Risky Whiskey

by Lucy Lakestone

  “Fairman’s a fiendish archer, and we were all a bit drunk on a lot of scrummy G&Ts. Don’t ask. What a peculiar question. The only weapon I need to demolish you tonight is a good shaker,” Alastair shot at Neil, sporting a wild grin as he pushed passed us. “And then again on Sunday. You all might as well go home.”

  “Do you think he’s a couple of olives short of a jar?” I asked as he got out of earshot.

  Neil granted me a half-smile, but he had a pensive look in his eyes. “I think he likes attention.”

  “If Alastair isn’t an archer, what about Fairyland’s owner? Do you think he was shooting arrows at Dash and us?”

  “I don’t know,” Neil said. “What connection could there be?”

  “Dash said a British distiller had made an offer to partner up with him. What if it was Fairyland? Maybe they’re trying to get Dash to want to sell out. Maybe they’re looking for a bargain.”

  “We’ll have to ask Dash. Maybe it was a legitimate offer. I know Mark Fairman casually. He seems like a pretty good guy. Let’s not borrow trouble. I’d rather focus on showing up Alastair tonight, even if he and his sponsor don’t literally want to kill us.”

  I put that thought aside so I could function without worrying about crazed statues and arrow-wielding attackers. “Let’s do it.”

  25

  We’d packed the big cooler in the back of the SUV with our ingredients and were making our way to the hotel when I had an inspiration. “Hey, stop here!”

  “Why?” Neil asked.

  “It’s La Bonne Vie. Let’s see if Nicki’s home.”

  “I guess we have a few minutes.” He miraculously found street parking around the corner. “You know what you want to ask her?”

  “I’m going to ask her if she’s seen the guy who suggested the boomerangs.”

  The bar was busier than it had been the other day. Saturday afternoon brought out the drinkers early. Nicki was busy muddling mint. We waited until she finished the mojitos and flagged her down. It took her a second to recognize me.

  “Hi, Nicki. Busy day?”

  She nodded, glancing from me to Neil and back. “Yeah, and we’re working the big party tonight. You?”

  “Yep.” We both nodded.

  She smiled. “Get you something?”

  “I just have a quick question. Have you seen the guy who suggested the boomerangs the other night?”

  She didn’t answer for a second, busying herself with washing a couple of glasses. “I don’t really know why you need to know this, but if it’s important—”

  I sensed a breakthrough. “It is.”

  She sighed. “OK. Yes. I saw him that night, actually, after work. We had a late date. The bar we wanted to go to was already closed, and the Carousel Bar was too crowded, so we grabbed a beer on Bourbon Street. And that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  I was pretty sure I knew what that meant. They had a date, and then they had a night.

  “Did he have a beard?” I’d asked the question before, but I wanted to see if she changed her answer.

  “No. Not a real beard. Just scruff, you know,” she said, distracted as a fellow bartender shouted an order down to her. Not exactly what she’d told me before.

  “And he had a hat, you said?” I pushed.

  “Yeah, he had a hat. Well, he’d almost forgotten it, but when he came by the bar to pick it up after the dinner, we got to talking. That’s when he suggested the boomerangs.”

  So he’d lost his hat once. And then again—at the cemetery?

  “Did he have the hat later?”

  She looked at me like I was stupid. “Why this hat obsession?” When I shrugged, she sighed in exasperation. “No, he didn’t have it for our date. We didn’t spend the whole time talking about hats.” She rolled her eyes.

  And he didn’t have a real beard, so it definitely wasn’t the guy who’d recovered the hat from the lost and found.

  “We know you’re busy, and we hate to pry, but we really need to track him down,” Neil said apologetically, his gray eyes shining with sincerity. “Did you happen to get his name?”

  She pursed her mouth in exasperation. “He said his name was Tinker. Rob Tinker. He was staying at the Hotel Lebeau. I don’t remember which room—” She flushed, realizing how much she’d said. “Anyway, when I called the hotel the next day, they said nobody with that name was staying there. Not the first time a guy gave me a fake name. Men are assholes.”

  “Some of us are,” Neil acknowledged without rancor. “Thanks, Nicki.”

