Alibi Bar & Lounge, BartolomeoVanzetti, Boston Tourism, Charles Hotel, Ferdinando Nicola Sacco, Herve Leger, James Michael Curley, Liberty Hotel, Malcolm X, Noir Lounge, Rolls Royce Phantom, The Charles Street Jail
Every crime starts with the perfect alibi. I had never been to jail. Yet, here I was having cocktails in the slammer and I was rather enjoying myself – the recessed lighting, the exposed brick and the leather seat. The big house had never been so chic. I caught a whiff of the appetizers, skewered shrimp, lamb and chicken as the waitress approached our table. Jacque (my Ex) hated themed bars. He called them gauche, but The Charles Street Jail (also known as the Suffolk County Jail) had actually been a jail. It’s more infamous guests included, James Michael Curley, Malcolm X, Ferdinando Nicola Sacco and BartolomeoVanzetti. It closed its doors in 1990 and had since been reincarnated as the >Liberty Hotel. An ultra-luxury hotel where a night’s stay could set you back several thousands. Now it housed criminals of a different caliber. Who says crime doesn’t pay?
“Keep your eye out for celebrity sightings,” Rumi had said when I told him I’d be at the Liberty. Celebs like Bruce Willis, Mick Jagger, Cameron Diaz had been known to stay here. Instead, I had my eye on Casey, who looked surreal in her little black, form fitting, Herve Leger bandage dress (with high V-neck line and scooped back). In one shot she managed to be sexy and conservative at the same time. The dim lighting set off Casey’s pale blonde hair and her ivory complexion reminding me of a Norwegian Ice Queen. It was Casey that had insisted I come, picking me up in a silver BMW, looking like a real Bond girl.
Aria, a mutual friend, was staying at The Liberty Hotel with her husband while he attended a conference. Mason had a young face, hair that was speckled with silver and eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He joined us for drinks before heading off to a supposedly boring dinner meeting. Mason was the type of man that could look well-seasoned and mature, and yet youthful at the same time. Dressed casually in a bi-color chunky knit sweater of grey and jeans he looked more like an avant garde artist than a shrewd venture capitalist. It was still early then, early enough that all I needed to do was hold a drink, swirl it around in my glass and take in the rich color in order to feel buzzed.
We ended up at a private party at an art gallery in the South End. The art encapsulated us. It charged our conversations that were laced with art and innuendo, and stole into our thoughts. I enjoyed not thinking. I was sipping… I was nibbling… I was commiserating…
Sin either ends in sweet or it ends in sour. For us it ended in strawberries, brown sugar and crème fraiche in the wee hours of the morning at the Noir lounge in the Charles Hotel. Licking sugar off my spoon I decided that although Casey and Aria weren’t done for the evening, it was time for me to go home. I cabbed it back.
As I stumbled into the lobby I saw a black Rolls Royce Phantom pull out of the garage. It flew by like the wind. I took a deep breath; even his car carried his scent.
Harry was at the front desk. From the smell of it he had just put out a cigar. “Waiting up for me?”
“Nah, just talking to ghosts.”
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