Author's notes: Everyone is over eighteen. I hope you enjoy it. Please vote and leave a comment.
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Charles Martel sat in the smoke-filled, seedy dive bar. Yes, his middle school teacher had told him his name was the same as some famous Frenchie King or other. At first, it was interesting, but then the kids got hold of it, and being in Brooklyn, he was harassed about it by one wise guy or other trying to make his bones all the way through High School. He ended up like that popular song by Ernie Ford,
Sixteen Tons
. He did have one fist of iron and the other of steel. More than one fucking smart ass hit the floor because of one of them. He never let anyone call him Charles more than once.
The smell of cigar and cigarette smoke, stale beer, and cheap whiskey filled the air. Chuck sat in a booth, his forearms on the table, staring down at his glass of cheap whiskey, sitting next to a beer and a glass of water. A Lucky smoldered between his fingers and his fedora hung on the hook at the aisle end of the booth. This wasn't his usual watering hole, which was just as seedy and just as smoke-filled.
Occasionally, he would look over the glass to a booth three booths down on the other side of the aisle. In it was Reginald Atwater, one of those high society highbrows. He was tall and slim and way too well dressed for a dive like this. With him was a floozy with the mandatory bright red lipstick and scandalous off-the-shoulder dress that was all over him. It wasn't that she dressed like a whore. He knew some whores. They dressed that way to get attention and attract a John. It was for business. He knew a couple that had ankle biters, and one even had a husband. It wasn't that he dressed like a fucking prince. It was that the overall look was extramarital. That is why Chuck was there. He is a Private Investigator.
Mrs. Atwater had contacted him by finding him in the Yellow Pages. She was a good-looking skirt, and Chuck couldn't quite figure out why Atwater wouldn't rather be home. He had Atwater dead to rights. All Chuck had to do was take their picture. The problem was that the golf ball-sized flashbulb of the cheap camera he got at a pawn shop would produce a lot of light. Looking around, it looked like there was more than one booth with an extramarital look, and Chuck figured he wouldn't get out of the joint alive. So, he had resigned himself to enjoy his beer and whiskey. He was getting one hundred bucks plus twenty-five bucks a day in expenses. The good Mrs. Atwater was payin'.
It was then that she walked in. Of all the fucking bars, what the fuck was Sally Bridgewater doing coming in here? She had a classy chassis, tall for a dame, fit, round where she should be, and flat where she should be. Dressed in the new style of casual yet formal, Sally was an elegant-looking dame with an hourglass silhouette. She stopped and looked around like anyone does coming into a place like this. First, to let your eyes adjust to the darkness, and then, to see if you know anyone. Then comes the decision of whether to stay or run.
When she saw Charles, her eyes widened, and she looked surprised, but in a good way to see him. They had been a couple about a year ago, but she got really pushy, wanting to be circled, and gave him an ultimatum. Wrong thing to do to Chuck. He put on his fedora, lit up a Lucky, and walked out. She called him often for a while, but he never took any of the calls. Funny, he felt like burning in the pit of his stomach when he saw her. She fastened her eyes on him and started walking towards him, her purse at her bent elbow, one foot directly in front of the other, which caused her hips to gyrate seductively from side to side.
"Fuck," he thought. "She is a dolly."
She stopped at his table and said pleasantly, "Chuck, how have you been?"
"Fine," he replied, adding, "And you?"
This took Sally by surprise. Replying to a direct question was just socially polite, but he asked about her.
"Fine," she replied and added stoically, "I miss you."
Chuck stubbed out his Lucky, leaned back, and, looking her in the eyes, replied, "I miss you, too."
Sally catch breathed. He was such a hard case that this much emotion coming from Chuck was like her crying for a half hour.
"You want a drink?" he asked, not expecting an answer, and raised his hand to call a waitress.
Sally was now pole-axed and slid quickly into the booth, placing her purse to the side and removing her gloves, trembling. This big lug had left her a year ago. She realized she had pushed him too hard. All she wanted was that ring, but he was not ready for that. Sally had never experienced any man like him before or since, and she shivered even in this July heat being just near him.
The waitress was short and dressed somewhere between the floozy in Atwater's booth and Sally. She was sexy enough to help her tips but not advertise.
"The lady will have a gin and tonic. I'll take another of the same. Put it all on my tab," Chuck ordered. Turning his attention to Sally, he said sarcastically, "So, what brings you to a fat city like this?"
She sighed, "Just checking out the neighborhood."
"You seeing anybody?" he asked, his lip curling just a bit, preparing for a fight.
"No," she replied sadly. "I miss you. I haven't ever known a man like you," she said, dropping her eyes.
This took the wind out of Chuck's sail. He was all ready for a fight, and here she was all submissive and shit. Chuck was a tough guy with few scruples but didn't kick when the other guy was down.
He reached across the table, put his forefinger under her chin, and lifted it.
"Baby, I've never known anyone like you either," he sighed.
Sally smiled a radiant smile.
"I...I'm sorry I pushed you away like..." Sally began, but Chuck cut her off.
"Don't get all sappy with me," he snapped.
Fear showed in her face.
"You are here, and I am here, and that is all that matters for now," he said, pulling out his Luckys and offering her one. She refused, and he lit up, politely sending a stream of smoke over her head.
Cowed somewhat, she just sat there.
When the drinks arrived, the waitress asked, "Will that be all, Sir?"
"We're good," Chuck replied, and the waitress moved to another table.
"So, this isn't where you usually go. What are you doing here, Chuck?" she said tentatively, hoping to relieve the strain.
"Business," he replied curtly, taking a drag from his Lucky, a sip of whiskey chased by a slug of beer, and then blowing the smoke from his lungs over her head. "Don't look, but three booths down across the aisle is a guy stepping out on his wife."
To his surprise, Sally whispered without looking, "You mean the one with Amy Bradley?"
Chuck scowled, "You know the dame?"
"If it's the booth you mean, yes," she replied, whispering.
"Take a look. It's the one with the guy with the blue suit and flat top," Chuck whispered back.
Sally took a peek carefully and as unobtrusively as she could. As Sally peeked, the woman took Atwater's hand, moaned, and pulled it under her dress.
"Yes, the one with the guy in the blue suit and flat top. That's Amy," Sally croaked, blushing.
Sally's blushing made Chuck smirk. Sally was not fast but would go ape when they did the backseat bingo.
