Blake walked out of the main ballroom, mumbled, and slammed shut the heavy door, shaped like an arch. “This hotel looks like one big castle,” he said. Carlton, old buddy, he thought, what am I gonna do with you? 
The clamor from the bachelor party peaked and faded; the heavy wood door shattered the quiet of the dining room, as it latched and made more noise than he expected. He tried to fake a smile at some of the late-night dinner guests, some of whom glared at waiters in short white jackets and tight black slacks as they continued serving, waiting on tables, and weaving around dinner guests having a late night dinner. How do they balance those large trays? And, in those tight pants? 
He inhaled. Hm. Broiled steaks. Roses. Beer. Heady colognes. A man frozen by Blake’s entrance held a martini to his lips. That’s it, Blake thought. That’s what Carlton’s best friend needs. A strong martini. Conversations resumed; a talented pianist softened the room’s mood. Blake knew he didn’t need to hear the combo, his friends’ shouting, clapping, and whistles while Carlton continued his version of a striptease, and in front of the world. How many times have I witnessed this? he said to himself. It happens again and again. I’ve watched Carlton strip, going from looking sharp and impressive in a dark double- breasted suit to his undershorts: too short and too tight. He even unbuttons the top snaps of his boxers. I don’t need to witness Carlton’s finale again. 
Blake sighed, opened his eyes wider, took a deep breath, and smiled at a few faces, annoyed that he had broken the mood of the soft dinner music when he slammed the large door.
He needed some quiet time to put Carlton’s marriage in perspective and have time to himself. 
The manager glanced at Blake several times and continued checking his reservation list. He took a good look at Blake and wondered why the best man had left the wedding party so soon. Jaime, Jaime, he said to himself. “¿Qué es sigue? . . . What’s going on here?” 
He watched Blake frown and push his body away from the door, sensed Blake’s nervousness, while noting that the “Private Party” sign remained in place on the door, and watched Blake walk toward the bar. He’s apparently sober. 
Blake shot a glanced at Jaime. 
They smiled. 
Blake’s attire impressed Jaime. He wore a tight waistcoat over a formal shirt, gray tie and tailored trousers. He wore no jacket. Quite a man, Jaime thought, as he looked down at his reservation list again and crossed two more names off. 
“Jaime, er, I mean Mr. Peron, sir. Oh heck! You’re the manager, right? How many times have I been here. I still don’t know what to call you? What do I call you?” he asked with emphasis. 
“You’ve been a steady patron, sir,” Jaime said. “And you are a gentleman, sir. Call me Jaime. My name is Jaime Peron. Well, he said chuckling and enjoying the conversation with Blake, “there are other names in between Jaime and Peron, but Jaime will suffice. What is it, Sam?” Jaime asked a new young waiter. Blake heard an annoyance in Jaime’s question to the waiter. 
“OK, Jaime,” Blake said, not wanting to keep the manager from his work. He moved slowly toward the bar. The bartender moved toward him, laid a napkin in front of him, arched his eyebrows waiting for Blake’s order, and smiled.
Blake heard the young waiter’s lament. He knew he had commanded Jaime’s attention.
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Peron, sir,” Sam said, stuttering. He shook as he lowered his voice. “That tall couple left a few minutes ago, I didn’t see them leave, and they didn’t pay their tab. Not even a tip on the table. They had quite a lot to drink and eat.” Sam shifted his weight and pinched his lips together.
Jaime listened to Sam and noted Blake’s angry mood. He heard Blake’s conversation with Barney.
“Hey there, Barney, my friend,” Blake said, as he put a foot on the bar rail and spoke softly. Barney leaned toward Blake, as he slapped his money clip, thick with bills, on the bar.
“What can I do for you?” Barney said.
Jaime took his eyes of Blake and Barney and looked at Sam. “You mean bill don’t you, Sam? They didn’t pay their bill.” Jaime finally looked at Sam’s white jacket. “Button your button,” he said and smiled. 
