“Of course,” Sam snapped, reaching for a bottle of vodka.
Al grinned. “Of course, it can be a lot of fun when they go out of control, too. . . .”
“I think I’ll have a Handyman’s Special,” someone else said. “I hear you’re really handy, Wickie!”
“We know why you’re the bartender, honey. You want to keep that bar between you and us!”
“Aw, look, he’s blushing! I never knew Indians could blush!”
Sam muttered something about ignorance under his breath. One of the women at the bar said, “What was that, Wickie love?”
“It was the Indian Love Call,” someone else cracked.
Sam bit his lower lip. Al could see him about to snap at the woman; instead he said politely, “You ladies will have to excuse me a minute,” and headed for the men’s room, followed by catcalls and offers of help.
Al followed him in, to find Sam leaning back against a sink, staring at the ceiling. Al looked around. The men’s room at the Polar Bar was considerably cleaner than many of its kind.
“Classy place,” he remarked.
“Yeah, it’s a shame the clientele isn’t classy too. Do you have anything?”
Brought back to reality, or at least to the here and now, Al looked at the handlink. The light patterns translated themselves into information; how, he wasn’t sure. That was the techie stuff. It was Sam’s department. All Al cared about was whether it worked.
He didn’t much want to answer the question, either. “Er, no. We’re working on another angle. What’s the party here for?”
“It’s a bachelorette party,” Sam said grimly.
Now that was the sort of distraction a man could do something with. Al chortled. “Are you going to be jumping out of a cake later in the evening?”
If looks could kill, Al would have been dead several Leaps ago; he’d developed ignoring Sam’s glares into a fine art.
“No, I am not jumping out of a cake.” Each word was spaced out. Seeing the Observer’s incorrigible grin, he gave up and returned to the most pressing issue. “If I’m supposed to keep Bethica from being crippled in a car wreck, though, I think I’ve figured out how to do it.”
Al arched his eyebrows high. “Hey, I thought I was the one with the key to the future.” He brandished the handlink in Sam’s direction. “What, are you trying to do me out of a job here?”
“Kevin’s having a party later night, and he’s coming by to pick up the liquor. And I’m not going to give it to him. Case closed.”
“Except, of course . ..” Al prodded.
“Except I haven’t Leaped,” Sam admitted. “Something’s going to go wrong, isn’t it?”
“Naturally.” Al took a deep drag on his cigar and exhaled a thunderhead of blue smoke. “I dunno what yet, but something. There’s always the little detail that Bethica has to go to talk him out of trying to kill you.”
Sam studied him quizzically. “You’re more cheerful than you were the last time,” he remarked. “I don’t know why that doesn’t seem particularly comforting.” He’d straightened up, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t think Kevin would really do it, anyway. He’s just a kid.”
Al punched keys on the handlink. “But he’s a mean kid, Sam. Ziggy says not only does Bethica still go up there, but. . . what?” He slapped the recalcitrant piece of hardware. “Okay. There’s still a sixty-seven-percent chance Bethica’s going to end up in a wheelchair, and there’s a ninety-four-percent chance he runs you off the road.”
Sam absorbed this news silently. At last he said, “But Bethica’s odds are getting better, aren’t they?”
Al looked exasperated. “I know you don’t like thinking about yourself,” he said with heavy irony, remembering a time or two when Sam, tried beyond his endurance, had attempted to change a Leap for his own benefit, “but could you spare a thought for Wickie? He’d probably like to live, too.”
“No matter what I do, somebody’s going to get hurt,” Sam said without thinking. Then his eyes met Al’s, and he drew breath for an apology.
Fists pounded against the bathroom door. “Wickie, sweetie, did you fall in? Do you need help?” The two men could barely distinguish the words in the gales of laughter that accompanied them. Grateful for the distraction, Sam gave Al a desperate look.
“Those women are maniacs,” he muttered.
“Yeah, isn’t it great?”
“You’d think so. I’ll bet you would jump out of a cake for them.”
