. What I heard next surprised me. I listened to several measures of a fast thumping solo drum beat and then to the added trombones followed by the squawking trumpets, next by several clarinets and saxophones. It was "Sing Sing Sing" by Benny Goodman.

Well, I was undoubtedly going to get a workout

, I thought.

Gale smiled and took my hand and again led me on to the empty dance floor. I have not danced for a while. While I was a bit self-conscious, the amount of alcohol in my system compensated.

I took Gale's hand and then we started to dance. We started with classic west coast swing. Gale was an aggressive dancer, but she took my lead well.

We danced a bit more and then it became apparent to me that Gale seemed to know the Lindy Hop. The Lindy Hop was very popular in the 1920's and 1930's and consists of both eight and six-count steps. The footwork came from the Charleston and also Tap. It is an athletic high energy swing dance that also includes couple and solo dance steps. It takes a lot of practice as a couple to dance the Lindy well, but Gale was terrific and adapted to my style right away.

That is how she got her dancer's cafe muscles

. I thought.

I was a bit out of practice. I had been pretty good at the University of Oregon where most of my group of friends would dance at Global Scholars Hall. After four years of dancing once or twice a week I had gotten pretty good. Now 13 years later I was a bit rusty but it was coming back quickly. Luckily we had the floor to ourselves as we kicked, hopped and spun. I was tempted to turn Gale over my hips, but that was a tricky move, so I didn't attempt it. I saw Paul watching us intently from the corner of my eye. I think he realized that he was no match for me on the dance floor, as he looked at Gale longingly.

We finished the dance with a flourish, and I spun Gale three full turns and then into a finishing dip. She beamed as she clapped her hands, and I could hear a few other people in the bar clap as well.

I was entirely out of breath and was sweating. Gale was breathing normally and looked as fresh as a daisy.

How did she do that?

I wondered

.

We moved back to the bar to finished our drinks. I tried to look discretely at my watch. It was just before 11 pm.

Gale noticed me glance at my watch and asked, "past your bedtime?"

I stammered, "I have a meeting tomorrow morning." I then summed up my courage and added, "Would you like to come to my room for a nightcap."

Gale looked around the room and said in a serious tone, "I really don't think so."

Well

, I thought,

that was as subtle as a bag full of rocks

.

She moved closer to me, and whispered in my ear, "Steve everyone knows me here. I can't go with you to your room. If I did that, I would be the highlight in the gossip section of the

Shiny Sheet

."

She stepped back to face me and saw my puzzled look. She continued, "The

Shiny Sheet

is the local newspaper, such as it is." She looked around the bar and said, "Please excuse me. I need to powder my nose." She smiled and went toward where I supposed the restrooms must be located.

Strike Two

, I thought.

Maybe Gale preferred men closer to her age

.

I paid for our drinks and Gale returned a couple of minutes later. She said in a rather loud voice that could be overheard by everyone nearby, "Steve thank you so much for dancing with me. I really enjoyed it. I hope your meeting goes well tomorrow and safe travels. Goodnight."

With that, she reached for my hand and gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She waved to a couple of friends as she went to the door and left the hotel. I waited a couple of minutes until she had left and then I went to the restroom. On the way, I took out and examined the piece of paper that Gale had secretly placed in my hand as she said goodbye.

It said simply, "301 Mockingbird Trail - Give me 30 minutes."

My heart jumped. I hadn't struck out after all.

I returned to the bar as I waited for the minutes to pass. I googled

Kimber Manufacturing Company

on my iPhone and discovered her husband's name, George Kimber. I then googled

George Kimber Palm Beach

. I found his obituary. "George Kimber passed at age 75. He is survived by his loving wife, Gale Visser-Kimber...".

Now I googled Gale-Visser-Kimber, and I found some newspaper articles from various society columns. Not much there. What did Gale say? She was an actress and had lived in LA. So, I used IMDb (the site where you look up movies and actors and actresses). I put in Gale Visser-Kimber. Nothing. I tried Gale Visser. Again, nothing.

Oh well, time to go. fifteen minutes had elapsed and I was not sure how long it would take to get to Gale's place. I put the address she'd given me into my Uber app, and five minutes later my Uber pulled up, and I got in. Her home was on the north end interior of the small Island. It should take only five to ten minutes to get there.

As I headed to Gale's home, I tried one more google search

Gale Visser Los Angeles

. I got several hits, but they were all obviously mismatches. The twenty or so google links were for an adult film actress.

Clearly, that wasn't right

, I thought, and I put away my iPhone. Then I had a strange thought, and a minute later I took my iPhone out to look at the images associated with that Google search. To my utter shock, there was Gale. Her hair was long and dark, but she had the same face, legs, and those blue eyes. A much younger Gale, to be sure, but absolutely the same woman.

Apparently, she had a small part in

Mona the Virgin Nymph

that was made in 1970 per google. I never saw that movie, but I had heard about it. Again, I recalculated Gale's age in my head. If you assume she was 18 in 1970, that would make her 66 today. Wow was she hot for 66.

She would be hot at 30!

I thought.

As my Uber headed for the destination, I read more about Gale. She did several more movies in the 1970s—none of them successful. She also appeared in

Hot Naked Night

,

My Babysitter

, and

Sex Upstairs

. It seemed that Gale was full of surprises.

I arrived at Gale's house. It was a massive white house with two floors hidden by a 20-foot hedge and a metal gate at the end of the short driveway. Gale must have seen me pull-up, as the gate opened automatically. I thanked the Uber driver and headed toward the house.

The house was even more impressive up close. It had an elaborate fountain and a lovely front garden, which was lit by numerous outdoor lights. I climbed four stairs to the small entry in front of a set of large ornate double doors. I rang the doorbell, and the door quickly opened. Gail was in a lavender silk robe. She still had on her high heels, and in her hands, she had two glasses and offered one to me.

Gale had a smile on her face and said, "welcome to my humble abode."

"There is nothing humble about this abode," I said as I glanced around the substantial foyer. The walls had some sizeable modern paintings, and the marble floor was covered in places by contemporary silk carpets. The furniture was chic, mostly white leather with elegant glass tables.

"You have a lovely home. Is that a Sol LeWitt?" I asked and pointed to a geometric modernist painting on the wall. I don't know that much about art, but I recently saw a similar piece in the Chicago Museum of Modern Art.