Chapter One -- Sanctuary --

A  wrong turn, a few blocks back, landed me in an unfamiliar neighborhood. There wasn't a soul around, and the traffic, which not five minutes before had been bumper to bumper, had vanished completely.

Boarded up pawn and package stores, an abandoned bodega, all with three stories of vacant apartments above, lined both sides of the block. On the corner was an empty eatery. A faded 'closed' sign hung askew inside the front door.  A giant neon pot in mid pour in the window, it's neon smashed,  advertised  ' Otto's Home of the Bottomless Cup'.  The charred remains of burned out taxi waited at the curb and a tireless bicycle with it's padlock and chain still attached lay in the gutter. The street sign, if there had ever been one, was missing. 

The weather changed with the scenery. Perfect, bright blue and cloudless turned to grey flannel, just before a tornado, oppressive. The air smelled electric.

" ... Go back the way you came" I told myself. " picking up my pace to near speed walk.

The first  bolt of vertical lighting crackled... hairs on the back of my neck  buzzed.  Thunder followed in seconds. The sky opened dumping horizontal rain. Rivulets ran in my eyes as I felt my way along the locked storefronts, fingers reading  Braille, the brick, ... the glass, the brick again.  A door ajar !

A vestibule to escape the deluge !

Inside smelled old ... derelict ... stale cigars, wet newspapers, urine. A bank of vandalized mail boxes, an overturned ash canister  were the only items I could make out in the near pitch black. The entrance was cramped maybe six feet square just big enough for the postman. Outside the rain came down in sheets.  

I fumbled for my cigarettes. The box was damp but the smokes were  dry -- the matches useless. "Damn !" I said to no one. "Wouldn't you know it."  

A flame  appeared in the darkness inches from my face, a lighter revealed another refugee seeking sanctuary from the storm. 

"Can I bum one, mine are beat ... some rain huh ?" said the stranger in a trench coat who had been standing  in the shadows.

"Dial 'L' for Lounge"  Chapter 1

Chapter Two --The Appointment--

     We stood in the dark chain-sucking menthol cigarettes, waiting for the monsoon to stop. Neither of us spoke. The tattoo of the raindrops on the tin canopy outside was deafening.  Eventually the fumes  in that six by six pigeonhole were so dense you didn't need to light up ... you could just inhale.  

After what seemed like hours the stranger broke the spell. " Name's Ric but everybody calls me Mr. Lounge. Glad you could make it." He said.  

Ric pulled a full size retro telephone from his trench coat pocket. The end of the unconnected coil cord, dangled free.  "I'll give Harleigh a call" Ric said, dialing a single number on the enormous rotary phone. "I'll see what's keeping him."  

Now I had no idea what Ric meant by ' glad you could make it', or who Harleigh was ... but considering that I had wandered into a  town straight out of the Twilight Zone, Armageddon raged outside and I could hear a dialtone on the unplugged phone -- I just went with it. 

"Yeh, no problem ... I'm Trig, Trig Mixter" I said, stabbing my hand in his general direction. Ric's hand was ice cold -- his grip was like a vice. 

The rain stopped as though a faucet had been turned off.  Thunder rumbled far away. Harleigh appeared in the doorway and the sun came out. "No taxis in this part of town." Harleigh said. 

Mr. Lounge stuffed the five pound phone back into his trench coat. "Gentlemen" he said, holding the interior door of the vestibule open for Harleigh and me. "After you".

"Dial 'L' for Lounge"  Chapter 2

Chapter Three --The Lady or the Tiger--

The interior door closed behind us, heavy and resolute as lock down in a maximum security prison.  

Inside the lobby was an enhanced darkness ... suffocating, like moving between laundry lines hung with musty wool blankets. The tile floor was slick with something that a was glad I couldn't see. 

Harleigh flicked his bic. The lighter sputtered anemically -- on the third try the flame hissed to life lighting up the immediate area between Harleigh and me at chest level. I got a whiff of 'Old Spice', my father's brother Ralph came to mind.       

Harleigh was of average height, a good looking kid, twenty something,  His hair, was cut 'high and tight' former military, maybe.  The rock hard arm, which held the lighter, belonged to a power lifter. 

"Trig right?" he said, switching the bic to his left hand. We shook. Harleigh's hand, like Ric's was cold and his grip; bone crushing.  Three shakes, manly, but not too familiar. 

"Yup,  Trig Mixter." I said. 

Ric's lighter shot a six inch flame into the darkness on the far side of the room. "Zippo!" he explained, "Lights first time, every time." Dialing down his hand held flame thrower Ric held the blue light over his head illuminating the far end of the lobby.  Thread bare sofas lined both walls, separated by footed urns containing dead parlor palms. "This place must of been real nice back in the day", I said.  Soggy oriental carpet squished underfoot as we headed toward Ric and the Zippo. 

On the back wall were two carbon-copy  doors, the fancy kind with raised panels. Each identical door had panic hardware and an unlit exit sign above it. 

"The lady or the tiger, gentlemen?" Said Ric. His fedora hid his eyes but his smile was slightly unsettling. "Which door will it be?" 

"The right one." Harleigh said confidently. I was sure he was unaware of the reference." What do you think Trig ? "  

"The lady" I said, "definately the lady". 

"Dial 'L' for Lounge"  Chapter 3

Chapter Four -- Three Blind Men and a Lantern --

  Harleigh's lighter was nearly out of fuel -- the flame was shrinking fast. He moved with purpose toward the door which he had chosen and leaned hard onto the panic bar. We waited for the alarm. None came.

