The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,32
it.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t help it. What if Dominick sees me and rats me out?”
“Then I’m guessing it wasn’t meant to be.”
“What if he’s not here?”
“He will be.” Dominick wouldn’t miss his favorite band playing in his town.
“What if he’s home sick?”
“Stop it,” I say. “Remember—you’re seventeen. Keep telling yourself that. You’ve got nothing to hide.”
We’re one away from the bouncer. I know bouncers need to be buff, but must they all have shaved heads, too? This bouncer wears the typical surly expression. Is it an act, or would you be this way, too, if you had to police drunk teenagers?
“How’s it going?” I say as I hand him my ID. He says nothing and stamps my hand.
Leo steps up. He gives new meaning to deer in the headlights.
“I’m glad we’re skipping the opening act. They are so overrated,” I say. I want to distract him and keep him cool, but he can barely utter a word. And that makes the bouncer look up, then back at the card, then up. Leo, to his credit, tries to contort his face into a calm, collected expression, but his mental panic button has already been pressed.
I step forward and press a twenty dollar bill over the ID. “Is everything okay?” I ask in my best doe-eyed girl voice.
The bouncer slides the twenty under his fingers and shoots Leo a glare. Leo stares at the ground. After a few seconds of eternity, he stamps Leo’s hand.
“Enjoy the show.”
***
Inside, a crowd forms in the pit while a line snakes from the one bar. The opening act, The New Oldies, slams on their guitars while dressed as Bible salesmen. Girls have already staked out positions by the fireman poles. My shoes stick to the floor, and the musty smell of sweat pierces the air, but I’m taken over by the music, the energy. If I wasn’t here on business, I would totally wind up in the pit. I lead us upstairs to the balcony which stretches on all sides. We take a position by the side railing, giving us a clear view of everything.
And everyone.
“That was so cool what you did with the bouncer!” Leo drums his fingers on the railing to the music. “I owe you.”
“I’ll bill you.”
He scans the crowd, making creepy stalker eyes at Dominick look-alikes.
“Hey,” I say. “Why don’t you go to the bar and get us some Diet Cokes? I’ll be on Dominick watch.”
“Sure!”
“Calm down. It’s just carbonated sugar water.”
“Sorry.” He blushes. It’s sweet how excited he is about every little thing. I wonder why I never got like this over Fred. Everything just seemed so easy with us; there was no suspense. Leo’s unabashed corniness would be a nice contrast to Dominick’s coolness. I hope.
Once he heads to the bar, I search out Dominick in the sea of plaid and gingham. And sure enough, he’s downstairs by the bar. Phew! My heart does a pogo stick jump when I see him wearing a knit cap. The top buttons of his blue-and-red plaid shirt are open, exposing some well-defined pectorals. Major swoon.
His soccer buddies Geoff and Jeff flank him on each side. A minor roadblock, but one I anticipated.
Leo slides my drink onto the ledge. “Do you see him?”
“Yes.”
He gawks at each and every person. I pull his chin back. “Do not play Where’s Dominick. The last thing you want is for him to find you stalking from afar.”
“I can play it cool,” he says, bobbing his head and doing this wave gesture that even my dad would cringe at.
I shoot him a look, and he sits on his stool. “Don’t worry. I got this,” I say. I give him a “follow me” head nod, and we push our way along the balcony, past other twosomes. I search out our mark, the perfect people for this relationship engineering scheme.
“Hey, do you mind if we squeeze in next to you?” I ask the girl now next to me. I’m guessing she’s in college because she’s wearing a wristband yet does not give off an adult vibe.
She and her gaggle slide down and make room. I grab Leo by the sleeve and shimmy us into position. The lead girl’s fruity perfume and minty gum block out all club stench.
Step Four—Application: Get close to the people who can help us get close to Dominick.
“Thanks!” I say. Her hair falls onto her chest. That and her low-cut top basically act like tarmac traffic wands to her cleavage.
“No problem.”
“Are you a Jessalyns fan?”