Short Story: It happened in the Ol' Monterey.

Forty years ago, the barren sun-baked parking lot behind me was the best diner on Atlantic Avenue. Forty years ago, I spoke like a kid from Queens instead of in the Queen’s English. Forty years ago, the building I am staring at was the hottest club in Brooklyn and co-owned by Frank Sinatra, and me.

The three-storied art deco building had once been a bank, the most prosperous on Long Island.  It is still incongruous in the middle of a nondescript line of flat roofed stores that have changed hands and brands over the decades. The small stone-lined windows with their chiselled lintels and sloping sills are the same. Fresh paint on the deep-set frames dazzles in the blades of the mid-afternoon August sun. 

The ground floor is different to how I remember. The front door is no longer through the centre of a boxy portico that sticks out into the sidewalk. This is now a smart fully-glazed extension through which I can see animated guests sipping artisanal coffees and stabbing fingers with trendy opinions. The new windows have white script badging the coffee house as “The Monterey” and tell me that brunch is the “best in Brooklyn” and “worth lingering”. The new front door is to one side of the glass box.  

I cross the bleached 4-lane and, as focused as I am on the building, barely hear the rusting cab rush past me, its dust vortex just failing to catch the tail of my cream linen jacket. The door looks secure and has heavy layers of glass to counter the heat and, perhaps, local delinquents. It swings open easily as I push through into the chatter of patrons. I catch the eye of an elegant woman with long white hair who commands the hive. She watches me for a moment then leans towards a worker bee standing with her behind the pastries and coffee machines on the counter. The slight young man moves around the end of the counter with a dancer’s hip swerve and walks up to me.

“Welcome to the Monterey.  For one?”

“Yes, please.”

He hears my faux English accent and knits his perfect plucked eyebrows. Is he wearing lipstick?

“We have a great table,” he says, preparing to usher me to two-top against a wall.

“Is there any way I could sit in the window?” I ask. He pouts and looks at the space for six: two, three-person benches either side of an oblong table, already occupied by a group of animated patrons.

“Let me see what I can do.”  He glides back to the mistress of the house and speaks to her with his back to me. She is still staring at me as she bends her head and replies. The dancer pirouettes back to me and looks at me with renewed interest. 

“Just give me a second.”  He reaches out, grabs a tray from a stack at the end of the counter, and flows towards the window seat. It takes just a moment for him to lean-in and talk to the chattering group. I don’t know what he says but they all look at me as though I have come to arrest them. The waiter scoops up their unfinished drinks and whisks them to the table at the side of the room.  This had now been paired with another by the tall woman and could seat all four. 

I stand as rooted and useless as an indoor streetlamp staring at the scene. Then I feel the waiter touch my elbow.  

“Sir, if you just give a moment, I will have the table cleaned and ready.”

“I’m sorry, I could have waited. I did not want to screw things up.” 

“Trust me, Sir, it’s my honour.” I am warmed by his instant and genuine smile, although I still find the glossy lips disconcerting.

Soon I am pressed against the glass looking out towards the empty parking lot where I had been left by my taxi a few minutes before. My Moretti arrives and I hear a glassy clink as someone fills my glass. I drink half the glass and return to gaze out at the street. Then I feel the touch of a hand on my shoulder…

As a wide-eyed innocent and semi-literate twenty year-old, I was sitting at the counter of the diner looking across Atlantic Avenue at our boarding house and its fresh “For sale” sign.  “Call Tony for a great deal” it says.  I have lived on the top floor at the rear of the building my entire life and still do. My back prickles at the thought of having to find a new home. My high school days, a staccato of truancy and day-dreaming had made little impact. I believe that I had only graduated because the principal had an unrequited crush on Mom. Maybe it wasn’t unrequited, who knew. Anyway, he seemed to take pity on me. More fool him. I had since helped out with the guests, and kept the place clean. The routine was dull and the guests could have been more exciting: travelling sales reps arriving in stiff Terylene suits and sweaty button-downs, their wide, patterned ties already loose at the neck. My mother welcomed them all, tucking them into their rooms and carrying their meagre luggage up the two flights of stairs, rattling though the rules of the house - Check-out at 10, fire-escape at the back, fresh linen every third day, that kind of thing.

