Page 23 of Single Mom's Christmas Wish

“Wow, they take this pretty seriously,” I mumble as we pass a couple who were rejected.

The girl looks upset, but the guy is literally embarrassed, his face and ears red with shame. Archer isn’t intimidated. He takes my hand, squeezing it firmly, and leads us through the creaky door. The role-playing PI gives us a lazy glance from behind his desk.

“What do you want? We’re closed,” he says.

He appears bored, but his demeanor tells me he takes his role seriously. Behind him, the wall is covered with old bookshelves, each loaded with first or second editions of famous detective novels. I spot a few familiar titles, then look around and wonder where the actual bar is located.

This room doesn’t have any other doors. It’s just a cramped and dusty office.

“You’re not closed for people like us,” Archer tells the guy with a confident smile.

“People like you?”

“People who like to have fun out of the sight of Johnny Law, that is.”

I can’t help but gaze at Archer with sheer fascination and arousal. This man is heaps of fun wrapped in a godlike body with an impeccable sense of style. I think he’s the most dangerous of the Faulkner triplets. His profile looks royal in this dim, amber light.

“How do I know you’re not coppers yourselves, huh?” the guy asks, using that dramatic nasal tone they showcased in 1950s detective flicks. I expect he’ll pull a toy machine gun from under his desk if we don’t give him the right answers.

“Does this babe look like a copper to you?” Archer asks, then playfully smacks my ass. I yelp with surprise, then hold back a nervous laugh as he pulls me closer. “This here’s my partner in crime, the Bonnie to my Clyde, buddy, and there had better be some top-notch moonshine up in that joint of yours, or there’s going to be real trouble tonight.”

The guy is sold, smiling broadly and nodding in appreciation. “Well played. I take it you’ve been to our establishment before.”

“Once every fortnight, but never with my lady. She needs to see this place,” Archer says.

“I can never say no to a beautiful dame,” the guy replies.

“You said no to that couple who just walked out,” I cut in.

He shakes his head. “He didn’t want to play the game. Kept telling me to just let them go in. That’s not how we do things here at Dickie’s Detective Agency, doll. You want to impress a girl with how mediocre and boring you are, there’s a watering hole just down the road from here where they can’t tell the differencebetween a mojito and a Cuba libre.”

“Well, like my man just said, there had better be some good moonshine in this place; otherwise, momma’s going to be really mad,” I quip, sliding into my own part as Archer gives my hip a gentle squeeze. I may not look like a vacuous ’50s dame in this jeggings-and-white shirt combo, but I can at least deliver the character sass without a flaw. “The worse the burn, the better the shine, detective.”

“You said it, doll,” the guy chuckles and lifts the receiver from an old-time phone on his desk. “Access granted. Enjoy your evening, Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Thank you,” Archer says.

As soon as the guy presses a single red button on his rotary phone, the bookcase behind him starts to jiggle. Threads of dust dislodge from some of the shelves, and a secret door is revealed as part of the bookcase slides to the right. Beyond, a pink-lit corridor awaits. The music reverberates from somewhere below.

Archer guides me through the corridor, then down a set of narrow, concrete stairs. It all looks as old as the building itself until I realize it’s actually just a superbly executed vintage interior design. Every wall sconce, every painting, and every framed poster are all originals of a long-ago era but are beautifully preserved.

“This place is incredible,” I gasp as we reach the basement, where the real magic unfolds at our feet. “They went all out and then some.”

The cocktail lounge is decorated in an early 1930s style: dark brick walls, sturdy blackwood tables, and deep green velvet tapestry on every seat. Private booths are set up in the cornersfor those desiring privacy, and that is precisely where we’re headed. I take a long look at the bar as we pass by it—a mastodon with glass shelves and only the finest and most expensive spirits.

A smooth jazz tune ripples across the room, and unbelievably, I am in love with this place.

“Dickie’s Detective Agency,” I say the name aloud as we take our seats in one of the private booths. “I’m going to have to remember that.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Archer replies, unbuttoning the collar of his pale green shirt, giving me a glimpse of his curly blond chest hair. “But I’m surprised you didn’t already know about it.”

“In my defense, I’ve only been back in San Francisco for about a year. It’s a big city. I simply haven’t had the chance to discover some of these newer joints. But I’ll tell you one thing, Archer. You’ve managed to impress me. Well done, sir.”

And I mean every word. I absolutely love this place—the vibe, the lighting, the music. And one glance at the cocktail menu already waiting on our table only serves to validate my conclusion—this is one of San Fran’s best-kept secrets.

“I have an issue, though,” I mutter as I look over the drinks. “I would sample them all, but my liver is definitely not up for the job.”

Archer laughs. “Remember what you told me that night at Dante’s?”

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