by Guy Harrison
***
Jimenez and I go to a local steak joint to grab a bite to eat. An hour and a half later, we come back and Hamilton’s car is still parked in front of the bar. Now that he’s sure to be liquored up, Elena has devised a plan to lure Hamilton into our conversation with him … and it’s a farce.
Elena has changed into Johanna and I’ve changed into Annika. We’re two foreign exchange students from Sweden studying at Philly U, pregaming for a big night out. We’re both blonde, a taste for which my partner tells me Hamilton has an affinity.
Johanna is wearing a blue cocktail dress, one in which the neckline is so low, her abundant décolletage is one false step from full exposure. I have chosen a more modest look, choosing a lavender halter top to go along with a pair of jeans. Elena talked me into a pair of platform shoes
Never again.
With our hair primped and our makeup on, we enter the bar with the subtlety of Elvis at a 1950s all-girls’ school and let the door close behind us. With all eyes on the two blondes, the stench of flat Buds and Wild Turkey invades my nostrils. All of the bar’s patrons, including Hamilton, hold their drinks in their hands, waiting on our every step. We ignore the onlookers and take two open seats to the right of Nick at the bar, with Johanna sitting closest to him. He peeks over at us, uninterested before throwing back a shot of Jack.
“What was that you just had?” Johanna says, making a horrible attempt at a Swedish accent, though it’s not like I could do any better. Really, what does a Swedish accent sound like?
“Jack Daniels,” he says. “Whiskey.”
“It any good?”
“I don’t know,” he says, glancing at her chest while tilting his head with uncertainty. “You might be a little young for it. Try it with some Coke.”
“You want to try it?” Johanna says, turning to me.
“Let’s do it, straight up,” I say.
“Fine,” she says with a smile, slapping the bar. “Bartender, three shots of Jack.”
“Three?” Hamilton says.
“Yeah. One for you, too.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, I—”
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Johanna says, waving him off. “Have fun with us.”
“Yeah,” I add, not knowing what else to say. I’m not sure how the second girl is supposed to act in these situations. Utter silence is awkward. Unabashed enthusiasm gives the impression that Johanna and I are in competition.
The bartender nods before lifting a bottle of Jack out of his liquor collection. Elena might not know how to have a good time but she’s fairly good at acting like she does. The bartender carefully places all the shot glasses down on the bar, the liquor giving them a brownish tint.
“Wait,” the bartender says. “I need to see some ID.”
Johanna and I share a glance. She has a fake ID, I do not. She pulls hers out of her purse and hands it to the bartender. I pretend to search around in a purse that Jimenez gave me before entering the bar.
The bartender looks at Johanna’s ID closely before handing it back to her. “Twenty-three, huh? You don’t look a day over sixteen,” he says with a wink.
Johanna laughs in kind, playfully throwing back her hair for good measure. “You’re funny.”
Meanwhile, I keep looking for my non-existent ID.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” the bartender says before tending to someone else. That was easy.
As the three of us raise our glasses, I notice that the old men in the bar have gone back to their business. Some of them, however, can’t help but peek at the two outgoing blondes and their lucky friend in the corner of the bar.
“To friendship,” Johanna says.
“Friendship,” Hamilton responds with a grin.
The three of us clink our shot glasses together before throwing our drinks back. Hamilton and Johanna take their drinks like a champ but I almost fall off of my stool and gag. I usually stick to beer and mixed drinks. Hard liquor straight up, especially whiskey, is out of my league.
“You okay?” Hamilton says.
“I’m fine,” I say, holding up a hand.
“Whew,” he says with a sway. “I need to go to the boy’s room.”
“Okay,” Johanna says, adjusting the top of her dress. “Come right back.”
“I will,” he says, staggering as he walks away.
“Wow,” I say. “He’s trashed.”
“He’s getting there,” Johanna says, waving for the bartender’s attention. “Can we get three more Jacks?”
“You sure?” he says with a discerning eye. “I don’t know if that guy can take anymore.”
