Jake's 8

by Howard McEwen

  "It looks," he stopped, "and sounds to be that way," he said.

  "And you don’t think her parents will be angry?"

  "In three days, the kids will be married. God can spot them three days and their parents will too."

  We waited for the tide to go out and then drove the giggling, blushing Fink and Nottle home.

  I didn’t wait around for the wedding. My room was needed for a soon-to-arrive aunt. I gave the groom congratulations and bid the bride best wishes. I took an early evening flight out and got into Cincinnati about ten in the p.m. I took a cab from CVG directly to Japp’s.

  I dropped my bag by the door and took a seat at the bar.

  "Hey, stranger," Molly said. "I’ve got just the drink for you."

  "I want something romantic," I said.

  "Meeting someone?"

  "No. I’m just in a romantic mood. How about a Sex on the Beach?"

  "You didn’t just ask me that, did you?"

  "I joke," she said.

  "Make me a real cocktail."

  Molly brought out the shaker. In went the ice, then she poured in equal measures of Scotch, OJ, sweet vermouth and the world’s best liqueur—Cherry Heering. There was the wonderful music of the shake and then a pop as she broke the seal of the shaker with the heel of her hand. She ran it through a julep strainer into a Nick and Nora glass.

  "You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this," I said.

  "I hope it’s worth the wait."

  The Blood and Sand is a beautiful cocktail. The red of the vermouth and liqueur float around the pulp of the OJ that’s been turned brown by the Scotch, giving the effect of blood spilt on sand. I took a long, slow sip. It was gorgeous.

  Molly waited for my reaction.

  "Very much worth the wait," I said. "Some things are."

  Lovers in a Dangerous Time — Part II

  She asked, “Where are we going?”

  I told her the airport.

  “That’s eight kilometers away.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Are we walking?”

  “No. Follow me.”

  I opened the door and made sure the hallway was clear. We walked to the south stairwell. As we passed the final room, a door open. Enrique, the concierge, looked wide eyed at us both. He was naked except for a towel around his waist. I looked over his shoulder and saw Pablo the hotel manager lying naked on the bed. I looked back to the cigarette dangling from Enrique’s lips.

  “Can she have one of those?” I asked.

  Enrique looked back to Pablo. Pablo shrugged. He reached to the bedside table and tossed Enrique a package of American cigarettes. Enrique fished two out of the box and handed them to me. I gave them both to her. She put one in her mouth and held it there unlit. The other disappeared into her shirt.

  “Gracias,” I said.

  “De nada,” he said. “And be careful out there.”

  I nodded and pushed the door into the stairway. I quick timed it to the basement. She kept pace. Behind a Mardi Gras head and under a painter’s canvas was the Kawasaki motorcycle I stored earlier in the summer when things looked to be going pear shaped. The spare can of petrol was still beside it. I tied the can to the bike’s front fender.

  “Can you hold the door?”

  She did and I pushed the bike out the door and up the stairs to street level. I straddled it to make sure it would fire. It did.

  “This has been here all along?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t leave?”

  “No.”

  “¿Por que?”

  “Because the job wasn’t done. And I wasn’t sure you’d leave with me. Get on.”

  She climbed on, wrapping her brown legs around my waist and crossing them with her heels planted in my lap.

  “Wait,” she said.

  I heard a match strike and caught the whiff of American tobacco.

  “You good?” I asked.

  “I’m good,” she said.

  I pushed off and prayed we would make the airport in time and alive. She held me tight.

  Cocktail Accompaniment for Sazerac — The Sazerac

  I drink Sazeracs when I’m in a border-line foul mood brought on either by boredom or existential ennui. That is to say, I drink them often. In the Sazerac there’s heat, there’s spice. There is a bite. I was in that mood and drinking this drink when I wrote this story where Jake Gibb is dealt some misogynistic comeuppance.

