Drunk Driving

by Zane Mitchell

  “If it hadn’t been for Sergeant Gibson and his crooked police crew, you probably would’ve made inspector much sooner. I promise you.”

  “Maybe.”

  Solo squared up to me then. “You know, my brothers and I noticed you returned our van.”

  I groaned. I had a feeling that topic was going to come up sooner or later. “You mean our van, right?” I drew a line in the air between us.

  Solo pursed his lips. “Yes. It’s got bullet holes all over it.”

  “Looks pretty badass, huh?” I said, grinning.

  The rest of the brothers all chuckled behind him. Only Solo kept his perpetual frown steady. “I don’t think badass is quite the word I was looking for.”

  “Kickass? Awesome? Hard-core? Am I getting closer?”

  He glared. “I think we’re going to have to talk about the rules when using our equipment.”

  I patted him on the back. “Set up a shareholders’ meeting, Solo. I’ll have my secretary put it on my calendar.”

  Then I tossed an arm over Frankie’s shoulder and spun her around. Wanting to put distance between me and Solo’s hound-dogging, I pulled her along with me towards the bar. I bent down and whispered in her ear, “Well, that was awkward.”

  She laughed. “Listen, Danny. Speaking of vehicles, have you gotten anywhere with the insurance company yet on your Jeep?”

  I groaned. “Ugh. No. Supposedly, they want you to put insurance on the vehicle before a helicopter crashes on it.” I shook my head. “I don’t get it, but what’re you gonna do? I guess I’ll have to find me a junker to drive around from now on.”

  She patted my stomach. “Well, to ease the pain, I’ve actually got a surprise for you.”

  My face brightened as the memory of Mari handing me a box of chocolates sprang to mind. “A surprise? For me?”

  She nodded.

  “Great! I love surprises.” I looked around. “What is it?”

  She tugged on my arm. “Follow me.” I noticed her giving a little wink to Diego, who made a quick dash towards the exit. Then she glanced over at Al and gave him a little nod too.

  Furrowing my brow, I tipped my head sideways curiously. “What’s going on, Frankie?”

  “You’ll see,” she said, a sly smile on her face. “Come on. Your surprise is outside.”

  I let her lead me out of the building. Al and the rest of our guests all followed us. Parked right outside the front door was the Cruz brothers’ white van, dotted with bullet holes. I laughed nervously. “I think it looks good, don’t you, Rico?”

  I looked over at Rico, who was standing next to me. “It looks legit, man. Not like those fake bullet hole stickers.”

  I glanced over at Solo. “See? Rico likes ’em.”

  Solo rolled his eyes as Diego pulled the van away from the curb.

  “Hey. Where’s D going?” I asked Frankie.

  “Oh, he’s just moving the van,” she said lightly.

  “Why is he—” My words trailed off when I saw what was parked in the parking lot across the street from the Blue Iguana. An entire parking lot of shiny new vehicles. I lowered my brows as I stared at them. “What in the world is that about?”

  Frankie took me by the hand and led me across the street. “These were all seized by the government,” she said. “They’re all the vehicles that were acquired with PGC money.”

  “No kidding?”

  She nodded. “Yup. And Governor Bustamante was so pleased with you for figuring out Commissioner Villanueva’s embezzlement scheme that when he realized that you didn’t have insurance on the Jeep, he wanted to do something to help you out.”

  “No way!” I said, shaking my head.

  Smiling broadly, Frankie nodded. “He said you can pick one.”

  My eyes widened as I stared at the assortment of vehicles in the parking lot. “Any of these?!”

  Her head bobbed excitedly while the crowd that had formed behind us all cheered.

  “Any of them, Danny.”

  “Wow.”

  Al came hobbling out of the crowd and sidled up next to me. “Don’t forget what you said, kid.”

  “What did I say?”

  “That if you were ever to get a new vehicle, you’d go with something a little less flashy.”

  I swallowed hard and nearly choked on my own saliva. “Surely I didn’t say that.”

  Al frowned at me. “You did.”

  “You sure that wasn’t you?”

