But the door isn’t opened by an Oompa Loompa. Instead, I find myself facing a middle-aged man not much taller than I am. He has a tiny mustache, distinctly unfashionable, and is wearing glasses that are even less so. The man has short, brushy brown-going-slightly-gray hair and is wearing a white tee.

“What do you want?” he asks, peeking through the crack. “The place is closed until next Friday.”

“Richard,” Brandon says.

The small man looks over, opening the door wide enough to see my companion. His face instantly changes. The door flies open, and the man rushes forward in a bustling, busy manner to clap Brandon’s back in welcome.

“Brandon! Where the hell have you been?” His manner is half-companionable and half-chiding. I suppose guys would call it “ball-busting,” like Brandon had neglected something by being away for too long.

“I was here last week.”

“Not when I was here.”

“I’ll be sure to check with your secretary next time.”

Richard, whoever he is, puts his hands on his hips and looks Brandon over. He glances at me again, but it’s a bit reserved, almost suspicious. To Brandon he says, “So, what’s up?”

“Anyone fiddling tonight?”

Very businesslike: “What, literally? No. No fiddles.”

“Not literally playing fiddles, Richard.” Brandon rolls his eyes. “I just meant playing a bit. Trying their sets.”

“Dimebag was trying some shit earlier.”

“But he’s done.”

“He’s done,” Richard agrees. There’s a moment where they both kind of nod to each other with unspoken understanding. I get the feeling of a tragedy barely avoided. Whatever “Dimebag” is, we definitely dodged a bullet by missing it.

“What about Chloe. Is Chloe around?”

“No. No Chloe. I haven’t seen her.” Again, I get distinct businesslike impression from Richard, as if this is all quite serious. From context, I gather that Chloe, Dimebag, and fiddling all refer to musical acts that may or may not be trying out material in rehearsal mode even while the club is closed — presumably in preparation for next Friday night — but I can’t tell where Richard falls in the grand scheme. He doesn’t look like a musician or even much of a fan. Danny owns the place on his own, so Richard isn’t a partner. He has the manner of a screener — someone placed at the door to intercept and evaluate all comings and goings.

“Who’s here then?”

“Gavin and Freddy.”

“Gavin’s here?”

“Gavin and Freddy,” Richard repeats.

“Can we come in?”

Richard looks at me. He starts high, goes low, then slowly moves his eyes high again. The once-over isn’t lecherous. I get the feeling I’m being scanned, as if for weapons or evil motives.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says and steps aside.

Richard closes the door and stays behind us. I glance back to see if he has a stool where he awaits visitors, but he walks away. We either got lucky that he was there to answer Brandon’s knock or Richard was surveilling somehow, even though I get the impression that surveilling isn’t his job, if he even has one.

“Richard Spencer,” Brandon explains, watching my gaze. “He wouldn’t have been here when you were here last, I guess.”

I decide not to comment on the fact that Brandon shouldn’t know when I was here last, or that I used to come here at all. It’s not hard to figure out, but it’s also not the kind of thing you don’t know if you’re not interested enough to look.

“No. I don’t know him.”

“Everyone thinks he’s an undercover cop or something.”

We’re walking a dim hallway between the door and the main part of the bar, toward the stage. When I look over, I can’t catch Brandon’s expression or get him to notice mine.

“How can he be undercover if everyone knows?”

“They don’t know. They think. It’s possible he’s just a nut. He seems to have shown up in town two or three years ago and immediately failed to be inconspicuous. I will say that if he is undercover law enforcement, he’s terrible at his job.”

“And he hangs out at a closed bar?”

“Danny gave him some token job because he thinks he’s interesting. Not the first time Danny’s hired someone based on a wild hair or a soft spot.”

Brandon slightly pauses around “soft spot” and I get the impression there’s a deeper story there, but I don’t ask. It’s strange to think that I’ve never met Brandon before last week, given that I used to see bands and hang out at the Overlook at the sub-twenty-one nights and shows. But maybe he didn’t have the beard back then. I look up, trying to imagine what he’d look like shaved. Those eyes make me wonder. His face seems like it should be soft, whereas the beard only adds an unnecessary edge and distance. It’s like he — not Richard Spencer — is the one trying to hide.

We walk into the main room, which takes me back. Whatever renovations Danny is having done, they haven’t changed the place’s appearance on the inside any more than things have changed on the outside. There’s still the same small-and-intimate stage to one end, occupied by a man who’s milling about with a guitar. The stage looks strange to me because when someone is on it, the house lights have always been down. But the bar is bright right now, a set of multicolored Christmas lights surrounding a sprawling back-bar mirror. Bottles are lined up around it, all polished-looking and somehow dust free, their silver siphons sparkling in the overhead lights.

I know this room. I’ve heard so much great music here. I didn’t drink because I was too young, but I spent many late evenings steeped in the setting, making my father nervous, in the few years before I went away. I was always with a group of mixed-gender friends, always safe, never walking the streets in this good part of town alone after dark. But Dad was still probably overly permissive to let me out that late so often — just one of a few ways he may have spoiled me without meaning to, because I was his little girl and he couldn’t help it, because I didn’t have a mother and he wanted me to be happy.

I look over at Brandon.

“You have a meeting tomorrow, don’t you?”

He nods.

“Do you have time for this?” Meaning being here. With me.

“It’s only ten.”

Yes. And the club is closed, so it’s not like we can get carried away in the momentum of the evening and stay all night.

Unless we get carried away in the momentum of the evening. And stay together all night.

“Watch,” he says.

I think he’s drawing my attention to the man onstage, but I jump a little when I feel his hands on me — not on my hand or shoulders, but actually right on my hips. I glance where he’s looking and see a broken bottle on the floor. I wonder how it got there if the club isn’t open.

Brandon steers me around it, his manner casual, as if we’re supposed to be together — as if he guides me like this all the time. It’s forward of him to touch me like this, but once I feel his hands I don’t want it to stop. I let him guide me to safety, five seconds away. And when the hands leave, I still feel them.

I want them back. My head is buzzing, but not from the wine.

Brandon pulls a chair from one of the empty tables, which were usually cleared to widen the dance floor. He’s holding it out for me, so I sit. But he takes my arm when I do, as if I’m frail and need support. I don’t. But I take his help anyway.

Brandon sits beside, rather than across from me. The table is small, and my bare upper arm is practically brushing his starched dress shirt. He’s rolled his sleeves up sometime during the walk, and while his eyes are elsewhere, my arm seems to move on its own, and now they’re touching. His forearm is slightly tan, and I can see the muscles move as he taps a finger on the table. It’s a working man’s arm on a future executive’s body, as if he hasn’t outgrown his roots.

Eventually, the man on the stage sees us, not quite front and center but a row of tables back. He was pulling a stool into place in the stage’s middle with quiet confidence, but now he looks a bit taken off guard.