“He’ll be fine. We’re friends of his. We’ll drag him out of here if we need to.”
“Count me out of this one,” I tell her, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“Fine. Two Jacks.”
The bartender pours the two drinks and places them before Johanna.
“We’re ready for the check,” she says. “And give us his tab, too.”
The bartender nods before going to his cash register. Next, Johanna takes a pill out of her purse and puts it in one of the shot glasses.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“Rohypnol.”
“You’re slipping him a roofie?”
“Shhh. How do you expect us to get him out of here?”
“I can’t believe you’re going to—he could OD from that, all the booze he’s had.”
“Calm down,” Johanna says. “He’ll be fine. This formula’s a lower concentration. I swiped it from the agency before I left.”
“You used that shit on me, didn’t you?”
No response.
“That’s fucked up.”
“Here you go,” says the bartender, placing the check in front of us.
Johanna slides Hamilton’s drink in its rightful spot before picking up the check. “Ay, dios mio.”
The bartender, pouring another drink, looks in Johanna’s direction. Although blonde Latinas do exist, they are rare, especially when they look as Nordic as the two of us.
Johanna fishes in her purse. “I got this.”
Before I can reach for Kevin Stewart’s credit card, Hamilton plops down on his stool. Without hesitation, Nick throws back the poisoned shot.
Yeesh. He really has fallen off the wagon.
“Who the ... hell are you?” he says, swaying again. He darts his eyes down toward the floor. He’s holding a gun at his hip and he has it pointed at us. “Don’t…move,” he says, before I can throw my hands up. “Who sent you?”
Johanna and I look at each other, unsure of what to do.
“C’mon, you think I trust … two hot blondes? Especially when they’re interested in me?”
“Nick,” Johanna says, “it’s Elena Jimenez.”
“No, you’re not. Elena Jimenez … is a bitch.”
Johanna turns back to look at me. Although she doesn’t show it, I can tell that Hamilton’s comment picked at her healing wound. In vino veritas.
“You’re nice. I like you,” he tells Johanna.
“Then why do you have a gun pointed at us?” I say.
“Oh … don’t worry, it’s not … it’s not loaded.”
No, but you are.
“Really … why you being nice to me?” Hamilton sways wildly, struggling to keep his eyes open. “Whew, I’m tired. I’m going to …I’m going to take a nap.” He lays his arms down on the bar before placing his head on them.
“That was fast,” I say. “I thought you said that was a low concentration.”
“I said it was lower,” Johanna clarifies. “Grab his arms. I’ll get his feet.”
She signs the receipt left by the bartender and grabs Nick’s feet.
I grip him by the armpits and start backing up as his greasy head lies just below mine. “Damn. Dude needs a shower.”
All eyes in the bar return to us as Johanna and I carry Nick toward the bar’s entrance. My partner giggles nervously as the bartender watch
es with his mouth wide open. And, as if trying to add to this absurdity, someone whistles from the back of the room.
“Next time we carry someone, I’d like to change first,” I say.
“Be quiet and keep going,” she says. Her choice of attire was ill-advised given this exit strategy.
I let my back hit the swinging front door before carefully taking a step down to the sidewalk. As we approach my car, the air still reeks of cheap booze.
“Lean him against the car,” I say.
We place Hamilton’s back on the front passenger-side door as I pull out the remote to unlock the car. As I do this, I stop and sniff myself.
Booze.
How’s that possible? Alcohol’s a liquid.
With the doors unlocked and the back door ajar, we carefully slide Hamilton onto the backseat.
“Great,” I say, closing the door. “I smell like whiskey and four-day-old hair gel.”
“Stop being a little girl,” Johanna says, while once again adjusting her top. She climbs into the car. “Let’s go.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say as I climb into the car and turn the ignition. Elena’s not in a good mood; this’ll probably be a quiet car ride to our hotel.
The jig was up in the bar but Hamilton was too drunk to do anything about it. He was the one who explained to me the theory that overly-friendly, attractive people are most likely too good to be true. His instincts served him well but could not overcome the alcohol in his system.
