Risky Whiskey

by Lucy Lakestone

  A flurry of emotions crossed Dash’s face, and then his jaw set.

  “No,” he said. “No, I’m not going to let them get me down. My whole life is wrapped up in Bohemia Distillery. We’re going to solve our problems and make it even better.”

  “The unsinkable Mr. Reynolds,” Travis said. “He always was the one with the heart of a lion, even when the kids picked on him in school.”

  “Because you helped me.”

  “And you couldn’t help helping me,” Travis said with a wry smile.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Dash,” Neil said.

  “And we’re going to help you figure this out,” I pledged as we strolled toward the rest of our group and headed inside.

  The hotel provided a portable bar to supply the audience with drinks, but unlike so many generic hotel bars back home—akin to the one poor Melody worked for—this one knew what it was doing. By the time the ceremony had progressed to the award for best craft distillery, we were all relaxed and enjoying our drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

  Still, we were disappointed when Dash didn’t win best craft distillery. He smiled graciously when his company’s name was mentioned among the finalists, especially when it was greeted with hearty applause by those who’d no doubt tried our cocktails during the showcase the first night. But his irrepressible spirit was visibly dampened when Fairyland, the distillery that made Frilly Fairy Gin and Vexatious Vodka, took the medal.

  His loss curtailed our expectations, so when Neil was announced as the winner of best new cocktail book, the surprise was exhilarating. We all leapt to our feet and shouted and cheered, and he went up to the stage and took the award with just a few words about what an honor it was to be among the legends of the craft. That didn’t hurt his audience appeal, either, and there was a lot of clapping as he returned to his seat.

  Notably, Alastair’s bar, a finalist for best international cocktail bar, didn’t win, and the cold, sharp look he shot Neil had all the charm of an ice pick. Neil and I exchanged glances. Alastair wasn’t winning any points for warm-fuzziness.

  His sponsor, however, was more generous. A handsome guy with a quirky smile, dark red hair, appealing chin scruff, golden-brown eyes and a rugby player’s body approached our table as the awards ended. He introduced himself to Dash in a delectable British accent, not so posh as Alastair’s, with just a touch of gruffness to it.

  “Mark Fairman. Pleased to finally meet you in person. I’m a fan of your whiskey, mate. You should have been up there with us.”

  Dash mustered a smile for him. “That’s kind of you. Congratulations on your win. The gin is fantastic.”

  “Your gin is almost as good as ours.” Mark chuckled at his own joke. He turned to Neil. “Well done, my friend. Is this your crew?”

  Neil introduced the bartenders, ending with me.

  “Hot Pepper?” Mark asked as if he hadn’t heard correctly. His grin said otherwise.

  “Just Pepper.” My goodness, his handshake was firm. As firm as the rest of him appeared to be.

  Still clasping my hand, he leaned in to speak low in my ear. “Hot Pepper it is,” he murmured, then released my hand, winked at me and headed out with his friends while I resisted the urge to fan myself. There was something dangerous about Mark Fairman. Dangerously sexy.

  Neil—was he scowling? I couldn’t help but giggle.

  As the crowd surged around us on the way out and we prepared to leave, a familiar figure, sharp in a plum suit with a creamy-white silk ascot, approached our table.

  “Mr. Cray!” I said, and the old man winked at me.

  “Oh my God.” Barclay’s eyes were as big as lime slices. “I’m such a fan. And that rum you sent along with Pepper—how can we thank you?”

  Cray subtly looked him over. “I’ll think about it,” he said with a twinkle. “I just wanted to meet the fellows behind Bohemia Distillery.”

  “Then you want to meet Dash,” Travis said, his brisk tone belying his sullen expression. Still stinging from the loss, no doubt. But he put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder, and Cray reached out his hand to shake Dash’s.

  Dash took it. “I understand we owe you a debt. Thank you.”

  “Not at all. It was a pleasure drinking your rye, especially.” The untainted whiskey. No one was mentioning the tainted one. “I wanted to have a word with you,” Cray said, lowering his voice. Neil leaned in at the same time I did. “The judges were planning to give you the award, but they were unsettled by the rumors they’d heard at the start of the convention.”