Al grinned reminiscently. “Don’t knock it. I did once. Place called the Tonga Tiki. It was a chocolate-whipped-cream cake, and all the ladies had dessert forks. They were all gathered around, drooling, and I. . .”
“Oh, please. No.”
Sam always cut him off before he could get into any of his best stories. He snorted, took another drag on the cigar, and studied the blinking lights of the handlink. They stuttered, and he whacked the handlink with the side of his hand. The pattern steadied, made sense again.
More pounding on the door, with accompanying shouts and hoots and yowls. Sam shuddered. So did Al, but for reasons of his own.
“Ladies, give a man some privacy,” Sam shouted at last.
“Wickie, get your tail back out here. You’ve got thirsty customers.” It was Rimae this time, and her order was supported with yips of glee. Then the other voices receded, and Sam threw Al one more despairing glance and stepped over to the bathroom door.
“Salutari te morituris,” he said.
Al didn’t have Latin, but he spoke Italian, and he recognized the quotation and raised a fist encouragingly.
“Kiss me quick, baby!” one woman said as Sam ducked gratefully behind the barrier of the bar.
“I beg your pardon?”
Al shook his head pityingly. “It’s a drink, Sam. Kiss Me Quick. Haven’t you ever heard of it?”
From the look on Sam’s face, it was obvious he hadn’t: Al tapped ash from his cigar and started orchestrating. “You need your Pernod, and some Curasao, and Angostura bitters, and club soda.”
Sam got out the ingredients, muttering something between his teeth. Al didn’t need to hear him to know what it was.
“Of course I used to tend bar. What did you expect? Okay, you mix a couple ounces, more or less, of the Pernod, a slosh of Curasao—”
This was more than the scientist in Sam’s soul could take. “How much, exactly, is a ‘slosh’? ”
“A little bit more than a slush and less than a lush,” the customer said promptly.
“Wave the bottle over it,” Al advised.
Several drops of Curasao were added to the Pernod. Sam reached for the Angostura, hesitated.
“Just a little.”
Sam added “just a little” and reached for the club soda.
“No! No, you’ve got to mix what you already have. That’s why it’s in the shaker, dummy. Add cracked ice, then put it in a brandy snifter and then add the club soda—there, that’s right—” Al took a certain paternal pride in broadening Sam Beckett’s education in these areas. Sam didn’t much appreciate it, but managed a certain flourish as he presented the drink to his customer. The wave of women sloshed away.
“Could’ve been worse,” Al observed. “She could have asked for a Bang Your Head Against the Bedpost, Baby.”
Sam shot him a look of disbelief. “Are you kidding?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “I never kid about things like that, Sam.”
“I’d just as soon bang my head against the nearest wall, thank you,” Sam muttered.
The women had retreated to a table in the middle of the room—actually several tables pushed together—and were watching the bride-to-be opening gifts. One of the advantages of being a hologram, as far as Al was concerned, was that he could always take the shortest way between two points; in this case, the point behind Sam being the first, and the woman holding the lacy black teddy up to herself being the second.
“Oooooo,” Al murmured, stepping through the t
able. He was wickedly aware that Sam was glaring at him from across the room. “Nice pair of gabonzas.”
“That’ll wake him up at night,” one of the women chortled.
“I’ll say,” Al agreed. “Tina has that one in red—”
He stopped abruptly and bit down hard on his cigar.
Tina had that one? What about Janna?
Guilt lanced through him. He was a happily married man. Very happily married. Wasn’t that the whole reason he was torn up about this Leap? So why was he acting the way he used to act?
Maybe time spent in the past with Sam didn’t count?
He wasn’t actually cheating, after all. He was just looking. He couldn’t even touch—it really wasn’t anything to feel guilty about, it—it wasn’t fair. That blonde was built.
Stepping away from the cluster of women, he looked up to see Sam watching him worriedly. For some reason this only made him angry.
Sam made a show of looking for something behind the bar, then stepped out from behind it and headed for the back door.
“Wickie, baby, where you going?” one of the women called, and Sam froze like a spotlighted fawn.
“I, er, I wanted to check the kegs,” he stuttered.
