“You know Bob?” they grinned.
“No.”
“You must meet Bob!”
“When in Rome,” Lorenz grinned back, leading them to the Mustang.
We soon found ourselves, here, where a small card on a door in an alley off Houston proclaims “Bob.” I hesitate to knock. Lorenz yanks it open. The girls push us in. Its pitch black, but hearing chatter and tinkling glass, we realize our view is obscured by heavy stage curtains.
Advancing, we’re presented a kitschy, leopard-printed parlor. I slip into a booth. The girl nibbles at me. Lorenz’ girl drags him towards another curtained alcove. Worried, I call out.
Lorenz chuckles, "When in Rome, right?” then disappears. And, he is still chuckling when his head bounces back out and comes to rest at my feet.
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