I was on always call to kick the life back into any of the ancient air-con units, each machine desperate for the retirement it had earned after so many years of hard labour.  It was during these visits that I met most of the guests. I would make beds, sweep-up and clean toilets every day. It was easy work and allowed my Mom to focus on the paperwork and the front-desk. I had never known my father. I had a vague understanding that he had ‘just been passing through’ and had caught my mother’s eye. She had lived with the consequential shame and absolute responsibilities that an early pregnancy brought to a young catholic woman in the post-war turmoil. The dates didn’t work for him to have been a tired GI celebrating a return from the war, but it was not far off. I fantasised about that sometimes. Now I would never find out.

I did not understand the cancer. I had barely listened to the earnest doctor as he explained it all to me. He had looked sad and had tried to look me in the eyes as he ran through the excuses. “They had tried everything”; “Sometimes, these things just happen”; “It was her time, yada, yada yada.”

There was no will, my Mom hadn’t needed one. Her accountant/lawyer/sometime boyfriend explained it all to me. She had owned the building, but had taken out a large loan to see us though a dry spell and buy new beds. The payments were at a reasonable rate of interest but Mom had barely been on-top of them. The rooms needed more work and there was no spare cash to pay for any staff. The building was sound and apart from the dying air-con units, all the major plumbing and electrics were still up-to-code. He just could not work out how the payments could be met if a member of staff had to be hired. So now, my house, my livelihood and my Mom’s dreams were in Tony the Realtor’s deal-cutting hands.  There would be a reasonable lump-sum left-over after the sale. It might not buy me a place to live but I could start a small business if I had the first-clue about… anything. 

I thought that I never felt sorry for myself but from the counter I just stared at the “For Sale” sign with my chin in my hands and my shoulders slumped. 

“That root-beer float is never going to drink itself, kid.”  I heard from behind me. I swivelled the bar-stool toward the mystery voice. A middle aged, slightly overweight man had taken a seat beside me. He had a bad toupee and a perm-a-tan. He looked me straight in the eyes without blinking. His eyes were a dark, green/blue and the crinkles at the corners were exaggerated by his broad smile. 

“It looks good, I tell ya. Don’t let the ice-cream melt.”  He was way too smartly dressed for the diner. I had never seen a suit like it. His sleeves diffracted the morning light. I did not know I was looking at a $1000 silk & mohair masterpiece. I just knew that he did not belong and that he had money.

“Maybe I want it to melt,” I mumbled. 

He ignored my truculence, his smile unwavering. “So how come you’re looking at that sign so hard, are you thinking about buying the place?”

The bartender replied for me. “It’s his place. He lives there, has done forever, only now he has to sell it ‘cause the numbers don’t stack-up.”

“Your place?” The rich visitor whistled. “Didn’t it used to be owned by a woman, Ellie something? I forget.”

“That’s her” the bartender replied. “Elisia Alfieri, may God rest her soul. A wonderful woman, beautiful too. Worked hard all her life, never married, they say it’s on account of Alex here.”

“Thanks, Mike. Just what I need right now.” I say, without turning away from the window.

“Hey Al, it’s maybe the truth, I’m just saying that is what they said. She had you and that was enough for her. Christ, a few years ago you were enough of a handful for anyone.”  Mike laughed and shook his head. “What a pain the ass you were. You only came good since you left school and helped her out some.”

“So Mr Pain-in-the-ass, you don’t want to sell the place?” the stranger asked me. I swivel on the stool and face him.

“I have to. There’s a debt on the property and I don’t have the experience to run-it as a business. I mean, I know how to do all the work but I never handled the business side, you know?”

“Do you live there?”

“Well, yeah I guess, for now.  We, I mean I, have a couple of rooms out back.” 

“So you will be both out of work and homeless.” 

“Kinda, I guess.”

“What are going to do?”