  He grabbed my elbow and steered me out of the bar.

  “So the boomerang guy has to be with Cocktailia,” I said excitedly as we got into the SUV. “And he had a hat, or at least took the opportunity to grab a hat after the dinner. But the boomerang guy wasn’t the hat guy we found, because the hat guy had a full beard.”

  “Which we’d surmised already. This is getting us nowhere.” Neil started the engine.

  “I had to try.” Something was bugging me as we wove into heavy Quarter traffic. “Can I ride over to the venue with you?”

  “Absolutely. We probably have room for everybody. I’m going to text the group when we get back, OK?”

  “Sounds good.” The group. I liked the sound of that. I wanted as many people around me as possible right now so I’d feel safer, but it helped a lot that they were my peeps.

  Neil escorted me to my room and hovered in the doorway while I checked for mad killers, then made a hasty exit, muttering something about having to get ready. Which was true, but still, I had no doubt he was avoiding being alone with me.

  Something did feel off. It took me a minute to realize there was no tuba honking outside. I kind of missed it.

  I took a few minutes to call Jorge, my partner in my bar back in Bohemia, to make sure everything was running smoothly at Nola. With the exception of an expensive repair bill for one of the ice machines, it was. As an engineer, often he could fix that kind of stuff, but this required a part and an emergency repair. Fortunately, Jorge was pretty cool about emergencies, and we had a little money in the bank. Maybe we could make more once we launched the new restaurant menu, after several months of terror, of course.

  I also called Aunt Celestine.

  “Well, I wondered when you’d get around to calling me,” she said. Soft sounds of tweeting birds and wind suggested she was outside by the little pool behind our duplex. I pictured her in one of her tie-dye coverups, relaxing on a lounge chair, surrounded by palm trees and dozens of pots overflowing with green herbs and flowers.

  “Is it warm enough to swim?”

  “Not for most Floridians, but you know I’m not like most Floridians. How’s the conference?”

  Someone’s trying to kill our client and maybe me and I want to shag my co-worker. And my mom is still frostier than a frozen margarita.

  “Uh, crazy as usual.”

  There was a beat. “Did you see them?”

  I only got about fifty percent of what I was trying to hide past Aunt Celestine. “This afternoon, just for a minute. I stopped by the house.”

  “And how were they?”

  “Busy. On the way to church. The new house is pretty slick.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I sighed. “Weird. Judgy. Dad was OK, I guess.”

  “You’re a good girl to try.”

  “Stupid girl.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  She was right. I was a secret brain in high school. I ended up getting an associate’s degree at the local culinary college with the idea I’d own a bar someday, but I could’ve gone down an even nerdier path.

  “I’m emotionally stupid, and that’s even worse,” I said. “How’s Astra?”

  “She misses you. She keeps running over to your sliding glass door and licking it.”

  “Gross.” Also cute.

  “When are you coming back?”

  “A couple of days. Give her a hug for me.”

  �
��I’m sending you a hug, too,” Aunt Celestine said. “Kissy kissy. Call me if you need me.”

  26

  The theme of the party was Flappers to Fifties, a nod to the fabulous little art-deco airport where it would be held. I hadn’t seen Lakefront Airport in years. It had been totally restored since the hurricane, so I was excited to see it again.

  Neil had asked our crew to go black and white and gray, but he didn’t specify a theme. I’d opted for a poofy black-and-white number, which I donned after wolfing down a room-service hamburger, hoping the dress would still fit afterward.

  The fifties-style white frock had peekaboo black pleats in the fluffy skirt—black fabric with white polka dots—and the white was accented at the seams with black buttons. The dark fabric was repeated in a “V” at the va-va-voom bodice. As a bonus, the gown had a pocket just big enough for my badge/hotel key card. But I’d still bring my messenger bag. I had trouble going anywhere without it. If I didn’t have it, I was constantly looking for it, like a phantom limb.

  I wrapped the black leather cord of my gator-tooth necklace around my wrist as a bracelet, just in case I needed a little luck. I put on the special sparkly rhinestones edition of my cat’s-eye glasses and added a black crinoline under the skirt, so I was quite the rustling puffball by the time I emerged from my room. I didn’t see Neil, so I headed to the lobby and found the rest of the crew gathered behind a potted palm.

