September 25, 1982

11:58 P.M.

"Oh, you've GOT to be kidding me."

So said Roxanne as she watched from the kitchen door window. The one night the host didn't lock the doors a couple minutes early, a straggler had to walk in.

Tell him we're closing up the kitchen already! she pretended to psychically tell the host stand. We're out of everything! The manager had a nervous breakdown! Anything!

Roxanne would have been more understanding had it not been one of the most bleak days in the history of the Leather Tux- certainly in all the year and a half she had been working as a bartender there. It was a hidden gem, the Leather Tux, situated just outside Times Square in New York. Those who knew about it, loved it- and those who had just learned about it, came back for more. Few restaurants in Manhattan could rival their laid-back Americana cuisine, their friendly, unpretentious atmosphere- words that too could describe their young, female bartender, Roxanne "Roxie" Brazzi.

But today, Roxanne's good nature had been dragged through the mud several times over. Double shift, with an endless stream of poor tippers and demanding whiners flowing in through the out door. And this was a Saturday, their busiest and best night, usually!

For the past two hours, not a single soul had walked into the Tux, and everyone left (all five of them- two cooks, one manager, a host, and Roxie) thought they were about to get out easy as pie once the clock struck midnight. No one was happier about that than Roxanne, who had studying to do for a psych final at NYU, which she was taking bright and early on Monday.

And then this fool had to walk in and spoil it all.

Roxanne watched as the unwelcome guest pointed toward the bar, telling the host he'd just sit up there. The host nodded rigidly, staring awkwardly at the gentleman as he walked over to the bar. Roxie couldn't see his face for the dim pre-closing lights in the dining area. Not that it mattered. He could be the most beautiful man in the world, but he was still here two minutes before the doors locked up.

"Great. Not only is he a problem- he's MY problem," she muttered. "Whatever. Let's put you back on, Game Face."

So Roxie smoothed her boy-short blond hair (somehow the style looked so much better on Sheena Easton) and forced a smile. No way was this rude son-of-a-gun going to put her in a spot.

Turning the music back on, Roxie sashayed behind the bar and approached him. He was hunched over the menu, the collar of his leather jacket turned up around his neck.

She cleared her throat, and he looked up. Distractedly she said with a big fake smile, "Well, hello, there, sir, welcome to the Lea-"

And then she looked at his face, and the words died in her throat.

Oh, my God. It can't be.

For a moment his eyes widened, as if he recognized her, but in the very next breath his face relaxed again.

She struggled to get back on track, to ignore this dangerous resemblance this man bore to a rock star. "Uh, the Leather Tux. Have you, um, ever visited us before, sir?"

The man shook his head. Under most circumstances Roxie would have launched into a whole spiel about the special drinks and delicious platters offered by the Tux, but somehow she'd forgotten every line. So, awkwardly, she asked him, "Uh, what can I get you to drink?"

The man opened his mouth, revealing a severe overbite under his dark, well-manicured mustache, and said in a husky, hoarse voice, "Uh... just a vodka on the rocks."

That British accent. Oh, wow. It was he. She wasn't a fan of his music- country was more her style, Ronnie Milsap to be exact- but she knew the mustache and the dark eyes. What was he doing here? Where was the rest of the band? Why was he all alone?

"Any vodka in particular?" Roxie asked.

"Whatever your best is." He rubbed his face. For the first time Roxie realized how depressed he looked. Her therapist sense was tingling.

Before she could stop herself, she asked, "Rough day?"

"Is that any of your concern?" he snapped.

Roxie blinked. "Um- I guess not. One second, sir."

Quickly she turned away from him and poured a shot of vodka over ice. The man took a cigarette out and lit it up as she brought the drink to him.

Impatiently she drummed her fingers against the counter. "So do you know what you want to or-"

"In case you hadn't noticed, I just f---ing got here, how about giving me a minute?" he snarled.

The savagery in his strange, worn-out voice made her shrink back. "I'm- I'm sorry, sir, take your time," she whispered, and scurried toward the kitchen.

Just before she reached the door, though, his voice stopped her.

"Hey, wait- Miss, uh-"

"Roxanne."

"Roxanne? Wait a moment, please, dear."

So we're calling people "dear" now, eh? Biting her lip, Roxie turned back around to face him.

He sighed and shook his head. "Roxanne, I'm sorry. Yes, it has been a rough sort of day."

"Oh yeah?" she said. Welcome to the club.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Sorry for taking it out on you. Rough couple of days, really. God."

In spite of herself, she came closer. "Do you," she ventured carefully, "do you want to talk about it?"

The man looked up at her, the tiniest beginnings of a tired smile about his lips. "I'm not sure you'd be interested."

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't ask you," she answered.

He shrugged, then looked back down at the menu. "You know, honestly, I'm not all that peckish, could I just stick to the vodka for now?"

"Peckish?"

"That means, I'm not very hungry."

"Oh."

"You're very American, aren't you?"

"I guess...?"

