Chapter One
1.
I could try to deny it as much as I wanted, but it was a cold and stormy night. Water drops hit the windows forcefully, and at each thunder I had the impression that it would shatter into pieces. I almost wished for it, but I would be the one paying for the new glass if that happened now.
I wished it happened after I left, instead.
Outside, between the unusual mist and the lights that where reflected by it, the city buzzed. Always awake, and ever-so-smooth. The nocturnal New York in all it’s charm, like a jazz singer. Like Layla. Layla, owner of a mild and silky voice. Who calmed my nerves and lured me to the bars.
My alcohol-hazed mind materialized black velvet and I heard her mezzo-soprano voice. The fabric slipped between my fingers before my hand reached the cold glass of a bottle of cheap whiskey.
Not the first disappointment of the day. Not even the worst. But to open my eyes and realize I had already drained that same bottle - that was cruel.
Maybe that friday was exactly as depressive as it seemed.
I stood up, tired of the melancholy that the whole color scheme invited. Black, white, sepia; like an old photo you found in a book you read a million times, but now laid forgotten in a bookshelf. Just plain nostalgic. I threw the bottle away in the waste bin ignoring the tinkle of the breaking glass. Norah would certainly annoy me to death the next day because of that. She’d be pissed off with the smell of it, saying that the fragments scratched the wooden floor she tried so hard to keep clean.
Then I saw the cardboard box with all I’ve ever owned in that office thrown there without the slightest hint of ceremony. Picture frames, notebooks, my chewed up pencils and my old stapler. I wouldn't be there to hear the speech. I was now an officially unemployed private eye.
I was a lucky man, though, certainly born at the right time.
It was the fifties. The police was absolutely untrustworthy, even for the most simple of cases.
Who’d know what weird times I’d find if I was born a few decades later? Maybe private detectives wouldn't be needed anymore, maybe women would stop doubting their husbands - or, in a perfect world, maybe the law enforcement would actually work.
I was skeptical about it all. Now or at any time, I wouldn't be without a job for long. The world would be problematic as ever for a long time. And if there was a bright side to all of that, I saw it clearly, now. I was free from Norah. That was the benefit to outrank the fifteen months of salary my now former boss owned me.
Not that I would ever see that money, anyway.
I gave a silent goodbye to my desk and to all of the memories of lengthy seventeen years of work. I wouldn’t miss it as much as I should. All of those memories, they were better in there, inside a cardboard box along with my stapler.
And the box was better off there too, as a poor representation of my past.
It was time for a change; I knew and appreciated it with every bone.
I took the chance while there was no one there to witness my surrender to poetry and headed for the door taking only my coat thrown by my shoulders.
Nothing other than pride kept me from looking at the sandblasted glass that had my name scraped out of there just that afternoon. No time left for second-guessing.
The steel cold rain and the inconvenient winds of the second half of the fall barely registered in my brain as a problem. I had a more serious and immediate complication of my current state of non-occupation.
Used to a life where documents and general paperwork and bureaucracy had me awake till the wee hours of the morning, I've learned how to make of my uncomfortable couch in the office into a bed.
It was the only one I've had for quite a while, now.
Two blocks into the night I realized that maybe leaving so theatrically wasn't always the best option, after all. The so-called bed was a lost hope, since I couldn't bring the whole sofa with me, but my pillow was still there.
I stopped walking. I stood there for a second, soaking in the sidewalk under a street lamp; seriously considering turning on my heels and walking back to the office to retrieve my most faithful - and usually sole - nightly companion.
The thought of my own figure dragging a dripping bag of feathers through half lit streets made me bury the idea with a choked laugh.
Fortunately, I had a better way and place to spend that ungodly evening.
Not by chance my favorite bar was three more blocks ahead. The pianist was an old, and distant, friend. The kind of good friend to who you rarely speak. I thanked the universe for that convenience. In that pesky humor of mine I surely didn't needed anyone I knew too well.