  “Damn, girl,” I said to Melody. “When’s Gatsby coming over?”

  She was poured into a slinky silver and black flapper dress. It was sleeveless, and the colorful flowers and musical notes tattooed up her left arm seemed to glow in contrast. Her blond hair was wavy tonight and held in place by a sparkling 1920s headband punctuated by black feathers.

  “I’m more interested in the band right now.” She grinned.

  “The brass section?”

  “Just the trombone. He’s supposed to be playing tonight. That boy has an embouchure!” Melody puckered her lips, and I laughed.

  “How can you work in those?” I eyed her strappy heels with suspicion.

  “Years of training.”

  I shook my head in wonder. I’d opted for saddle shoes. They weren’t sexy, but they were black and white, and they’d be comfortable for a night of hard work behind the bar.

  Luke and Barclay sidled over. They matched in black pants, crisp white shirts rolled up at the sleeves, black suspenders and adorable black porkpie hats. No ties, but they were kind of devastating without them.

  Barclay caught me looking, and he flashed me a beautiful, knowing smile that almost made me pass out. He was definitely more friendly since I gave him the rum. That was all it was, right? It was hard to tell. The man threw off enough pheromones to make a girl ovulate. “You look ace, Pepper.”

  I couldn’t help but smile in return. “You two could be runway models,” I said, gesturing to Luke as well. “Hey, there will be a runway …”

  “I’m not running out in the middle of the fireworks,” Luke said. “A plane could land on me. I could be shot as a terrorist. Are you crazy?”

  “Ooo, there will be fireworks?” Melody squealed.

  “I can give you fireworks, baby,” Luke said, and she laughed and batted his arm, only I thought maybe Luke wasn’t kidding. “Oh, hey, Neil.”

  I turned around and almost popped out of my polka dots. Neil wore a tux with tails! Slim-fitting, it brought out every line of lean muscle with its charcoal-gray jacket, a light silver-gray vest, dark gray patterned tie, white shirt and pinstripe pants. Instead of a flower in his buttonhole, he wore a Bohemia Bartenders pin on his lapel.

  “Omigod,” I sputtered, “can I be the Ginger to your Fred?”

  He laughed, his cool face on, though I couldn’t miss his quick scan of my dress, the dilation of his pupils.

  “You’re in the wrong decade for me,” he joked. “Another time. Everybody ready?”

  I shook off his turn-down as I followed the group to the front of the hotel, where Neil tipped a valet to bring the SUV around, then tapped on his phone. In a few minutes, the car pulled up just as Bennett arrived from inside with a cart loaded with cases of Bohemia Beachside Bourbon and Bohemia Rye.

  “These are from the general stash?” Neil asked him.

  “Guarded 24/7 by hotel and convention security,” Bennett confirmed.

  “Excellent. Let’s load up.”

  The others had delivered our bar tools to the airport already, so all we had to do was get the whiskey in the car and get rolling as sunset streamed across the bustling city.

  Twenty-five minutes later, we arrived at an art-deco fantasyland.

  The Lakefront Airport wasn’t the city’s main airport, but it was the most beautiful. The terminal was a palace of streamlines and symmetry. Built in 1933, it was cloaked in an ugly facade in the 1960s, then trashed by Hurricane Katrina. When the city chose restoration over rebuilding, the glorious art-deco art and architecture were resurrected.

  That’s what the articles said. In person, it was pure elegance, a magical throwback to a time when air travel was still suffused with romance and not all about people taking off their stinky shoes at the airport and getting nuked by the X-ray machines.

  Two big spotlights cut through the twilight, shooting up beams that roved the pink skies, catching the scudding clouds. The facade, with its stylized carved figures, was lit in blue and purple. A round silver overhang thrust over the entrance and the steps that led to it. And above, the word TERMINAL cast shadows in a delicious deco font that made me want to do the Lindy.

