Second Honeymoon

Chapter 106

JESUS, WHAT THE hell happened to you two?

The guy pouring us the shots of tequila never came right out and said it. Nor did any of the other patrons at the bar, who couldn’t help staring. Our clothes were ripped and singed, our faces and hands filthy. Basically we looked as if we’d been dragged through hell and back.

It’s a good thing we didn’t give a damn.

And after about a half dozen more tequila shots, we really didn’t give a damn.

Sarah and I had grabbed the last two stools at the end of the bar in what was basically the first place we could find near Saint Alexander’s that served alcohol. It was a small restaurant called Deuces and Eights, one of those “local joints” with dinner specials written on a blackboard and a bunch of softball-league trophies on display.

“Wow,” I said, watching Sarah throw back yet another shot with ease. “I had no idea.”

“About what?” she asked, smacking her lips, then wiping her mouth.

“That you could drink like that. You’re not even Irish.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I know, and I’m a girl, too.”

“Not like any I know.”

“Careful, O’Hara,” she said. “That sounded dangerously close to being a compliment.”

“Must be the tequila talking.”

“In that case, it’s time for another.”

She waved to the bartender, who was loading the fridge underneath the cash register with more beers, a brown-and-green assortment of Budweisers and Rolling Rocks.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

She folded her arms. “Did you or did you not whisper in my ear that we should both get drunk?”

I scratched my head. “Sounds vaguely familiar. I think I remember something like that.”

“Good. Then stop being such a pansy. Drink or give up your seat to someone who will.”

“Okay, now you’re asking for it.”

The bartender arrived, a bottle of Patrón already in hand. He’d seen this movie before. “Let me guess,” he said. “Another round?”

I shook my head no. “Make it two rounds,” I said. “We had a very, very tough couple of days at work.”

While the guy chuckled and poured, I reached into my wallet. I can’t say what happened next was the plan all along, but, as with the jack of diamonds in a game of hearts, I knew I had a pretty good card to play.

“What’s that?” she asked. “Are you paying the bill?”

“It’s not a credit card.”

“It sure looks like it,” she said, taking it from me. She stared at it—front and back. “There’s nothing on it.”

She was right: there wasn’t. It was black, polished to a blinding shine, and had the thickness of a poker chip. But, as Sarah said, there was nothing on it. Just inside it, I presumed.

“Okay, I give up. What’s it for?” she asked.

“It’s what it does.”

“Which is what? What does it do?”

I swiped it back from her. “Only one way to find out,” I said.

With that—bang, bang—I downed the two shots of tequila in front of me. I put the card back in my wallet and took out some cash.

Now I was paying the bill.

“Keep the change,” I told the bartender, sliding off the back of my stool.

“Wait—where are you going?” Sarah asked.

I was already halfway toward the door and feeling no pain. “The same place you are,” I said.