  Start by grabbing two old-fashioned glasses. These are the short, stubby glasses that came in the set of everyday glasses that bought a few years ago. You know, the ones no one in your house uses them unless everything else is dirty. Now is their time to shine. Chill one of them by filling it with ice. In the second glass, put in two ounces of rye, a quarter ounce simple syrup and two dashes of Peychaud’s Bitters. Pile in some ice, now stir.

  Don’t know what simple syrup is? Simple syrup is syrup simply made by dissolving equal parts sugar into water over very low heat. Once you see the granules disappear, you’re done.

  Go back to that first glass. Toss out the ice then put into it a tablespoon of absinthe. Swirl it around the glass gently so that it coats the glass. Toss out the excess absinthe. Yes, toss it out. Right into the sink. And, yes, this little coating of the glass does make a difference in the final taste of the cocktail. In fact, it affects the cocktail hugely. So do it. However, I don’t always blow the bucks on genuine absinthe. There are substitutes that—while not authentic—I feel better telling you to spend your money on. There’s nothing more annoying that buying a fifty dollar bottle of something you either don’t like or don’t use. Take the savings and buy more of my books.

  Finish by straining the mixture into the chilled, absinthe-prepared glass.

  You are now ready for Sazerac—the cocktail and the story.

  – Howard McEwen

  Sazerac

  She was a Sazerac.

  She held the smoky heat of the cocktail’s rye base, caressed with the spicy, otherworldly undertone of its absinthe. There looked to be a sweetness in her lips, and when I stood close, I sensed the ethereal scent of Peychaud’s bitters. I wanted to drink her in.

  She was a dark-haired, green-eyed beauty. Her unsunned alabaster skin made her hair blacker and richer than it truly was, and her eyes gleamed like faux emeralds.

  I took the bar stool next to her with a smile and ordered her another of what she was already drinking. Inspired, I ordered myself a Sazerac. She smiled and said thank you. Molly set two shakers on the bar and built my Sazerac, then she made my new friend an Old Fashioned. I smiled at her approvingly. She smiled at me seductively.

  I told her my name was Jake Gibb and she told me her’s was Sheila Nichols.

  After Molly poured our drinks, I invited Ms. Nichols to join me at a table toward the back of Japp’s, behind the partial wall. It didn’t allow us privacy, but afforded us intimacy. I chatted her up and she smiled. We flirted and after a time, she put her hand over mine and after another time, I put my hand on her knee, and a while longer she put her hand on mine, holding it to her knee. At one in the a.m. I asked her back to my condo and she smiled, ran her tongue across her teeth and said yes. As I cashed out, Molly gave me a disapproving look which I ignored. I shouldn’t have.

  We stumbled to my place giggling and leaning on one another for support. Once through the door, I threw her into my bed. I began the night making us bedside Manhattans, but by the end, we were drinking bourbon straight. The passion was acrobatic. Sleep must have hit me like a +P round fired into the back of my head from a .38. It put me down hard and sudden.

  I came awake in an empty bed. My bladder was heavy but my head was heavier. I took my time lifting it. I blinked my eyes and notice three dark hairs on the pillow next to mine. I heard a muffling. I lifted myself up and noticed the green eyed beauty in the bathroom with the door open.

  She was standing naked at the vanity with her back to me. She was whispering into a phone. I cleared my th
roat to let her know I was awake. She looked into the mirror back at me. I waved. The dominant color now was red. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes red-rimmed. Her nose ran a bit. She’d been crying. She flipped the phone closed.

  “Let me use this and get dressed and I’ll be out of here,” she said all businesslike then swept the door closed.

  I let her do her thing and when she came out and crossed the floor to the far side of the bed not meeting my eyes I headed toward the bathroom.

  “You’re not leaving,” I told her. “Not now at least. Get dressed. I’ll buy you some breakfast.”

  I closed the door and did what I needed to do and thought maybe I should have just let her go. Why’d I tell her to stay? I could use a Saturday morning to myself.

