It’s My Party (and I’ll cry if I want to)
By:
The Muse
The Wildside was considered by many to be Santa Barbara’s premier
gentlemen’s club boasting three full bars ‘manned’ by bikini-clad
beauties pouring only the best liquor. Overhead, a laser spotlight hit
one of the disco balls currently in vogue for the fourth time, showering
a full chromatic spectrum over the central area and making the pretty
brunette on the raised dance floor glitter.
Tables were scattered around the dance floor, several of them pushed
together along one side to accommodate fifteen men attending one’s last
stag night before his wedding. They were a diverse bunch, casually
dressed and in various stages of intoxication, dividing their attention
between the dancers and the multiple—and very loud—conversations gong on
simultaneously.
At the table nearest the apex of the stage and thus allowing the widest
view, 35-year-old Chip Morton leaned back in his padded seat, a tumbler
of Jack Daniels in one hand, ice blue eyes fixed casually on the dancer,
a buxom lass who was slowly unstrapping her bra while suggestively
wiggling to the sound of an old Prince song. She caught his eye, licked
painted lips seductively while sliding a strap over one white shoulder.
Morton smiled vaguely in return, gaze sweeping to the other men
occupying the table.
Each man he knew very well and for many years now: at the far end, Lt.
Commander Frank Bishop argued heatedly with Lt. Glenn Weinberg over the
latest military spending bill, neither having made a new point sooner
than three drinks ago. In an adjacent seat, Lt. “Sparks” Peatie,
Seaview’s communication
officer, stared gloomily into a gin and tonic while telling a glazed
Jimmy Morton, Chip’s first cousin, about his ex wife.
Ned always was a maudlin drunk,
Chip thought, shaking his head.
And that
wife’s been gone five years. Sheesh.
Whitten, Doc, O’Brien—all part of
Seaview’s command crew.
Neighbors, friends from the golf course, relatives…. Good men all. Men
he was proud to know and call friends. On the stage, the brunette had
finished fussing with her bra and now tossed it away to the
accompaniment of cheers from the audience. Chip applauded politely then
gulped back the remainder of his drink—the sixth so far. He’d managed a
comfortable fog without being too far gone in the alcohol. It was enough
to keep him from finding an excuse to go home but not enough to blunt
the discomfort that gnawed at his gut.
I’d need enough to pass out.
Then again, it was his party
and he could cry…or pass out if he wanted to.
A waitress materialized at his right shoulder. “Get you another,
handsome?” she murmured, bending over to display a great deal of
cleavage only inches from his face.
Chip cleared his throat and tilted his head discreetly up. “More of the
same, honey,” he acknowledged, passing up the glass and accepting his
refill. He downed the shotglass, placed it back on her tray. “”I’ll need
two…” He held up three fingers with a little smirk. “…as soon as you can
get that pretty butt back here. How about you, Dad?”
On the waitress’ other side, a blonde man with a thick mustache drained
his own glass and passed it across. He was a Viking of a man—even taller
than Chip’s 6-feet, once solid but now going to paunch. A pair of thick
reading glasses hung around his neck, dangling onto his white,
short-sleeved shirt; otherwise, he showed few signs of his sixty-one
years on earth. “Thought I’d try me one of them parasol concoctions your
mother is always going on about. Think she called it a Sex on the Boat.”
The new Jack Daniels went down wrong resulting in a great deal of
sputtering and gasping before Morton could fix his father with a fish
eye. “I’ve been out drinking with you a half-dozen times and I’ve never
seen you with anything but whiskey or Jack.” He hefted his own glass.
“And its Sex on the Beach.
Sex on the Boat sounds just…
wrong.”
Charlie Morton laughed, his fair skin flushed with the liquor he’d
already consumed, his gray eyes sparkling. “Back off, sailor boy,” he
retorted good-naturedly. “It’s not every day my only son gets married,
and I intend to enjoy it!” He leaned forward to slap Nelson heartily on
the arm, spilling liquid across the wood table top; Chip winced. “Right,
Harry?”
