“I am Emile, the maitre d’, and I’m sorry, but-”
“Show him the card.” Bill elbowed Mortimer.
Mortimer produced the Platinum card. “This?”
Emile’s eyes widened; the ends of his moustache twitched.
The maitre d’ turned abruptly, snapped his fingers. Burly men appeared from nowhere. They frantically prepared a table down near the stage, white tablecloth, a candle. Emile ushered them to the table. There was much bowing and hand wringing.
“I humbly and abjectly apologize most profusely,” Emile said. “I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Tate.”
“Forget it.”
“Of course, of course. You are obviously a most generous and forgiving-”
“He told you to forget it, friend,” Bill said. “Now rustle us up a bottle before I stomp your foppish ass.”
Emile’s smile strained at the edges. “Yes. Certainly.”
“Bring us some vodka and some clean glasses.”
Emile left, bowing and muttering under his breath.
“You don’t have to be so hard on the help,” Mortimer said.
“Hey, you’re an important guy now. You can’t let these peons piss on your boots.”
Mortimer blew out a ragged sigh. “I need that drink.”
Bill leaned forward on the table, lowered his voice. “You okay?”
“I went to my house.”
Bill nodded. “Let me guess. Your wife wasn’t there.”
“No.”
“It happens.”
“A toothless old lady wanted me to fuck her.”
“You need a drink.”
“Yes.”
Emile the neon maitre d’ returned with a bottle of vodka and two mismatched glasses. He poured as he bowed. He was obsequious as hell. “The waitresses have yet to come on duty, but it is my delight to bring your bottle myself so you don’t have to wait.”
Mortimer tossed back the vodka. It burned his throat. He tried to thank the maitre d’ but erupted into a coughing fit instead.
“Mort says thanks, now fuck off,” Bill told Emile.
Emile left the bottle on the table, rolled his eyes as he walked away.
“This tastes like kerosene,” Mortimer said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Did you ever drink kerosene before?”
Mortimer admitted he hadn’t.
“Then don’t talk crazy.” Bill tilted the bottle, filled up Mortimer’s glass again.
They both drank, winced, filled their glasses again.
“I don’t know where my wife is,” Mortimer said. “If she’s even alive.”
Bill nodded, slurped booze. “It’s tough to keep track of kinfolk in the new world.”
Kinfolk. Bill’s cowboy act got cornier the more he drank. Mortimer didn’t mind. He liked Bill. He liked drinking with someone again. If he let his eyes glaze over and listened to the music and forgot how toxic the vodka was, Mortimer could almost believe he was enjoying happy hour after work with coworkers from the insurance company, that he’d go home a little drunk, make love to his wife. Anne. Where was she?
He grabbed the bottle. Shook it. Empty. “Damn.”
Bill snapped his fingers. “Another bottle, you greasy bastard!”
Emile returned. A frown had replaced his strained smile. He wasn’t even pretending anymore. “What?”
Bill returned the frown. “Keep a civil tongue, you…you…”
“Varmint,” Mortimer suggested.
“Yeah! You motherfucking varmint asshole.”
“What do you want?” demanded Emile. His moustache had drooped. The maitre d’s haughty air had been completely defeated by the Platinum card. All he could do was endure.
“Booze!”
Emile slunk away, and Mortimer watched him go. He couldn’t summon any pity for the man. Mortimer was too wrapped up in his own thoughts, too enamored by the fuzzy Christmas tree lights, too light-headed from the vodka. What would he do now? How long could he sit here drinking poison before he was forced to determine what