“Oh, let him go, Jackie, he can’t get far.” Rimae waved him on.
Sam waggled his eyebrows at Al, signaling him to follow. One of the women wolf-whistled. Sam fled down the narrow hallway to the door leading outside.
Al cast one more glance back at the black teddy—no, come to think of it, Tina’s had a black satin ribbon right—
He yanked his attention back to the job, not without regret, and went after Sam.
He found the other man outside, draped over a stack of undersized beer kegs, his head in his hands, moaning to himself. It said a lot for the crime rate in Snow Owl, Al thought, that the kegs were left outside and unprotected. “I don’t want to go back in there,” Sam said, not lifting his head. “I can’t go back in there. Those women are crazy.”
“Nah, they’re just healthy.” Al tapped impatiently on the handlink. “Ziggy, have you got anything yet?”
No. The answer was succinct.
“Well, that’s certainly useful.” Al looked around at the stack of kegs. “Does Rimae make a habit of leaving full kegs outside where anybody can walk off with them?”
“They’re not full,” Sam said wearily, straightening up. “They’re empty. The full ones are back in the storeroom behind the bar, with the rest of the liquor supplies. Al, what does Ziggy say I’m supposed to do?”
“You talk to yourself a lot?” Rimae said. She’d followed him outside, was standing arms akimbo, looking at him.
“Yeah. A lot,” Sam answered without missing a beat.
“Kevin Hodge’s coming by soon to pick up his order, and he’s getting some extra. He’ll pay when he gets here. I don’t want to hear any more crap like the last time, okay?” Rimae was watching him narrowly. “Just collect the money, turn over the keg and forget it, okay?”
Sam opened his mouth to protest. Al gestured frantically at the stack of empty kegs. “Just give him one of the empty ones, Sam! Fill it with water or something. Nobody’ll be able to get drunk, Bethica will be okay, everything will be fine!”
Plus Bethica would have the chance to talk Kevin out of killing Wickie.
Sam caught on fast for a magnafoozled genius. “Sure, Rimae; No problem.” He followed her back into the bar.
Al, in turn, followed Sam.
“ ... oh, Leezey, how wonderful! We’ll be having a party for you next!”
Rimae was never one to miss an opportunity. “Which we’ll have right here, of course! What are we celebrating?”
“Leezey’s going to have a baby!”
“Hey, that’s great!”
“I think it calls for drinks all around,” the buxom brunette said. “What’ll you have, Leezey?”
“I’ve been drinking Manhattan iced teas,” Leezey said. She was still glowing from the attention. The bride-to-be was, if truth be told, glad the focus of the affair had shifted away from her for a while.
“Wickie, a Manhattan iced tea for Leezey. Girls, order up!”
“How about a nice regular iced tea instead?” Sam asked.
The silence thundered. Every woman in the place turned to stare at the bartender. Rimae’s jaw dropped.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I didn’t know you were pregnant . . . Leezey? I can’t serve you any more drinks. Any more alcoholic drinks, that is.”
The attention was suddenly not as welcome. Leezey turned bright red. “Why not? It’s a party. I’m not driving.”
“It’s bad for the baby,” Sam explained. He glanced quickly at Rimae. “It could create problems.”
Rimae was speechless with fury.
“That’s a bunch of bull,” another of the women said. “I drank when I was pregnant. Everybody drinks.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t serve Leezey alcohol. There are a lot of other things she could drink.”
“Whaddaya know, a temperance bartender,” someone hooted. “Rimae, you’ve got a strange idea of a party here.”
Sam went over to the mixers and poured a glass of ginger ale and orange juice, splashing in some cranberry juice. “You could try this,” he offered.
“Only if you add some vodka,” Leezey snapped. “Rimae, are you going to let him get away with this?”
Rimae marched behind the bar, took the glass away from Sam, and reached for the clear square bottle of vodka. “It’s just a joke,” she said. “This round is on me, girls. C’mon.”
“No.” Sam caught at her hand, exerting just enough force to keep her from pouring. “Don’t give her that, Rimae. It’ll poison the baby. Just like Davey was poisoned.”
