Henry didn't summon the concierge immediately, needing time to process these new developments and so spent the afternoon walking the scenic, upscale neighborhood, playing tourist until sitting for a fine meal at a nearby restaurant specializing in Argentinian cuisine, well-paired with a bottle of La Azul Malbec 2014.
Returning to his suite, he then showered and went about preparing for his first night on the town.
Marco suggested that Henry might try a Palermo nightclub with the unlikely name of Frank's Bar. Piquing his interest by telling him how to find the famously, both locally and among aficionados around the world, speakeasy-style club before giving him the night's password, required to gain entry.
After a bit of searching Arévalo Street and finally locating number 1443 with its small, discreet sign admitting it in fact being 'Frank's' Henry, who had dressed to pass muster at any but the very most exclusive establishments in Manhattan, had knocked on the heavy, Prohibition Era, speakeasy-style ported door and was met by a suited, imposingly bulky, genial-seeming doorman who merely stood and waited, watching him with a patiently silent mien.
"Estoy aquí por la oportunidad de un intercambio cultural agradable."
Henry ventured, testing the extent of his grasp of Spanish.
"I am here for the opportunity of an agreeable cultural exchange."
Not quite suave, but apparently he'd come near enough as damnit, as the doorman swung the interposed, pitted and scratched wood and iron obstacle wide and stepped aside, allowing him ingress...
To a small, unfurnished and unfinished room whose only noteworthy features were another heavy door on the wall opposite him with an old payphone beside it. Having been properly prepared by the amused Marco, Henry picked up the age-hardened, scuffed black oily-dusty plastic receiver and, when it connected, spoke the night's 'secret' password.
The inner door's lock buzzed as it retracted, allowing him to essay indulging in the quietly famed venue's liquor and lovelies ambiance.
Or booze and broads, drinks and dames, cocktails and cocaine as they might have said in the vernacular of the Prohibition Era.
Henry did nurture a certain appreciation for the whole Flappers and cigarette girls aesthetic and loose, sassy image as well.
Within, he was caught unprepared to be presented first by a cheerfully sleazy little sex boutique, where he was greeted by a very friendly, fairly pretty cashier whose fluent, if heavily accented English suggested that she was not quite as gringo-enamored as many South American girls were rumoured to be.
Her offer to display, or perhaps with some of the high-end sex toys, demonstrate politely declined, the club's newest, slightly sense-blind, somewhat disoriented patron was directed into the bar and lounge itself.
The contrast was striking. Henry took a moment to adjust, looking about curiously while trying not to be too obviously marked as a foreigner.
Frank's was laid with the faithfully old-fashioned bar occupying the far wall, the rest of the space an elegantly intimate lounge.
The bar, quaint patterned wallpaper framing the mirror-backed liquor shelves, staff nattily attired in vests, suspenders and bow ties, with mustachios seemingly part of the uniform, poured drinks for the patrons lining the massive, polished hardwood bar.
The lounge, on the other hand, consisted of numerous intimate nooks, defined by overstuffed leather banquettes or clusters of burgundy velvet-upholstered high-backed chairs, encouraging the couples and small groups to enjoy their indulging and one another's company with the illusion of privacy.
Small, dimly-lit lamps perching on side tables offered their warm glow, but the chamber was more brightly lit by the extravagant, multi-tiered antique crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling.
Lastly, but quickly capturing Henry's eyes were the burlesque girls, local Latina lovelies, who circulated, displaying their charms.
One such beauty approached him and coyly asked if he would like to be seated, and would he also like company?
Henry couldn't find it in him to refuse such a tempting offer. In moments the two were cozily ensconced, his companion, who called herself Beatriz, perched facing him, her ankles crossed and her full breasts on display as she made a shelf of one arm under them.
A waitress took their drink order, mielitas for both, a signature cocktail made with rum, organic honey, lemon juice and grapefruit peel oil.
It was all too easy of course. They talked about the usual, following the script, flirting while he politely feigned interest and Beatriz pretended she wasn't a sure thing.
When, after several rounds of mielitas, Henry suggested she join him for breakfast at his hotel the girl demurely excused herself to dress while he settled the tab and, more promisingly, secured the pretty waitress' number.
Beatriz returned quickly enough to show herself willing, slightly flushed and quite nicely put together in a clingy, thigh-length, scooped floral dress with matching heels and clutch.
Henry hailed a taxi, and soon the two were enjoying the full moon's light from his private balcony, he sprawled on a high-backed chair, she on her knees before him, her cheeks hollowing and head bobbing as she gazed up into his heavy-lidded eyes.
The rest of the night was spent getting better acquainted and when the sun rose Henry kept his promise of breakfast on the hotel terrace before sending Beatriz on her way with cab fare and 'a little present'.
YOU ARE READING
Silver & Gold
ParanormalFor mature readers. Subject matter may offend certain sensibilities, but is in no way intended to do so. My first attempt at a full-length novel. Henry Rosenthal is the great-grandson of Heinrich Müller, a former SS officer who spent his wartime ser...