Dressed neatly in a charcoal button-down shirt and trousers, graying red
hair brushed to the side, Nobel Prize winning scientist Harriman Nelson
flicked a few drops from his hand and sipped his own scotch rocks,
returning a single nod. “Privilege of the father of the groom,” he
agreed, lifting his glass in a semi-toast. He retrieved a pack of
Marlboros from his breast pocket, shook one out then offered the pack.
Charlie refused with a gesture, Chip accepted and placed it between his
lips.
“My last fag,” he explained, igniting it and drawing the smoke in with
pleasure. “I’m quitting tomorrow.”
Nelson took the lighter, lifting one reddish brow in Chip’s direction.
“I hope you’re planning on locking yourself away for the next week,” he
said, smoke roughened voice full of amusement. “Patti will understand if
you postpone the wedding.”
The music was loud enough to be heard only as a repetitious beat; the
flashing lights while hypnotic were also giving him a headache. Morton
took a drag, sighing as the nicotine worked its magic and relaxed away
some of the tension. Some but not all. “Patti would
kill me if I postpone the
wedding,” he said with a shudder. “I’ll just have to take my chances on
the honeymoon.” He released the smoke slowly through his nose as the
music changed and the nearly naked brunette danced away toward the other
side of the stage. “Been a long time since I’ve been to a strip bar,” he
remarked to no one in particular. “More than a few when I was a
midshipman but the novelty wears off fast.” He waved the smoke away then
used his free hand to pick up his glass. “Don’t think I’ve been to one
since leave in Cairo two years ago. We were looking for a purse for my
mom, but Lee’s Arabic is really lousy.”
“If it’s strip clubs you want,” Nelson said, ignoring the haze that
drifted up from his own butt, “you should come to Washington with me
more often. Half my financial meetings are held in the Playboy club.” He
scowled. “Don’t know what it is about bean counters; you’d think they
never saw a woman of their own. And some of the Armed Forces Committee
are even worse.”
The waitress deposited a brightly colored drink in front of Charlie,
gave him a friendly pat, and left. The older man ran a big hand through
his thinning blonde hair, picked up his glass and removed the little
parasol. “Down the escape hatch,” he said, taking a big gulp.
“Wrong end,” Chip muttered just loud enough for him to hear.
Charlie swallowed, choked, and gave him a glare. “More respect for your
elders, whippersnapper,” he growled, taking another gulp. “Hmmm. Taste
like punch. I may need another one…or two.”
Nelson chuckled, a deep, smoke roughened sound, and turned to address
Chip’s uncle and cousin, Ernie and Ted Pratchett. Both were serving
Sergeants in the Army, and both looked extremely nervous at speaking to
even a retired four-star Admiral.
Ted looks like he might salute any minute, Chip thought with a tiny
smirk.
Guess if I hadn’t known the Admiral since I joined
Annapolis, I’d feel that way too.
Charlie Morton was speaking to Terry
Winters, a wiry negro who’d been a good friend from chip’s Pentagon
days. This left Chip himself free to let both mind and gaze wander
again, finally coming to rest on the far wall. In its mirrored surface
he could see the whole room from filled tables to the rowdy bar, and
amidst it all, a single still spot in a whirling sea of faces, he could
see himself. The resemblance to his father was striking—Chip’s light
polo shirt with it’s Santa Barbara Golf Club logo revealed the
well muscled physique of a former football player, with long even
features, a high forehead under hair so pale blond as to be nearly
invisible in the dim lights. Chip knew himself to be a handsome man
whose all-American looks had once even been considered by the Navy to
model for recruiting posters; only his long nose twice broken had
disqualified him at the end. “With those cheekbones, they’d’ve taken
Lee,” he sniggered under his breath, “if he had looked older than
fourteen back then.”
From
the other end of the table, the ongoing argument broke off.