My feet got themselves in front of the downward staircase before I could remember I didn't have a single penny in my pockets. Even so, the feeling of familiarity and, why not, refuge, that was evoked by walking down those steps was the same of walking toward home. With the welcomed addendum of anonymous company.
The Drunk Sailor had the reputation of having been a speakeasy on the twenties, and still had the peculiarity of one: It was invisible to the general public, and unlikely other of it's kind, it changed places from time to time.
I used to float around in the city with it, informed of the changes by the musician, who knew my preferences - for music, for drinks, and for his stage companion. It always amazed me how the general atmosphere was always the same, regardless of the location. Always the same subtle smell of cigarettes and booze diluted in the heated air. Lights that were too dimmed to enlighten the many shadowy corners and niches, but reflected a bright and noble gold when meeting dark wood panels or laminated tables and chairs. Glasses and bottles shined delicately.
The first note of a nameless jazz sounded clear in the room. A voice that sang absently and low, but undeniably pleasant, nonetheless. The curvy and pale woman in front of the mic had dark hair and blood-red lips, sufficiently different of what I've seen the whole day. Her voice tone between bass and treble was tuned to perfection, striking each note perfectly. The sounds flowed through the room uninterrupted until they reached the varnished wood, that absorbed it and kept the acoustic harmony in the small place.
I took a deep breath of the heavy air and let my lips reveal a sheepish smile. Jerry entered in the song with an improvised bridge in E minor in that exact time, syncing voice, piano, and my brief demonstration of love for both.
My favorite chord and Jerry’s good timing were my welcome gift.
Taking my wet coat out and throwing it over one of the bar stools, I look around a bit. The place was still empty, seeing as it has probably just opened for business. The steady invitees-only clientele never got there before ten thirty as an unsaid agreement.
I took my place in one of the barstools.
My eyes moved to my right automatically, where the owner of the brightest blue eyes I've even seen stood. She was a magnet. Turning myself in her direction every single time felt too much like neediness, so I quickly looked away.
Weighted the pros and cons, I was in a fairly good situation. Layla was under the spotlights. I was just one of many lonely fans to gaze and sigh at her contrasts. Quite a good situation compared to that of those poor souls who fell face first in love with their best friend's wife. If I could only look, at least I could look as much as I wanted.
My line of thought was interrupted by a presence in my left. While I mentally thanked the distraction I heard glasses touching the wood counter lightly. Something my peripheral sight graded as whiskey filled them and one was pushed in my direction.
I made my best in ignoring it.
"Here to the rehearsals again?"
Recognizing the voice, I turned. Before I could ask who was the owner of the other shot, the kid that poured them had already swallowed half of it. It was Danny, the bar owner's son.
"Last time I checked you weren't old enough to drink." I blurted, nonchalant. Danny shrugged in equal manner.
Honestly? I didn't care about those little misdemeanors as I cared before. At the end of the day, it was one inconvenient little mark in an image that had bigger and more worrisome stains. I raised my glass in a toast to god-knows-what and he followed, drinking the rest of his drink while I swallowed mine all at once.
The familiar warmth reached my stomach burning everything in its way. A much appreciated warmth, after the cold rain.
Danny offered me a half smile of complicity. His eyes ran straight to Layla, who swayed to the music a few yards away.
It was peculiar, to say the least, that situation of drinking with a 19-year-old kid whose upbringing I followed better than his own mother. Even more curious when he only had eyes to the same woman I did.
Good taste, I thought. The boy has a very good taste.
“Another?" He questioned, as part of his job.
“I'm officially unemployed, Danny-boy. I really don't need my debts to grow any bigger.”
I chose to let out the fact that I was already halfway down the road to drunkenness unnoticed. That would show itself an incentive rather than a motive to stop drinking. The state of alcoholic hypnosis was appealing at that moment. In fact, drowning myself in booze and allowing myself to forget as much as possible of that day was an important part of my plan. I'd like to at least feel the taste of what I was drinking before I was put to the cares of Morpheus.