“I dunno. I’ll find something.”

“I’ll bet you will.”

“Hey, how do you feel about showing me the place? The stranger smiled at me again. “You know,  just in case?”

“In case you’s going to buy-it?” Mike chipped-in. He had been listening along.  This was how he kept in-touch with all goings-on in the neighbourhood.

“Just because you never know.” the stranger replied.  “Mike, could I get the check.” He waved a finger at me. “For the float, too?” 

“You could, Sir, but seeing as it’s on the house, I would have to pay myself.” 

That was odd, I thought, Mike never called anyone “Sir”.  You were either “bud” or “mister” depending on whether you were a old or new face in his diner.  And he certainly never gave away free anything. Mike looked flustered. It was the first time I had ever seen such a thing. He was actually blushing.

“Sir, I was wondering, could you see your way to maybe signing the bar where you sit. I have a pen and everything.” Mike held out a felt-tip pen in both his hands as though it were a communion wafer.

“Sure!” the stranger replied, and he carefully uncapped the pen and scrawled something illegible on the previously spotless bar surface.

As we both left the diner, Mike called out once more. “It was an honour to have you in here, Sir.”

I turned, dumbfounded, to stare back at Mike. He had begun to build a small barricade of items to protect the autograph on his counter. 

“Who are you?” I asked the man.

“You really don’t recognise me, do you, Kid?”

I just stared at him. He did look vaguely familiar.  “My name is Frank Sinatra but you can call me Frank.”

Not for a minute, as I was showing Frank around the building, did I stop feeling like a total fool. There were only a few people in the world as famous: Mohammed Ali, Neil Armstrong, that kind of famous. But would you recognise Neil Armstrong if he bumped into you?  Besides, Frank should have been younger and more like the pictures on every one of the album covers in my mother’s devoted record collection.  

He did not ask me many questions. He asked to look around my apartment and he looked in all of the boarding rooms.  They were empty and he did not linger very long: without the air-con, they were stifling.  He did stand in different corners of the downstairs humming to himself.  The high-ceilings and lack of walls inherited from its banking hall legacy. Once he sang out a note, listening to the acoustics maybe?  There was a basement that had once been a strong room but the safe door had long been locked open and we used it for general storage. 

After about half an hour he told me that it was perfect and that his guy would “come and see me tomorrow.  Was 10am OK?" I nodded, still dumbstruck, feeling more of an idiot than ever, and that was it. As we left the building, a mile-long black Caddy Fleetwood was waiting outside. He turned to me a last time.

He nodded at me. “You’re a good kid,” was all he said. A bulky chauffeur had opened the door and Frank Sinatra was gone… but not, as it turned out, for very long. 

The next day, at 10 am on the nose, I opened the door to two men who could not have looked more different than each other or less attractive than Frank Sinatra. The first who shook my hand was half a head taller than me and as stiff and wiry as a handful of raw spaghetti. His hand was bony and his fingers met around the back of my hand as we shook. 

“I’m Leo Ruvolo and this is Nico. I’m handling the deal and Nico is looking at the building. How does that sound?” Nico was no more that five and a half foot tall and was half as wide. He was close to totally bald and his hands were rough and calloused. He looked like every depiction of Friar Tuck I had seen in the movies, minus the robes, and the humour.

“So you are Alex, yes?” Leo continued. I realised then that I had not introduced myself so I just nodded. “Shall we let Nico look around while we talk?”

“Sure,” I replied.  

Leo pointed to the reception desk. “We can sit through there?”

I nodded. What was there to say or deny. He knew better than I where we should sit. 

We sat in awkward silence in the small room behind the reception desk in which my mother had spent so many hours doing paperwork. I was waiting for Leo to speak and he was waiting for Nico to complete his survey.  Thankfully only a dozen minutes passed before Nico walked in and Leo turned to face him.

“Well?”

“This place? It’s got legs.”

“How long?”