Seaview’s gamma watch
commander, Frank Bishop, normally so taciturn and gruff, tossed back a
full shot of tequila, threw his garish plaid sports coat to the floor
and crawled onto the stage to engage the nearly naked brunette in a
graceful disco hustle only 30 years out of date. The crowd cheered and
tossed dollar bills onto the stage, which Bishop collected as the music
changed. “By your leave, Admiral!,” he called before stuffing them in
the girl’s g-string.
“I didn’t know he could dance,” Nelson remarked, amused as the stocky,
middle-aged man bowed and retreated puffing to his chair.
The lights flickered, came up as a blonde replaced the brunette on
stage. She was slim and pretty and looked about 16 years old. Rather
than a seductive wiggle, the blonde was an energetic dancer even in her
4-inch heels. “Now that’s a
pretty girl,” Nelson remarked as Ernie and Ted left for the lavatories
in the rear. He tapped his cigarette off and shot Morton a wry smile.
“Unfortunately, I feel like a pedophile for even admiring her. Do you
think she’s even out of high school?”
Overhearing, Charlie actually laughed aloud at that; Chip could manage
no more than a sad shake of the head; his ice blue eyes were turned full
on the stripper, a look she returned to the good looking blonde with
interest. In truth Chip’s mind was so far removed from the Wildside that
if the girl had turned into a poodle he wouldn’t have noticed. “I’m with
you, sir. Guess I’m feeling old tonight.”
Something in his tone must have given him away, for the red-haired
Admiral turned dark blue eyes full on him. “Try not to worry,” he said
understandingly. “At least, not tonight. And not tomorrow; a wedding is
supposed to be a happy time.”
That earned a narrow-eyed glance from Charlie Morton. He opened his
mouth, closing it again when the stage was again double-occupied. This
time the blonde girl was joined by a tall, lean man with dark hair. He
snagged her around the waist, twirling her in a humorous jitterbug that
nearly toppled her off her platform heels. The tall man laughed,
released her carefully, and leaped off the stage, landing lightly only a
foot from Morton’s right knee.
He swept a half-full glass off the table,
and raised both it and his voice for attention. “To my best buddy, on
his last night of freedom!”
There were replies of, “HEAR! HEAR!” and “Olé!”
from around the table mixed with a few catcalls from the bar area. Chip
Morton acknowledged it by raising one of the three replacement Jack
Daniels the waitress deposited at his elbow. “To a good buddy!” The dark
haired man bowed, and Chip drained his drink. The liquor passed his
anesthetized taste buds smoothly, seemingly
bypassed his stomach to fill his brain with what felt like oatmeal. He
blinked once then again and went on in a lower voice, “Seriously, Hank,
great party. Thanks.”
Forty-two year old Hank Rovner, gangly and olive skinned, slapped him on
the shoulder. “Least I could do for a neighbor and fellow club member,
Chipper!” He tapped the logo on his own polo shirt. “’Specially since
your best man couldn’t make it.” He glanced around, absently helping
himself to one of Nelson’s Marlboros. “Where’d you say Lee is again?”
With studied nonchalance, Chip took a last drag on his own cigarette and
stubbed it out though not without a pang of regret—it really
was going to be his last
smoke. Then he turned his ice blue eyes full on his neighbor. “Lee is
visiting his sick mother,” he lied without a twinge of shame. “We’re not
sure when she’ll be out of the hospital.”
At his side, he was aware of Charlie’s blonde brows climbing into his
hairline though the older man remained silent. Hank, however, received
the information with a faintly sympathetic, “Hope he can make the
wedding tomorrow.” He wiggled thick brows. “Got’a mingle with that
pretty waitress, Chipper. I might get her phone number.” His long face
fell. “’Course, the wife’ll only make me give it back, but it’s the
chase, eh?” He laughed and strolled off in the direction of the bar.
Though the room was narrowing a bit at the corners of his eyes, Morton
scanned it again, still seeking a dark, curly head that wasn’t there.
Blast Lee anyway, he thought
savagely,
and blast ONI. I knew Lee shouldn’t have taken that
last mission. I told him
he’s too familiar in the People’s Republic to operate there anymore.
