Chapter 4

We all piled into Vickey's car -- mine might have been more convenient, since it was an SUV the client had rented for me, but Vickey insisted on driving, and there was something about Debbie's wicked grin that told me to see what these two vixens were up to.

Well, I saw all right.

Vickey's car was as old as me -- maybe even a little older -- it was a fully-restored Austin-Healey 3000, one of the elegant big-bore sports cars that the Brits seemed to turn out with such nonchalant ease in the Fifties and Sixties. She saw me staring at the midnight-blue monster and laughed out loud.

"Yeah, you might not believe it to look at me now," she said, looking down at the black silk t-shirt, open jacket and tight pants (both sleek back leather adorned with lots of snaps, zippers and studs, all chrome), and the black, spike-heeled, almost knee-high fuck-me boots she was wearing, "but before I got these and figured out how to use 'em," (she reached a hand up and gave her right boob a bounce, proving conclusively what the close-draping silk had suggested -- that she was braless) "I was a big-time tomboy and a motorhead. Got my license the day after I was sixteen. My brother and I bought a junker '66 Mustang and completely rebuilt it -- I was eighteen, and I did most of the engine work. My first bike was a 'Guzzi Interstate I found in a barn and rebuilt -- I rode that to college.

"I gave up working on cars mostly when I realised that I could get guys to do the dirty greasy work nd the heavy lifting for me -- even though I always checked up on 'em, just to be sure.

"But then, now that I hardly have to spend any money on myself and I'm making good money, well, I went down to the fanciest classic-car dealer in town and asked what they had that ran pretty good but needed some restoring... and they showed me Sir Donald here. He needed bodywork, a new top and paint, and a transmission rebuild, but it was love at first sight..."

She slipped under the wheel, and I walked round to the passenger side, opened the door, and remembered that this was a two-seater.

"Ummm, where's Debbie going to sit?"

She looked at me as if I were a bit slow. I guess I was, actually.

Debbie had been making some last-minute adjustments to her already (to my mere male eyes) perfect appearance, and had said she'd catch up with us in the garage. As I slid onto the buttery-soft blue leather of the seat, I heard the elevator doors, and then the rapid tapping of Debbie's heels on the concrete.

"Oh. good -- all ready to go," she said. As she trotted round to my side of the car, I got my first good look at her outfit -- red leather miniskirt and jacket (more leather -- looking down at my khakis and open-necked cotton shirt, I began to wonder if I'd missed a memo or something), the jacket open over a t-shirt that said "Objects under this shirt are larger than they appear". She wore fine-meshed fishnet hose, and high-heeled sandals that had grecian-styled straps that twined in a complicated pattern to mid-calf.

Showing an alarming amount of leg under the mini (enough for me to tell that the nets were old-fashioned thigh-highs with a garter belt, but not quite enough to be absolutely sure she was wearing panties), she deftly swung herself into the car and plunked her warm, well-rounded leather-wrapped butt firmly in my lap, and then slammed the door.

"Well," she said, as Vickey started the car, "cause it to march, my old; the night is passing!"

And Vickey, indeed, "caused it to march". Actually, it was more like she caused it to gallop. I have been in some high-stress situations -- an airliner with stuck gear that had to circle and dump fuel for an eternity before we belly-landed on a foamed runway, a couple of rather spectacular wrecks of my own, the Olympic Park bombing in '96 and under fire in one of our country's less well-known foreign adventures... but none can compare to that midnight ride through the dark streets of an unfamiliar city, cutout open to let the big six-cylinder bus engine roar unmuffled. Vickey seemed to be able to see round corners, and always managed to miss oncoming traffic, though I'm sure that our passage must have doubled the city's weekly underwear-cleaing bill. Personally, I became closely acquainted with the chicken stick.

She took one last corner in a full four-wheel cornering slide, and then, halfway down the street, spun the big two-seater forty-five degrees with a handbrake turn that left it at a dead stop and perfectly lined up with the only open parking space on the block.

Both girls hopped out, and were several paces away before they seemed to notice I wasn't with them -- they looked back and I was still sitting in my seat, hand firmly clutching the grab handle, mentally reliving some of the more horrifying moments of the last few minutes. Or possibly it had been centuries. Debbie trotted back, carefully pried my fingers loose, and gently urged me out of the car.