“Make you a deal, then.” He lowered his gaze back to me, elbows resting on the wood for support. “If you get the next label right, it's on the house."
I pondered for a second. Just enough to remember that there was not much to ponder. Not much to lose.
My eyebrows quirked upwards in interest, what was taken as an agreement to the bargain. Danny took a bottle without a label out the shelves and a thin layer of whiskey was served to me.
“I ask, James, if you have any idea of what is this...” Said the kid, challenging, as I sniffed the new contents of my glass. “Do you?”
“Do you?” I raised my eyebrows eyeing the bottom of my glass while I swirled a mini tornado inside it. “I barely felt the taste, what's the hurry?”
Heavy steps approached us coming from the door beside the shelves that housed the spirit bottles. Coming directly from his office in the basement, the owner of our beloved dump showed between the door frames, leaning against one of the sides of it and making the whole wall shake. The glassware tinkled just as the boy put on a defeated expression.
That’s why the hurry.
Even for those who grew accustomed to it, Jack’s image was sorely scary. Blue eyes and blond hair couldn’t ease his air of severity and harshness. His bulky body was somewhat muscular, just enough to drag the drunks to the nearest taxi. He was the type you expected to get into a bar fight just for the fun of it.
“What the hell are you doing with the Jack Daniel’s?” His father pointed to the counter.
“I told him he could get the drink if he got the name right.”
“Anyone could tell a Jack by its taste, dimwit.”
“C’mom, cut me some slack. The man just lost his job, I’m trying to be nice.”
“Storage, now.” His father’s words were perfectly articulated, leaving little space to a come back, and were soon followed by a why-you’re-still-here look and a thumb indicating the basement.
When he left, Jack took his son’s place and eyed me for a full three seconds before opening his mouth.
“It’s true, then?”
I just nod, glass touching my lips. The old number 7. The memories that came with it were automatically swallowed along with the liquid, something I’ve been doing for years. It wasn’t worth it blurring a somewhat good present with clear images of a painful past.
“Had to be today, huh?”
The old nightmares came crawling back up my throat in the form and taste of whiskey.
Jack would never let me forget it completely. Of course not, he wasn’t the one to deal with the mess that was left behind. At least not until the day when I would really throw up.
“Life is a tale told by an idiot after all, I guess. Certainly too ironic for my tastes.” I shrugged, then grasped for a change of subject: “And don’t be so tough on the kid, he may end up teaching you a thing or two about people. God knows that’s not your best set of skill.”
“Can't argue." He shrugged, then took an old rag to clean the round marks the glasses left in the varnish and clean the glasses themselves, so the markings wouldn't happen again. “He has a lot in common with you. More than he's ever had with me.”
“I hope that doesn't make me his mother. This are modern times, but not that modern.” I joked, already north of half drunk.
"Had his mother been anything like you, my life would've been a lot easier." The dirty piece of cloth was pointed to my face. "Now, start talking. Why the hell did that idiot you had for a boss decided to show you the way out just now?"
That question needed more alcohol.
"Technically I was not as much showed out as I quit." My voice was barely audible behind the glass.
A short piece of silence followed as I drained the whiskey.
"I'll have to fucking ask?"
"Isn't this a question?"
He ignored me.
"I knew- I know things, Jack." I started. "His moral compass wasn't exactly well aligned."
"Your's not much better."
“No, my law abiding compass is not exactly well aligned. Morals are something else entirely.”
"Let me guess, he asked you a favor you couldn't concede."
I sighed deeply. I could only wish it was that simple.
But we were past that point by a few years.
“I actually did that favor. Only, at the time, didn't even know what I was doing."
“You’re telling me he actually got you to do something you didn’t know better than him?”
“I barely knew myself, then. It was years ago. Fifteen years.” I snapped before he could ask anything else: “Look, one day I’ll tell you the whole story, but sure as hell it ain’t gonna to be today.”
“Do as it seem fit.” He shrugged. “Drinks are on the house.”