  Dash went pale. “But that’s terrible. Will we ever get out from under this cloud?”

  “I tell you this not to distress you,” Cray said. “There was a lot of argument about it. I wanted you to know that you do have fans and supporters, and they—and I—wish you well.”

  Dash nodded and shook Cray’s hand again. “Thank you for those words and for telling me what happened. We have a couple more opportunities to shine while we’re here, and we’ll take advantage of them.”

  “That’s a good fellow,” Cray said warmly. He turned toward Neil and nodded at the medal now around the bartender’s neck. “Nicely done, my friend.” And then he was off into the flow of happy people streaming out of the ballroom.

  Luke, unaware of the whispered conversation with Cray because he’d just returned from the restroom, was practically bouncing on his feet. “We need to celebrate! Want to come to the tiki bar with us?”

  “I’m done for the night.” Dash turned to Neil. “But I want us to outshine everyone at the big party tomorrow night. You’ll be ready?”

  “Absolutely,” Neil said, and the rest of our crew murmured agreement. “We have fabulous cocktails in the works. Bohemia’s whiskeys are going to be very popular tomorrow.”

  “Unforgettable, I’m sure.” Travis patted Dash on the back. “Come on, cuz. Let me buy you one in the bar.”

  “Just one, and then I’m going to bed. My head still kind of hurts.”

  Travis chuckled. “I’ll be going to bed later, too, if she shows up, that is.”

  Barclay and Luke laughed, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to join them. Playboys annoyed me. And I wondered if Bennett managed to figure out who Travis went out with the other night so we could talk to her. If we followed him now and happened to track her …

  “I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is no,” Neil whispered in my ear. His heat and nearness gave me a nice little buzz, at least until his words penetrated my brain.

  “What?”

  “Not now.” Then louder, “Goodnight. Don’t worry, Dash, Travis. We’ll touch base in the morning.”

  The cousins walked away. “Why can’t we follow them?” I whispered furiously to Neil.

  “Because we have no reason to,” he murmured back, “and Bennett is on it. I’ll make sure he knows what’s happening even if he hasn’t found out who she is.”

  We looked up from our secretive conversation. Barclay, Luke and Melody were staring curiously at us.

  “Sorry,” Neil said to them as he pulled out his phone and tapped out a message.

  “What Neil is trying to say is that I want to kick his ass,” I said, and they all burst out laughing. “Don’t ask why.”

  Neil looked at me as if he didn’t know what to think. I’d provoked him, but I’d also defused their questions.

  “What I want to do is buy all of you a drink,” he finally said to their hoots of approval. “It’s time we took a night off. A real night off. And I could use one or two myself.”

  18

  It was not long after nine, but that left plenty of drinking time. We waved at Tuba Guy on our way out the door of the hotel, and he tipped his instrument toward us as he played “When the Saints Go Marching In,” because by law, you cannot spend a day in New Orleans without hearing that song at least once. Its relentless ubiquity prompted the Preservation Hall Jazz Band to charge tourists extra to hear it.

  Half a block away from the tuba player was that
same bronze statue guy we’d seen earlier on Canal Street. Several people were gathered around him, watching him perform. No rest for the buskers, I guessed.

  I was glad my low heels were chunky and comfy given we had to walk several blocks. The streets were crowded now, and bars and restaurants along the way were hopping.

  “Do you have room for this in that little bag?” Neil asked me, pulling the heavy medal off his neck and handing it to me.

  “You don’t want to wear it?”

  “I’m not a ‘Look at me’ kind of guy,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. I can build up my arm muscles carrying this thing.” I squeezed it into my bowling-bag-style purse next to my phone and wallet.

  He grinned. “Want me to carry it for you?”

  “No way. It totally would not match your plaid.”

  He laughed, and the sound made me buoyant. The pleasantly cool evening helped restore our sobriety to a degree so we could lose it again at Latitude 29, the tiki bar no mixologist could resist. Neil’s eyes widened as he took in the Polynesian Pop decor, and they filled with pleasure when we all grabbed a table and he got ahold of a menu.