“Few tables, eight rooms. Twenty, thirty grand tops to fix it up. First week? We’re pulling ten, twenty Gs downstairs easy. Upstairs? Another five a night, no problem. This joint’s good for 200 a week, easy. And get this—the vault downstairs? Jackpot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the basement, it’s a fuckin’ vault. I shit you not.” Nico looked at me for the first time. “Oh! Sorry, kid.”

“A vault?”

“Yeah, as in Fort fuckin’ Knox. Sure the door is busted but we can work that. This is the best place you have shown me for a year.” Nico was pumped and grinning ear to ear. Then the smile vanished.  “Hey, should we be talking numbers in front of the boy?”

It was Leo’s turn to smile. Only his smile did not quite reach his eyes. I had the feeling that they never did. 

“It’s a little late now but I think we are alright. Alex, your mother was from Bari, right?”

I had heard my mother talk about this but how did this Lurch clone know that.“Sure, I guess.”

“My family is from Salerno, so we are practically cousins.”  Again with the smile that went nowhere. “Don’t worry Nico, Alex is now part of the family and he is our new partner.”

“Partner?” I was confused.

“Sure. Here’s the deal.”  He splayed out his hands, palms up. Nothing to hide, the picture of reasonableness. “You don’t really want to sell the building, so don’t sell it. You need somewhere to live, so live here. We’ll use the downstairs, maybe the rooms upstairs. Don’t worry —  you’ll get your cut, regular as clockwork.”

“So Frank, I mean Mr Sinatra does not want to buy the building?”

“No. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great building but what would he want with a place like this in Brooklyn. He suggested a better arrangement that gets you everything you want and gets us everything we want. It’s ideal.”

“What are you going to do with the place?”

“The downstairs, we are going to turn into a fancy Cocktail and Jazz lounge. You know, high priced drinks, the best music and clientele with expensive tastes.”

“What about the rooms?”

“Ah, that’s the icing on the cake. These clientele might need a little extra entertainment. Do you catch my drift?”

I was generally ignorant but this was obvious. “You mean, hookers?”

“Well, let’s not call them that. Let’s just call them entertainers.”

“So you are going to turn my mother’s house into a whore house?” I am not sure if I had meant to sound so indignant but it just came out. For the first time Leo smiled for real. 

“Frank said you were a smart Kid. We are going to turn your house into the best music and drinking joint on Long Island. We’ll just add in a little personal entertainment. And you’ll do just fine.”

I tried to say something and stuttered to a halt. Leo patted my arm. “It’s a lot to take in, right? I get it.”

I choked-out, “Is it dangerous?” 

This time it was Nico who guffawed. His eyes were streaming and wiped them with his sleeve. He had to lean against the door to steady himself. “Kid, the one thing we can guarantee, and I mean positively and absolutely, is that you are going to have the best protection in the world.”

I waited until Nico had wiped his nose with a rag that he had pulled from a pant’s pocket. “I mean the cops. The precinct house is only a few blocks away.”

Leo answered this time, his voice level and serious. “Yes, it’s perfect. We have an arrangement there. They will guard this place as though their pensions depended on it. And to be fair, that’s a pretty safe assumption.”

They both looked at me. Two gangsters, the type of men I had seen in movies and had once pretended to be. They were clearly expecting me to say something. Did I have to agree?

“OK, I guess.”

Leo’s real smile returned. “That’s it, Alex. A man who knows his mind and can make a decision. Good call. I’ll take care of everything. We’ll get started right away. You are going to need a lawyer, are you OK with the same one Mr Sinatra uses?”

“Sure.” The truth was, I had no clue. “What do I have to do? Do we need a rental contract?” It sounded like the kind of thing a business partner should ask. 

“Well… we could I suppose.” Leo looked up at Nico. It was pure theatre but I had no way of knowing at the time. He looked back at me. “Say, you trust Mr Sinatra, don’t you.”

“Yes… I mean, absolutely.”

”So how about we just keep this as a gentleman’s agreement. Everything will be in your name. The building, the liquor licence…  you are 21 in a month, have I got that right?”

“Yeah, in September, but how did you know?”