The exit door opened into a pitch black even darker than the lobby, it seeped across the threshold and over my shoes.  Ric, his Zippo extended arm's length in front of him, was the lead man. He stepped into the void beyond the exit door. Light flooded the landing -- things scurried into the shadows.  

  We entered the narrow stairway. I followed close behind Ric, one hand on his shoulder. The wooden railing had rotted away so I slid the left hand along the greasy particle board wall.  Harleigh two steps behind me held his sputtering disposable above our heads; three elongated shadow men in a Balinese puppet show tumbling down an invisible hill.

  "Are you sure this is the right place?" said Harleigh,  abandoning the spent Bic. It clattered down the steps in front of us. Seconds later Ric stepped on it cracking the plastic case open like the carapace of an overlarge bug.  The smell of lighter fluid followed. 

"This is the place, of that I'm absolutely sure." Ric said. "I was here before... it was a long time ago ... 

the lights worked then." 

  I started counting, fourteen steps interrupted by landings, five minutes into our descent. The only sound in addition to six erratic footfalls was the regular drip of water into puddles beyond the corona of Ric's lighter.  The wholesome yellow glow of the Zippo was our dog star on a voyage to God knows where;  Mr. Lounge our navigator through the Cimmerian night. 

Eventually the stairs ended.  It was then we first heard the sax, sweet, low and far away ... Harlem Nocturne.  The siren notes drew us on through the claustrophobic corridor like Calypso herself was blowing them. 

"Man that cat can wail!"  said Harleigh in ersatz hip speak. 

  "Word." I said, from a place decades in the future. 

   Ric flipped off the Zippo.  The three of us stood transfixed, sensory deprived in the subterranean hallway.  High, clear, ascending arpeggios, reverberated down the hall, ricocheted, and washed back over us.  

Then the sax plumbed the low notes near the bend before the bell, lingered long on a radioactive low B which rolled up from the concrete beneath my feet fusing my 'Gold Toes' to my 'wing tips.' 

    In front of us a door opened. Surreal sapphire light spilled out into the dark  ... with it came the tinkling of ice on glass -- followed by the faintest scent of juniper. 

"Dial 'L' for Lounge"  Chapter 4

Chapter Five --Hello, I'm Randy--

"Hello stranger." Said the coat check girl, handing Ric a ticket to redeem his fedora on the way out. 

"Meet Sharon, boys" Ric carefully laid out three silver dollars on the counter." Sharon smiled, put the coins in the pocket of her apron and directed us to the podium, where she consulted the reservation book.  Holmes, Harleigh .....Mixter, Trig .... and of course Mr. Lounge.  She ticked off our names and hit the bell to summon the Maitresse D'.  Double doors upholstered in turquoise leatherette, trimmed in stainless with porthole windows opened simultaneously. 

She was spray painted into a glacier blue satin sarong. The drapery of her dress teased out every curve; each pleat terminating at the good bits.  Audacious twin peaks presided over cleavage deep as the Mariannis Trench. A plastic name tag over her heart read;  

Hello, I'm Randy 

"Short for Miranda" she said aware of our keen interest in her identification.  She smelled like lavender and warm sugar cookies. "Right this way boys, your tables' waiting." Her voice was deep, grade A maple syrup a 'Lyric Contralto' with a vocal range somewhere between F below middle C and my wedding vegetables. 

Randy turned;  gun - turret - tank.  Her hips swayed like an engraved invitation all the way to a table reserved for three directly under the sax players chin. 

"Dial 'L' for Lounge"  Chapter 5

Chapter Nine -- The Dog with the Clementine Eyes --

We found the groove straight away. My borrowed bass nearly played itself, and those hep cats and kittens lapped us up like a saucer of warm milk.  Add to that the bottomless Sapphire and Tonics -- Ginger would pucker up and blow me a little angel kiss as she dropped off each round ... I was higher than a kite. 

When we broke after the first set, Ric went off to find Randy the hostess with the incomparable derriere. Harleigh had his eye on Sharon the coat check girl and I went back to the table to wait for pretty Ginger. 

We clicked, just like that, and the night was just beginning. 

Ginger was nowhere to be seen. But the brindle pup with the orange eyes was sitting on my chair. There was a drink with a straw in front of him. Serge Trouserin was propped up in Harleigh's seat, his eyes were closed and his hands were folded across his chest. 

" You can leave -- but you can't take anything with you. " said the brindle dog sipping on his cocktail. 

" Ginger want's to go with you ... but that's the tricky bit ... not impossible ... but difficult. " 

How does he do that? I thought to myself.  The dog is a dummy and Trouserin was the best darn ventriloquist I'd ever seen.  The dog turned to me and enunciated clearly "My named is Choire, I'm not a dummy ... I'll just pretend you didn't think that ...  actually it's Trouserin who's the stiff. I'm the headliner in this dog and pony show." 

Choire cocked his head and stared straight through me with his giant orange eyes. He turned back to his drink and took a long slow sip draining the glass. 

       

 " You need to leave immediately following the last set, after that ... you're here ... and this, my friend is the gig that never ends.  And, make sure that you take nothing from this side with you." 

At that moment Ginger arrived with two drinks, one for the dog and one more for me. 

Dial 'L' for Lounge Chapter 9 The Dog w/ the Clementine Eyes