“Yeah. The three of them. They were here,” I said. “In that room over there.”
Mr. Carmichael gulped.
“I helped administer Mr. Sumner’s father’s estate,” he said. “Herbert Sumner died twenty-five years ago. His business partner? Ross Reinhart. I knew him. He belonged to my club. Pancreatic cancer got him ten years ago. His son? Rick Sumner drove into an overpass embankment on I-75 on his way back to U.K. after burying his mother. Died instantly.”
“You’re mixed up,” I told him. “I spent a couple of hours with them. One of them tossed me in here.”
“I need you to see something,” he said.
He took me by the waist until I could steady myself. We rounded the corner into the parlor.
“This is how I found him,” Mr. Carmichael said.
Henry Sumner was hanging by a rope tied to the chandelier. A noose was cinched tight around his throat. The tips of his toes lightly brushing against the carpet. His blood bloated face was contorted into an expression that looked like a screamed ‘No.’
“He’s dead,” Mr. Carmichael said. “I checked.”
“Shit,” I said.
“Agreed.”
Instinctively we stepped away and backed into the hallway.
“I’m going to call the police now,” Mr. Carmichael said. “I think it’s best you not mention the three… others. The three others that you say were here. Was Mr. Sumner’s distraught?”
“Distraught? I guess so. Sure.”
“Then he must have pushed you into the closet, locked it and did that. Sometime while you were in there you called me for help. Does that sound more plausible?”
“More plausible?”
“As if it could have happened?”
“I know what plausible means. I also know what filing a false report means.”
“Think it through,” he said. He wasn’t threatening. There was earnestness in his voice.
“You sure the three others are dead?”
“Yes,” he said.
I punched my way through the fog in my head.
“Yeah, that’s the way it happened,” I said.
“Tell me, then.”
“He was distraught. He pushed me in and locked the door.”
“Okay, I’ll call the police now.” He dialed and told the dispatcher he’d found a suicide and gave his number and agreed to wait for a squad car. He slipped his phone into his pocket then said, “I drank a Manhattan tonight.”
The statement surprised and confused me.
“What?”
“A Manhattan. I drank a Manhattan at the S.P.C.A. reception.”
I gave him a who-the-hell-cares look then righted myself. “You don’t drink liquor,” I said. “You only do wine.”
“But tonight I had a Manhattan. I was standing in line waiting for a glass of whatever over-chilled red they were serving when, off to the side, a barman flagged me over. I asked him for a glass of red and he suggested a Manhattan. He was dressed different from the rest of the staff. Not in slacks and golf shirts. He dressed like bartenders use to. He was in a starched white apron over a burgundy vest and he wore sleeve garters. Impeccably dressed.”
“He said, ‘No, you need a Manhattan, Mr. Carmichael’ and for whatever reason I agreed.”
“He pulled out a shaker, scooped in some ice, poured in two measures of Bulleit rye, one of vermouth, and carefully added four dashes of bitters. He shook it as if he was waiting for the precise moment to stop. When he did, he poured it into a Nick and Nora and handed it to me. I drank it in four sips standing in front of him then I put the glass down.
“As my glass clinked on the bar, he said, ‘Mr. Carmichael, sir, you need to go out-of-doors and check your voice messages. Mr. Gibb is in need of your assistance. I’m afraid he’s going to partially pay for someone else’s sins.’”
I looked to Mr. Carmichael’s ashen face and then back to Mr. Sumner’s body hanging in the parlor. Red and blue lights flashed against the dead man’s face and a couple of minutes later three Newport cops walked in.
It was three before I got back to my place. A medic checked out my head and told me not to sleep in case I was concussed, but I brushed that off. I slipped into bed and for some reason I’ve still not figured out—I wept.
Lovers in a Dangerous Time — Part IV
She asked, “Why are you stopping?”
“Look,” I said.
She got off the motorcycle and stood beside me.
