Authors: William Lashner
“You want my advice on that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Lose some weight.
“Don’t I know that. But how?”
“Get rid of the TV for starters. And then give up meat.”
“No TV, no meat. Can I still have sex?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
Scott laughed. “Dalton wants me to keep an eye on you, so that’s what I’m going to do. But I’m on your side more than you know. I’m giving you heartfelt advice here to just stay out of this.” Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “But if you got anything to say, I’ll be glad to hear it. And if there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”
“Anything?”
“Sure.”
Justin took the card and stared at it for a moment as he thought about the turtle he saw in the middle of his
meditation. “Well, there is one thing,” he said. “I’d like to see some pictures of my mother.”
“Don’t you have enough?”
“Not of her corpse,” said Justin.
17.
JOHNNIE WALKER BLUE
B
irdie Grackle fidgeted and hitched his way to the bar, moving through Zenzibar’s lively evening crowd as smoothly as a dented old pickup, throwing rods every which way, trying to parallel park in a spot two feet too short. As Justin stood off to the side and checked the IDs of two very young women away from the sorority house for the evening, Birdie sidled up to the mahogany, leaned an elbow on the bar, stuck out his stomach, rubbed a finger over his big fake teeth. Standing at the bar, he held himself like the world owed him a favor that he was born to collect.
“Do you know how to make a Long Beach Tea?” shouted one of the young women, a sprite with bright-red lipstick.
“Do you know how to drink one?” said Justin.
“Sure I do,” she said. “Fast.”
Justin wanted to put his hand on her shoulder and go all avuncular, but that wasn’t his role. He wasn’t a caring uncle, he was a bartender, he mixed drinks. “Coming right up,” he said.
“And a Cosmo,” said the other woman.
“You bet.”
The Long Beach Tea was simple enough—fill a pint glass with ice, grab bottles of rum and gin with one hand, vodka and
triple sec with the other, and fill most of the glass. Top it with sour and a healthy splash of cranberry, pretty it up with a lemon slice, give it a quick stir with a straw. It was the kind of drink college girls ordered, because it tasted like fruit juice but stung like a bee. The Cosmo took a little more work, but it was sweet as candy and went down easily too. And all the while he poured and stirred and shook and strained, he had his eye on Birdie Grackle. The old man wanted money; Justin didn’t have any. So the question of the night was how to get the old man to spill without spilling a check.
When he cashed out the two college girls, Justin headed over to the old man at the bar. “Thanks for coming, Birdie,” said Justin with a spic-and-span politeness.
“I knew you’d make that call. Didn’t have no doubts. But I bet it choked your heart a bit to do it.”
“I had the opportunity to review my mother’s autopsy and some of the photographs taken at the scene of her murder.” Justin reached over and tapped Birdie on the spot behind his ear. “There seemed to be a mark right there.”
“And so you called.”
“And so I called.”
Birdie surveyed the glowing bottles arrayed like little soldiers in their ranks on the shelves behind Justin. “How is it working tonight, doctor? Same arrangement?”
“You mean am I still treating?”
“That’s what I mean.”
Justin looked at the old man for a long moment. If he was telling the truth, a definite if, then this bastard had killed his mother. How to handle such a thing? How not to rip his throat right out of his neck?
Be not terrified. Be not awed.
“Sure, Birdie. Same arrangement.”
“Then let’s say I have another of those Mojitos you whipped
up for me. Make it an extra extra. And since it’s on the house, make one for her, too,” said Birdie, jerking a thick thumb at the pretty college girl who had ordered the Long Beach Tea. “She looks just young enough.”
“Young enough to watch
Sesame Street
maybe.”
“A girl like that, with only a little help she can get so cockeyed she won’t notice how old I am. Just because I can’t no more get it up don’t mean I don’t still like a taste of fresh now and then.” He leered and winked at the same time, a quite attractive duo. “And she don’t even need to be awake for me to get it.”
“One Mojito coming up.”
“You getting judgmental on me, boy?”
“I have no judgments,” said Justin, as he started building the drink. “I’m just a barkeep.”
“So you got me my money?”
“Money?”
Grackle’s face screwed tight, like he was sucking something sour. “The money what we talked about. You know, for the job. Half up front.”
“Oh, that money.”