The women murmured.
Rimae jerked her hand free. “That’s enough,” she snapped.
“You’re fired, Wickie. Get the hell out of my bar.”
Sam took her wrist again. “Don’t do it.”
Rimae’s face twisted. “Either you get your hand off me, or I’m going to call the cops and have you thrown in jail. I told you to get out.”
“Oh, the hell with it,” Leezey said. “Mike would have my head if I came home smashed anyway. Skip the vodka, Rimae, and let’s get back to the presents.”
The rest of the women were more than willing to break the tension, returning to the pile of gifts with only a few looks back at Rimae and Sam. Sam finally let his hand fall away.
“You’re fired,” Rimae snarled. “I told you to get out, and I meant it! Beat it!”
Al looked at the handlink. “Uh-oh. There goes the plan, Sam. ...”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“But Kevin doesn’t know I’ve been fired,” Sam insisted stubbornly to Al. He’d walked away from the party in silence, out the back door again, and they were standing near the pile of empties. “So when he comes to get the keg, all I have to do is not give it to him.”
Al looked at him exasperatedly. “Sam, I don’t know about you, but I never let little details like that keep me from getting booze when I wanted it.”
“Then I’ll talk Bethica out of going up there.” He was improvising desperately now.
Al looked skeptical, but gestured with his cigar at the streetlight at the other end of the parking lot. “There she is. Be my guest.”
A dozen or more young people were gathered in the yellow circle of light, with Kevin in the middle, taking up a collection. They were laughing, joking. One of the teens was Bethica. As Leaper and Observer watched, the young man wadded up several bills around a fistful of coins and started toward the Polar Bar.
“Wait until he makes the offer,” Al advised. “New York isn’t going to pass the twenty-one-year-old drinking age until 1990. He’s not doing anything illegal. Unfortunately”
“I know,” Sam said under his breath. Kevin had caught sight of him, standing in the shadow of the eaves, and stopped a few feet away.
“Well well well,” he said. “Look
at that. If it isn’t the Indian.”
“Nice evening, Kevin,” Sam said easily. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m just fine,” Kevin answered. The back spotlight of the bar blinked on, and even though his back was to its source Sam flinched away from the sudden glare. Kevin, caught facing it, yelped and rubbed his eyes.
“I thought so,” Rimae said grimly. “Wickie, what the hell are you still doing here?”
Not waiting for an answer, she went on, “Kevin, have you got a truck to haul this thing in?”
Kevin, still blinking, grinned evilly at Wickie. “Sure do, ma’am.” Turning, he waved in some of the boys. One of them got into a pickup and drove it up to the back door of the bar.
“Rimae, you can’t sell to these kids,” Sam said. The whole group had gathered near the door. “You know what’s going to happen.” They were watching, their mood still light; but Sam knew it could turn ugly in an instant, and he was wary.
“I don’t sell liquor to kids,” Rimae said sharply. “Kevin’s nineteen. He’s of age. I told you to get the hell out of here, Wickie. And I think you’d better start packing up your things, too.”
Kevin chortled and counted out the money, stooping to pick up stray nickels and quarters that fell to the ground. A set of burly kids—the football team, Sam was willing to bet—followed Rimae into the bar and came out again a few minutes later with a large cask mounted on rollers. Sam reached out and grabbed Bethica by the arm, pulling her away as the boys loaded the cask into a cradle in the bed of the truck.
“Bethica, don’t do it,” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t go. You know what happens when they get drunk.”
“Yeah, and it isn’t any worse than what happens when you get drunk,” she said, pulling away. Rimae, having supervised the loading, had gone back inside.
“Hey, Bethica, you got a new boyfriend?” one of the girls mocked.
Kevin came back around the end of the truck. “What the hell? Get your hands off her.”
“I’m trying to—”
“Sam. You’re trying to be rational again. Rational doesn’t work. I keep telling you that—”
“Leave him alone, Kevin—”
“I’m getting sick of you!”
Quantum Leap - Random Measures Page 17
