tongue. “No accounting for taste,” he said. He turned to the lady behind the bar. “MacNaughton’s for him and another Jack Daniel’s for me. What about you, Mimi? You ready for another one?”
“Why not?”
Why not indeed? Buster paid for the drinks with a fifty and pocketed every last dime of the change. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s an obnoxious, overbearing, tightfisted drunk. When he had tucked his bulging wallet safely away, he turned back to me.
“Tell me, what do you think about that building?” he asked.
He could have pointed to any other building in Seattle and it wouldn’t have mattered, but I happen to own a sizable chunk of Belltown Terrace at Second and Broad. Hoping to dodge some of Mimi’s cigarette smoke, I had stood up. Now one of Buster’s shoes came down hard on my toe.
“I like it,” I said firmly, moving my foot away.
He stared at me in shocked disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding! You actually like that place?” Buster’s voice was rising in volume, and he was beginning to sway dangerously like a giant sequoia about to bite the dust. People turned curiously in our direction. “It’s got no class. I mean architecturally speaking, it’s a bunch of crap.”
Carefully I set my drink on the bar. “I like it well enough to own one fifth of it,” I said.
Most of the time I know better than to argue with a drunk, but by then I’d had several myself.
“Bullshit! You don’t mean you actually own part of that god-awful piece of junk?”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I returned.
The bartender came back down to where we were. With one clean sweep she cleared all the glasses off the counter in front of us. It was a precautionary measure. A wise precautionary measure.
“Like hell you own it!” He turned toward me while still pointing a drunken finger in the bartender’s face. “If you own that building, I suppose the little lady here owns this joint, too, right?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she replied briskly.
He gazed at her Wearily for a moment.
“Hey, wait a minute. You took my drink. I wasn’t finished with it.”
“You’re finished with it all right,” she said. “Cut off. Eighty-sixed.” She turned and called over her shoulder, “Hey, Bob, call this gentleman a cab, would you? We’ll pay.”
The maitre d“, a burly young man who looked to be in his thirties, popped his head around the doorjamb. ”Sure thing, Mom,“ he said.
Mom? Had he said, “Mom”? I glanced at the bartender in admiration. If that was true, she must have had him when she was twelve.
Moments later, the maitre d“ and two waiters showed up again to escort the protesting Mimi and Buster out of the place. The bar patrons got quiet long enough to watch the excitement, but the volume went back up as soon as the elevator door closed behind them.
“Sorry about that,” the bartender said, setting another drink in front of me. “This one’s on the house.” She stood there waiting while I took the first sip. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont. What’s yours?”
“Darlene,” she answered. “Is it true what you told him, that you own part of that building?”
“That’s right,” I said. “What about you? Does this joint belong to you?”
“You’d better believe it,” she said with a grin.
First liar doesn’t stand a chance.
CHAPTER 9
Most people despise alarm clocks with abiding passions. I don’t have to—I have a telephone. I also have a collection of early-bird friends who think that as long as they’re up, everyone else should be, too.
The phone beside my bed jangled me awake, and I groped for it blindly.
“He did it again!” Peters announced when I finally fumbled the receiver to my ear. “That big bozo did it again.”
People who’ve been up for hours always expect me to come up to speed instantly. “Who did what?” I mumbled.
“Your old friend Maxwell Cole.
“Why not?”
Why not indeed? Buster paid for the drinks with a fifty and pocketed every last dime of the change. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s an obnoxious, overbearing, tightfisted drunk. When he had tucked his bulging wallet safely away, he turned back to me.
“Tell me, what do you think about that building?” he asked.
He could have pointed to any other building in Seattle and it wouldn’t have mattered, but I happen to own a sizable chunk of Belltown Terrace at Second and Broad. Hoping to dodge some of Mimi’s cigarette smoke, I had stood up. Now one of Buster’s shoes came down hard on my toe.
“I like it,” I said firmly, moving my foot away.
He stared at me in shocked disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding! You actually like that place?” Buster’s voice was rising in volume, and he was beginning to sway dangerously like a giant sequoia about to bite the dust. People turned curiously in our direction. “It’s got no class. I mean architecturally speaking, it’s a bunch of crap.”
Carefully I set my drink on the bar. “I like it well enough to own one fifth of it,” I said.
Most of the time I know better than to argue with a drunk, but by then I’d had several myself.
“Bullshit! You don’t mean you actually own part of that god-awful piece of junk?”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I returned.
The bartender came back down to where we were. With one clean sweep she cleared all the glasses off the counter in front of us. It was a precautionary measure. A wise precautionary measure.
“Like hell you own it!” He turned toward me while still pointing a drunken finger in the bartender’s face. “If you own that building, I suppose the little lady here owns this joint, too, right?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she replied briskly.
He gazed at her Wearily for a moment.
“Hey, wait a minute. You took my drink. I wasn’t finished with it.”
“You’re finished with it all right,” she said. “Cut off. Eighty-sixed.” She turned and called over her shoulder, “Hey, Bob, call this gentleman a cab, would you? We’ll pay.”
The maitre d“, a burly young man who looked to be in his thirties, popped his head around the doorjamb. ”Sure thing, Mom,“ he said.
Mom? Had he said, “Mom”? I glanced at the bartender in admiration. If that was true, she must have had him when she was twelve.
Moments later, the maitre d“ and two waiters showed up again to escort the protesting Mimi and Buster out of the place. The bar patrons got quiet long enough to watch the excitement, but the volume went back up as soon as the elevator door closed behind them.
“Sorry about that,” the bartender said, setting another drink in front of me. “This one’s on the house.” She stood there waiting while I took the first sip. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont. What’s yours?”
“Darlene,” she answered. “Is it true what you told him, that you own part of that building?”
“That’s right,” I said. “What about you? Does this joint belong to you?”
“You’d better believe it,” she said with a grin.
First liar doesn’t stand a chance.
CHAPTER 9
Most people despise alarm clocks with abiding passions. I don’t have to—I have a telephone. I also have a collection of early-bird friends who think that as long as they’re up, everyone else should be, too.
The phone beside my bed jangled me awake, and I groped for it blindly.
“He did it again!” Peters announced when I finally fumbled the receiver to my ear. “That big bozo did it again.”
People who’ve been up for hours always expect me to come up to speed instantly. “Who did what?” I mumbled.
“Your old friend Maxwell Cole.
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