The man just looked at her- but somehow, that was enough. "Is that okay? If I don't, um-"

"Sure! Yeah, but the kitchen's pretty much closing in about two seconds, so if you want to order something, you should probably do it now-"

"I'm all right, but thank you." Now he gave her a real smile. And that was all it took. Roxie was no longer going through the motions while biting back her annoyance; the man had her captivated. He needed to vent, and Roxie was more than willing to listen.

For the next half-hour, they talked. The man asked her about her life, and she asked him about his. He was indeed very hoarse, so he only spoke as much as was necessary. He said he and the band had been on TV that very night, performing on Saturday Night Live.

"Seriously? That's the coolest thing, I love that show, I bet you guys were so-"

"Oh, no, we weren't. We were shit."

"Why do you say-"

"Listen to me talk. Sandpaper. I had maybe five notes tonight." He coughed.

"How'd that happen?"

"Long story," he sighed. "But we were shit. Not my finest hour, shall we say."

"Sir, we all have off days."

"Yeah, but most people have off days off camera. Our asses are probably being laughed out of the country as we speak."

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Roxie said. "If it was me singing and I felt like that, I would have said 'Give my regards to Broadway,' gone home and pulled the covers over my head. You guys went for it. You're a trooper."

The man half-smiled, then looked intently into Roxie's eyes. For just a minute, the mask seemed to melt.

"You okay, sir?" she asked when the silence dragged on a little too long.

"Yes, yes," he muttered, "it's just- my dear, your face in this light reminds me so much of someone I used to know."

"Really?"

"Come around over here by me, darling."

My name's Roxanne, she grumbled to herself. Pet names always did annoy her so. But she still walked around and sat down on the stool by the man. He placed two fingers under her chin, peered closer. She felt her hair stand up at his touch. Her heart began racing as she stared back into his large, almond-shaped eyes, which were suddenly aglow- but with sadness. Not joy, not anger, just true sadness.

"Not so much out here," he remarked, "although you are indeed quite a lovely girl."

She struggled to clear her head. "Who did you think I looked like?"

The man seemed to gaze right through Roxanne. "There was a lady," he whispered. "Had eyes very much like yours. But they weren't quite as green, they were much more of an amber, more hazel... Are you Italian?"

"What? Yes."

"Northern Italian, right?"

"Partly."

"Tuscany?"

"I don't know. I never asked."

"Oh, all right," he sighed. "I just wondered."

His eyes lowered, and his hand patted the counter. For the first time, he looked around the Tux. "Is it usually like this on a Saturday night?"

Roxie shook her head. "Usually the lights are all out by now. And everyone's gone."

The man nodded, then looked at her again. "What time do you close?"

"Thirty minutes ago."

He scrambled off the stool. "Oh, f---, I'm so sorry, darling, I'm just sitting here lost in my thoughts and you need to get home. I've really f---ed up your weekend."

"Not at all!" Roxie said, but he was already slamming the watered down remains of his drink, throwing money on the bar without even counting it out, and making for the door. The man put out his hand to the door handle when she called to him, "Do you need someone to come with you?"

Stupid question, Roxie told herself. He's a bazillionaire. He could helicopter out of here if he wanted. What's he going to want my company for?

But he turned and looked back at her. The shadows fell across her face in just the same way as before, and the sad, dreamy look crossed his chiseled features.

"Actually," the man said, "my apartment isn't too far a trip from here. I'm afraid I left my driver out to dry, didn't tell him where I was going. Bill might find out, and then the whole thing would start all-"

"Bill?"

"Never mind. Point is, I wouldn't mind someone riding with me," he explained, holding out his arm to her. "And it would be my great honor if that someone was you."

Roxie couldn't help but smile. This man was so sweet when he wasn't striking like a cornered cobra. She was charmed, thoroughly charmed. She took his arm, saying, "Well, if you wouldn't mind..."

*****************************************************************************************

The cab ride was a quiet, short one. The man had less to say now that he'd said everything that was appropriate to say to a perfect stranger like Roxanne. His eyes were focused on the floorboards of the taxi, and he looked so sad Roxie felt more and more the urge to cuddle this man in her arms like a teddy bear and say, "It's going to be all right. Whatever's wrong, it's going to be okay."

On the cab radio, Ronnie Milsap's new country-soft rock hit began to play. Roxie's ears immediately pricked up. She was such a sap for Milsap:

Well you can walk out on me tonight
If you think that it ain't feeling right
But darling
There ain't no getting over me
Well you can say that you need to be free
But there ain't no place that I won't be
Sweet darling,
There ain't no getting over me.

I'll be the bill you forgot to pay,
I'll be the dream that keeps you awake
I'll be the song on the radio
I'll be the reason that you tell the boys no

Don't you know,
You can tell everyone that we're through
You might even believe it too
But darling
There ain't no getting over me
Sweet darling
There ain't no getting over me-

The man sniffed beside her. Confused, Roxanne turned to look at him and found tears streaking his thin cheeks, the bright lights of New York reflecting off the tracks left behind. He was staring at the World Trade Center as it peeped between the skyscrapers. Why's he getting teary over them? They're just buildings. But suddenly he started muttering to himself.

