Might as well make a good memory.
“What brands of cigars do you have, Mister…”
He twitches his eyebrows. “Night, sir. Mr. Night.”
“With a K?”
He shakes his head. “Night as in nighttime.”
That’s a fake name if I ever heard it. But it fits the club.
Mr. Night turns around, grabs another tray from the counter at the center of the Clubs section, and returns. “Our most popular brands that we carry include Arturo Fuente, Cohiba, Montecristo, and Padron. Any of those strike your fancy?”
“Cohibas are from Cuba, correct?”
“Yes sir. We get them imported weekly.” He lowers his voice. “Smuggled over since the embargo went into effect.”
“I’ll take one of those, then.”
Mr. Night places the tray on a table next to my chair. He extends his long, bony fingers and wraps them around the Cohiba cigar. He produces a cutter from the inner pocket of his jacket. “How would you like it cut?”
“Straight, thanks.”
“Very well.” He cuts the end off the cigar and hands it to me. “Light?”
“If you have one.”
“I always have a light, Dr. O’Rourke.” Quick as a flash for a man of his advanced years, he snaps a lighter emblazoned with a club symbol out of his pants pocket. He flips the lid open, triggers the igniting mechanism, and a small green flame erupts.
I stare at the tiny flame. “How do you make it green?”
“Rouge made the lighter herself. It contains small traces of copper to match the color of the Clubs section.”
Of fucking course. I chose the green section. I can’t escape that damned color for the life of me.
I place the Cohiba in my mouth and Mr. Night brings the lighter to its foot. I take a few puffs—wow, I forgot how delicious Cuban tobacco is—and my cigar is lit.
“That Cohiba there should keep you entertained for several hours, Doctor,” Mr. Night says.
“Thank you.”
He turns and attends to another Aces patron. I take a few more drags from the cigar, relishing the taste.
And I realize.
How the hell did Mr. Night know my name?
6
BIANCA
All these years later, I still get a little stage fright before I start performing.
It’s a good thing. I had a teacher at OCU tell me that if I’m not experiencing a little anxiety before going onstage, then I don’t care enough about the performance. If I don’t care enough, I won’t be focused. If I’m not focused, I’ll make careless mistakes.
Of course, I still make mistakes all the time onstage. They’re usually not noticeable.
Just imagine the amount of flubs I’d make if I didn’t have stage fright.
