Jose knocked back the shot the way a sprinter takes those first steps off of the starting blocks: with purpose and determination. He was going to get drunk or die trying. Not that he’d ever heard of anyone who’d died trying to get drunk. Maybe. If you count that guy in Tukwilla who’d accidentally slit his jugular with a broken bottle of Thunderbird, then yeah, sure.
But Jose had enough experience getting alcohol from bottles into his gullet that he wasn’t worried about any kind of mishap. And he didn’t foresee any complications that might prevent him from getting lit. Good and lit. Lit like a klieg light at the premiere of the movie “Beigey Gets Drunk.”
He called the bartender over. “Listen, Jonesy,” he said, slapping a hundred dollar bill on the bar like a man killing a very expensive mosquito, “I don’t want this shot glass empty for more than five seconds at a time, hear me?”
Jonesy knew he meant business. “You got it, Beigey.”
He refilled the glass. Jose emptied it. This happened a few more times without much variation.
A dame sat on the stool next to Jose and watched, impressed, as he downed the shot like a lion downs an old, fat water buffalo.
“My,” said the dame, lighting a cigarette in that sexy way that makes a man forget about the word “carcinogens”, “we certainly are in a hurry to get sauced, aren’t we?”
“If you’re going to do something, why waste time?” Jose shot back and then belched in a way that was actually kind of charming.
The dame had two shots in front of her. She slid one in Jose’s direction. “Well, let me help you speed yourself along, then, Mr. …”
Jose took the proffered drink. “Amador. Jose Amador. And thank you.”
“You're welcome, Mr. Amador.” The dame said. She gave him a slight nod of her head as she put the shot glass to her ruby red lips and took the alcohol into her mouth in a way that made Jose wonder if she took other things into her mouth. Y’know, like penises.
She put the shot glass back on the bar and then it was Jose’s turn. He tossed the liquor back and then looked at the dame. She looked like a gal who’d been around the block. But a block in a good neighborhood. No tattoo parlors or OTBs on her block.
Parked on top of some stellar cheek bones were blue-grey eyes that punched a hole in the back of a man’s head. Her face was framed by jet-black hair with one defiant streak of white; just enough to say, “I’m not a college girl anymore, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t still experiment with bisexuality.”
Jose was just pondering his next move when three things hit him. The first was the realization that he’d met this particular dame before. The second was the disturbing feeling that he was a whole lot drunker than eight puny shots should’ve made him. The third was the floor.
Jose woke up feeling like the Rockettes had done two matinees on his skull. An attempt to wipe the vomit off his chin brought with it the revelation that his hands were tied. That was never a good sign.
He opened his eyes to find himself in one of those tiny, dimly-lit rooms he hated so much. Behind him, he could hear an inhalation of breath and thin paper crackling as it burned. Someone had a cigarette and was not sharing. The sign of an inconsiderate kidnapper.
When the smoke was blown in his direction, though, it was definitely not tobacco he was smelling.
“Okay, I give,” said Jose. “What the hell did I do to piss of the Jamaican mafia?”
“This isn’t business, Mr. Amador. It’s personal.” Her voice slid into his ear like a knife wrapped in velvet.
“Mrs. Flart, wasn’t it?”
The dame stepped around the chair and stood in front of him. The eyes were a touch blood-shot now, but still just as icy.
“That’s right, Mr Amador. I’m glad you remember. Do you also remember how you killed my husband?”
“Well, Mrs. Flart, I’m going to go ahead and assume that that grass you’re smoking has done more damage to your brain cells than my scotch has done to mine. Because my recollection is that Johnny died at the hands of his cell mate after he declined an invitation to toss said cell mate’s salad.”
“You’re partially correct, Mr. Amador, but you’re conveniently omitting the fact that Johnny would not have been in the aforementioned cell if you hadn’t gotten him arrested.”
“I’ve always lived by the rule that people who don’t want to be forced to toss someone’s salad shouldn’t kill their business partners, Mrs. Flart.”
“That’s a good rule, Mr. Amador. I’ve got another rule in which you might be interested.”
“Do share, Mrs. Flart.”
“My rule goes something like this: detectives who stick their nose where it doesn’t belong deserve to be shot in the head.” She pulled a .22 out of her purse, by way of illustration.
“I’d say that’s less of a rule and more of a point of view, Mrs. Flart.”
The Widow Flart brought a fresh match up to the joint in her gloved fingers and took another hit.
“Be that as it may, Mr. Amador,” the words left her mouth accompanied by a good deal of pungent smoke, “I’m going to go ahead and kill you.”
The beginnings of an idea touched down in Jose’s mind. As he had nothing else going, he picked it up and ran with it.
“That’s fine, Mrs. Flart. But before I go, could I ask one thing?”
“You can ask.”
“Do you have a Ho-Ho?”
“A Ho-Ho?”
“That’s right, Mrs. Flart. A Ho-Ho. Moist chocolate cake and fluffy whipped cream, rolled up together and coated in chocolate. One of those would really hit the spot right now, don’t you think?”
Did Jose detect the slightest of wavers in the widow’s cool steel gaze? He pressed ahead.
“I could really go for that or maybe a pizza. Chewy crust with some garlicky, basil-tinged sauce and nice, fresh mozzarella melted in pools all over.”
He could see the widow’s jaw working involuntarily. She licked her lips.
“Or maybe there’s a place around here to get some good fries. Nothing like a basket of hot, salty fries, fresh out of the fryer, maybe with a little malt vinegar sprinkled on top.”
The gun was still pointed at Jose, but the hand not holding a gun was wiping drool away from the widow’s mouth. “Yes. That all sounds pretty good. I think I actually want a milkshake. But, hey man, I’m still going to shoot you. Just, I think maybe I’ll run next door and get some onion rings first. I’ll be right back.”
With that, the widow ducked out of the room, then came back in and took five minutes to find her wallet.
When she’d left the room a second time, Jose jumped into action.
“Ten minutes, tops, to get these handcuffs off,” he thought. He smiled. “I can do it in four.”
Happy Birthday, Beigey!