  Bohemia Bartenders’ first order was an elaborately built communal drink punctuated by several straws, the Snake vs. Mongoose. A taller cocktail sat in the center of a triangular bowl that held its own drink, each point of the vessel supported by a stylized moai.

  Neil could barely tear himself away from the menu to try the bowl drink. A smile had attached itself to his lips and wouldn’t go away, at least not until he pursed his mouth around a straw and took a sip. Then the smile got even bigger.

  “Ahhh. I’ve been wanting to come here ever since it opened,” he said.

  “Are you glad you did?” I asked.

  “Do Canadians like maple syrup?” We laughed. “This one and the next round are on me, guys.”

  Over exotic snacks and another round of rummy drinks—I soaked up a Nui Nui, a rum punch invented in 1937 by Don the Beachcomber and resurrected by Latitude 29’s Beachbum Berry—I could almost forget Dash’s bank account and Barnie lying in the hospital seeing nothing but blurry colors. So after that was done, I ordered a Mai Tai, which helped me focus (well, maybe focus was the wrong word) instead on my new friends, who were flush and chatty and enjoying the best of the craft.

  Neil was entranced, insisting on a sip of everything we ordered. For himself, he got the new-fashioned drinks but exclaimed just as much over the classics.

  As the other three argued about how much mint a Mai Tai should have and just how hard it should be spanked before it was plopped into the glass—mine had a sprig but was enhanced by an orchid—I turned to Neil. “Having a good time?”

  He rolled his eyes around in an expression of ecstasy that I’d never seen him wear. “This is what cocktails are meant to be. This is what I’m trying to bring to Bohemia, and so are you. Balance. Creativity. A symphony of flavors.”

  “Yeah. They’re good.” I sucked on my straw, and I swore Neil seemed distracted for a moment, his gaze drawn to my mouth.

  “Good?” He refocused. “So much more than good. Great. What this place does is take the classic formula and then it elevates it to delight and surprise your mouth, your nose, your eyes.” He caught my eyes then, and even though I was a bit giddy myself, I got a little lost in his blue-edged crystal-gray pools. I was pretty sure Neil wasn’t a hundred percent sober either.

  “One of sour, two of sweet, three of strong, four of weak,” I recited. “And by ‘good’ I meant ‘delicious.’ ”

  “YES!” Neil bellowed, and Barclay, Luke and Melody all stopped chattering and turned to gape at him. I could’ve sworn Neil colored slightly. “She gets it!” he said by way of explanation, and they laughed and went back to arguing about garnishes.

  “It’s fun seeing you tipsy,” I said in a low voice.

  “You won’t see it very often,” he said, “but it’s hard to enjoy all this place has to offer without a little buzz.”

  “Just a little buzz.” I giggled. Oh, yeah. I was buzzed.

  He grinned, catching my eyes again, but only after what he probably thought was a surreptitious glance at my bosom.

  “Look,” Luke said, “if we don’t get Barclay out of here, he’s going to move in.”

  Barclay shook his head. “Because they know how to do rum. Please, just one more round.”

  “And I want to hear Melody sing,” Luke added.

  “Melody sings?” I asked. “How did I not know this?”

  “Terrible confirmation that naming is destiny.” Melody drained the last of her Mai Tai. “I told you I lived in New York before I came to Bohemia, right? I was working in one of those restaurants where the wait staff is expected to sing.”

  I crinkled my brow at her. “And this was by choice?”

  She laughed. “I was trying to become a Broadway star. It didn’t work out.”

  “But she’s awesome,” Luke said. “It’s time to move on!”

  Neil seemed as reluctant as Barclay, but everyone was still in a good mood and ready to roll with the evening, so we settled our bill and headed out into the night.

  We wandered over to the relatively quiet riverfront and took a look. The water glimmered in the clear night.

  “The mighty Mississippi,” Neil said as we resumed our stroll. He was walking next to me again—I thought, hoped, not by accident.

  “Mighty and mercurial,” I said. “We keep trying to contain it, and it keeps showing us who’s boss.”

