“Beefeater and tonic, easy on the tonic,” Naz said to the bartender, who was already setting a chilled Collins glass on the bar. “A splash of Rose’s lime, please. I haven’t eaten anything all day.”
She tried not to gulp her drink as she perched herself on the bar stool, not quite facing the room—that would read as too obvious, too desperate—but not quite facing the bar either. The perfect angle to be looked at, yet not seem to look back. There was the mirror over the bar for that.
She brought her glass to her lips, was surprised to find it empty. That was quick, even for her.
That’s when she noticed him. He’d stationed himself at the darkest corner of the bar, faced his drink like a defendant before a judge. Both hands were wrapped around the stem of his martini and his gaze was aimed directly at the olive at the bottom of the shallow pool. There was a sober expression on his face—ha!—as if he regarded what the drink was telling him very, very seriously.
Naz shifted her gaze to the mirror to study him more openly, tried to sort his vibe from the general miasma in the room. A new word, vibe. Part of the hipsters’ jargon, which was creeping into the language like uncracked peppercorns that popped between your teeth. But you didn’t need a special vocabulary to see that something was bothering this guy. A bitter olive that only a river of gin could keep below the surface. The sharpness of his eyes, the broad plain of his forehead below his dark hair, the delicate movement of his fingers all said that he was an intelligent man, but this wasn’t a problem he could solve with his mind. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and, though he hunched over his martini like a dog guarding a bone, his spine was supple, not bowed. So he was athletic, too. But there were some things you couldn’t run away from. Some things only alcohol could keep at bay.
With a start, Naz realized the man was watching her as intently as she was watching him, his amused smile bracketed by a pair of C-shaped dimples. Caught out, she shifted her gaze from the mirror to his eyes.
“The last time a pretty girl stared at me this hard, my house brothers had written D-I-M-E on my forehead.”
Naz reached for her glass, then remembered it was empty. The jig was up. She abandoned her empty glass and walked down to the end of the bar. If nothing else, she was pretty sure he was good for a drink.
Up close he was easier to read. His vibe. His energy. He was troubled, sure, but he was also horny. He was here for a drink, but he’d take something more if it came his way. It just had to be someone he could pretend was as complicated as himself. As—what was the word the beatniks liked?—deep, that was it.
She smiled as politely as her mother had taught her all those years ago. “Dime? Or perhaps di me. Spanish for—”
“‘Tell me.’” An embarrassed chuckle. “It’s rather more jejune than that.”
“Jejune,” Naz said mockingly. “In that case, dit moi indeed.”
She’d fixed the accent—local, refined but also relaxed—and the shirt, which, though a little worn around the cuffs (French, fastened with tarnished silver knots), was bespoke. The knowledge that he was of the patrician classes emboldened her. She knew these people. Had been raised by them, manipulated by them on three different continents, and learned how to manipulate in turn.
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, the story isn’t repeatable in polite company.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what you’re drinking, and we’ll start there.”
He held up his martini glass. “I believe we are both drinking gin. Although I prefer mine without all that tonic, which only dilutes the alcohol.”
“Oh, but the carbonation speeds its absorption, and the quinine is good for treating malaria, should you travel to exotic climes.”
“I’m afraid summers in Newport is as far south as I’ve gone.” The man waved a finger between their glasses as though it were a magic wand that could refill them—a task the bartender accomplished almost as quickly. “My grandmother swore that quinine kept her gout in check. She took an eyedropper full every evening, although I think the decanter of vermouth in which she took it had something to do with any salacious effects she realized. Salubrious, I mean.” The man’s blush was visible even in the dim light. “Salubrious effects.”
Naz touched her G&T to his martini. They each sipped longly, then sipped again. Once again Naz prompted:
“D-I-M-E.”
“Okay.” The man chuckled. “You asked for it. As part of the initiation ritual into my finals club, pledges were required to submit themselves, if you take my meaning, to a female volunteer known as ‘the coin mistress,’ who translated inches to cents, which were then recorded on the pledge’s forehead in indelible ink. Anyone below a nickel was refused membership. I was one of only three dimes, which, frankly, surprised me, since I’m pretty sure I’m one or two pennies short of the mark.”
He fell silent for a moment. Then:
“I cannot believe I just told you that story. Actually, I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that I told the story, or the fact that I said I was one or two pennies short of the mark.”
Naz laughed. “I feel as though I should say something about how much candy eight cents will buy, or nine—” She broke off, blushing even more than her companion, and the man waved his hands like a drowning swimmer.
“Bartender! It is very clear we are not drunk enough for this conversation!”
“So tell me,” Naz said while they waited for their refills, “what has your brow so furrowed this evening?”
“I, uh—” The man’s forehead wrinkled even more as he tried to figure out what she meant. “I have to get the first chapter of my thesis to my advisor by tomorrow afternoon.”
“You seem a little old to be an undergraduate.”
“My doctorate.”
“A professional student. How many pages do you have to turn in?”
“Fifty.”
“And how many more do you have to write?”
“Fifty.”
“Aha.” Naz laughed. “I can understand why you’re so, um, furrowed in the brow area. What’s your dissertation on?”
“Oh please,” the man swatted her question away. “Can’t we just start with names?”
“Oh, pardon me. Naz, I mean—” She broke off. So much for an alias. “Naz Haverman,” she said, offering him her hand. “Nazanin.”
The man’s fingers were cool from his glass. “Nazanin,” he repeated. “Is that … Persian?”
“Very good. People usually think I’m Latin. On my mother’s side,” she added in a quiet voice.
“Sounds like there’s a story there.”
Naz smiled wanly, sipped at her empty glass. “You haven’t told me—”
“Chandler.” His hand pressed hers so firmly that she could feel a pulse bouncing off his fingertips, though she wasn’t sure if it was hers or his. “Chandler Forrestal.”
“Chandler.” The name made her conscious of her mouth. The lips had to purse to pronounce the ch and her tongue popped off her soft palate to voice the d-l combo, making her feel as if she’d just blown him a kiss. But it was the last name she commented on.
“Forrestal. I feel like I know that name.”
Chandler offered her a pained smile. “My uncle perhaps. He was secretary—”
“Of defense!” Naz exclaimed, but inside she was less excited than suspicious. This seemed a bit … fortuitous, given the circumstances. “Under Roosevelt, right?”
“Navy under Roosevelt. Defense under Truman.”
“Well. I had no idea I was chatting with a member of the political elite.”
But Chandler was shaking his head. “I keep as far away from politics as I can. As you said, I’m a professional student, and if all goes well I will be till I die.”
They both suddenly realized they were still holding hands and released each other simultaneously. A true gentleman, Chandler had eased off his bar stool to introduce himself. He slipped back on it now, but even so, Naz felt a closeness between them that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She relaxed then. She’d been at this long enough to know when the deal was closed.