  With his hands behind his back, Al tipped forward so he faced the ground. “I’m positive.”

  “Huh. That doesn’t sound like me.”

  “Drunk.”

  “Al.”

  “Kid.”

  “Dad.”

  “Make a wise decision.”

  I grinned. “You mean pick the flashiest one?”

  Al palmed his forehead.

  “Hey, Al. You like that green one over there?” I pointed.

  “Kid. Don’t you dare.”

  I tapped a finger on my chin. “You know, I’ve always liked green.”

  Hey there, it’s Zane…

  I’m the author of this book. I’ve got a huge favor to ask of you. If you even remotely enjoyed Drunk, Al, and their predicament, I’d be honored if you left a review on Amazon. I’d love to see this book reach more readers, and one way to do that is to have a whole bunch of feedback from readers like you that liked it.

  Leaving reviews also tells me that you want more books in the series or want to read more about certain characters. Or, I guess, conversely, if you didn’t like it, it tells me to either try harder or not to give up my day job.

  So, thanks in advance. I appreciate the time you took to read my book, and I wish you nothing but the best!

  Zane

  SNEAK PEEK - Drunk on the Job

  The Misadventures of a Drunk in Paradise Book 4

  1

  “Don’t do it, Artie. Just—don’t fucking do it.”

  The truth of the matter was, I wanted nothing more than to support my friend and boss, but I just couldn’t help but feel like the decision he was making was one of those instantly regrettable ones—sort of like telling a woman the truth when she asked if the jeans she was wearing made her ass look big. Why, yes, as a matter of fact, honey, your ass does look huge in those jeans. Never mind the fact that you had good intentions when saying it. Personally, I appreciated a big ass on a woman. But that didn’t change the fact that getting punched hurts.

  And there it was, folks.

  The key to the issue at hand.

  I didn’t want my buddy getting hurt. We’d become too good of friends for me to just let that happen without even trying to stop the train wreck.

  So when Al Becker chimed in, taking my side, I was grateful. “Look, Artie. The kid’s right. I’ve supported every other decision you’ve made for all the years we’ve been friends, but this one, I—I just don’t think I can support.”

  With both of his meaty arms resting on the poker table in front of him, Artie Balladares peeled his thumbs up off the green felt in somewhat of a muted protest. “Aww, come on, fellas. I don’t see what the problem is here.”

  I looked around the table. None of the rest of the guys were brave enough to say what they were thinking. I could see it on their lily-livered, liver-spotted faces. Here’s the deal with that—each and every one of them had been taught as a child that honesty is always the best policy, but they were also taught that if you don’t have anything nice to say, you don’t say anything at all.

  So let me ask you a real question. What happens when those two proverbs collide? What do you do? Do you keep silent and let your best friend make the biggest mistake of his life because the truth isn’t very nice? Or do you man up and slap some truth on him?

  So before I continue with my story and you deem me an asshole, realize that my inner Drunk requires me to do the latter. I mean, do any of you even know me? Sparing a friend’s feelings comes secondary to preventing them from making a life-alte
ring mistake.

  Because after all, you know how the saying goes—friends don’t let friends marry hookers.

  And as I looked around the poker table that afternoon, it nearly blew my mind that none of the old codgers surrounding me had the cojones left to speak up. It was literal insanity. So if I had to be the bad guy, once again, so be it.

  I leaned across the poker table to look Artie squarely in the eye. “I don’t get it, Artie. Why you gonna buy the milk when you get the whole goddamned hooker for free?”

  Al looked over at me and shook his head. “I don’t think you got that expression right, kid.”

  “Seriously, Al? You wanna split hairs about a fucking expression? Artie wants to marry a hooker!”

  Al’s hands flailed up into the air. “I just told him it’s a bad idea. What’re you yelling at me for? I’m on your side.”

  I looked around the table again. “Well, how about the rest of you guys? It can’t just be me and Al that think this idea’s dumber than the idiot who thought getting a mustache tattooed on the inside of their index finger was a good idea.”