The military had tried to blow the airport bridge to slow the rebels’ advance. They failed. Two of its four lanes had fallen the seventy feet to the river below. The third teetered, broken at a forty-five degree angle. A wind would send it falling soon enough, but the fourth lane looked to have held through the blast.
“We’ll walk across,” I told her. “First me with the motorcycle then you.”
“No.”
“It will be safer.”
“I love you,” she said to me for the first time.
“I love you,” I said to anyone for the first time.
She took my hand from the grip of the bike, turned it up and kissed my palm.
“Then it’s settled,” she said. “We’ll cross together.”
The remaining lane was eight feet wide. The bridge spanned twenty-five yards. I looked across the bridge again and steeled myself. To our left would be the girders of the bridge. To our right would be the long drop into the river below.
“Get on,” I told her. She did so and again wrapped her arms and legs tight around my body.
I put as much speed into the bike as I could. We were either going to get across quickly or we were going to die quickly.
We did not die.
The bike hit a hard transition where the far end of the bridge met the road. I kept it upright and pulled the bike to a stop and looked back.
“Are we still alive?” she asked.
“Are we still in love?”
“Yes, we’re still in love.”
“Then we are alive.”
Cocktail Accompaniment for Dirty Pictures — The Margarita
The Margarita is a fun drink. While drinking one (okay, maybe four) one day, I sat down to write a fun story. Dirty Pictures is the result. Reading it again, I can almost feel the tequila hangover.
Be warned: there are plenty of crap margaritas out in the world. Don’t fall victim to one. If you’re margarita is coming from a machine that looks like the contraption at a gas station that a kid’s neon-colored frozen slurry treat comes from, skip it, ridicule the bartender and have your drink at a better establishment. Margaritas are easy to make well and not easy to foul up. Some idiots really work at it.
Here’s how I do mine.
Again with the chilled glass and the half-full of ice Boston cocktail shaker. If you want a salted rim, use the same procedure as sugaring the rim in for the Sidecar, except swap in lime juice for the orange juice and salt for the sugar.
Next, toss in 1½ ounces of some quality tequila. When I say quality, I don’t mean some nice reposado or anejo. I mean something you’ve heard of that won’t make you wince at the cash register, but something that won’t make you gag. I mean something decently priced and maybe even with the word “gold” on the label. Get it? I think you got it.
On top of the tequila, pour in 1 ounce of triple sec, then squeeze in ¾ ounce of fresh—and I do mean fresh, as in you cut the lime yourself and you have to lick the juice off your fingers afterward—lime juice. Skip the fresh lime and you’ll just ruin the whole thing.
Shake. Shake some more. Strain it into your well-chilled cocktail glass and sit back and have a fun time with Dirty Pictures.
– Howard McEwen
Dirty Pictures
It was Monday, which meant Japp’s was dark so I zigged around the corner where Twelfth Street zags off of Main to Neon’s. It was a warm spring evening, so I bypassed the long, dark bar inside and I walked under the Kenton County Infirmary pediment into the courtyard. My preferred
mixologist looked to be giving lessons behind the bar to a couple of rookie ‘tenders who I hadn’t seen before.
I caught her eye.
“Two Pimm’s Cups, please.”
“Two? I only see one of you,” Molly Wellmann said.
“One for me and one for my lady friend. She’s on her way.”
“Is that the same lady friend?”
I nodded.
“You’ve been seeing a lot of that girl.”
“I’ve seen all of that girl,” I said.
“Don’t be that way with me, tough guy. You got the look of a man in L—O—V—E, LOVE!”
“My Pimm’s Cups,” I nudged with a blush.
She poured a jigger of Jimmy Pimm’s Formula No. 1 into two Collins glasses, she topped the fruit and spice infused gin with a healthy dose of her homemade ginger ale, then slid in a slice of green apple and spear of cucumber. In went the stirrer straw; out it came to her lips. She tasted. With a nod of approval, she lifted the glasses to my side of the bar.