"The ride's over, Uncle Jimmy," she said. "Let's go get you a drink or two."

Now that was a capital idea. But it was a minute or two before I trusted my knees enough to walk to the club door.

The building was pretty unremarkable, with no neon or signs to indicate it was a club; glass doors said "The Adler" in discreet gold script, and the casually-but-elegantly dressed bouncer/doorman had a nametag that said "The Adler" in the same script above his name. (The name on the tag was "Bob". It almost always is, for some reason.)

"Hey, there, Kris -- Tam! Haven't seen you for a while!" he said in a mellow voice that had traces of an Australian accent, beginning to open the door. Then he spotted me. "Uhh -- guys? You know the rules, right? No outside food, booze, free-lance work," at which point he looked me up and down, and finished "... or citizens."

Vickey broke out in giggles when she saw my face; Debbie grinned, put her hand on my arm, and said "It's okay, Bob -- this is my Uncle Jimmy; he's cool with things. Tam and I'll keep him out of trouble till he learns the ropes. He'll learn fast."

Bob looked me up and down -- pausing about halfway to stare a little longer than I was really comfortable with, and then said "Uncle Jimmy? You mean... ?" and he held up his hands about a foot and a half apart. Debbie and Vickey collapsed in each other's arms, laughing their fool heads off at my red-faced expression.

Bob grinned, said "Sorry about that, Uncle Jimmy. Glad to meet you. Don't judge everyone around here by these two kookaburras." Which set the girls off into fresh giggles. As Bob opened the door, I gave Debbie a swat on her round leather-wrapped bottom that caused her to jump and squeak... and then look round and give me a wicked grin when my hand stayed where it was, as my fingers explored her cheek and the valley of her fine ass.

As we walked in, I asked Debbie "So why didn't we go to... what was it?... Polly's?... like you said?"

"We did."

"But the door says 'The Adler'."

"It does."

"So?"

Vickey grinned over her shoulder at me and said, "You're smart. You'll figure it out."

I grumbled to myself as we walked along a dimly lighted corridor. As we passed the first door on the left, I felt more than heard a rolling beat that suggested that there was a dance floor in there, and also that it was well-soundproofed.

Next was the entry to the bar, and Vickey and Debbie paused for a moment to decide whether to head in there for drinks, frst, or to head straight to the dining hall; everyone was hungry, so we trotted on down the corridor. I began to realise that the club peobably took up the entire ground floor of the building.

The dining hall was wonderful. Brightly lighted enough to see the whole place, but not so lightly as to either be uncomfortable or harsh. Decent-sized tables and booths, with enough space between them that waiters or friends could stand by your table and chat without impeding anyone else's getting around. Snowy white linen draped almost to the floor on the tables, and elegantly-shaped cutlery, monogrammed linen napkins, and lovely crystal completed the setups.

The impeccably-dressed host appeared silently at our side. His eyes lingered on me so briefly I almost missed it, then turned to Debbie.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Miss Kristal! It's been a while since we've had the pleasure of your company or Miss Tamara's, for that matter. I assume you'd like your usual booth? And, if I might inquire as to your guest?"

Kristal? Tamara? I remembered that "Bob" had called the girls "Kris" and "Tam", which hadn't fully registered at the time.

"Good to see you, too, Robert," she said, giving the name the French pronunciation. "This is my Uncle Jimmy, visiting from out of town. I'd appreciate it fi you could arrange guest privileges for him while he's here."

Robert glanced my way again, and I swear I saw the corners of his lips quirk in a very small grin, and his hands twitch as if wanting to measure something in the air. I was going to get tired of that routine, I suspected.

"Ah, yes; I recall your tales of Uncle Jimmy. He is certainly welcome here on your recommendation, but do, please make sure he understands the house rules." With that he sketched a small bow, and, with a sweep of his hand, led us to an empty booth in the far corner of the room. He saw us comfortably seated (me on the outside, next to Debbie, Vickey across the table), asked our preferences in beverages, promised to send a waiter in a few minutes, and vanished as smoothly as he had appeared.