“Don’t worry. The licence will be in your name. Your lawyer will handle everything. He will pay all your taxes, because we must all pay our taxes, eh Nico?” 

Nico chuckled and lit up a cigarette. 

“And we will put some money in your bank account every month. A completely legit salary. You do have a bank account, don’t you?” Leo wafted his hand in the air, trying to wave away the smoke threatening to surround his head like an emperor’s laurel wreath.

“Well, kinda.” I had been granted access to my Mother’s account and the bank had recently transferred the few hundred dollars it contained into a new account under my name. I did not have any cheques and had been living on the emergency stash my mother had kept in the kitchen drawer. 

“That settles it. Your lawyer will handle all the books for the business. All you need to do is live in your apartment and help out whenever and wherever you want to.”

And that is how it started. From a soon to be homeless youth to a man of leisure in one, almost instant, step. Well, a man of leisure who was also a janitor, and a part-time barman who saw semi-naked women every day.

The decorators arrived the day after my meeting with Leo and Nico. I did not see Leo again for a long time, but Nico was there every day, supervising the works. There were at least 20 guys on site, all Italian. It was obvious that they had all worked together for a long time. They called me “Mr Alfieri” for the most part, except for a pair of twins who called me “Signore Alfieri”, and Nico who called me “kid.”  I was at a loose-end and spent much of my time getting under the feet of the workers. This went on for a couple of days until Nico called me over and thrust an envelope into my hands. 

“What’s this?” I asked.

Nico grinned, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. “An advance. Go see a movie or somethin’.” I looked in the unglued envelope. Inside was a thick wad of bank notes. A mix of 10 and 20 dollar bills. It must have been close to 500 dollars! I had never seen so much money in one place. 

“Are you serious? This is a lot.” 

Nico looked serious. “Yes it is, but it is your money. For real. Go eat, have a steak, a beer maybe. Take a girl. Show her a good time.” 

That would have been fine if I had a girlfriend. I had tried, but every girl I spoke to was put off by the abject fear in my eyes. God forbid that one of them had come close enough to feel my clammy hands. Don’t get me wrong, I was tall, dark-haired and handsome: the full package. I just lacked confidence and was always worried that any girl would laugh at my poor education or lack of, let’s call it, relevant experience. 

“I will.” I lied. “Thanks Nico. See you tonight.”

“I hope not!” He called to me as I was half-way out of the door.

The renovation finished soon enough. They even repainted my two rooms and refitted my kitchen. I had new air-conditioning: 65 degrees in August - heaven!

The liquor licence came through a day after my 21st birthday as though it had been been kept at the mailman’s house for the occasion, and we opened for business a day later. Frank was on the bill for the first 5 days. The new neon sign above the front door lit up his face on the billboard. “Ol’ Blue Eyes is in Brooklyn!” it announced.

I was sitting in my living room waiting for the opening when there was a knock at my door.  I man I had never seen before introduced himself as Stefano. He was the Maitre-D.

“Mr Alfieri? Mr Sinatra would like to speak to you. Downstairs. Please follow me.”

I did so. Frank was sitting in the small room that had not long before been my Mother’s office. It had been fitted as a changing room and had a make-up table in place of her decrepit desk.

“Kid! How are you doing?” He stood up and shook my hand. 

“I’m fine, Mr Sinatra, I mean Frank.”

“Are the boys looking after you?”

“More than you can know, Sir. My apartment is amazing.”

“Good, good. Look I don’t have a lot of time but I do need to say something. Don’t take any offence but when the club is open, you either have to stay in your room or go out of the club through the backdoor. You look very young and it would just be better.  Do you think that you can do that?”

“I, er, of course, Sir.”

“Frank. Always call me Frank. It won’t be forever, we just need to get you trained-up to fit-in. Can you wait for that?”

“Yes Sir…Frank.”

“You’re a good kid. Your mother did a good job. I have to get ready. See you soon, OK?” The door opened behind me and Stefano ushered me back to my rooms. 