  Putting his cards down on the table, Gary “The Gunslinger” Wheelan sighed, leaned back in his seat, and crossed his arms over his protruding beer belly. “Fine. If we’re being honest, I gotta say I agree with Drunk and Al, Artie. Maybe marrying a hooker’s not really the best idea you’ve ever had.”

  An annoyed groan rumbled from the depths of Artie’s oversized innards, and his cheeks pinkened up. “For one thing, men, let’s get something straight.” He stabbed one stubby sausage finger into the table. “She’s a professional escort. Not a hooker. Okay? So can we stop calling her that? She and I find the term offensive.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh my God. She’s a fucking hooker, Artie. Calling her a professional escort is like calling a car thief a professional automobile relocator. It’s all bullshit!”

  Artie looked around the table, scanning the faces of Big Eddie, Ralph the Weasel, Bob Hope, Elton John, and Tony Soprano, but no one else dared to make eye contact with him. “Seriously, guys? None of you are on my side?”

  Ralph tossed a pair of poker chips into the center pot. “I mean, I get why you wanna marry her. She’s one tasty-looking potato chip.”

  “Oh, come on, Ralph.” Artie winced. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like—like she’s a piece of meat or something.”

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Ralph’s hands went up defensively. “I didn’t say she was a piece of meat. I said she was a potato chip. But you gotta be real, Artie. Lotsa men on this island—well, lotsa men on this island got a taste of her salt on their lips, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  Big Eddie’s twiglike arm staggered hesitantly up into the air. “I—I don’t,” he stammered.

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, we know you don’t, Eddie.”

  “What about you, Drunk?” asked Artie.

  My head lolled back on my slackened shoulders. “Ugh, Artie.”

  “I’m serious. You, uh—and Val ever get, uh”—he swallowed hard—“salty together?”

  Lifting my head, I chuckled. “You can’t even say it, can you, Artie?”

  Artie lifted one of his big beefy shoulders, and his eyes glanced around the table uncomfortably. “I was trying to be discreet.”

  “You just told us you want to propose marriage to a hooker. You really think your life is gonna be discreet from here on out?”

  Artie mopped up the sweat that poured from his brow with a bar rag. “Fine. You met her before I did. Did you and Val ever, uh, have sex?”

  “No!” I leaned forward and slammed two flattened palms down on the table. “But lots of guys have! And if I had been one of them, would that make you change your mind?”

  Artie shook his head as his eyes swung down to the table. “No, that’s in the past.”

  “Then I guess it doesn’t matter that she tried to sleep with me.”

  “It really doesn’t. We’re starting off with a clean slate. She’s a changed woman.”

  Frowning, I mulled that over for a second. “Look, Artie. Val’s a sweet gal. And she’s hot. I’ll give her that much. And maybe beneath those ginormous fake boobs of hers she’s got a big heart. You know? She could definitely be a hooker with a heart of gold. And it was one thing when you were just having sex with her. Because I get that. We’re men and we have needs. But, Artie, a minute before she met you, she was sleeping with anyone that paid her. You really wanna marry someone who’s had more balls in her mouth than the Hungry Hippo?”

  “Drunk!” Al’s objection came out more forcefully than usual.

  The guys all chuckled, except for Artie. His face was redder than I’d ever seen it. He slammed two meaty fists down on the table and roared at me. “That’s enough! I told you, she’s starting off with a clean slate. I trust her.”

  I shrugged and sat back in my seat. “She’s gonna take you for all you’re worth, Artie. Mark my words.”

  The clubhouse’s back porch fell into an awkward silence then. It was midweek, and just past lunchtime. Behind us, the Beachgoer, the Seacoast Majestic’s fancy poolside restaurant, sat mostly empty. Only busboys, dishwashers, and cooks remained, cleaning up the tables and preparing the restaurant for dinner. Silverware, glasses, and plates clinked like wind chimes in the distance, and overhead, the frond-shaped ceiling fans made nearly silent whooshing sounds, providing gentle relief from the heat of the day.

  Behind us, a table full of elderly women playing bridge had even fallen silent. I was sure they were listening in—getting the scoop. After all, the resort owner marrying a “professional escort” would be fodder for the gossip hounds for weeks to come.