“And here all along I thought you was supposed to be such a smart cracker.”
“If I was so smart, Birdie,” said Justin, his work with the muddler maybe a bit too vigorous, “would I be mixing drinks? But no, there won’t be any money. There won’t be any job.”
“No job?”
“No job.”
“You’re letting a killer go free, boy.”
“Karma covers all,” said Justin. “I’m no caped avenger, I’m just a barkeep. And to tell you the truth, Birdie, I don’t think you really exist. I think you’re simply a figment of my imagination.”
“What the hell’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t need tell me that.”
“So how about one more drink, and then you go and leave me alone.”
“That’s what you called me for? You don’t want to never know the truth of the thing?”
“Whatever truth there is, I don’t think you have it.”
“I gave you the turtle with them diamonds, didn’t I?”
“Rhinestones. And the description of the pin was in all the papers. You could have had it made up just for the occasion, scraped it to make it look old, popped it in my lap to fool my eye.”
“I ain’t that clever.”
“That might be the first thing you’ve said all night that I believe.”
“So you don’t want to know the one behind it all. The one what hired Preacher to hire me.”
“You told me you didn’t know who it was.”
“That’s about what I said, paraphrased and without the whoop-de-doo, though it’s the whoop-de-doo what makes it all worthwhile. But even if I don’t know who it was specifically, I can help you find out.”
“And for that you want money.”
“That’s the deal.”
Justin smacked a sprig of mint between his palms, and maybe he smacked it a little too hard. He made an effort to be slow in placing the drink before the old man. “Well, how about this, Birdie. You help me find out who it was that hired you, and if it pans out, then we’ll talk money.”
Grackle looked at the drink, longingly, looked at Justin suspiciously, looked back at the drink and lifted it. He sipped it
daintily at first, and then greedily. When he plopped the half-empty drink on the counter, he said, “Keep them coming, boy.”
“In a sec,” said Justin. “I need to take care of some people over there.”
Justin let Birdie stew in his Mojito as he served the other side of the bar. A couple of beers, a Dirty Martini, a Scotch neat, two shots of Tully. He poured Larry a fresh Yuengling. Lee asked for a Cosmo of her own, and Cody, who had just come in, asked for a Sazerac, which was rye sweetened with sugar and bitters, finished with a kiss of absinthe and lemon zest.
From the corner of his eye, Justin could see Birdie raise his empty glass to show he needed a refill, and Justin pretended not to notice. Have you ever been to a bar and found it impossible to get the bartender’s attention? This wasn’t an accident. She knew you were there, she saw you waving to catch her eye—she sees everything that happens at her bar top—and yet still she went on, seemingly oblivious to you and your thirst as she worked the other side of the bar. It’s all part of the bartender’s creed: make them fresh, make them cold, but most of all, if they’re a little overeager, make them wait. And just then, Justin wanted to make that son of a bitch wait.
“Hey, boy,” Grackle called out in his desiccated voice. “I’m still thirsty.”
Justin gave Birdie a glance to let him know he’d heard the baying of the wolf, and then went back to ignoring him. Grackle wanted alcohol, Justin would make him wait. Grackle wanted money, Justin would make him wait.
“A couple guys came in a little earlier looking for you,” said Justin to Cody as he built the Sazerac.
“Friends?” said Cody, looking around like a ferret in a trap.
“They didn’t look so friendly, and they were big enough to back it up. Said something about a Solly something.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Cody who?”
“Exactly. Christ, I stepped in it now.”
“I guess the ‘sure thing’ wasn’t so sure.”
“Kobe missed two free throws just before the buzzer. When’s he ever do that?
Ever
?”
“Never.”
“Exactly.”
Justin twisted a strip of lemon rind over the Sazerac, releasing the oils into the drink, before dropping the rind to the bottom of the glass. He slid the drink in front of Cody, and then leaned close enough so Lee or Larry couldn’t hear their conversation. “I might have an opportunity for you to make some of it back. You see that old guy making the fuss over there
?
”
“Yellow hair?” said Cody, without turning his head. “Tats on his forearms?”
“That’s the one. I’ll cover you here for the next few weeks if after he leaves, you find out where he heads off to.”
“You care if he spots me following?”