I did not see Frank Sinatra perform but I heard him every night. His last song was always, “It happened in Monterey”. He would swap out the last “Mexico” for “Brooklyn-oh” and he sang “the Monterey” instead of just “Monterey”. It worked every time. The applause was loud and the crowd cheered and banged the tables with their fists in approval.

Everything passed me by. My only connection with the business was that once a month, a sweating accountant would meet me in my apartment to go through an entirely fictitious set of accounts. Sure, there were receipts, real ones. It’s just that they bore no relation to the quantities we actually received. There were cheque stubs that tallied with performers. Maybe they were real?  All I knew is that each month a huge sum of money arrived in my bank account, and that after a year or so the bank manager would come out of his office to welcome me when I visited the branch to make a withdrawal.

The working girls were uniformly young and they started off cheerful and chatty but it did not take long before the smiles were more forced. Most only stayed for a few weeks before I never saw them again. This should have worried me but I was 21 and more ignorant than most.

There were a couple of girls who seemed to become regulars. One was a tall, slim girl with a Tennessee accent. Her name was Patty. She had the most beautiful red-hair and was covered in freckles from head to toe. I loved her smile. She had a small gap between her naturally straight front teeth. We would sometimes sit at the bar before opening to share a beer and she would tell me tales of her childhood outside Knoxville. It was Patty who, some months later, snuck me up to her room and taught me what I had been too terrified to learn. She was gentle and held me in her arms when I cried with relief. 

I next saw Frank when a limo arrived to take me to a tailor in the garment district. The sign outside read “Moskowitz & Moskowitz”, quite a mouthful. Frank was waiting for me as I walked though the door. He greeted me in the usual way and with his hand on my shoulder he laid out his demand that I should be made 5 dark suits with modern styling but classic enough to stand the test of time. Aaron, Mr Moskowitz, was to select all the fabrics  and choose matching shirts, ties and socks plus three pairs of formal shoes, two black and one brown. He was instructed to “Put it on the account”.  Frank did not hang around at the workshop, he just delivered me into his tailor’s capable hands and left. He had prepared me for work at the club. 

I learned how to make cocktails. I served Old Fashioned’s to the Mayor of New York and Vodka Martini’s to the NYPD Chief of police. Everyone who was anyone came to the club. I met Mohammed Ali and David Bowie. Well, “met” is a strong word. I made the drinks for their table, but I could stretch that into quite a story. I also began to understand the sadness behind the eyes of the women who entertained senators and governors after the music had ended. Patty was there for many years and if you did not look closely she looked happy. I would see her less and less at the years passed and then she was gone. I should have asked after her but it was “not the right thing to do”.

One night, it must have been when I was around twenty-nine years old, I caught a stunning woman in a sheer gold sequin dress, sitting at a premium stage-side table, looking at me. I smiled at her and she quickly looked away but I caught her eye later on in the evening and raised a glass, I happened to be polishing, in her direction. Once again she turned her head and when I next had a moment to spy her out, the table was empty.

A year later, Frank had invited me to another of his regular soirees. A white jacket and cocktail dresses affair on a warm summer’s evening. I was sporting another of Aaron’s creations and if I say so myself, I looked the part, even if I still felt as out of place as a snowman in a sauna. 

Half way through the evening, Frank walked up to me with a beautiful young woman draped on his arm. She looked familiar.

“Alex, please could I introduce you to…” he stopped mid-sentence and whispered in her ear, she giggled and whispered something in return. “…Lady Susan Malmesbury, Marchioness of Whitby.”

He looked at her again, “Did I get that right this time?”

She hid her mouth behind her hand as she laughed again. “Perfect”. She looked at me and her eyes went wide. “Wait! You’re the barman from the club.”

I blushed and Frank came to my rescue.

“Yes, he is, Susie. Only he is the owner of the club and works at the bar because he likes to keep busy. Lady Susan, this is the one and only Signore Allesandro Alfieri, Prince of Brooklyn.”  It took me along time to live that down.

