The Enemy Inside by Steve Martini Page B

Every once in a while I glance at Herman, who is seated at one of the booths higher up against the back wall where he can get a more panoramic view while he keeps one eye on my table. He scans the room and shakes his head. He doesn’t see her either.
    Across the room a bunch of young guys in an overly festive mood seem to be vying for top honors, most obnoxious group in the house. I am guessing it’s an office party.
    One of them pulls his tie up around his head and wears it like a sweatband. Suddenly this becomes the craze. It is cloned among his followers until everyone has their tie draped down over their right ear like some new fraternal order. Who says people aren’t sheep?
    They compete with each other, ordering drinks, making lewd gestures, shouting until it reaches a crescendo in the contest to see who can become Emperor Odious. You could float a boat on the drinks they spill. The place seems to have a flexible definition of the term gentlemen . They are shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs just to be heard over the sound system. By morning, if they keep it up, one of them will be naked and the others will be missing their voice boxes. It is what passes for a good time among the young and stupid.
    I glance back at Herman. Still no sign.
    A few of the more sober types wait in ambush as the young women filter out from behind a curtain at the other side of the room.
    The sign above the curtain reads E MPLOYEES O NLY —out of bounds, sanctuary for the women if they fall into clutches and are able to make it that far.
    New customers keep coming through the door. I am surprised by the number of people already here, and it’s still early. A quarter to five and the place is two-thirds full. If things continue like this, by ten o’clock it will be a human press.
    A few of the men sitting at tables by themselves appear to be wallflowers. Though I suspect they might say the same thing about me. Herman clearly has more confidence in me than I do. In this scene, I exhibit the same shy reluctance I did in high school. It’s not my kind of place and I begin to wonder if I can pull it off, catch her interest long enough to get outside.
    Others appear to be regulars who have already staked claims. The girls cuddle up to them in the booths. One of them takes a seat on a guy’s lap, wearing a short tight skirt that leaves little to the imagination, and with no preliminaries, she starts to move to the gyrations of the music.
    There is a loud recorded drum roll from the PA system and a husky male voice announces: “Give a warm welcome to Carlotta, let’s hear it.” A few stuttering claps and a wolf whistle later, a girl with dark hair and a costume that is mostly a mirage from the designer’s memory enters the stage, leg first, through a slit in the curtain. She moves like a snake charmer, her feet and lower legs disappearing in the fog that spills from the stage. I wonder what the OSHA claim would look like if she sucks this crap into her lungs. Worse, I begin to wonder what my claim might be if I sit here much longer. That is when I see her.
    She enters the room through the curtain on the other side of the raised stage. There is no missing her. Even in the dim light with the fog and the disorientation from the laser lights, Ben stands out. Slender, petite, and with all the feline curves that nature designed for a sexual lure, to any guy with good vision, her form alone would be enough to stun sound judgment and put his libido on steroids. Your average caveman would have her by the hair dragging her back to his den before you could say “beat my time.” Two of the more rowdy guys from the party try to corral her. She sidesteps them and keeps going. Apparently she’s not into head ties.
    I stand up, wave my arms, and call the waiter over. He sees me but doesn’t move. I hold up some green, two crisp twenties to get his attention, and he skates toward me through the fog like a star in the Ice Capades. “That