“Here you go lover-boy.”
I picked up my glasses with a deeper blush and took a seat in the courtyard. I was feeling pretty good. It was a nice night, my best girl was meeting me for some quality cocktails in a quality establishment and I was wearing a new slate grey suit I’d picked up from my tailor just last night.
It was a healthy crowd at Neon’s, but nothing oppressive. I watched five office girls play the giant Jenga game. Even though it was early, three of them—who looked to be in their late twenties—were already lit up. Another late twenty office ingénue with a face full of worry and apprehension sipped a diet coke and tried to look like she was having fun. She wasn’t. An early forties hottie was nursing a two dollar Hudy and playing mother hen, slowing the drinks down and mapping out in her mind the route she’d take when it was time to drive their drunk asses home.
The ice in the spare Pimm’s shifted and I gave some thought to drinking it myself when Kendra walked up behind me and ran her hand across my shoulders. We were going on three months together. That’s not a record for me, but I could see where this thing with Kendra could go the distance. Maybe all the way down the aisle. I’d never had thoughts like that before, but I’d never been thirty-four before. Maybe it was time.
Kendra was twenty-nine, the daughter of a postman who became a lawyer through scholarships, dad working second jobs and her working odd jobs. She told me she’s had three lovers—two serious long-term relationships and one shamed-filled hook up. I figured that meant she’d had six lovers and was kind enough to crank down the number by half. Whether three or six or somewhere in between, she’d opened up her heart and bed enough to have loved and lost and gained a bit of wisdom, but not so often that she’d hardened her heart to true love when a quality guy came along and offered it.
Here’s to me being a quality guy.
I stood and gave her a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of the hand then we both sat together. She took a long, slow draw through the red and white striped straw, released, swallowed and smiled. I’d introduced her to the cocktail and it was still a fresh pleasure to her. I liked her for that also. I enjoyed her enjoyment.
We exchanged our how-was-your-days and had moved on to the usual lovey-dovey gazing into each other’s eyes to the exclusion of the entire world, when a short, peevish man noisily dragged one of the unoccupied chairs from under our table and threw himself down into it.
He tossed his head into his hands and said, “Jake, you gotta help me.”
“Who are you?” I blurted out.
He took his hands away from his face and gave me a hurt, hangdog expression.
“Who am I? I’m one of your best friends.”
I looked deep into the man’s face. In my mind, I turned the clock back thirteen years. I erased some of the bloat in his face, I mind-botoxed his starter crow’s feet, I planted some hair on top of his bald bean and sprouted some on his forehead.
“Billy?” I asked.
“Who else?”
“I’ve not seen you in thirteen years.”
“So. We’re still friends aren’t we?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I guess.”
“Oh, if I don’t have you as a friend who have it got?”
I gave a look to Kendra. She gave a look to me. I could almost see the thought cross her mind, ‘Oh, someone to fill me in on the early years of my new beau Jake Gibb.’
We then gave a look to Billy.
“Of course you have Jake as a friend,” Kendra said giving me the verbal nudge.
He looked up to her like a rescuer.
“How’d you find me here?” I asked.
“That’s not important,” Kendra said.
“I think it’s important.”
“It isn’t.”
“How did you find me here?” I asked Billy.
“Tell us what’s wrong,” she countered. “Do you need a drink?”
He nodded.
“Jake, get him a drink.”
I assessed the situation: I looked at the once-forgotten friend Billy slouched quivering in his chair then to my hazel-eyed love, Kendra. I swallowed my frustration and I got him his drink.
I came back with a Pimm’s Cup, set it in front of him, snatched a glance down Kendra’s blouse just to tweak my libido and took a seat.
“Billy has a problem,” Kendra said.
“That’s obvious.”
She answered me with an eye roll.
“Tell Jake what’s the matter,” Billy.
