Samantha looked at him. “Guess you haven’t been very busy.”

“Jesus, you’re tough. Do you like music?”

“Sure. Why not?” Samantha decided not to give away any of her excitement.

“How ’bout Dion?” Barry asked.

“Who?”

“I forgot. You’re a fancy girl. You probably want to listen to opera.”

“I hate opera.” Samantha said flat out.

“Dion DiMucci sang ‘Runaround Sue’ and ‘The Wanderer.’” Barry smiled. “I’m thinking about making a movie about him. He was a kid from the Bronx.”

“I’m a Beatles fan.”

“You are so fuckin’ white.”

“Is Dion DiMucci black?” she asked.

“You are such a smart-ass.”

Samantha took his hand. “I want to hear Dion.”

Barry passed Julian a CD and put his arm around Samantha. Julian continued to drive on the New Jersey Turnpike while the Mercedes sedan blasted the sixties pop classic.

“I should have known it from the very start / This girl will leave me with a broken heart / Now listen people what I’m telling you.” Barry sang the last line. “Keep away from Runaround Sue…”

Before entering a lane to the Lincoln Tunnel into Manhattan, Julian turned the car off the turnpike. He pulled the Mercedes into the parking lot of a six-story decrepit motor lodge that in its heyday might have been a condemned Holiday Inn. The curtains in the room were all drawn and in the parking lot were a small collection of diesel trucks and used cars.

Julian opened the door for Samantha.

“Thank you,” she said as she got out of the car.

“Wait for us,” Barry announced casually.

“Of course, Mr. Santorini.” Julian watched them walk toward the entrance and then got back into the car.

“Should we go to the bar?” Barry opened the door to the motor lodge. The lobby was dark and dingy with a faded orange floral print on the wall.

“Do you really come here a lot?” Samantha asked him.

Barry knew there was nothing like slumming with a woman who can afford the Ritz. When he was dating Clarice, he’d take her to the toughest bars in South Philly and they’d have great sex in the back of his car. But that was a long time ago. That was when Barry still drove and Clarice didn’t prefer grilled paillard at La Goulue.

“I gotta be honest with you. I’ve never been here before.” Barry whispered to her. “I was waiting for someone who’d really appreciate it.”

“I’d like to see a room.” Samantha turned to him.

Barry truly thought they’d have a few drinks in the dark cocktail lounge, listen to a few Sinatra or Tony Bennett standards, and maybe he’d get to feel her leg a couple of times.

“I want to get a few redecorating tips.” She curled her lip again. “I’m sick of postmodern. And who knows? Highway chic could be the next big thing.”