I mumble, “Stiff drink?”
He looks relieved and grunts, “Thank Christ, let’s drop this crap off in the car and hit a speakeasy.”
I shoot him a dirty look and he covers. Or at least attempts to.
“And by crap, I mean really nice stuff well worth the price and hours we spent getting them,” he says with a stiff smile as I roll my eyes.
“No one’s buying it, Parella.”
35
The Bell in Hand Tavern. Speakeasy of choice. It’s a typical Irish pub with wood paneled walls and massive burgundy pleather booths. Pleather is a Boston design favorite. I slide myself into one as Jack ventures to the bar.
The place is dimly lit with a handful of patrons belly-up to the long, shiny wood top Given their comfortable rapport with one another and the time of day, one can only assume these are regulars.
I notice an old fashioned jukebox in the corner and dig up some quarters from the bottom of my purse. One of the quarters has a little gum stuck to it that I manage to scrape off with my fingernail. All my loose change goes into the machine and I play every depressing love song from their selection and, of course, Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again.” I do love my eighties hair band power ballads.
Jack saunters back, drinks in hand.
“What’d you get me?”
“A Jameson and soda.”
“I have no idea what that is, but I really don’t care right now.”
“It’s an Irish whiskey. I think. You’ll like it. It packs a punch.”
Lifting my glass, I announce, “To the Irish.”
Gulp. Wow. That is stiff. Perfect.
I stretch my legs out on the bench seat of the booth with the full intention of wallowing in my depressed state. Sarah McLachlan pipes through the speakers and the rest of the patrons—who all happen to be male—let out a disappointed groan. I glance up, noticing a second floor. It’s a loft type area with a spindle railing and raw wood beams that line the ceiling. This place is reminiscent of a brothel. I can just imagine a row of powder-faced, cherry-lipped women lining the curved wood staircase as cowboys paid in silver or gold coins, depending on the popularity of the gal. I down the rest of my drink and Jack gestures as if to fetch another.
“No, no, I’ve got this one. What are you drinking?” I ask.
He glances down at his nearly full low-ball glass and smiles. “Umm, I think I’m okay for now. Thanks.”
I belly up to the bar and wait my turn to order drinks. Me thinks I should do a shot of something just to cut to the chase. “Excuse me, can you get me a shot of tequila and a Jameson and soda please?”
The bartender resembles an aging leprechaun, with his strawberry blond curls and round, cherubic face. He gives me a wink and a gum-toothed grin. “Lethal combination, my dear girl.”
I very much want for him to say, “It’s magically delicious,” but disappointingly he doesn’t.
“I’m counting on it,” I reply.
He hands me the shot glass. I down the tequila swiftly and immediately regret my decision. It feels as if I’ve just swallowed rubbing alcohol after doing a fire-eating act. I shudder. The leprechaun lets out a gleeful snicker and pours me the low-ball of Jameson.
As I make my way back to the booth, I notice that Jack has fashioned a triangle of toothpicks and filled the interior with Sweet’N Low packets. A waitress struts by with a plate of corned beef and cabbage. I get a strong whiff of the smelly roughage and boiled beef.
“I’m starved.” I motion for the tall, red-haired barmaid. “Can I have one of those?” I ask, pointing in the direction of the salted, cured meat.
“Sure thing.” She then turns her undivided attention towards Jack. “You an artist?” she asks, batting her fake lashes at Parella and motioning to the sad toothpick display.
Oh, brother.
Jack replies dismissively, “I’ll take a burger done medium with blue cheese and fries. Extra crisp.”
“Coming right up.” She giggles, ambling away and practically tripping over her own feet.
“You’re quite a hit with the ladies, huh?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, completely clueless to the potent exchange with the redhead.
“I mean, everywhere we go there’s some ‘broad’ gushing all over you.” The tequila’s setting in now and it feels as if I’ve been dunked in a warm bath. Jack smiles. “Are you an artist? Please.” I roll my eyes.
“Careful, Liza. You’re starting to sound jealous.”
