As far as parties went, Roger thought this one was just fine. There was punch flowing, no other choice of beverage, and an attentive wait staff never far from a hungry mouth. There were attractive people littered about the floors that were open and accessible for all attendees. He ventured from hall to room to door to pantry to rumpus room to bathroom. It was on these walking observations that he witnessed all kinds of jovial, friendly, curious, and eventful activities. He also caught his share of illicit and immoral behaviours. Such was the nature of these Hollywood Hills residences that when they did throw a party, the invited guests anticipated a little of everything. Roger wasn't a prude, but he wasn't someone who was actively engaged in the nefarious.
"You're that journalist at Live magazine, aren't you?" someone asked him, knowing full well the answer.
"Roger Dayton," he replied, holding out a hand of friendship.
The man spat in his palm and walked away, throwing his arm around a vulnerable young woman as he passed her along the kitchen to remove himself from Roger's gaze. Roger spent the next thirty minutes attempting to remember who it was that was so insulted by his profession when the oddest event struck his curiosity. Frank Serventino was dressed to the nines in the outfit of a waiter and walking around his own party, in his own mansion, offering attendees beverages. Roger caught his eye as he returned from the pool area and signaled him over with a raise of his hand. Frank strolled over with the last of his beverages on a tray resting on his shoulder, with his hand balancing underneath. It was an orange juice.
"Tequila Sunrise, sir?" Frank asked.
"Frank, it's me... Roger," Roger said. He probably should have just asked outright why he was dressed incognito; something about the way Frank addressed Roger made him question whether he had remembered Roger, their interactions, or the fact that he had been invited to the party at all.
"Can I interest you in a tequila sunrise... Roger," Frank replied.
"You feeling okay?" Roger asked.
"Perfectly fine, sir," Frank replied. His voice was slightly articulated, as if it were polished by a brass ring.
"What are you doing?" Roger finally asked.
"I'm serving drinks, Sir."
"Yeah, I can see that... I mean, why are you dressed as a waiter and serving drinks at your own party?" he asked.
"Well, someone has to," Frank replied and walked off with the drink resting on the tray floating in perfect stillness with every step Frank took back to the kitchen for another load.
Roger decided to follow him. He stood close to the swinging door so as not to arouse suspicion from the other wait staff and looked for glimpses inside as the door swung out with staff going in and out. Someone was topping up the servers one by one as they stood in line to have their trays filled. Roger couldn't quite make out who exactly. As one waiter exited, Roger snuck in through the open door before it swung shut and stepped off to the left of the kitchen area, away from view.
Roger observed instantly what was odd about the restocking line, the waiters did not interact with one another. They stood in perfect formation, waiting patiently for their turn. One man stood at the front and placed the drinks on the trays, loading them up before patting them on the buttocks to have them return to the guests with more liquor.
He was a thin man in a black shirt and black pants. A jet black tie hidden amongst the dark colours. He didn't speak to the waiters as they approached for their refills. He drew the drinks out of a large esky that was opened adjacent to several other unopened tubs, Roger assumed were full of the exact same style of drinks to be served.
Roger stepped closer to get a good look at the drinks inside the chilled boxes, all were emanating as vapour as they stood at attention, prefilled orange liquid in chilled glasses, placed straight on the waiters’ trays from the cold box in which they had come.
The man in black sensed his observance and turned to face him.
"Can I help you, sir?" the man asked.
Roger looked up to see Frank Serventino waiting in line for his turn.
"Frank, can you let this guy know I'm an invited guest?" Roger said as Frank looked at him with a cold, blank stare.
"Frank can't help you right now," the man in black said. "What is it you want back here, sir?" the man continued as he stopped filling drinks onto trays, closed the esky box up, and walked over to Roger.
Roger noticed the waiters place their trays down on the ground and follow the man like an army in procession. He felt cornered instantly as the only exit from the kitchen was the swinging door where he had entered.
"Did you have something to drink tonight, sir?" the man asked.
"No," Roger said as he backed away with several backward steps. "I was thirsty, that's why I came back here," he lied.
"That's not true," Frank chimed in from behind the man in black, following him over to Roger.
"I offered him a tequila sunrise several times, and he did not take up the offer," Frank explained in a robotic monotone.
"Is that right?" the man wondered.
Roger sensed the danger at a breaking point and felt no need to play along any further, he rushed towards the waiters who had cornered him in the kitchen and bowled past them out the swinging door towards the lounge room where the party continued. The music was still blaring, but when Roger entered the room, the attendees had stopped dancing and were staring at him as if he had caused a scene.
"It's okay, folks," said the voice of the man in black as he exited the kitchen.
"This is Roger Dayton, he lives at fifty-three Cavern Avenue, New York City, Apartment two 'C'"
Roger faced the mysterious man who smiled a Cheshire grin at him.
"He won't give us any trouble, will you, Roger?" the man asked.
"You won't give us any trouble, will you, Roger?" the guests all asked in a united chorus.
"None at all," Roger said as he turned to leave. There was no one stopping him from making his exit, but he was aware that the announcement of his living address was a threat never to venture to these lands again.
—
He never quite discovered what caused the collective consciousness of the party or if the attendees still lived under the thumb of the mysterious man in black.
—
One afternoon on the subway near Brooklyn, Roger spotted Frank reading a newspaper and holding on to the handrails as the carriage sped across the Brooklyn Bridge.
"Frank," he said as he got up to shake hands.
"It's Roger Dayton,"
Frank shook his hand in recognition.
"How the hell are you, Roger?" he said enthusiastically.
"I'm great," Roger said. "I haven't seen you in years,"
"I had you over at one of my Hollywood dos a couple of years ago, right?" Frank asked.
"Yes," said Roger. "Yes, you did."
"I can't remember much about those days," Frank admitted.
"Fair enough," said Roger without prying any further.