God bless Jack Hall. He may be a pain in the ass, but he was a better friend than I deserved.
“Can a bed be on the house, too?”
Jack then eyed me with the strangest expression of mockery available. I could say it was a mocking smile, but truth was he didn’t smile all that much.
“What did I tell you about living at that office?”
I scowled.
“Can I sleep at the bar or not?”
“You’ll drink enough to pass out anyway. Why not?”
As we spoke, I didn’t notice that the music had stopped. I only realized something was not like before when Layla showed up by my side, leaning against the counter.
"If someone's drinking to oblivion, I want in." The corner of her mouth curved.
"James quit his job." Explained Jack.
The woman turned her head in my direction, curls bouncing around her face and resting in front of her left eye.
"Oh, it's true, then." She seemed surprised, and somewhat worried. I suppressed the urge to take the hair away from her face.
"Okay, how come everyone knows about it? It was this afternoon."
Jack and Layla exchanged looks.
"Bad news travels fast...?" She offered.
"I wouldn't qualify it as bad news." I admitted.
"I hope that doesn't change your mind about the drinking."
"Is there any special reason why you want me drunk?"
Her smile grew. Blue eyes fixed on mine, cryptic, full of some sort of innocent excitement I had no idea what meant.
Platonic as my love for her was, at that moment I just wanted to press her against the counter.
"I expect you both to carry on with the drinking contest after Layla's off the clock, I don't need her falling off the stage."
She scoffed. Her chin rested on her hands.
"Please, I can out drink any of you amateurs at any time."
"Aren't you too skinny to live up to the challenge?”
She chuckled.
"I keep forgetting you're never here after hours to drink with us."
"Someone's gotta work to pay your salary."
Jack came in to defend her:
"The lady can hold her liquor." Layla just glared at him. “Maybe even better than me. But I'm still not giving her anything before half the show. She's not the well behaved drunk."
"Fair enough." She answered, with a shrug.
“As for me-“
I was cut by the thud of a bottle of whiskey falling beside my glass.
“Knock yourself out.”
I could try to deny it as much as I wanted, but it was a cold and stormy night. Water drops hit the windows forcefully, and at each thunder I had the impression that it would shatter into pieces. I almost wished for it, but I would be the one paying for the new glass if that happened now.
I wished it happened after I left, instead.
Outside, between the unusual mist and the lights that where reflected by it, the city buzzed. Always awake, and ever-so-smooth. The nocturnal New York in all it’s charm, like a jazz singer. Like Layla. Layla, owner of a mild and silky voice. Who calmed my nerves and lured me to the bars.
My alcohol-hazed mind materialized black velvet and I heard her mezzo-soprano voice. The fabric slipped between my fingers before my hand reached the cold glass of a bottle of cheap whiskey.
Not the first disappointment of the day. Not even the worst. But to open my eyes and realize I had already drained that same bottle - that was cruel.
Maybe that friday was exactly as depressive as it seemed.
I stood up, tired of the melancholy that the whole color scheme invited. Black, white, sepia; like an old photo you found in a book you read a million times, but now laid forgotten in a bookshelf. Just plain nostalgic. I threw the bottle away in the waste bin ignoring the tinkle of the breaking glass. Norah would certainly annoy me to death the next day because of that. She’d be pissed off with the smell of it, saying that the fragments scratched the wooden floor she tried so hard to keep clean.
Then I saw the cardboard box with all I’ve ever owned in that office thrown there without the slightest hint of ceremony. Picture frames, notebooks, my chewed up pencils and my old stapler. I wouldn't be there to hear the speech. I was now an officially unemployed private eye.
I was a lucky man, though, certainly born at the right time.
It was the fifties. The police was absolutely untrustworthy, even for the most simple of cases.
Who’d know what weird times I’d find if I was born a few decades later? Maybe private detectives wouldn't be needed anymore, maybe women would stop doubting their husbands - or, in a perfect world, maybe the law enforcement would actually work.