Letting out a snort, I shout, “Hah! That’s ridiculous!” The patrons turn and gawk.
Oops, guess I kind of shouted that.
I lower my tone to a whisper. “I’m not jealous, I’m just annoyed. That tramp was coming onto you with me sitting right here…I mean, what is with these women? You could be my husband for all she knows and she’s just tempting you with the temptation the… temptress.”
I recognize that I’m probably projecting so I back off, take a big gulp of whiskey, and sing along with the currently playing eighties Phil Collins ballad, “Separate Lives.” Jack seems to sense us venturing into dangerous territory.
“Maybe you should slow down on the Jameson.”
“No way.” I take a hefty swig from the low-ball glass to punctuate my defiance as someone abruptly unplugs the jukebox.
“Hey! I was listening to that!” I shout.
The leprechaun shoots me an amused look. “I see that combo is kickin’ right in. Packs a real one-two, eh, Darlin’? They’re settin’ up the karaoke so maybe you’ll want to try out those pipes on a song or two.”
Karaoke? I’ve never done karaoke.
Singing in public hasn’t been something I gravitated toward—probably because no one ever wanted to hear me sing—but heck, it’s time to try something new. The host is setting up the microphone and a TV monitor. I’m giddy with excitement. Jack…not so much.
“Aw, come on Jacky boy. You doing a number?”
“I don’t sing.”
“Come on, Parella. Throw some caution into the storm.”
“Into the wind.”
“What? What about the wind?”
He gives me an exasperated look. “Oh, just forget it.”
I down the last of my amber-tinted drink, slam the glass on the table, and stand. “I’m signing you up for a song.”
“Don’t do it, Liza.” He reaches for my hand as I waltz away, but I’m too quick for him.
Drunk and disorderly sure feels good…
36
I found the perfect song for Jack. I signed him up and then scribbled my name underneath for my solo debut of Bananarama’s “Cruel Summer.” I only know the chorus but I’ll wing it. I’ve got tequila muscles now.
I parade back to the table and notice a coffee mug strategically placed in front of my seat. “Subtle, Jackaroony, real subtle,” I say as I push it aside and I raise my empty glass, signaling a desired refill.
“Just lookin’ out for my partner. We’ve got work to do tomorrow. Which reminds me, I better call Reggie to get the skinny on Jeanine’s husband.” He heads outside dialing his cell phone.
The karaoke host—who bears a striking similarity to the actor who played Doogie Howser— has finished setting up and kicks off the good times with that, “Little diddy about Jack and Diane” from John Cougar…or is it John Cougar Mellencamp again?
The waitress strides by and swaps my empty for a fully as I sing along (got to warm up the old pipes). Anticipating my turn on stage, I get the flutters. Maybe I should do another tequila shot. As I slide out of the booth, Jack appears and blocks my way. I’ve got a hunch he doesn’t want to get stuck holding my hair while I puke.
“I got our next lead,” he says as he slides in next to me, seriously invading my personal space.
And I thought the pre-karaoke flutters were bad…sheesh.
I take an ample gulp of my refilled whiskey to tame the dirty tingles.
“Turns out the club Jeanine’s husband belongs to is some
fancy-pants gentlemen only place called The Brothers Lucerne.”
I cough and spit my drink across the table, spraying the salt and peppershakers. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?? That’s the club Bernie belongs to...what’s it a prerequisite that you have to cheat on your wife to be a member?”
“You still wanna go tomorrow?”
“What are you nuts? I’m going…I’ll be there with cowbells on!”
“Bells might be a bad choice for undercover work.”
“Very funny, Jackiboy.”
“It’s Jackiman, thank you very much.”
The karaoke host finishes up his best John Cougar impersonation and takes a deep, dramatic bow. “Thank you. Thank you very much! I’ll be here all week, try the calamari… And our next singer is Jack Parella. Jack, come on down!” he shouts, as if calling the next contestant on The Price is Right.