Billy took a long, serious draw of the Pimm’s through his own red and white striped straw, smacked his lips a few times then sat back in the metal wire chair.
“Jake may not know this because back in college I put on a good front, but I’m nervous around people… especially women. Women that I like.”
“I may not know that?” I asked.
“Right? I put up a good front… with the guys that is.”
“No. You didn’t put up a good front. With the guys or anyone else. You were a disaster with women. You were a category five hurricane aimed right at New Orleans level disaster.”
“Jake!” Kendra scolded.
“I thought I hid it well.”
“You didn’t.”
“Jake!”
“He didn’t.”
“You’ve made your opinion clear.”
“It’s not my opinion. It’s a historical fact. I’m sure it’s written in a book somewhere. With women, Billy was a cluster...”
“Jake!”
I looked back to Billy. “Make with the problem,” I said.
“Jake!”
“You remember Patty Dunkirk?”
“I remember Abbie Dunkirk.”
“No, Patty Dunkirk. Abbie is Patty’s older sister. You dated Abbie, not Patty. Abbie was the girl you dated all through junior year. I remember you dumped her over voicemail.”
I felt Kendra’s judgment boring into me.
“I remember who Abbie Dunkirk was,” I said.
“Is,” said Billy.
“What?”
“Is.”
“Is?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean ‘is’?”
“You said, I remember who Abbie Dunkirk was. Past tense. She’s still alive and she’s still Abbie Dunkirk. So you remember who Abbie Dunkirk ‘is’ not ‘was.’”
“There’s a seat at the bar where you can finish your drink,” I told him.
“Jake!”
Kendra moved her chair by Billy’s and started in on calming him down. My thoughts drifted to Abbie Dunkirk.
I was serious about Abbie. Not Kendra-level serious but for me, at that time and at that age, serious. Abbie was a cute girl. Her being cute was why I busted up with her. You see, she was cute but not beautiful. That fact gnawed on her psyche. She was cute in that all her parts were pretty enough. She had a nice mouth, plump lips, straight, elegant nose, clear skin, high cheekbones, and a broad
forehead. Each element was near perfect by modern standards of beauty. They just didn’t fit together that well. Her face had a perfect Palladian symmetry, but it was as if a design student working on a freshman year project took the best of various architectural schools—Ionic columns, Islamic minarets, a Renaissance dome, a Wright low slung roof line and finally some fantastic Frank Gehry gobblety-gook—and meshed them into a single structure thinking it would somehow work.
Abbie would look at all these individual elements assembled in the mirror and think ‘beautiful,’ but the world only gave her ‘cute.’ Being only cute put a chip on her shoulder. Beauty was worshipful. Cute was approachable. Beautiful put you on a pedestal to be venerated. Cute got you free drinks from middling-males. Abbie longed to be on a pedestal. Worst of all, she realized cute had a shelf life. After thirty, cute turned to… what? Unique? Interesting? Beauty was timeless. Beauty was Liz Taylor or Grace Kelly. Cute post-thirty was mid-nineties indie flick ‘interesting’ face. Parker Posey?
I didn’t mind cute. I liked cute. At that time, I wasn’t thinking past thirty. But that chip on Abbie’s shoulder cast a shadow over her cute face and our romance. After a year I decided it was time to move on and got out. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it over voicemail.
Kendra’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
I heard her say, “While Jake memory-fucks this Abbie girl, tell us about Patty.”
“It’s really not about Patty,” he said.
“Then who?”
“It’s about my phone. I lost it.”
“You lost your phone,” I said.
“Yeah, a really nice one. A smartphone.”
“You track me down—you still haven’t told me how—after thirteen years to tell me you need help because you lost your phone?”
“Jake!”
I ignored Kendra.
“Yes. I thought you could help me find it.”
“Your family owns half of Central Ohio,” I said. “Buy yourself a new phone.”
“I need to find it.”
Jake's 8 Page 11
