given him for his sixteenth birthday. He pulled out the fake ID he’d gotten off the Internet. It looked pretty good, and it usually worked—except for the fact they’d mixed up the hair and eyes categories, so if you read it closely it said “brown eyes, green hair.” The waiter peered at the ID for a long moment and Nate shifted in his chair guiltily. When the waiter looked up, he shot him a wry smile. “Very good,
sir
,” he added, handing Nate back the laminated card.
“I always say,” Chips declared, “that all it takes to cure life’s woes is a bottle of good scotch and the open sea.” He chuckled and slapped the tabletop with one hand as if to punctuate his speech.
Nate nodded lamely as he leaned back in his chair, trying to get comfortable. He glanced around the room. He was the youngest person there by at least forty years—clusters of wizened old men were gathered at every single oak table, each man gruffer and stonier than the next. One of them had an actual eye patch. The old cyclops squinted in Nate’s direction with his one good eye. Before Nate could start to muse on what terrible sailing accident had caused him to lose his eyeball, the white-jacketed waiter returned and placed a glass of scotch in front of him.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“Cheers, my boy.” Chips lifted his tumbler and then took a huge swig. Nate quickly followed suit, gagging on the fiery amber liquid. The scotch was freaking strong—stronger than anything he’d ever had—and Chips was drinking it like lemonade.Who
was
this guy?
“You’re nothing like what I thought,” Nate blurted out, turning red and taking another small, tentative nip. From everything his dad had told him about Chips, Nate had thought he would be a total hard-ass who’d give him lecture on getting his shit together the second he sat down. But so far Chips couldn’t have been
less
like Nate’s father. He seemed almost
mellow.
“Ha!” Chips laughed, slapping his stiff-looking extended leg. “You though you were going to be meeting Captain White, didn’t you? Some cantankerous, salt-waterlogged old geezer who would read you the riot act? Maybe a hook for an arm? That it?” Nate nodded, blushing. He looked over at the eye-patch man, hoping he hadn’t heard Chips’s little outburst. He’d probably be kind of offended. Who knew what these old sailor guys were like when they got angry? “Well, uh . . . yeah. I mean, my dad’s pretty pissed at me right now and everything. I thought he’d send me to someone who knew how to . . . hunt.” Chips chuckled and drained his glass in one even swallow. He signaled the waiter for a refill. The waiter appeared at his side almost instantaneously, picking up the empty glass and whisking it quietly away. Nate couldn’t help but notice that for a place called the Grill Room, they didn’t seem to be serving much of anything grilled—or really anything to eat, period. Just booze.
Who’s complaining?
Chips turned back to him and began again. “Well, Nate, let me tell you—that
was
me—a long,
long
time ago. Back when I was your dad’s captain, I was the strictest, most serious sonofabitch you’ve ever laid eyes on. But it’s been a lot of years since then, and I’ve learned quite a few things.” Chips leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes twinkling. “There’s a certain kind of clarity that comes with old age.You really learn to put everything into perspective. You
have
to.” The waiter appeared and set a fresh drink down in front of him, ice cubes rattling. Chips drummed his fingers on the snow white tablecloth. His eyes scanned the room, and he lifted a hand and gave a small wave to an old man in full white military dress who looked about a hundred and fifty years old. “What are your priorities, Nate? What do
you
want from life?” Nate was silent for a moment and Chips continued. “For me, it’s the open sea—the sun on my face, the sound of waves.” He closed his eyes. “The
sir
,” he added, handing Nate back the laminated card.
“I always say,” Chips declared, “that all it takes to cure life’s woes is a bottle of good scotch and the open sea.” He chuckled and slapped the tabletop with one hand as if to punctuate his speech.
Nate nodded lamely as he leaned back in his chair, trying to get comfortable. He glanced around the room. He was the youngest person there by at least forty years—clusters of wizened old men were gathered at every single oak table, each man gruffer and stonier than the next. One of them had an actual eye patch. The old cyclops squinted in Nate’s direction with his one good eye. Before Nate could start to muse on what terrible sailing accident had caused him to lose his eyeball, the white-jacketed waiter returned and placed a glass of scotch in front of him.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“Cheers, my boy.” Chips lifted his tumbler and then took a huge swig. Nate quickly followed suit, gagging on the fiery amber liquid. The scotch was freaking strong—stronger than anything he’d ever had—and Chips was drinking it like lemonade.Who
was
this guy?
“You’re nothing like what I thought,” Nate blurted out, turning red and taking another small, tentative nip. From everything his dad had told him about Chips, Nate had thought he would be a total hard-ass who’d give him lecture on getting his shit together the second he sat down. But so far Chips couldn’t have been
less
like Nate’s father. He seemed almost
mellow.
“Ha!” Chips laughed, slapping his stiff-looking extended leg. “You though you were going to be meeting Captain White, didn’t you? Some cantankerous, salt-waterlogged old geezer who would read you the riot act? Maybe a hook for an arm? That it?” Nate nodded, blushing. He looked over at the eye-patch man, hoping he hadn’t heard Chips’s little outburst. He’d probably be kind of offended. Who knew what these old sailor guys were like when they got angry? “Well, uh . . . yeah. I mean, my dad’s pretty pissed at me right now and everything. I thought he’d send me to someone who knew how to . . . hunt.” Chips chuckled and drained his glass in one even swallow. He signaled the waiter for a refill. The waiter appeared at his side almost instantaneously, picking up the empty glass and whisking it quietly away. Nate couldn’t help but notice that for a place called the Grill Room, they didn’t seem to be serving much of anything grilled—or really anything to eat, period. Just booze.
Who’s complaining?
Chips turned back to him and began again. “Well, Nate, let me tell you—that
was
me—a long,
long
time ago. Back when I was your dad’s captain, I was the strictest, most serious sonofabitch you’ve ever laid eyes on. But it’s been a lot of years since then, and I’ve learned quite a few things.” Chips leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes twinkling. “There’s a certain kind of clarity that comes with old age.You really learn to put everything into perspective. You
have
to.” The waiter appeared and set a fresh drink down in front of him, ice cubes rattling. Chips drummed his fingers on the snow white tablecloth. His eyes scanned the room, and he lifted a hand and gave a small wave to an old man in full white military dress who looked about a hundred and fifty years old. “What are your priorities, Nate? What do
you
want from life?” Nate was silent for a moment and Chips continued. “For me, it’s the open sea—the sun on my face, the sound of waves.” He closed his eyes. “The
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