“It’s better if he doesn’t. And I’ll pay twenty bucks an hour for you to find out what you can about him.”
“A little detective work.”
“Exactly.”
“Anything I should be worried about?”
“A man that old and a guy tough as you?”
“Nah, you’re right.” Cody looked at Justin for a moment more and then smiled slyly. “Thirty-five.”
“Thirty.”
“Deal.”
Without so much as a nod, Justin moved along the bar and filled more orders. When enough time had passed for Grackle
to get seriously pissed—and one thing bartenders know is how to get someone waiting for a drink seriously pissed—Justin ambled over.
“Sorry, Birdie, but it’s a busy night.”
“I told you to keep them coming,” said Birdie. “I’m a paying customer.”
“You’re half-right.”
“You called me, sonny, not the other way around. Let me have a couple shots to take the edge off. And then we’ll talk again about my money.”
Justin turned around and checked the selection. At the Capital Grille, Birdie had ordered Johnnie Walker Red, a cheaper blended malt. Red was all right for mixing, but if you were drinking your blended Scotch straight, you wanted something with a bit more character. There was Black, which was better, and Gold which was better still. And then, on the very top shelf, glowing like a shiny doubloon, was a rare bit of luxury, a bottle so cherished each was individually numbered. Justin reached up and pulled the bottle from the shelf.
“You ever have any Johnnie Walker Blue, Birdie?” said Justin.
“Is it better than Black?”
“It makes Black taste like kerosene.”
“Oh my. I might have heard something about it. More like a rumor than anything else. Is that it?”
“That’s it. But it’s expensive.”
Someone called out for a beer from the far end of the bar. Justin ignored him, his eyes flat on Birdie.
“Let’s not let expense get in the way of a friendship,” said the old man.
“Let’s not,” said Justin, before opening the bottle, waving it beneath his own nose, and rising on tiptoes like he was
smelling youth itself. He slammed a rocks glass on the bar and poured, slowly, as carefully as if the amber liquid were as precious as gold. He poured, and he kept pouring, the level rising generously until the six-ounce glass was more than three-quarters full. A feast of smooth oblivion.
Birdie licked his lips involuntarily and reached for the liquor. Before he got hold, Justin pulled it away.
“After,” said Justin.
“After what?”
“You said you were handled by a man named Preacher. You said Preacher let slip something that told you it wasn’t my father that had hired you.”
“That’s what I said, all right.”
“What did he let slip, Birdie?”
Birdie eyed the glass and the Scotch whiskey inside. His fake teeth chattered. “You’re not playing fair, boy.”
“My mother played fair every damn day of her life.”
“No need bringing her into it. What about my money?”
“Are you drinking, or am I throwing this away?”
“You ain’t that cruel.”
Justin snatched the glass and dashed the contents into the sink.
He ignored the appalled gasp from behind as he lifted the precious bottle back to the top shelf and, making a point not to look at the old man, went off to satisfy the orders that had been piling all around him. Birdie Grackle was playing him, had been playing him from the start, and it was time he played back. Sure, the geezer could just pick up and leave, but Justin had read Birdie as a battered old alky from the first, and one thing Justin had learned as a barkeep was that an alky never lets go of his drink. Even more so when it is something from the top shelf. Old drunks have a truly unholy reverence for
expensive spirits. Birdie most likely could no longer taste the difference between the finest Scotch whiskey in the world or the rawest rotgut hooch, but he understood that Johnnie Walker Blue was a holy grail of liquor, and he’d wait until the gates of hell opened wide to get a chance to worship.
“Pour it again, boy,” said Birdie when Justin finally returned to his perch at the bar. Birdie was trying to look hard-bitten as he said it, but the desperation glinted through the effort.
“I wouldn’t want to waste any more of the good stuff,” said Justin. “Why don’t I pour you something house?”
“Don’t be smart. That bottle up there. I’ve a hankering to taste it.”
Justin shrugged and pulled down the Johnnie Walker Blue. He had already thrown away about a hundred bucks’ worth retail, which is what Marson, keeping a wary eye on him from the corner of the bar, would make him pay. Still, it was having the desired effect. As he repoured, he watched Birdie’s Adam’s apple bounce. Justin pulled up when the glass was a third filled. The shock in Birdie’s eyes was priceless.