At this hour
Lie at my mercy all mine enemies.
—William Shakespeare
Maggie parked her Ford Maverick under a straggly looking tree that leaned over the parking lot. A lone security light wore a halo of bugs that constantly circled around it. She checked her makeup in the rearview mirror before she opened the door. It was a bit past ten, which was early for the Bachelor Pad on this warm June Friday night. The first serious salvos of drinks have yet to be shot across the bar.
She drew on her cigarette before she flicked the butt to the parking lot, where it lay like a glowing red eye. With the tip of her shoe, she ground it into the asphalt.
Twin doors with long brass handles, polished to a luster by an untold number of hands, stood between her and her destiny. She had planned this night down to the finest detail. The scenario played over and over in her mind on an endless loop of images and events that had yet to happen. But, she knew they would. She knew they must. Maggie pulled the doors open and a rush of air-conditioned chill surrounded her as she walked through. She paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The stale aroma of cigarettes filled her lungs.
There were a few unoccupied stools around the bar, so Maggie sashayed across the room toward them. Every man, and most of the women, took notice of her progress as she moved between the tables, weaving in and out of groups of people toward the bar.
The hem of Maggie's short knit skirt sat six inches above her knees and bounced higher with each step. Her matching knit top hugged every curve of her body, the neckline plunging low enough to almost expose the tiny embroidered red strawberry on the front of her bra. A delicate silver chain hung gracefully between breasts that were the perfect size to hold. The perfect size to kiss. Her brown hair shone in the twilight of the bar. It cascaded down in waves over her shoulders and some of the tendrils curled to rest alluring around her breasts.
Tanned arms extended to manicured fingernails that were painted and polished. Her legs, perfectly proportioned for her five-foot frame, were encased in expensive tan pantyhose. Black heels with a delicate strap across the top of her foot completed the look.
Maggie climbed onto one of the high back stools, while a color television in the corner played to an inattentive crowd. She crossed her legs at the knee.
And she waited.
"What would you like?" The bartender asked as he slipped a cardboard coaster in front of her.
"Vodka martini."
"Right back."
She glanced over her shoulder. She thought she could feel their eyes on her, and wondered if they imagined their fingers ghosting over her body, trying to sneak into the folds and openings of her clothing. Maggie wondered who would be the first... Who'd would be the guy with the balls to approach her?
But she came here with only one agenda.
She would leave with only one man. The man. The man of her nightmares. It would only happen with him.
"Here you go," the bartender broke her reverie as he put her drink down.
When Maggie moved to pay for it, he stopped her hand. "From the gentleman at the table," He gestured toward her benefactor. She tipped the glass his way and offered him a smile. That's all he'd be getting from her tonight.
The minutes ticked slowly by. Maggie subtly checked her watch for the tenth time. It was past eleven, and she had already waved off at least a dozen men who'd tried to hit on her.
Then he walked in.
A neatly trimmed white beard framed his round face. Cobalt blue eyes hid behind silver framed glasses. He had a small plaid hat on his head. A short-sleeved shirt revealed plenty of tanned skin and the thickness of his arms.
Maggie could feel his presence...his body's energy.
He slipped onto the stool beside her as she tapped out a Virginia Slim. She heard his Zippo open and coolly watched as he made the flames touch the end of her cigarette.
"Thanks." She offered him a smile, and blew smoke through her nose.
"I don't recall seeing you in here before. You from around these parts?" the man asked.
"Passing through mostly. Got a boyfriend, but we're having a few issues—"
"So you're going to try and drink 'em way?"
Maggie picked up her glass and finished her martini. "He cheated on me a few months ago with another woman; a tramp. I'm only passing though. I'll be in Cleveland tomorrow.
"Cleveland? Job waiting on you?"
"Naw...money's a bit better up there."
"On the streets?"
"So you think I'm a working girl?"
"I suspect."
She watched as he looked at her from top to bottom. He'd noticed how her knit skirt seemed to inch its way higher upon her thigh, and that she didn't seemed neither to be worried about that, nor the fact that the dark stitching on her pantyhose showed.
"What would you say if I told you I work independently?"
"I'd say good for you. What about your parents? Do they know how you make your living? You want 'nother?"
"Maybe... Don't have any parents. My dad ran off; I don't have clue what happened to Mom. Don't give a shit either. Vodka martini."
"Tell me your name, beautiful?"
Maggie smiled and bit into the olive from her empty glass. "Margret. But my friends call me Maggie."
The bartender came over.
"Give this beautiful lady another one and I'll take the same, but with two olives."
"Two olives?" Maggie asked.
After the drinks had arrived, the man swished the pair of olives around in his glass. "Someone once asked Frank Sinatra how many olives should be in a martini..." He picked up his drink from the bar and took a sip.
"What did he say?" Maggie asked.