“No sir. They had several drinks each. No sir. They ran a tab. About fifty bucks. . . ”
“Well,” Jaime said, “don’t worry about it.” He watched Blake light a cigarette, push the money toward the bartender and pick up his drink. He looked down at his booking scheduler. Ah, that’s it. His last name is Forge. His name is Blake Forge. I should recall his name. I’ve seen him enough in the club. 
He closed the book and caught sight of Blake again. Jaime continued talking to himself: a habit of long standing. I hope I’m as impressive in my clothes as you are, Mr. Forge. I frankly believe I am impressive. He noticed Blake’s dark vest and trousers, both streaked and glistening. Wet, he thought. Undoubtedly spilled drinks. Although the way the material is spotted, looks like someone threw a drink at him. He chuckled as he thought about the heavy drinking in the ballroom and wondered who would throw a drink at Blake. Anything can happen with that crowd. Or so they say. I wouldn’t mind . . . 
Blake turned and walked past Jaime and the manager’s station, acknowledged him by bowing his head and holding his drink up to him. He said, “Jaime, my man,” and finally left the room through the French doors. The doors opened onto a wide terrace. Jaime listened and heard Blake’s footsteps on the concrete terrace. He even walks with confidence. 
He followed Blake’s silhouette, lighted periodically from the city’s night lights and the brilliance of lightning in the distance. After putting his pen down, he grabbed the edges of his registry lectern, intrigued by Blake’s troubled manner. He’s in deep thought. . . perhaps has serious problems. 
Jaime didn’t hear Sam’s plea for direction but his attention was on Blake as he lifted his glass higher, again and again, in the air. He talks to himself too. He’s having a phantom toast. Or is he? 
Jaime smiled, amused by his thoughts.
Blake proposed a toast, tossed the drink down, placed his arms against his chest, held the glass tight to his boy, and leaned over the wide concrete balcony banister. 
Jaime noticed Blake’s silhouette almost vanished as he leaned on the bannister. In a low voice he said, “Yes sir, that guy’s angry. But he’s a cool sucker. It is certain. He doesn’t show it.”
“What guy, Jaime?” Sam asked and narrowed his eyes, glancing around the room at patrons, fast moving waiters and Barney, the bartender. 
Jaime ignored Sam, arched an eyebrow, and held his hand up to signal his mind was occupied. He stared out at the patio and Blake. Mr. Forge. What are you up to? 
Jaime finally looked at Sam again. “Be careful next time, my young friend Sam. Keep an eye on your . . . I’ll handle it . . . and . . . ”
“Oh thanks,” Sam said bowing slightly with gratitude. “Jaime. Really, thanks . . . ” He hurried through the diningroom into the kitchen.
Jaime waved his arm. He caught Barney’s attention. Barney waited and didn’t move. He was still like a statue. Jaime pointed to his wristwatch. “It’s break time. Cover for me,” he said in mime, not speaking, just moving his lips. Barney nodded and wiped a section of the bar with a wet towel. 
Jaime walked slowly across the diningroom, through the French doors and shut them behind him. He headed toward Blake. 
Blake turned and looked at Jaime as a sharp blast of wind mussed his long, dark straight hair. A streak of lightning, far in the distance, lighted the distant horizon, silhouetting the city’s skyline.Thunder sounded and rolled across the farmlands. 
As he brushed his hair away from his eyes, he took a deep breath. “Hi,” he said. “How’re you doing, Jaime? Or should I say Mr. Peron?”
“How are you doing?” Jaime asked emphasizing Blake’s condition. He leaned against the rail. “Tired of the noise? How is your buddy doing in the ballroom? Sounds like they’re having a great time.”
“Oh, my buddy, as you say. His name is Carlton. . . ”
“Yes, I know,” Jaime said and lit a cigarette.
“No thanks,” Blake said watching Jaime take his first puff. “Of course, you know Carlton’s name,” he said. “You know everything that goes on at this hotel, don’t you?”
“Hm,” Jaime said as the cigarette and exhaled smoke disappeared around his face. “Carlton will make it through the night, I’m sure,” Blake said clearing his throat. “He has that fumbling ability. But the wedding’s in two days so he’ll have tomorrow to recover.” 