Parella shoots me a look of death, then tentatively makes his way up to the stage.
“Jack will be singing an old Janis Joplin Favorite, ‘Piece of My Heart.’”
Parella watches as I giggle and slink down into the booth. He mouths, “You are so dead.”
It sends an eerie chill up my spine, but I shrug it off.
I mean he’s obviously kidding…right?
I’m just paranoid from the calligraphic threats, I suppose. The music blasts through the muffled speakers as Jack grabs a stool, sits, then stiffly proceeds to sing the entire song…as a monotone rap. What a sport. Bernie wouldn’t have been caught dead within a square block of a place that even had karaoke, much less sing.
I down the rest of my drink as Jack makes his way back to the booth.
“Nice work, mister…you know if they ever increase the age limit on American Idol...”
“Don’t push your luck, doll.”
The karaoke host carries on with lame jokes and impersonations then announces me as the next singer.
“Break a leg,” Jack mumbles with a queer grin plastered on his face.
“I just might,” I reply, teetering towards the stage.
Can’t say I remember much after being on stage for the first ten seconds, but according to Jack I put on quite a show for the elderly gentleman at the bar.
I come to as Parella’s stuffing me into the front seat of the car. My hair stinks of vomit. He plops several shopping bags on my lap then hurries to the driver’s side. He gingerly puts his foot to the gas as I stick my head out the window, inhaling the cold night air.
The ride home is a half-conscious struggle to keep from bringing up any more of that corned beef (which I can only assume I ate at some point during the evening because I reek of it and I think there’s a few chunks stuck to my hair.)
As we pull up to the loft Jack says softly, “I need to find parking, but I’ll get you inside first, okay?”, and climbs out of the drivers seat.
“Mmmmk.”
As I clasp my arm around his neck, I get a whiff of his scent. It’s a cross between parsley and a raw animal muskiness.
“You smell good, Jack.”
“Thanks, Liza,” he says, fumbling with the door lock.
“I don’t smell good, Jack.”
“Nope, that’s true, you don’t. But it’s nothin’ a good bath won’t cure.”
“Are you going to give me a bath, Jack? As the words tumble out, I cringe.
The front door opens with its usual bell chime, and there is a pregnant pause as Jack reaches for the light switch and punches in the code for the alarm.
“I’ll run you a bath upstairs when I get back from parking the car, Liza, but I don’t think you’ll need my help beyond that point,” he says, placating me.
“Mmmmm K.”
I’m too drunk and tired to feel humiliated. He delicately sets me on the couch in the back room and drapes a plaid wool blanket over me.
I’m dreading tomorrow….tomorrow humiliated will set it. Oh well….that’s where drunk and disorderly gets you.
37
Sunlight pierces my eye and my head feels like someone’s playing marbles inside it. I still vaguely smell of corned beef and cabbage, so I’m assuming that the bath never took place.
Oh, God…the bath!
I asked Jack to bathe me last night and to make matters worse he declined! I should just leave. I really don’t think I can face him today.
I drag myself off the lumpy excuse for a sofa and grab for my shoes. Jack has thoughtfully set all my purchases neatly on the floor near the door. I decide on my new Uggs and the eggplant-colored jumpsuit cause that’s the way I feel—big, purple and bruised.
There’s a knock at the door just as I’m plotting my escape.
Crap. Looks like I’ll have to face him after that clumsy come on last night.
I walk towards the door and make a swift decision to completely glaze over the fact that it ever happened. I mean, I was drunk after all; people forget what they say when they’re drunk all the time.
I brace myself and open the door to find Jack smirking in the hallway with one hand in his back pocket and a mug of coffee in the other.
“Thought you might be able to use this.” He hands me the steaming cup, which I’m instantly grateful for. It warms my frigid fingers and he’s made it just the way I like it. Or the only way I can stomach it I should say, with lots of cream and lots of sugar.
I plop myself on the couch and take a sip. Parella pulls up a chair and straddles it facing me. He looks ready to talk business.