And nature ran its course. I was married to Susan for 32 years. I moved to England and we lived in her family’s homes in Yorkshire and Chelsea.  She never took my name. That was part of the deal with her parents. We had 2 children and several dogs. They have gone the way of all families: Fun, school, angst, engagements, weddings, divorces and children of their own. 

Susan passed away earlier this year, her battle a painfully close replica of my mother’s. This time I confirmed that no amount of money and no number of doctors can perform miracles. We had a wonderful life together.  I am left with beautiful memories, and adorable grand-children. I can live in the Chelsea mansion until I die. I hardly spend any money and my children will be able to afford to do something they love for work instead of something that grinds them down. The only negative is this damn transatlantic accent.

As we all know, Frank died just before the turn of the century. We spoke on the phone a few times a year and we visited with him when schedules allowed. He was always interested in my family but he never met my children. I hope that I brought some variety into his huge existence. I owed him more than everything and I loved him. 

At his funeral Susan and I were standing in the background when, a still wiry but now frail and stooped, Leo approached. He shook my hand and offered his condolences. To me? Leo knew him far better than I ever did and yet, this was how he wanted to express his sorrow. I introduced him to Susan and he brought her hand close to his lips. There was no kiss, it was just the dry gentility of the old hoodlum.

“Would you mind if I had a quiet word with your husband, Lady Susan?”  Leo took my arm and we stepped away like the conspirators we were. 

“The club. It’s had it’s time. Things are different. We are going to close it down. What would you like to do with your building?”

“What should I do?”

“Sell it, rent it out. It’s a beautiful building. It’s worth a fortune.”

“It’s of no use to me now. Let’s sell it.”

“It’s the right decision. I’ll take care of it.” And that was it. A few months later a huge payment was made into one of my many bank accounts and my connection to the USA, Frank and the New York mob, ended, as abruptly as it had begun.

The hand on my shoulder startles me. A firm grasp, designed to keep me in my seat. The room behind me has gone completely silent.

“Don’t turn around, Kid.” Frank’s voice. It was unmistakeable. His breath was on my neck. It was cooler than the breeze from the overhead air-con vent. “Don’t look at me, I am not how I once was. I have never given you anything. Let me just give you this to remember me by.” 

And he began to sing, inches from my ear. His breath smelled of warm malt whisky mixed with bitters and sugar. His voice was just above a whisper, a pitch perfect acapella rendition. The song filled with adult longing in the pure voice tone of a vibrant youth, made husky from passion and regret.

“It happened in the Monterey

A long time ago

I met her in the Monterey

In old Brooklyn-oh

Stars and steel guitars

And luscious lips as red as wine

Broke somebody's heart

And I'm afraid that it was mine

It happened in the Monterey

Without thinking twice

I left her and threw away the key to paradise

My indiscreet heart

Longs for the sweetheart

That I left in the ol’ Monterey.”

And then the voice is gone but the song lingers in my mind. It had been the Brooklyn-oh version, with the extra syllables. Never recorded, never repeated and sung for me, for my mother and a distant past. I feel cold and hot at the same time. My back is tingling. I put my hand on the window to steady myself. I am shivering yet warm and elated. I have been made whole. I feel proud. I feel loved.

The noise of the cafe returns. Another song is playing: “You’re getting to be a habit with me.” Another great. The next track on “Songs for swinging lovers”.

But the hand is still there. I turn and look into the green eyes of the tall woman who had watched me enter the cafe. Her hair is white, but still thick, long and wavy. Her once piercing peridot eyes, now softened into gentle emeralds. Her face still has freckles, although many have joined each other in freckly matrimony. There is a small yet unmistakeable gap between her front teeth.

“Patty?”

She put her finger to my lips. “Shhh, no-one knows me by that name here. My real name is Doris.” 

“Doris?”

“I know, hey I didn’t choose it and I always hated it. Think I should have stayed as… you know?”

“No. I think Doris is a lovely name.”

“Should I call you Lord something?”

“How do you know?”

“Oh you’ll be surprised how much I know.”

“But how are you here? The Monterey?”

“You sold it to me.”

“I did?”