I was skeptical about it all. Now or at any time, I wouldn't be without a job for long. The world would be problematic as ever for a long time. And if there was a bright side to all of that, I saw it clearly, now. I was free from Norah. That was the benefit to outrank the fifteen months of salary my now former boss owned me.
Not that I would ever see that money, anyway.
I gave a silent goodbye to my desk and to all of the memories of lengthy seventeen years of work. I wouldn’t miss it as much as I should. All of those memories, they were better in there, inside a cardboard box along with my stapler.
And the box was better off there too, as a poor representation of my past.
It was time for a change; I knew and appreciated it with every bone.
I took the chance while there was no one there to witness my surrender to poetry and headed for the door taking only my coat thrown by my shoulders.
Nothing other than pride kept me from looking at the sandblasted glass that had my name scraped out of there just that afternoon. No time left for second-guessing.
The steel cold rain and the inconvenient winds of the second half of the fall barely registered in my brain as a problem. I had a more serious and immediate complication of my current state of non-occupation.
Used to a life where documents and general paperwork and bureaucracy had me awake till the wee hours of the morning, I've learned how to make of my uncomfortable couch in the office into a bed.
It was the only one I've had for quite a while, now.
Two blocks into the night I realized that maybe leaving so theatrically wasn't always the best option, after all. The so-called bed was a lost hope, since I couldn't bring the whole sofa with me, but my pillow was still there.
I stopped walking. I stood there for a second, soaking in the sidewalk under a street lamp; seriously considering turning on my heels and walking back to the office to retrieve my most faithful - and usually sole - nightly companion.
The thought of my own figure dragging a dripping bag of feathers through half lit streets made me bury the idea with a choked laugh.
Fortunately, I had a better way and place to spend that ungodly evening.
Not by chance my favorite bar was three more blocks ahead. The pianist was an old, and distant, friend. The kind of good friend to who you rarely speak. I thanked the universe for that convenience. In that pesky humor of mine I surely didn't needed anyone I knew too well.
My feet got themselves in front of the downward staircase before I could remember I didn't have a single penny in my pockets. Even so, the feeling of familiarity and, why not, refuge, that was evoked by walking down those steps was the same of walking toward home. With the welcomed addendum of anonymous company.
The Drunk Sailor had the reputation of having been a speakeasy on the twenties, and still had the peculiarity of one: It was invisible to the general public, and unlikely other of it's kind, it changed places from time to time.
I used to float around in the city with it, informed of the changes by the musician, who knew my preferences - for music, for drinks, and for his stage companion. It always amazed me how the general atmosphere was always the same, regardless of the location. Always the same subtle smell of cigarettes and booze diluted in the heated air. Lights that were too dimmed to enlighten the many shadowy corners and niches, but reflected a bright and noble gold when meeting dark wood panels or laminated tables and chairs. Glasses and bottles shined delicately.
The first note of a nameless jazz sounded clear in the room. A voice that sang absently and low, but undeniably pleasant, nonetheless. The curvy and pale woman in front of the mic had dark hair and blood-red lips, sufficiently different of what I've seen the whole day. Her voice tone between bass and treble was tuned to perfection, striking each note perfectly. The sounds flowed through the room uninterrupted until they reached the varnished wood, that absorbed it and kept the acoustic harmony in the small place.
I took a deep breath of the heavy air and let my lips reveal a sheepish smile. Jerry entered in the song with an improvised bridge in E minor in that exact time, syncing voice, piano, and my brief demonstration of love for both.
My favorite chord and Jerry’s good timing were my welcome gift.
Taking my wet coat out and throwing it over one of the bar stools, I look around a bit. The place was still empty, seeing as it has probably just opened for business. The steady invitees-only clientele never got there before ten thirty as an unsaid agreement.
I took my place in one of the barstools.
My eyes moved to my right automatically, where the owner of the brightest blue eyes I've even seen stood. She was a magnet. Turning myself in her direction every single time felt too much like neediness, so I quickly looked away.