"F--- this country," he hissed. "F--- this place! Oh, God!"

"Sir?" she whispered.

"So much is here. So much I'll never f---ing lose. Everything bears fingerprints- everything! Why? God, why? Why did it happen?"

Without a word, Roxie put her arms around his neck. And it was with great surprise she felt him reach around and hold her just as tightly as he continued to cry. Two complete strangers embracing in a taxi, holding each other until the anger and the fears of one eased and died. Roxie shut her eyes, feeling the despair of this man, this still young man, yet he had seen and done so much, and still had so much more ahead of him. Why should he despair? Why so unhappy? She wanted him to tell her. She wanted to know everything.

But there, at the best moment to ask to know, the cab pulled up to his apartment building. "Uh, sir, we're here. 425 East 58th, right?"

"Yes, that's me, that's me," he rasped, finally letting go of Roxie. Shuffling his jacket a bit and paying his cab fare, the man started to get out of the cab when he turned back to Roxie. All she knew to do was smile at him.

He bent one knee on the seat cushion, leaned in to her face so that his glassy eyes were all she could see. Her heart was pounding. Strange that she should find this man so alluring- this man who was clearly at least fifteen years older than she, and so full of unstable emotions.

And he whispered, "Thank you."

"For what?" she replied.

"For being a shoulder to cry on," he smiled. "I needed a good bout of tears. It's, um... been a little weird lately."

"Of course. I was happy to."

He was gazing into her eyes again, perhaps again seeing that lady within them. His mysterious ways were getting to her. Are you going to kiss me or what? she thought to herself.

He blinked. "Are you going anywhere special tonight?"

"Not unless 'home' is special," Roxie replied.

"It is," he conceded. "But I had something a little closer in mind." The man took her hand and squeezed it. The roughness in his voice she was finding oddly sexy. Studying for her exam suddenly began looking less and less important.

"Sir, what are you asking me?" she whispered rhetorically.

The man touched her cheek, his eyes shining. Without warning he leaned closer and softly kissed her, the mustache tickling her lip.

"Spend the night with me, darling."

"Oh." Roxanne swallowed. She'd never been so boldly propositioned. Her throat went dry, words for a proper answer flying unceremoniously out of her head. Anyone else she would have thoughtfully told yes or no- but this man had her hypnotized. She opened her mouth, but nothing left it. Roxanne was under his spell, like so many before- and so many after.

When still no answer came, the man scooped her up into his arms and kissed her again, not quite as gently, before lifting her out of the taxi. He was pulling her toward the entrance of his high-rise apartment.

In the nick of time, Roxanne thought to herself, He's not really going to do this, is he? Big famous British rocker settling for some bargirl that vaguely looks like an old flame? How desperate is he?

Roxanne put her hands on his chest and pushed away. "Sir, please, I'm very flattered, but-"

"Good God, you even talk like her," he said coldly, suddenly turning away.

"Huh?"

"F--- off, go home. Bill's probably up there waiting anyhow- along with any number of adoring fans. I don't need you." With that, he stormed toward the door.

Roxanne stood there a few moments and watched him walk away. He moved like a panther. His slight but wiry body moved so smoothly, so gracefully, even though his gait had stiffened with anger. She closed her eyes. Roxie wanted him. He was thirty-six to her twenty-one. He slept with everybody. Earlier, he had forgotten to tip her. And it didn't matter. She wanted him.

What she knew she was about to do, she had done for no one else in her life. The man was not in love. Not with Roxanne, anyway. Roxanne was the substitute. The one he wanted, really wanted, was not here. Tonight would be passion, not love. Lust, not affection. Desire, instead of tenderness.

But still she felt her feet carrying her towards him, heard her voice cry out, "Wait, sir! Wait! Don't go!" and saw herself turn him to face her as she returned the kiss he'd given so freely. His arms at once enveloped her, holding her close against his chest.

"Let's have no more of this 'sir' stuff," the man scolded her, but he was smiling again. Roxanne was sure there was nothing in the world more beautiful than his smile.

His hands gripped her tightly as he pulled back a little and looked deep into her emerald green eyes. As if in a trance did they step aboard the elevator, drift out, down the hall, into his apartment, shutting the door behind them. The curtains were drawn back, so that the bright lights of the city shone forty-three floors below. No one else was around to stop them.

The man entwined his fingers in her short blonde hair and, with a deranged precision, began sucking on various places upon her neck. She had never known love-bites to be so strategic- but she was too high on him to care.

"If I can't call you sir," she heaved, "what shall I call you then?"

The man didn't answer immediately. He first tore off her clothes, then slowly, maddeningly, removed his own. With a new brutality he drew her naked body up against his.

"The name," he whispered at last, "is Freddie."