Charlie Sierra and Mike November chose the Alfa Romeo for their drive to the Hotel India. Juliet was dancing there tonight, and one lucky guest would get to tango with her. That was fine with Charlie, but Mike preferred the foxtrot.
“It’s not as sexy as the tango, but there is more of a connection between the dancers, so I guess it is sexier than the foxtrot,” Mike said. “At least in the long run.”
“It doesn’t really matter to me,” Charlie said, easing the car into a parking space by a golf cart near the entrance and closing the convertible top. “With her South American blood pumping her moves, it’s all sexy.”
Juliet was from Lima. Rumor was some yankee cop busted her on a runway in the Louisiana delta where she arrived in America 11 years ago with more than kilo of cocaine strapped under her skirt, but he never filed a police report.
Mike ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer for himself, urging Charlie to do the same when Oscar and Victor–a couple of jerks they went to high school with–came bounding up to the bar. Victor talked funny. He was from Quebec and everything he said had a vageuly French inflection, not to mention he said oot instead of out.
“What are you homos doing oot and aboot?”
Oscar laughed, though it wasn’t clear who he was mocking. His friend, or his acquaintances.
“You don’t think you’re taking my tango from Juliet tonight do you?”
Mike finished his beer and raised the brown bottle over his head, brandishing the glass weapon with eyes wide open like some kind of Zulu warrior.
“Oui, monseiur,” he said laying on a thick French accent over his Southern drawl. “I do!”
Juliet happened by and and hushed Mike, pointing at the officer in uniform across the room. He was watching them with Xray eyes trying to figure out if they were playing or about to brawl. After she was sure the scene was over, she turned to Charlie.
“Bravo Papa,” she said pulling on his arm, her laughter an echo off the flickering disco ball overhead. “Let’s dance.”
Meh. It’s a first draft tossed off on a whim. What do you think?