  I flushed and came out. She was dressed and making like she was leaving in a hurry.

  “Just sit down,” I said.

  She turned. The tears were ginning themselves up again.

  She sat on the chair beside my bedroom door. I took a seat on the bed facing her. It struck me that she was fully dressed and I was still buck naked. Oh, well.

  “What’s going on,” I said.

  “It’s my husband.”

  “You’ve a husband?”

  “Ex-husband, I should say.”

  “You should say.”

  “He’s got some money that belongs to one of my daughters. She needs it for college and he won’t give it to her. If we don’t have it this week for the first payment, she can’t go to school.”

  “You’ve got daughters?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How old?”

  “Eighteen, sixteen and fifteen?”

  “I meant you?”

  “Forty-six. That matter?”

  “It always matters.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three,” I said. I gave her an obvious once over with my now semi-sober morning eyes. “You look pretty good for a forty-six year old,” I told her.

  She started to say thank you but stopped herself and just squirmed in the chair. She was eyeing my nakedness.

  “Come with me,” I told her and headed to the kitchen. I needed some coffee to knock the spider webs from my head.

  I got some water on the boil and put four scoops of Coffee Emporium’s Supremo Patron in my French press pot. I pointed her over to my livingroom area and told her to grab a seat on my sofa. She took it. She looked fagged out and couldn’t be bothered with arguing.

  I stood in the kitchen, eyeing her eyeing my things until the water boiled, then I poured it into the press, gave the grounds a stir with a chop stick and put the lid on to let it steep. The smell perked me up.

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Oh, don’t bother. It’s like I said, my ex-husband has some money that was supposed to be used for my daughter’s college, but he won’t hand it over.”

  “You said that. What kind of money? A bank account, cash, mutual funds? How’s it titled?”

  “Titled?”

  “Whose name is it in?”

  “What do you know about this stuff?”

  “I’m an investment advisor.”

  “You said you were an architect.”

  “Did I? Maybe I did. I’m not.”

  “You lied?”

  “If you say so. Anyway, what kind of money we talking about?”

  “It’s about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars her grandparents, his parents, gave her over the years. It’s in some savings bonds. Those ones you buy at the bank. Each of the girls have about a hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “How are they registered?”

  “Could you put some clothes on?”

  “No,” I said. I came around from the kitchen side of the counter to the livingroom side and leaned against it to give her a better view. “How are they registered?” I asked again.

  “What?” She was distracted.

  “Whose name is on them? Just her name, or her’s and his, or just his?”

  “It’s some kind of… U. T. A. A.”

  “U.G.M.A.?”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “So he’s the custodian on her bonds.”

  “I guess. I just don’t know how he can keep her money.”

  “You mean how can daddy not help his little girl or how can he legally keep it from her?”

  “Both I guess.”

  “You’re on your own with the first. You married the guy and had three kids with him. You should know. As for the second, the age of majority in Ohio is twenty-one. He’s custodian of the money until she comes to that page in the calendar.”

  “Can we make him not custodian?”

  “Maybe, I’ve never looked into it. She need the money this week?”

  She nodded yeah.

  “There’s no way to do it in two weeks?”

  She nodded nah.

  I turned and pushed the plunger down on the French press and poured her a cup and then myself. I walked her's over. She took it, averting her eyes from my body.

  “I take milk and sugar,” she said.

  “It’s good the way it is,” I told her and started walking toward the bedroom to get dressed. “Give me five and I’ll buy you a bear claw at Schadeau’s then walk you to your car.”

  I drank about half my coffee in one gulp then jumped commando into some jeans and pulled over a shirt. I slid on some sandals and slurped the rest of my coffee. When I came out I could tell she was trying to rally herself. She was standing rod straight with that determined, all-business look again.

  “Look, thanks for a nice night but I have to head home.” I waved her quiet.

  “Go fix your face. We’re going to walk down the street and get a breakfast to go. I’ll walk you to your car. You’ll come to my office on Monday at nine and we’ll work out this thing with your daughter and ex-.”

