COCKTAIL SET
by Laurel Sparks

About the author

Laurel supports her writing passion with a paying profession of radio commercial copywriting. She has been a contributing author in several ezines - The Sidewalk's End, Cynic Online Magazine, Boomer Women Speak: Our Voices, and Seven Seas Magazine. Laurel's motto: "When all the words have slipped away, nothing will remain."

Lyla Casky made her way through the heavy brush underfoot. The once

gravel road had never matured into pavement.

            She knew the building was there. Could it be more north? East?

            Or could it have fallen down from age?

            Clouds evacuated the sky making her journey well lit. A small breeze harassed her short silver hair. She put a little more edge into her steps while a squirrel menaced the silence of the woods.

            Within ten more feet, the color of a rather unpopular shade of gray paint broke through at eye level. She moved closer and examined the partially ivy-covered one-story structure, a once posh nightclub.

            Apprehension and melancholy added to the mix as Lyla borrowed excitability from her emotional stockpile. She took a rest on a nearby fallen tree.

            Fifty odd years ago, her fur coat would be safe with Sally, the coat check girl, at The Top Notch Club behind the door of this now dilapidated building.

            Lyla closed her eyes and allowed the memory of one particular night to unfold while the half-century scent reinvented itself.

             Rusty Judson’s manicured hand solicited at the small of her back. It had a power to it, a limosine manner. The gold ring on his pinky finger shone as bright as the mirror ball high above the dance floor.

            In a few hours, at daybreak, his whiskers would sprout.

She could feel his heat through her imperial red chemise suit. Her left gloved hand united with the shoulder of his custom-made jacket, one that wouldn’t wrinkle. For that she was thankful.

            Because this man extracted perfection in his clothes.

            Sinatra’s rendition of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” pelted throughout the room while dancers swayed back and forth to the beat. Although Rusty’s mouth caressed her left earlobe, he didn’t speak a word.

            However, his breath sent a calling card.

            And his subtle intentions took aim at her resolve.

            When his hand rested at her bra line, she squirmed a bit, then readjusted herself to his touch. Where would he put his hand next? she wondered.

Lyla couldn’t make herself think straight when Rusty Judson held her this close.

            “You look heavenly tonight, my love,” he finally voiced, in tune with the music.   Rusty was a man who made the kind of time one couldn’t tell on a watch. “Good enough for…”

            A peal from the band’s top trumpeter interrupted his monologue.

            “Why, thank you.” Lyla’s calves readied for betrayal any moment and her clip-on earrings pinched from three hours of dancing.

            Her pillbox hat leaned a bit more to the right than she preferred.

            He forced their chests together more tightly. Reminders of one of her mother’s lessons prevented her from relaxing.

            Never get too close to a man unless you’re married to him.

            What could she do?

             The song ended and the crowd evaporated, clapping on closure. Rusty and Lyla returned to their table and he took a sip of his martini.

            “Alfred made them dry tonight, just the way I like ‘em,” he said, referring to the bartender. A regular at The Top Notch, Rusty would be considered the epitome to the head waiter’s best customer.

            “Listen, I think I’ll go powder my nose,” she offered. “If you’ll excuse me.” She left him to his thoughts.

            Rusty rose from his seat in courtesy as she strolled away. This one’s appearance rated a few whistles, looking like the first crocus of spring, he pondered. The black number she wore and the French roll in her blond hair gave her more than enough sensualism, but a relationship with her would only be a walk-through to permanency with someone else. He liked his women to contribute not only to the conversation, but to his advances.

            Lyla Casky had run out of chat, and charm, hours ago.

            Women, they were all the same, Rusty reflected. Reluctant, prudent. At least the ones he’d come across recently.

            Reseating into the red leather chair, Rusty Levon Judson scanned his radar for any familiar faces. He found a few and upon eye contact, nodded his acknowledgement.

            He was in his element, having come a long way to this night. From the fighting, dusty streets of Brooklyn as a hoodlum teenager to the elite avenues and captivating words of New York City. What a trip it had been. Now he was with the mink stoles and cocktail set, never to return to the days filled with those guys who patted you on the back only looking to break it, or stab it.

            Yes, Rusty Judson could tip his fedora hat to the past.

            As he drummed his fingers against the tile, his history pole-vaulted into his memory.

            Rust Bucket, his street name twenty years ago, had grown up hard. Infused as a foot soldier for the mob, known for stealing his share of cars, money, and more than enough hearts.

Back then, he yearned for his current lifestyle. 

If it hadn’t been for a lonely rich socialite who taught him all the right moves, showed him how to pay for the ride across the river, he never would have made it.

            Nowadays, Rusty could ring for room service, fly first class, keep his liquor cabinet stocked and dry clean his suits at the best Chinese laundries. The only thing he didn’t care for was how this society filled him up with rules.

            Lyla returned with a fresh powdered nose just as a lively version of Cole Porter’s “Anything Goes” prompted from the band.

            “Shall we?” Rusty asked with a careless gesture toward the dance floor.

            Once again he looked up at the mirror ball and gave it a smile decreed in mystery. His possessive hand returned to her waist and they molded once again.

            Before the song ended, a hand patted him on the back. “May I cut in?” The question, thick with skepticism, came from a man with butterscotch-colored hair, four inches shorter than six feet.  

            Rusty quickly stole a glance at Lyla. Her wide grin prompted him to relinquish his hold.

            “Be my guest,” he coaxed.

            That was the last evening Lyla Caskey spent at The Top Notch Club, and the last time anyone patted Rusty Judson on the back.

            “Mom? Where are you?” The words boomeranged throughout the ghostlike space and the heavy brush absorbed the faltering tone.

            Lyla jarred back to her senses and to the present, taking aim at composure.

            “Over here, honey.” She dusted off and dabbed at the dried tears at the corners of her eyes before joining her eldest daughter, Karen.

“Thank heavens! When you took off by yourself, I was worried!”

“I’m sorry. Listen, this is the place I was telling you about.” A grin rippled across Lyla’s face.

            “Where you met father for the first time?” Karen asked.

            “Yes. Right here on this dance floor he made the move that put us both at the altar three months later,” Lyla giggled. “Your father cut in while I was dancing with someone else.”

            “Oh, mother, I love that story!” her daughter exclaimed. “But look outside, it’s getting late. We’d better go.”

            “All right, dear.”

            Lyla threw one more look at the building then headed with her daughter into

the orange-hued horizon.  She had no shortage of consolation.

            For a split second, she could have sworn she heard the lonesome sound of a solo trumpet behind her.