  Al stared at me like he couldn’t believe the things that had just come out of my mouth. Like I was supposed to feel bad or something. But if I had anything to feel bad about, it was that I’d made Artie mad. That hadn’t been my intention. It was just that he’d caught me off guard with his announcement.

  I honestly had nothing against Valentina Carrizo. She seemed like a nice woman. But not only was she less than half Artie’s age, I also knew she consorted with some less-than-stellar people. I’d met her at a seedy bar in the District a few weeks back, and upon meeting, she’d been so brazen as to grab my junk and then she’d offered to sleep with me for half price. Later I’d hired her as a singing hookergram as a distraction for a guy I’d been investigating, and it had become clear that she’d do just about anything for a buck. So to think that Artie wanted to marry her, well, it just sort of blew my mind.

  Surprisingly enough, Big Eddie, the quietest guy of all the old-timers I hung out with, was the first one to break the silence. His sunken-in eyes, hidden behind a pair of browline reading glasses, swung over to look at Artie. “Uh, Artie. You’re planning to have her sign a prenup, right?”

  All eyes turned to Artie.

  He drew his eyes off Eddie before shifting uneasily around the table. “Well, I did bring it up to her when the subject of marriage came up. But Val—uh, well, she really didn’t seem to like that idea.”

  Shaking my head, I chuckled to myself. I had no idea that a pair of fake breasts and a round ass could turn a smart man like Artie Balladares into such a schmuck. But I kept my lips pressed together and only tossed both hands up into the air. I’d said my piece. If Artie wanted to lose everything to a hooker, that was his choice. I was no more his accountant than I was his mother.

  But Al hadn’t liked that answer. He lifted his bushy white brows high on his otherwise bald forehead. “Artie. Eddie’s got a valid point. Come on. Tell me you’re not seriously gonna marry Val without a prenup.”

  Throwing his hands up in an exaggerated shrug, Artie grunted. “Well, I don’t know. Nothing’s settled. Obviously, I haven’t popped the question yet. But when the subject came up the other day and I mentioned a prenup, she sort of balked at the idea. Like I’d hurt her feelings.”

  Tony, usually a very loud, opinionated man, had been sitting idly by in his motorized scooter list
ening to the conversation. It was at this point that he finally decided to chime in. “Look, Artie. I’m probably one of the few men here who’s actually not opposed to you making it official with Val. I like the woman. And I’m not gonna lie. If you marry her, then she’s gonna be laying around the pool a lot more often and that’s not exactly offensive to me. But the guys are right. If you marry her, you gotta have a prenup. You’ve got too much to lose. The resort. Everything you’ve worked for your whole life. Shit, Artie, your pride is worth something, isn’t it?”

  Artie sighed. “I’ll think about it, fellas. Okay? I’ll think about it. Now I hope you’ll all get on board with this. Val’s a good woman. She’ll make a good wife, and, well—I love her.”

  “We just want what’s best for you, Artie,” said Gary.

  “Val is what’s best for me. I want you all to know that. She’s brought excitement and energy back into my life. I haven’t had that in—in years. You guys probably can’t tell, but hell, I’ve lost twenty pounds since we started dating.”

  Al reached a hand out to his old friend and squeezed his shoulder. “What would Jennie say about you marrying Val?”

  Artie massaged his forehead with his fingers and was quiet for a few long seconds. Finally, he looked over at Al. “Jennie’s gone,” he said quietly. “While she wouldn’t necessarily be thrilled with my choice in women, I know she’d want me to be happy. And Val makes me happy.”

  I sighed. I felt Artie’s loneliness to my core. While I’d dated around a lot over the years, it wasn’t until I’d met Pam that I’d felt that feeling of loneliness dissipate. Of course it had been short-lived, but the truth was, I knew how great it had felt to be in love and to feel loved. How could I wish anything less for my friend? Was it really my place to pass judgment on Artie’s love life? He deserved happiness. And what kind of friend would I be if I stood in the way of that happiness?

  “Look, Artie. If Val makes you happy, I’ll try and get on board. For you, all right?”