Weighted the pros and cons, I was in a fairly good situation. Layla was under the spotlights. I was just one of many lonely fans to gaze and sigh at her contrasts. Quite a good situation compared to that of those poor souls who fell face first in love with their best friend's wife. If I could only look, at least I could look as much as I wanted.
My line of thought was interrupted by a presence in my left. While I mentally thanked the distraction I heard glasses touching the wood counter lightly. Something my peripheral sight graded as whiskey filled them and one was pushed in my direction.
I made my best in ignoring it.
"Here to the rehearsals again?"
Recognizing the voice, I turned. Before I could ask who was the owner of the other shot, the kid that poured them had already swallowed half of it. It was Danny, the bar owner's son.
"Last time I checked you weren't old enough to drink." I blurted, nonchalant. Danny shrugged in equal manner.
Honestly? I didn't care about those little misdemeanors as I cared before. At the end of the day, it was one inconvenient little mark in an image that had bigger and more worrisome stains. I raised my glass in a toast to god-knows-what and he followed, drinking the rest of his drink while I swallowed mine all at once.
The familiar warmth reached my stomach burning everything in its way. A much appreciated warmth, after the cold rain.
Danny offered me a half smile of complicity. His eyes ran straight to Layla, who swayed to the music a few yards away.
It was peculiar, to say the least, that situation of drinking with a 19-year-old kid whose upbringing I followed better than his own mother. Even more curious when he only had eyes to the same woman I did.
Good taste, I thought. The boy has a very good taste.
“Another?" He questioned, as part of his job.
“I'm officially unemployed, Danny-boy. I really don't need my debts to grow any bigger.”
I chose to let out the fact that I was already halfway down the road to drunkenness unnoticed. That would show itself an incentive rather than a motive to stop drinking. The state of alcoholic hypnosis was appealing at that moment. In fact, drowning myself in booze and allowing myself to forget as much as possible of that day was an important part of my plan. I'd like to at least feel the taste of what I was drinking before I was put to the cares of Morpheus.
“Make you a deal, then.” He lowered his gaze back to me, elbows resting on the wood for support. “If you get the next label right, it's on the house."
I pondered for a second. Just enough to remember that there was not much to ponder. Not much to lose.
My eyebrows quirked upwards in interest, what was taken as an agreement to the bargain. Danny took a bottle without a label out the shelves and a thin layer of whiskey was served to me.
“I ask, James, if you have any idea of what is this...” Said the kid, challenging, as I sniffed the new contents of my glass. “Do you?”
“Do you?” I raised my eyebrows eyeing the bottom of my glass while I swirled a mini tornado inside it. “I barely felt the taste, what's the hurry?”
Heavy steps approached us coming from the door beside the shelves that housed the spirit bottles. Coming directly from his office in the basement, the owner of our beloved dump showed between the door frames, leaning against one of the sides of it and making the whole wall shake. The glassware tinkled just as the boy put on a defeated expression.
That’s why the hurry.
Even for those who grew accustomed to it, Jack’s image was sorely scary. Blue eyes and blond hair couldn’t ease his air of severity and harshness. His bulky body was somewhat muscular, just enough to drag the drunks to the nearest taxi. He was the type you expected to get into a bar fight just for the fun of it.
“What the hell are you doing with the Jack Daniel’s?” His father pointed to the counter.
“I told him he could get the drink if he got the name right.”
“Anyone could tell a Jack by its taste, dimwit.”
“C’mom, cut me some slack. The man just lost his job, I’m trying to be nice.”
“Storage, now.” His father’s words were perfectly articulated, leaving little space to a come back, and were soon followed by a why-you’re-still-here look and a thumb indicating the basement.
When he left, Jack took his son’s place and eyed me for a full three seconds before opening his mouth.
“It’s true, then?”
I just nod, glass touching my lips. The old number 7. The memories that came with it were automatically swallowed along with the liquid, something I’ve been doing for years. It wasn’t worth it blurring a somewhat good present with clear images of a painful past.
“Had to be today, huh?”
