Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge (20 page)

Mortified, Bailey gripped her drink. She heard Vincent’s voice in her head:
If a guy snapped his fingers at me, I’d snap his fingers off
.

“Hey,” she said to Kyle, “can you not do that, please? She’s got a lot of tables to get to. She’ll be here soon.”

Clear across the floor, the waitress saw him, adopted what anyone in the service industry would recognize as a gunpoint smile, and headed back over.

“What?” Kyle said. “I’m doing her a favor. If she doesn’t serve us fast, she’s not getting tipped.”

Not tipping. Unfathomable. Monstrous. “You can’t just
not tip
,” Bailey said, sipping at the surface of her chimayó. “She needs that money.”

“Then she can earn it,” said a scruffy-looking guy sitting to Kyle’s left. Bailey recognized him as the one who’d been working on the stationary bike. “He just snapped at her. It’s not that big a deal. Also, who are you again?”

“Bailey’s an old friend,” Jess said, “and we were looking very seriously at adding her to the team. I think it’s great she’s so, uh, service oriented?” She flashed Bailey a warning look:
I get it, and I’m sorry these guys are assholes
, it said,
but don’t push this any further
. At least that was how Bailey read it.

The waitress reappeared. “Sorry,” she said, rictus smile still in place. “We’re just a little busy right now. What can I do for you guys?”

“We’re just dying of thirst over here,” said the only other girl in their party. “Can we get some more water?”

“And a round of Jägerbombs!”added Kyle, whose light-light-beer
was already almost empty. Their companions whooped approval.

Bailey did not. When the waitress left, she got up. “I’m just going to … the bathroom.”

“Oh, cool,” said Jess, standing, too. “I’ll come with you.”

“Oh, um, great.”
Great
.

As they pushed through the crowd, Jess said, “Don’t let them get to you, okay? Boys are dumb. Except the cute ones. I mean, they’re still dumb, but it’s not as bad because they’re cute.”

“Sure.” Bailey shook her head, distracted. How did people think this behavior was okay? No, that was an easy one: they were dumb, like Jess said. But Bailey had done a lot of dumb things in her life. How many times had she been careless when talking to Zane? Or her dad, a shopkeeper? How many times had she mindlessly complained about the service at a restaurant when her overworked waiter was within earshot?

She stopped beside a giant neon shamrock with the slogan “Erin Go Braless” tastefully spelled beneath. “Actually,” she said, “I think I’m going to head to the bar for a sec and grab a shot. I’ll, uh, check on how our drinks are coming. See you at the table?”

“Sure!” Jess said, brightening. “Order me another of those tequila things you’re having. I’m so into apples right now.”

Bailey nodded and then threaded her way through the thick crowd of off-duty professionals, one of the few situations in life where her small size was useful. (The rest of the time it was just a parade of high shelves designed to mock her or hilarious people using her as an armrest and thinking they were the first person ever to do so.) She burst through a forest of blazer-coated shoulders and elbows to seize a scrap of barside real estate. Leaning up, she looked left and saw only a barback hurrying away with a stack of dirty glasses. She looked right and saw someone familiar standing two feet in front of her.

“Hello, Bailey,” Mona said.

THE DEVIL’S WATER DICTIONARY.
The Chimayó

A libation to extend consciousness’s reach

1
. Pour one and a half ounces of tequila into an iced highball glass
.

2
. Add one ounce of apple cider and a quarter ounce apiece of lemon juice and crème de cassis
.

3
. Stir once, garnish with an apple slice, and serve
.

M
uch like the martini, the chimayó produces passive effects that render it unpopular for fieldwork. Indeed, astral projection does not immediately lend itself to the eradication of tremens and the protection of human life. Nonetheless, separating one’s consciousness from the body has dozens of practical applications, which will doubtlessly be added to subsequent editions of this book when someone thinks of them.

The chimayó is named for Chimayó, New Mexico, the small apple-growing town in which it first was mixed. Though pre-Blackout documents suggest the existence of a cocktail with similar effects, the modern chimayó wasn’t perfected and codified until the 1960s. It came about in a similar manner to many other great mixological breakthroughs: by taking whatever was at hand and mixing it with booze until the results were palatable.