“Okay, so this morning we’re heading over to the country club. I’ll pose as a would-be prospective member, and you’ll go undercover as a maid and grab some membership files from the office.”
Cool.
“I don’t have to be a slutty French maid or anything, right?”
“Only when we get home.”
“You wish,” I reply without thinking, then wince, bracing myself for a retort pertaining to last night. He lets me slide.
“You feel alright with all that?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I mean, you’re gonna have to pick the lock. And you may run into Bernie so you’ll have to wear a wig and glasses. It’ll be risky.”
“Danger’s my middle name.”
He shoots me a curious look. “ What is your middle name?”
“Cordelia.”
“Cute. Did people call you Delia?”
I shake my head. “I tried to implement ‘Cordy’ in my tomboy stage, but it never quite took, thank God. How about you?”
He twists his face up like a little boy and says under his breath, “Vincenzo, after my great grandfather. And Jack stands for Jackamo.”
“That’s like the greatest name ever…Jackamo Vincenzo Parella. That’s like a bona fide Francis Ford Coppola movie name. Are you going to ask me to kiss your ring?”
Jack rolls his eyes. “No, but I may ask you to kiss somethin’ else, smarty pants.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“Alright then, so I’ll give you a crash course in lock picking 101 after you get dressed. There’s some fresh towels in the bathroom; I’ll go grab your disguise.” He heads towards the door but stops midway. “Unless you’d like me to stay and help you.”
I feel the blood rush to my face. This is a no win situation here. I’m way too hung-over to work my way out of this one. Defeated, I throw my hands in the air and head into the bathroom. I hear the door shut as I turn the handle of the shower. Jackamo Vincenzo Parella, you sure do know how to get under a girl’s skin.
38
Phew. That was the tiniest shower in history. I felt like I was in that trash compacter Princess Leigh and Luke got struck in. I spot my maid’s uniform hanging from the robe hook with a fresh mug of coffee next to it. If I hadn’t sworn off men this guy might actually be racking up a lot of points. But as it stands, men are scum and I will never, ever let one near my heart—or any other private place—again. I’ll just get a dog; they’re loyal and will give you unconditional love. But the scooping up poop thing co
uld be a deal breaker. Especially before breakfast.
The uniform fits pretty well and it’s not French maidy at all. Very demure in fact. I push my hair into the blonde wig and don a pair of black-rimmed spectacles to complete the transformation. There’s a knock at the door.
“What, do you have a camera in here or something? I just finished changing.”
I open the door a crack. Jack smirks as he strolls past me.
“Wait, I was kidding…You don’t really have a camera in here…Do you??”
He dodges the question and reaches into his pocket, pulling out what looks to be a mini flathead screwdriver. It has a long thin end, he twirls it between his fingers and that’s when I finally notice Jack’s disguise.
His outfit consists of plaid golf pants paired with a Kelly green polo and a bright blue sweater strung over his shoulders tied in a loose knot. A white straw fedora sits perched on his head.
“You look ridiculous. They’re never gonna buy it.”
“Don’t worry. When I made the appointment I told them I’d built my fortune in rotisserie chicken ovens. So they’re expecting ‘new money’.”
“Alright, just be careful, if one of these guys is an arsonist, he’s obviously dangerous.”
Jack gives me the once-over. “You, on the other hand, look perfect.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe you can do a little vacuuming and light dusting when we get back.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Actually, I do have a shirt that’s missing a button.”
“Don’t push your luck, Parella.”
We go toe to toe for a second and I give him a playful sock on the arm.
“Okay, ready to learn the fine art of B&E?”
I know from watching reruns of the TV show The Rockford Files that B&E is the abbreviation for breaking and entering. He proceeds to give me my first lesson in lock picking 101.
This just gets better and better…
39
Ten minutes later I’m a lock picking pro and my hangover has all but faded in all the excitement. “This is so cool!” I shout, managing to spring the storage closet lock for the fourth time.
Eye Spy (Liza Radley Housewife Detective Chronicles) Page 8