The old nightmares came crawling back up my throat in the form and taste of whiskey.
Jack would never let me forget it completely. Of course not, he wasn’t the one to deal with the mess that was left behind. At least not until the day when I would really throw up.
“Life is a tale told by an idiot after all, I guess. Certainly too ironic for my tastes.” I shrugged, then grasped for a change of subject: “And don’t be so tough on the kid, he may end up teaching you a thing or two about people. God knows that’s not your best set of skill.”
“Can't argue." He shrugged, then took an old rag to clean the round marks the glasses left in the varnish and clean the glasses themselves, so the markings wouldn't happen again. “He has a lot in common with you. More than he's ever had with me.”
“I hope that doesn't make me his mother. This are modern times, but not that modern.” I joked, already north of half drunk.
"Had his mother been anything like you, my life would've been a lot easier." The dirty piece of cloth was pointed to my face. "Now, start talking. Why the hell did that idiot you had for a boss decided to show you the way out just now?"
That question needed more alcohol.
"Technically I was not as much showed out as I quit." My voice was barely audible behind the glass.
A short piece of silence followed as I drained the whiskey.
"I'll have to fucking ask?"
"Isn't this a question?"
He ignored me.
"I knew- I know things, Jack." I started. "His moral compass wasn't exactly well aligned."
"Your's not much better."
“No, my law abiding compass is not exactly well aligned. Morals are something else entirely.”
"Let me guess, he asked you a favor you couldn't concede."
I sighed deeply. I could only wish it was that simple.
But we were past that point by a few years.
“I actually did that favor. Only, at the time, didn't even know what I was doing."
“You’re telling me he actually got you to do something you didn’t know better than him?”
“I barely knew myself, then. It was years ago. Fifteen years.” I snapped before he could ask anything else: “Look, one day I’ll tell you the whole story, but sure as hell it ain’t gonna to be today.”
“Do as it seem fit.” He shrugged. “Drinks are on the house.”
God bless Jack Hall. He may be a pain in the ass, but he was a better friend than I deserved.
“Can a bed be on the house, too?”
Jack then eyed me with the strangest expression of mockery available. I could say it was a mocking smile, but truth was he didn’t smile all that much.
“What did I tell you about living at that office?”
I scowled.
“Can I sleep at the bar or not?”
“You’ll drink enough to pass out anyway. Why not?”
As we spoke, I didn’t notice that the music had stopped. I only realized something was not like before when Layla showed up by my side, leaning against the counter.
"If someone's drinking to oblivion, I want in." The corner of her mouth curved.
"James quit his job." Explained Jack.
The woman turned her head in my direction, curls bouncing around her face and resting in front of her left eye.
"Oh, it's true, then." She seemed surprised, and somewhat worried. I suppressed the urge to take the hair away from her face.
"Okay, how come everyone knows about it? It was this afternoon."
Jack and Layla exchanged looks.
"Bad news travels fast...?" She offered.
"I wouldn't qualify it as bad news." I admitted.
"I hope that doesn't change your mind about the drinking."
"Is there any special reason why you want me drunk?"
Her smile grew. Blue eyes fixed on mine, cryptic, full of some sort of innocent excitement I had no idea what meant.
Platonic as my love for her was, at that moment I just wanted to press her against the counter.
"I expect you both to carry on with the drinking contest after Layla's off the clock, I don't need her falling off the stage."
She scoffed. Her chin rested on her hands.
"Please, I can out drink any of you amateurs at any time."
"Aren't you too skinny to live up to the challenge?”
She chuckled.
"I keep forgetting you're never here after hours to drink with us."
"Someone's gotta work to pay your salary."
Jack came in to defend her:
"The lady can hold her liquor." Layla just glared at him. “Maybe even better than me. But I'm still not giving her anything before half the show. She's not the well behaved drunk."
"Fair enough." She answered, with a shrug.
“As for me-“
I was cut by the thud of a bottle of whiskey falling beside my glass.
“Knock yourself out.”