‘In-and-out mission.’ HA!. He started at
a voice close to his right ear.
“No word at all, eh?”
Chip turned, meeting his father’s concerned gray eyes briefly before
turning away. “I’m sure his mother will be fine, Dad,” this mumbled into
his drink. No word for the last
three weeks, he added with a grimace but only to himself.
Charlie Morton’s reply was an annoyed snort. “You forget that I know
Amanda Crane,” he retorted, sounding surprisingly sober for a man who’d
been drinking for two hours. “I called her the minute I heard she was
‘sick.’ She didn’t know what I was talking about.” At a temporary loss,
Chip could think of no reply to this so he remained silent, eyes fixed
on his glass until Charlie went on more gently, “I may not have your
security clearance, but I’ve known that boy since he was 17 years old.
That gives me a right to be worried, too.”
Unfortunately, both points were true. Both Charlie and Clara Morton had
adopted Lee Crane as one of their own since the first time Chip had
brought the lonely boy home for the holidays. And Lee had accepted their
unconditional regard with a surprised pleasure that never failed to warm
Chip from within. But Top Secret means just that to a career officer,
and Chip was nothing if not pure Navy. After a moment’s thought, he
opted for the direct approach for this perceptive man who was his
father. “Can’t talk about it, Dad,” he said simply. “Let’s just say, I’m
worried.”
“You think he’s in trouble, then?”
A redhead now owned the stage even as the music changed again to a slow
tempo. The blonde, still in her sequined top and g-string, climbed down
carefully, accompanied by her now-dressed brunette coworker. “Heard it’s
your bachelor party,” she said in a girlish voice, making a seductive
toss of the hips.
Thoughts still on the missing Lee Crane and on redirecting his father
from classified information, it took Chip several seconds to comprehend
both the girl and her intention.
A lap dance? he thought with an inward wince.
The strip club is one thing—and I
could have trusted Lee to plan something else!—but if Patti finds out
about a lap dance…! She made to straddle him, fingers reaching for
her bra clasp; Chip headed her off by grabbing her wrist. “Why don’t we
dance instead?” he suggested, pushing back his chair.
She shrugged, surprised at the rejection but obliging. She allowed
herself to be led to a clear area a few feet away, her friend dragging a
delighted-out-of-his-melancholy Sparks along. “When’s the wedding?” she
asked, slowing her moves so Chip could keep up.
He glanced down. She was older than she at first appeared—in her early
twenties, perhaps—and already starting to show lines around her
heavily-painted eyes. Maybe Lee’s
type, he thought with a shade of melancholy.
He likes them blonde and willowy;
she’d need a little more meat on those bones to get my second look.
Aloud, “The wedding is tomorrow. Patti and I are taking a plane to Oahu
Monday morning.”
A friendly smile touched her scarlet lips. “That sounds terrific. Guess
that guy…” She pointed at Hank Rovner, who was now on one knee before
the laughing waitress. “…is your best man? He seems real nice.”
The innocent statement brought only another wave of melancholy. He
danced closer to the table, snagged his father’s drink and downed it in
one gulp then grimaced. Sex on the Beach. Sweet and sticky.
Remind me not to do that again.
For some reason the room tilted slightly to the left and the edges
were starting to fuzz a bit. Chip blinked and fixed on the mirrored
wall, which seemed steadier somehow. His own cheerless expression stared
back— Wonder how long before I
can get out of here?—and he determinedly refocused on the rest of
the large club. Most of the patrons were clustered around each of the
three bars, the few tables not occupied by his bachelor party were
empty. And…was the redhead upside down on the pole or was his vision
fading faster than he thought?
Movement in the mirror caught his attention as two large, bearded
lumberjack types stomped from the little foyer to the main bar. They
laughed loudly, making so much commotion that he nearly missed the third
man who stepped inside and stood against the wall. So dark was it that
all Chip could make out was a slender shadow in dark clothes quietly
scanning the bar. Chip’s breath caught in his throat for a long moment
then he released it slowly. Wish
fulfillment in a bottle, he told himself disgustedly.