Blake swallowed and finally set his empty glass down on the wide railing. “Do you book many of these bachelor parties?”
“We’re booked every weekend for the foreseeable future. . . ”
“Really?”
“Yes. Seems like everyone wants to get married, these days.” 
Blake turned and faced the city building and street lights.
“What happened to your vest and trousers?” Jaime asked. “Someone get sloppy around you?”
“Yeah. Some guy I don’t even know. . . a new friend of Carlton’s. . . ”
“Carlton, the groom, right?”
“Yeah. Carlton the groom.” 
Blake laughed aloud appreciating Jaime’s humor and pressed his hand against his stomach. “That’s a good one! Carlton the groom.”  He picked up his glass, stuck his tongue in it and licked for the last drop. No more drink, he thought. Finished the last of my drink. He snorted. “I don’t mind about the clothes, though. They’ll be like new when I have them cleaned.”
“Would like another drink?” Jamie asked, pointing to the empty glass.
“I don’t think so . . . ”
“It would take a minute,” Jaime said.
“No, but thanks.”
“Is the fellow, who is to be married, a friend of yours? For many years?” Jaime asked.
“Yeah. For a real long time.”
“Well, maybe I know how you feel. My buddy, we were kids together, got married before I did and I was convinced the gal was no damned good for him. But. . . ”
“But what?”
“But they have three kids now and live happily in the country. Of all things, he’s a farmer. Loves it. Finally got the land and house paid off. They’re happy, productive and I see him periodically. We’re still close friends.”
“Good for them,” Blake said, with a measure of disinterest. He turned and leaned over the wide concrete railing again and counted cars as they sped along the wet street. He listened to the tires whine. Jaime noted smudges on Blake’s trousers stretched tight over his backside.
“You don’t like her do you?” Jaime said. He blew smoke from his nares.
“Who?”
“The woman your buddy is gonna marry.”
“You’re right, there, Jaime. I don’t like her. I never did like her. She’s gonna come between him and his desires. And, there’s something about her that I don’t trust.” “Which are?” Jaime asked. “His desires I mean.”
“I think he should want to practice law for a while anyway. He passed the bar with flying colors and he may run for municipal judge, but he needs time in court. He needs experience. He’s a smart cookie. . . ”
“What do you do, Blake? I may call you Blake?”
“Of course, Jaime. Call me Blake.”
“I’m a physician. I’m a GP but I’ll be practicing psychiatry soon.”
“Heck, you don’t look that old. Don’t you have to be an older doctor to practice psychiatry?”
“Thanks. Sometimes if feel very old. And then again sometimes I feel like a mischievous kid.”
“Doing things naughty little boys do, huh?”
“Yeah!”
They laughed. 
“. . .very naughty boys,” Blake said, slurring his words.
Jaime guessed Blake was well on the road to becoming drunk.
Blake straightened up, hiked his slacks up and ran his fingers inside his waist to straighten his shirt as he faced the French doors. “Well, maybe I should get back inside.” He coughed. “It’s getting windy out here. A little chilly, too,” he said as he smiled at Jaime.
“If I can help,” Jaime said, “you know where to reach me.”
Blake took a step and stopped. “What do you mean? Help me?” He didn’t understand Jaime’s offer.
“I meant my offer to be friendly. Only friendly. Before, you appeared depressed and I thought maybe you needed to talk, maybe you had a serious problem that a stranger, such as Jaime Peron, a stranger who could help you with . . . ”
Blake stared, trying to understand a hidden meaning in Jaime’s words. “I appreciate. . . ”
“No problem,” Jaime said, interrupting. He put his cigarette out in the white sand of cigarette receptacle and put his hands in his trouser pockets pulling his pants tight against his buttocks. His voice remained friendly.
Blake started toward the balcony’s French doors and knew Jaime walked close behind him. He stepped into the diningroom and stopped. The men stared at each other. There were no smiles. 
“You know where you can reach me,” Jaime said. His body stiffened as he exercised different body muscles. Blake looked down and saw Jaime’s action.
“Thanks,” Blake said, “appreciate it.” and headed back toward the ballroom. Thanks, I think.