“There he is,” my mother blustered when I looked over at the double doors of the nightclub spotting Tommy’s salt and pepper handlebar moustache, (I had met him once before and wasn’t all that impressed.)
He escorted us to the bar, kissed my mom on the cheek with his double-life affection, shooting the striking and barely dressed barmaid a look that meant our drinks were on him for the evening while my mind wondered what his wife would be thinking if she were the housefly that I examined on the barstool next to me.
I glanced over at my contented mom, catching my nineteen year old distorted reflection in her wine goblet and glimpsed my discontent. Hearing people refer to her as Barbara, her latest alias, was an ongoing reminder of her fugitive status and I often felt uneasy and nervous for her, constantly looking over my shoulder. I was riding solo on the worry express.
The evening marched on with trivial chatter and experiencing young, seductive men shaking their stuff, while girls with bleached hair and relentless tanned skin stuffed bills in their tiny thongs.