She lay sprawled out in front of me. From my elevated vantage point every curve exposed, The Topaz in all her glory. The gold leaf, mother of pearl, 4 foot diameter clock adjacent to the bar read seven-thirty.

As I descended the back stairs a quick peek at the club main floor showed about 1 in 4 tables seated. No Maryanne, no Mr. D. just yet, but the inevitable would come. My night was just beginning its desperation. What I had accomplished here may fade to a broken memory, all because of a dame. Me, Vincenzo Otellio, the consummate host, undone by some long brown hair and set of tits?

As my viscous white wingtips hit the marble floor I stopped. The play entered the foul reaches of my right brain. “Yes!” I said out loud. The cocktail waitresses, each a looker in their own right, turned to me. They dare not say anything – damn right, just look pretty and serve!

Maryanne was coming, into my house, onto my turf, and I knew just what she was going to do.