  The crowd hadn’t arrived yet, but bartenders were busy setting up. Several booths lined the drive outside the entrance, populated by different bars and distilleries, themed by era—1920s, Prohibition gangsters, ’40s film noir, World War II USO. An ambulance stood by with a crew and a little medical tent, ready to deal with drunk-related injuries.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Prime spot inside,” Neil said. “Is it all set?”

  “We didn’t have to do much. It’s gorgeous.” Melody led the way in her teetering heels while the guys wheeled the cooler and a dolly stacked with whiskey into the building.

  The airy two-story hall was filled with delicious deco details, from the patterned terrazzo floor with its compass rose to the elaborate coffered ceiling. I’d seen pictures of the fabulous restored murals on the second level, and I hoped I’d get a chance to peruse them. A jazz band was setting up in one corner, and small tables were arrayed around the space in anticipation of guests.

  A retro cafe, enclosed behind glass, looked out on the space from the edge of the hall. Its diner counter, lined with art-deco stools, was parsed to two teams: us and a team dressed all in red. We were weirdly complementary, color-wise. It took me a minute to realize we were next to the Fairyland Distillery people, who apparently were pushing their Vexatious Vodka tonight. The red flags behind the bar featured the Soviet hammer and sickle, evoking the Cold War. Leading a team of four glamorous women in tight, low-cut red T-shirts, black shorts, crimson lipstick and silky red scarves, Alastair Markham wore tuxedo pants, a red jacket and a ridiculous red fur hat the size of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

  “Don’t look now, but there’s a Muppet eating your head,” Luke said.

  “Don’t say another bloody thing,” Alastair snarled as we eyed him.

  “It’s a shame it hides your beautiful hair,” I said, half meaning it. Neil shot me an inscrutable look that I hoped was jealousy.

  Alastair, who was building elaborate garnishes, chose to take my comment as a compliment and smiled briefly. “Thank you, darling. I couldn’t agree more, but the customer is always right.” He grimaced again, then smiled beatifically as his sponsor arrived.

  Mark Fairman and a few of his friends swirled into the room in colorful suits like a tornado of autumn leaves.

  “Alastair, will you make us something with the Vexatious Vodka, please?” the Fairyland owner called out in his yummy accent. T
hen he scanned our group. “Neil. Hot Pepper.” He winked.

  “Hi,” was all I could manage. My gaze traveled from his natty wingtip brown and white Oxfords all the way up to his saucy smile and cropped dark red hair. Mark wore an ivory linen suit with a caramel-brown vest and yellow tie. His clingy pants left little to the imagination. And those eyes. Those lips. That rough scruff around his square chin. Dangerous, to be sure.

  There was no way he didn’t notice my reaction. He slid over to me and leaned close as he had at the awards, murmuring in my ear so only I could hear him.

  “Nice dress. It’d be a shame if something happened to it.” He barely brushed the skin of my shoulder with one finger, leaving a trail of electric fire, and grinned at my open-mouthed shock as he backed away, grabbed drinks from Alastair and led his party back into the hall.

  Did he know something about how my other dress had been ruined by a certain walking statue? Was he complimenting or insulting the dress I wore now?

  Or did he just want to take it off?

  Heat flushed my body. I avoided Neil’s stare and exchanged a glance with Melody, who looked like she was about to burst with excited curiosity. I slid behind the counter with the rest of the bartenders and did my best to focus on the task at hand.

  At one end of our bar was a dark barrel emblazoned with the Bohemia Distillery logo, along with marketing brochures for the whiskeys. The room’s gleaming art-deco design needed little adornment, but four large, vertical black-and-white banners had been hung behind our section, covering most of the wall. It took me a second to realize they were reproductions of pages from Neil’s book, featuring recipes for classic and twisted whiskey cocktails, complete with the adorable black and white sketches he’d commissioned as illustrations.

  “Nice promo,” I commented.

  “It’s a little embarrassing, but Dash suggested it,” Neil said as we settled in and began our mise en place. “He thought we could give each other a boost.” Despite his easy reply, I could tell he was ruffled, maybe by Mark Fairman’s brash come-on. Hey, Neil was the one who’d put the brakes on whatever it was between us.