for the area. This place rides the edge between the old and the new, evidenced by the mix of high-end suits and torn blue jeans, expensive cars, and dented pickups that help us blend in.
When I used to come here it was normally with a cab or a driver, so it’s only when we round the corner to the front of the glass tower that I realize where we are exactly. The Chopin Lounge is a high-end piano bar with a celebrity chef and an even more famous bartender. After midnight, they clear away the tables and bring in a deejay, the atmosphere a sleek blend of class, sex, and money. I’d come here a few times, but I know Alex was a big fan.
It’s a few minutes after eleven, and the place is empty, still in the midst of preparations for the early lunch crowd. A young hostess in a starched white blouse approaches, her practiced smile faltering a bit when she takes in my jeans and T-shirt and Chris’s only slightly more respectable jeans and black button-up.
“Table for two?” she asks, picking up leather-bound menus.
“Yeah,” Chris says, peering over her shoulder, distracted. “In the back. Is Angela here?”
“Um...”
“Tell her I’m here.”
“Who, exactly?”
“She’ll know.”
When the hostess hesitates, Chris takes the menus and nudges me through the lounge to a corner table at the back. He takes a seat facing the front of the restaurant, and I take the one opposite, glancing around to catch the hostess’s judgmental scowl.
“I think you’re supposed to wait to be seated,” I whisper, flipping open my menu.
“Don’t read the menu,” he snaps, closing it. “We’re not here for lunch.”
“Then why are we here? I’m hungry. Who’s Angela?”
He shifts around, looking agitated, so I give up the attempt at conversation and take in our surroundings. The walls are covered in dark gray fabric, the ceilings high, good for acoustics. Along the wall midway through the room is a small stage with a white baby grand piano positioned in the center. The tables are round and high, paired with tall chairs upholstered in white. Everything is muted so as not to detract from the well-lit bar along the back wall, three shelves of overpriced alcohol designed to open wallets.
I hear the muted murmur of the hostess as she speaks on the phone, then her voice brightens as she greets new customers. Chris stiffens, but it’s just a trio of indistinguishable businessmen being led to a reserved table by the front window. The thirty floors above the restaurant are high-end condos and penthouses, and many of the residents have permanent reservations in the lounge.
“Alex used to come here,” I offer, just to say something. “It was a short drive from the theater. He liked this place.”
Chris nods, distracted. “I know.”
“Have you ever been here after midnight? It turns into a club. Alex liked the music. And the tequila. Maybe too much. My dad had to come pick him up a few times.”
Despite the money and his hectic schedule, my dad did his best to be a hands-on father. He wouldn’t send a driver to collect his drunken child from a club in the middle of the night; he’d do it himself. It wasn’t just Alex. He’d picked me up a few times, too. And in the morning he’d squeeze us a glass of fresh orange juice and admonish us to make better choices, advice I clearly should have heeded.
Chris scowls at his watch, and finally the doors that lead to the kitchen swing open. He jolts at the snapping sound, then relaxes slightly as a tall, stick-thin woman in a patterned red satin dress enters. Her black hair hangs over her shoulder in a thick braid, her fingernails and stilettos the same glossy ebony. Chris stands, so I do, too, watching as she grips his biceps as she kisses both his cheeks, leaving behind a smudge of blood red lipstick.
“Long time,” she says, easing into the third chair as Chris and I re-take our seats.
“Yeah,” Chris says, eyes on the front door. “How’ve you been?”
I look suspiciously at the door, too, but the only people coming in are an elderly couple asking for directions.
“Just fine,” Angela replies. A waiter glides over with a tray of shot glasses brimming with clear alcohol. “Sake,” she explains.
“It’s eleven o’clock,” Chris counters.
She shrugs and picks up her shot, downing it easily. Chris doesn’t touch his, so I don’t touch mine. His edginess is rubbing off; I don’t know what’s coming, but