T
EQUILA
.

F
IG. 47
—Tequila was named a
Pueblo Mágico
(“Magical Town”) by the Mexican federal government.

The national liquor of Mexico, this agave-derived distillate (named for the city of Tequila, whose name comes from the Nahuatl word for “place of tribute”) is by nature a projective force, and its presence in cocktails encourages like effects. Although the world knows this from a mostly vomitative perspective, savvy bartenders appreciate the edge that a properly made tequila drink may grant in an otherwise impossible situation.

Tequila comes with a high historical pedigree; its distillation has been patronized by the Spanish throne since the seventeenth century. But its clout and power come with a degree of volatility. As such, its popularity tends to vacillate relative to the mood of regional Cupbearers Courts. Conservative Courts frown upon the spirit because of the havoc it’s been known to cause, whereas more experimental-minded Courts encourage its use for precisely the same reason.

C
RÈME DE
C
ASSIS
.

A black currant liqueur native to France. While liquors go through some manner of aging process, liqueurs are usually bottled and sold soon after being mixed. This relative youth renders them less potent, making them unfit as a base ingredient for a cocktail, which of course has not discouraged bartenders from trying. Vivienne Vandenberg, a celebrated Dutch bartender from the early twentieth century, fed her famous coffee addiction by attempting to reinvent many standard cocktails using coffee liqueur. In her time she successfully invented other major cocktails (see
WHITE RUSSIAN
), but ultimately she met her end attempting to take on a tremens when armed with a cocktail that, upon postmortem inspection, was found to be merely a glass of pure coffee liqueur.

F
IG. 48—
Ribes nigrum
.

Bailey stifled a squawk and nearly tripped over a nearby stool. “Mona,” she said, “I thought you worked in Humboldt Park.”

Mona shrugged. “I work where I’m needed. Do
you
need me, Bailey?”

“No,” Bailey said but then corrected herself as Mona started to turn away. “I mean, yes. I’d like a shot of bourbon, please.” Determined to make up for her companions’ karmic debt, she kept her manners impeccable.

Mona poured a shot and slid it over. “When you’re done, join me outside for a smoke break.”

Bailey nearly dropped her shot. “What?” she said, casting a glance at a nearby window. It was still light outside, if only barely. There would be no tremens activity as long as the sun was up. “Now?”

“Not now. In a few seconds, when you finish your shot. And not
that
kind of smoke break.” Mona pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “See you outside.”

The well whiskey still burned in Bailey’s mouth a minute later when she and Mona stepped into the back alley. It was classic Chicago: Dumpsters lining the brick walls, asphalt that always seemed to have puddles even though it hadn’t recently rained, and black iron fire escapes that had likely seen more use as make-out spots for rebellious teenagers.

They rounded the corner of the alley and leaned against the wall of McNee’s. Mona tapped out a cigarette.

“Uh, I know it’s a cliché,” Bailey said as Mona sparked her lighter and leaned into the flame, “but those things will kill you.”

“No, they won’t.” Mona took her first drag and exhaled blue-gray smoke.

“Okay, then complications caused by a malignant tumor growing in your lungs will kill you.”

“No, they won’t,” Mona repeated. She sounded matter-of-fact, as if she had simply decided not to get cancer. “You’re probably wondering why I left behind a rush to talk to you.”

“Um,” Bailey said, “yup.”

Mona exhaled more smoke, then cocked her head. “You’re dressed very nicely today.”

“Uh, thank you?” Bailey said. She cast around for an excuse. “My friend invited me because she needed a fifteenth for the wristband deal. She told me it was a work thing, so I dressed up to fit in. I didn’t realize her job was so … casual.”

Nice work, me
. Bailey wished she could high-five herself. Not only was the lie perfectly plausible, but every word was technically true.

“So that’s why I’m here,” Bailey said, unable to quit while she was ahead. “I guess you wanted to, uh, talk about that but—”