“Well, that old villain Leo sold it to me, but it was yours. I had moved on, thank God but the memories of this place weren’t all bad. It was a step-up from the trailer park and Lord knows I was happy enough to escape.”

“But you…” I stop mid-sentence.

“…was a working girl?” She whispers.

“No, but surely you never wanted to see the place again.”

“I’m not going to get all misty eyed about it. It was pretty bad some nights. But I drank a lot in those days and that made it easier. Not any more, I have been sober for thirty years.”

“I’m so sorry, Patty.”

“You? What in the hell for? You were the brightest part of my every day. Did you know how much I had a crush on you?”

“Me? No. How could I? I could barely function around all you girls.”

“Oh, you functioned just fine.” Patty bit her lip, lost in the memory for a moment. “I will never forget that night. You cried you know, in my arms.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“It was the most beautiful thing.”

“It was embarrassing.”

“Well, yeah. That too, but no-one had ever shown me that side of themselves before and only one has ever since.”

“Only one?”

“I married him. He is long gone. I never told him about ‘Patty’.”

“Did he pass away?”

“Hell no. He passed me over, more like. For a younger model.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There you go again. Saying sorry when you have no need.”

“I made money out of you, Patty.”

“Is that what you think? That never happened. You got a small cut of the club takings. All the upstairs work went straight into their pockets. You never made a dime out of me. And even if you had… maybe I wouldn’t have minded. But you didn’t.”

“Why did you buy the place, Pa…Doris?” 

“I always liked the building and it was a way to redo my past. I live in the whole top floor now. I cook in your old kitchen, would you believe that?  The second floor, I rent out as two apartments. Some city worker types. It’s crazy how much they are willing to pay in rent. Enough to cover the mortgage and then some. This place keeps me busy and makes life a little easier.”

“It’s a great cafe.”

“Yeah it is, isn’t it.”  Doris looks behind her nods approvingly. “Are you staying long in town?”

“No. I hadn’t planned to be here at all. I was visiting a friend in the city and had a some time to spare so, why not?”

“That’s a shame.”  Doris made an exaggerated frown, “I could have taken you out for a date.” She looks down at the table as she says this. I cannot tell if she is serious.

“Doris, why didn’t you ever tell me how you felt?”

“You, the secret owner of the club? I was 16 year-old trash from a crappy park in the backwoods. I couldn’t read or write, I had no education. I only began to wear shoes when I came here. I was nothing compared to you. To me you really were the Prince of Brooklyn.”

“Leo?”

“Yeah. He told me the story when I was buying the building.”

“But I was no different from you. Not really.”

“Says the English Lord.”

“Says the brat from the streets of Brooklyn who only graduated from high-school because my mother slept with my principal.”

“She didn’t?” Doris’s mouth and eyes are wide open.

“Well, I am not sure about that, but he definitely had the hots for her. It was disgusting.” 

We laugh together, as though sharing a beer once more at the bar. I sip at the Moretti.

“I have to go.” I say, placing the still full glass back on the table. I have a little more time but I feel awkward. I cannot explain why Doris still makes me feel shy.

“I know.” Doris replies. “Just one last thing. The Monterey song can’t be about your mother, you know.”

“It can’t?”

“It was in a 1930’s movie. It was written maybe before that sometime. It’s an old song. Sinatra just recorded it.” 

I smile. The memory of the soft voice and the whisky breath is still with me. I know that my mother named the boarding house after the song in the late 50’s.

“Maybe that’s a relief.“ I say.

“There’s something I want to do.” She reaches out and cups my face in her hands, her fine fingers fluttering across my cheek. She looks at my eyes, first one then the other, then her eyelids flicker and she gives me the faintest kiss, her lips barely touching mine. Then she looks deep into my eyes once more. She sees past my deep blue/green irises into my heart.

“What is it?” I ask. Doris doesn’t reply. She just pats my hand and stands up. Her eyes are filling with tears as she turns away.

“Don’t be stranger now.” She says but she doesn’t turn around. Only when I am across the street do I glance back and I see her looking after me, both her hands pressed into her chest.