The Nightjar
129 City Road
London
EC1V 1JB
Opal Nera
I duck out of the rain and into an unmarked door on City Road. I’d received a phone call earlier that day requesting my services to help track down a wayward husband. Typically, I don’t get involved in such second rate shenanigans, but I need new business cards and times are tough.
Still a little sore from last night’s bust up with a rather eager Rottweiler, I gingerly make my way down dimly-lit stairs into a San Franciscan-styled speakeasy. It’s a classy joint. I’m not surprised. On the phone, she sounded classy too. I reckon I’m looking for a breathy blond with a face like a worried puppy. I start to wonder whether I oughtn’t to have worn a red carnation for identification when I realise that the place is empty, apart from a long-legged blonde sitting alone at a table in the corner, and a sultry redhead singing a melancholic tune on stage.
I walk over to the blonde. Her hair swished down a little like what Frank Lloyd Wright must have had in mind when he designed Fallingwater. She wore a red dress so tight it looked Weisswurst wrapped in bacon. Boy, did she take a man’s mind off the recession.
The blonde looked up at me. “Mr. Nera”, she drawled.
“Drinks first,” I replied by way of introduction, “formalities second. What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a Fog Cutter. Rum always makes me feel better.”
I return with the drinks and sit opposite the blonde. I set the tall glass down in front of her and take a sip of my Ladybird before asking after her drink.
“Do you always take so long to get to the point, Mr Nera? I asked you here for a reason.”
I cock my left eyebrow by way of response.
“If you must know,” she purred, “it’s absolutely delicious. Tastes like my last Californian holiday – all rum and almond. Do you mind very much, Mr. Nera,” she said reaching across to brush my hand, “if I have a taste of your…”
“Of course,” I finished, sliding my drink across the table.
“Delicious,” she said. A little smile flicked across her lips as she licked a swish of chocolate off the glass. “What is it? Spiced rum and perhaps a dash of plum liquor?”
“It’s a Ladybird. You’re right about the spiced rum, but it’s prune and truffle liqueur, not plum. An excellent palate,” I smiled at her. “Now, tell me, Miss…”
She studied me over her Fog Cutter and remained silent.
“Miss…,” I faltered, “how can I be of assistance?”
“Well, Mr. Nera, you see I haven’t actually got a husband. At least not yet. But I hope to have one soon. Perhaps after a few more of these Fog Cutters…”
No comments:
Post a Comment