  There was a tremor in that plump lower lip of hers and she lost whatever resiliency she was trying to show. She went into the bathroom clutching her purse close to her body. I poured myself another cuppa. Ten minutes went by and I’d finished my coffee and yelled, “Let’s go.” She came out two minutes later, not quite looking like the Sazerac I met last night, but better than the glass of stale beer I woke up to.

  “Nine on Monday, you said?”

  “Yeah. I have an office on Seventh street. You’ll meet with me and my boss, Mr. Carmichael.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Look,” I stopped and handed her my card. “There’s no polite way to ask this but...”

  “It’s Sheila. Sheila Nichols.”

  “Thanks. I’m Jake Gibb.”

  “I remember,” she said.

  We walked out of my building and two blocks to the bakery. I bought a bear claw for me and she wanted this thing with nuts and honey on top. The grey haired baker made a joke and we shared a smile glancing at each other over our pastries. Nice lady.

  As we walked to her car, our age difference stood a little wider between us. She didn’t talk much and I wasn’t up for making the effort. I’d had a pretty good time with her last night. I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to see her again. There was something there. I just couldn’t tell myself what it was. Was it the sex? Maybe. What did Ian Fleming write? Older women are best, because they always think they may be doing it for the last time. She did do it like it might have been her last time. That was new to me. And nice.

  Her car was parked on Central and I opened the door for her. There was an uncomfortable moment with the goodbye. We’d been too physically intimate for a handshake and not emotionally intimate enough for a late morning kiss on the mouth. She gave me a peck on the cheek, slid into a late model GM and drove down Central. I saw her hang a louie on Walnut, drive around Central’s median, then back onto Central toward me. As she passed, she gave me a wave but no smile. I wondered if I’d see her on Monday.

  I emailed Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Carmichael that we’d have a meeting at nine in the a.m. Neither of
them would be happy. This was outside our usual routine and Mr. Carmichael was a servant to his master of routine. Normally, we had two meetings a day. The first was at ten in the a.m. and the second at two in the p.m. A disruption to that routine caused a grumble. But he was always preaching about ‘client service’ and ‘establishing trust.’ There was that time where I helped him find out what happened to a colonial soldier’s spoon and another time where I flew down to Hilton Head and spent the better part of a stone sober week trying to repair the breech between two love birds. All this was to ‘build trust.’ If not directly, then indirectly which Mr. Carmichael said would come back to us. I’m not sure how. Capitalist karma maybe? Either way, while Ms. Nichols wasn’t a client, helping her girl go to college would establish some good will that could spread to potential clients. That’s what I told myself.

  I got an email reply from Mr. Carmichael on Sunday afternoon. It read, “If it needs to be....”

  “Your nine a.m. is here,” Mrs. Johnson told me through the intercom.

  “Which conference room she in?”

  “They are in the front one.”

  “They?”

  “Ms. Nichols is joined by her three daughters.”

  I sighed and clicked off the intercom. I wasn’t wanting to see this woman as mom. I did some quick math. I was closer to Sheila’s age than her oldest daughter’s. Not by much. I don’t know why that mattered, but it did.

  When I glided in, Mr. Carmichael was shaking hands with Ms. Nichols and her three daughters. Sheila was dressed in a tailored pants suit that showed off only a hint of what I’d enjoyed for several hours two nights ago. The oldest two daughters had their mother’s pale white skin, dark hair and were beta versions of mom’s body. The youngest was fair-skinned but was strawberry blonde and pig nosed. They were all dressed like suburban teenagers. They wore brands. Mr. Carmichael sat them down and took his place at the head of the table. I took my usual seat to his right.

  “Mr. Gibb has briefed me on the issue and we’ve both researched it but let me summarize,” he said then stopped and looked to Ms. Nichols. “Is it alright to speak freely in front of your daughters?” Ms. Nichols nodded yes.