  “Katrina,” Neil said.

  “I guess I shouldn’t blame the river. It was a levee breach on the 17th Street Canal that got my neighborhood.”

  “Are you going to see your parents while you’re in town?”

  “Maybe. Not sure if there will be time.” The truth was, between my dinner invitation and a couple of phone messages, they hadn’t called me back.

  “I’ll go with you if you want,” Neil said. “We might have time tomorrow before the party.”

  I looked up at him, startled. “Um, thanks. I guess we could do a drive-by if we’re out picking up supplies.”

  A weird little chill crept up my spine, and I turned around, looking behind us. We were just getting back into the crowds, but the street behind us was dark and empty.

  “What is it?” Neil asked.

  “Heeeere we go!” Luke called out, interrupting the moment. He was surveying the dark and weathered front of a bar with an open door, the sounds of saxophone, horns and piano leaking out. “This place has music.”

  Melody looked dubious. “They have a jazz band. It’s not karaoke.”

  “It’s an open mike jam!” Luke pointed to a sign in the window. “Aw, come on. One drink and a song.”

  “Nobody’s singing,” Barclay said, peering in the door. “They need you.”

  “OK, one song, but only if it’s something I know really well,” she said.

  “That won’t be hard,” Luke said. “I don’t think there’s a song you don’t know.”

  Melody grinned at the compliment, and we all piled in. There were only a couple of tall, skinny tables in the back, the kind designed to hold a few drinks and that’s about it, so we worked our way through the crowd, closer to the low stage.

  The bar was dark and loud, but in a good way. The band was jamming—trombone, trumpet, tenor sax, guitar, standup bass, drums. I didn’t recognize the song, but it had some tempo, and a few people were dancing in the tiny bit of space left near the front of the room.

  “Whaddaya want?” Luke asked, then went to the bar and came back with beers for him and Barclay, Cokes for Neil and I, and a water for Melody. We needed a breather between serious cocktails.

  “Well, hello, trombone,” Melody said, sipping her water and glancing at me with a gleam in her eye.

  I spoke in her ear so she could hear me. “You have a thing for trombonists?”

  “I have a thing for this trombonist.” She caught the eye of the sandy-haired, clean-
shaven guy wailing on the horn and gave him a little wave. His eyebrows rose as his cheeks puffed out. “I know just what I want to sing, if they’ll let me.”

  The band wrapped up its tune, and Melody darted to the stage and said a few words in the ear of the sax player, who appeared to be leading the group. He took in her tropical attire, nodded and leaned close to the other players to impart instructions. Melody, looking every bit the diva in her midriff-revealing dress, parked herself in front of the retro microphone and winked at the trombone player, who smiled. And then they launched into a bluesy song, the trombone player getting the raunchiest sounds out of his horn, Melody’s voice a powerful instrument as she caressed each word and flirted with him as she did it.

  Luke appeared fascinated. Neil wore an appreciative smile. I was agog at the sexual tension on stage, and Barclay was chuckling, probably because he recognized the tune. I didn’t figure out until the chorus that it was “Big Long Sliding Thing,” aka “The Trombone Song.” No wonder the trombonist loved it, and the crowd was getting into it, too, whooping and clapping.

  A strange vibration at my hip made me jump. I realized it was my purse or, more specifically, my phone. I took it out but didn’t recognize the number.

  “I’m going to take this outside,” I said in Neil’s ear. “It might be the hotel lost and found.” Or some other crisis, though I didn’t want to entertain that idea.

  I stepped out onto the empty sidewalk, walked toward the corner and swiped to answer the call. There was nothing. No sound. No voice. I stared again at the phone, puzzled. The call ended as I watched the screen, and I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye.

  It was the bronze statue guy, several feet away, standing absolutely still, his face paint gleaming under the streetlights. He wasn’t standing on a box this time, and he wasn’t carrying a crystal ball, either.

  But he was holding a phone.

  My still modestly drunk brain took a second to put it all together. By then the statue had sprung into motion and was running toward me faster than my mascara during Snape’s big scene in the last Harry Potter movie.