Not only does it make women
better looking but it makes brothers appear out of thin air.
Actually, that seemed appealing, so he appropriated something clear from
the table and swigged it down without tasting it.
Another drink and I’ll see Lee
onstage instead of that redhead.
He turned away, staring at his blonde dancing partner who was for some
reason doing the Twist, then to the table where his father was laughing
heartily
tête-à-tête
with Nelson. He again glanced into the
mirror, something drawing his attention to where the newcomer was slowly
making his way toward the stage. There was too much glare from the laser
for him to see clearly, but Morton could make out in flashes fair skin
and thick, dark curls uncut for some time. A bright strobe flare
revealed a slender figure in black turtleneck and jeans…something
familiar in the athletic stride….
Chip froze.
By now his rigid stance was being noticed by others at the table, who,
unaware of his interest in the mirror, followed his line of sight to the
far bar. The blonde drifted away and even the redhead on stage seemed
aware that she’d lost her audience. Chip ignored them all, his own
thoughts echoing back at him through the haze of Jack Daniels.
Another
drink and I’ll see Lee… another drink and….
He saw it then—long, sooty lashes drop
then open wide, revealing a bright glint of gold. He’d seen that color
in only one pair of eyes in his life. Jack Daniels and nicotine cleared
and Chip Morton spun, finally sure. “LEE!”
he bellowed drowning out both music and conversation.
At the table, Harriman Nelson twisted, hope sweeping his craggy face,
Charlie looked confused. Voices mingled together, phrases of, “It’s the
Skipper!” and, “Crane is here?” breaking the ensuing pause. Morton
noticed them only peripherally as he took three long strides past the
table, arms wide. Lee smiled broadly and offered his hand. “Chip, I—“
That was a far as he got. For three years, Morton had maintained a
respectful public distance between himself and the commander of
Seaview; that distance and
all of Chip’s inhibitions melted away in a wash of alcohol and relief.
Hey—it’s my party! he
reasoned, caring not one whit about protocol. He ignored the handshake
to wrap powerful arms around Lee Crane just below waist and lift the
astonished man off feet. “It’s about time you came home!” Chip said,
turning once in place and catching a glimpse of slack-jawed expressions
on Seaview’s officers and wry
amusement on his friends.
He set the shocked man back down and caught him by both shoulders; Lee
looked pale and tired but otherwise unhurt. “You’re all right?”
Crane nodded, a grin on his lips, eyes glowing in a way Morton rarely
saw in the somber young Captain. “You didn’t think I’d miss your
wedding, did you?” he laughed.
Chip’s heart soared because he had in fact thought that very thing.
Instead of replying, though, he playfully grabbed a fistful of inch-long
black curls. “You’re not walking into that church without a haircut.”
“I like his hair,” the little blonde dancer remarked only to be brushed
aside by a juggernaut named Harriman Nelson.
“Welcome back, lad,” he greeted, his own relief plain in his face as he
enveloped Lee’s hand in both his own.
The rest crowded around then, the officers with respectful hellos, the
others more casually, Charlie actually giving the young man a bear hug.
Hank Rovner elbowed himself closest to slap Crane enthusiastically on
the back. “Glad you made it, Lee! I didn’t want to have to stand in for
you again.”
Lee looked confused; Chip gave him no opportunity to puzzle it out. He
grabbed the slender man by the arm and dragged him to the table. Chip
knew he was grinning like a maniac—he felt giddy and not from the
alcohol. Suddenly, it dawned on him that this was his bachelor party—his
wedding to a wonderful woman the next day! His friends’ excited babbel
mingled with the music, the quiet happiness on his brother’s face—the
feel of Lee’s lean shoulder under his hand—made him laugh aloud.
“What are you waiting for?” he remonstrated, shoving the third Jack
Daniels into Lee’s hand and helping himself to another from a nearby
table. He raised both glass and voice. “Drink up, everyone! After all…It’s
my party!”
finis
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