I arrived at the Bistro in the middle of the second seating. There were empty tables, but business was brisk enough for Cassandra to be in what, for her, passed as a good mood. “Two of the waitresses called in sick” were her first words to me. “I hope this isn’t the start of some virus thing. We’re almost completely booked for tomorrow night.”
“You and I can always bus the tables,” I said.
“To someone who once did that, it’s not funny, Billy,” she said, and left me to my meet-and-greet. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that I wasn’t joking.
I worked the room and was just heading up to my office, hoping there would not be another cat drawing waiting for me there, when one of those odd feelings—in this case a tension in the room—caused me to turn.
A party of five—three young men and two young women—had just entered the restaurant. One of the men was standing a foot away from Cassandra, weaving a little, probably drunk.
She was in a combative stance, scowling at him. In that moment I realized who he was and headed their way as quickly as I could without disturbing the diners.
“Mr. Rodell,” I said, and our illustrious district attorney turned from Cassandra with reflexes that resembled spasms.
He stared at me with eyes that were barely focusing.
“Blessing, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was jus’ telling your girl, it looks like business isn’t quite as good as the last time I dropped by.”
“Billy, I—” Cassandra began, but I cut her off.
“We’re doing fine,” I said, talking to both of them.
“Thanks to me,” Rodell said. “I could have kept the padlock on this place forever.”
I smiled at him, placid as a pond. “What can I do for you and your party, Mr. Rodell? Dinner?”
“Jus’ drinks,” he said. “In the bar, where it’s nice and dark.” He smiled at the woman nearest him, adding, “And intimate.”
The others in his group didn’t look quite as drunk as he. They also seemed a little sheepish, like maybe they’d rather be a dozen other places than out drinking with an obnoxious asshole, which probably made them assistant DAs who were favoring job security over integrity.
“I’m heading home, Phil,” the young woman who’d been the object of his “intimate” comment said. “It’s been a long day.”
“It’s just starting. This is your night, Bess.” He turned to me. “This beautiful young woman won her first case today.”
“Congratulations,” I said to her.
“So our drinks are on the house, right, Blessing? Unless you want the house locked up tight again.” He grinned.
I sensed that Cassandra was about to deck the guy. And his loud talk was starting to annoy the diners. “Of course the drinks are on the house,” I said, leading Rodell and his reluctant party into the lounge area, which was empty except for a couple sitting at the bar.
“Take any table you’d like,” I told Rodell.
“We’ll belly up to the bar, like real drinkers, if we can get those yuppies to move their big asses over one.”
There were four empty bar stools to the left of the couple, two empty to their right. The man turned, frowned at Rodell.
“Nobody has to move,” I said, grabbing one of the two unused bar stools and adding it to the unoccupied quartet. The man whom Rodell had insulted shrugged and returned his attention to his female companion.
“Sit,” Rodell ordered the members of his party. He looked at Juan and said, “Barkeep, grog for my compat’rits.”
Juan moved toward them. “Yes, sir,” he said. “What can I get you?”
“Apple martoonies, all around,” Rodell said.
“Yes, sir. Sweet or sour?”
Rodell blinked and turned to the young celebrant, Bess, patting her thigh. “What’d’ya think, honey? You feeling sour or sweet?”
“Whatever you want, Phil. I’m finished drinking.”
“Finished? No way.” He turned to Juan. “You’re the bartender. Just make the goddamn drinks.”
Juan looked at me, his face totally without expression. “Yes, sir,” he said, a little white around the lips.
“Hold up,” I told him. “Mr. Rodell and his friends are honored guests. I’ll fix their drinks.”
I lifted the gate and joined Juan behind the bar. He gave me a confused look.
“Could you put some ice into a shaker?” I asked.
“Sure.”
While he did that, I robbed the glass shelf of bottles of Stoli, apple schnapps, and Midori liqueur, and deposited them in front of Rodell, then grabbed a lime and a crisp green apple from the small fridge beneath the bar.
“What you are about to see,” I announced, falling back on a line of patter from the days when I’d used words as tools of distraction, “is the creation of the finest apple-tinis available in the Big Apple. And perhaps the free world.”
I took the shaker from Juan and picked up the bottle of Stoli. “First we use the very finest, one-hundred-proof, go-to-the-moon vodka, guaranteed to make the cocktail seem as smooth as a magic carpet ride.” To add a little excitement, I flipped the open vodka bottle end over end in the air and caught it by the neck, spilling not a drop, a trick I’d picked up working in a tourist restaurant-bar in the Bahamas.
Rodell and his minions, Juan, and the other two customers were all watching me with curiosity.
“Then we add the very heart of the drink, the apple schnapps. Not too tart, not too sweet. Now, while I use just a splash of Midori, watch carefully, Mr. DA.…”
“I am watching carefully,” he said. “Lot of poisoning going on these days.”
It had been a long time since I’d dealt with anyone as obnoxious as Rodell. When I didn’t toss the liqueur into his face, I figured I’d passed another of life’s little tests. Only slightly derailed, I continued my spiel. “Then just one squeeze of lime juice, one little kiss of citrus, and we … shake, shake, shake your booty.”
As I worked the cocktail shaker, one-handed, I asked Juan to place six martini glasses on the bar. That accomplished, I handed him the shaker. “You do the honors,” I said.
All eyes were on the cloudy green liquid as Juan poured.
By the time he finished, I’d cut up the green apple. I carefully placed one slice in each glass, then raised mine in a toast. “To justice,” I said.
Rodell and the others raised their glasses. What else could they do? Mr. DA must’ve been serious about the poisoning, because he waited until I’d taken a healthy gulp of my apple martini before trying his.
The others in Rodell’s party followed his lead. The girl whose name I didn’t know said, “This is delicious, Mr. Blessing.”
“Yeah,” Rodell said, after he’d drained his glass. “Not bad. You’re a good sport, Blessing. If somebody’d screwed me over, I wouldn’t be so nice. I’d be planning a get-back.”
“Revenge isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” I said, filling his glass.
“You shoulda thought of that before you killed Rudy Gallagher,” he said. Gracing me with another of his blood pressure–raising smirks, he swirled the liquid and apple slice around in his glass and took another swig.
“Uh, Phil, this is getting a little weird,” one of the young men said, “I’m gonna split.”
“Nobody’s chaining you to the bar stool, Joe,” Rodell said.
“I’ve still got to prep for the Schwarz case in the morning—”
“Via con Dios, Joe,” Rodell said. “Five’s a crowd, anyway. This way it’s boy-girl, boy-girl, right, Edmund?”
Edmund, the remaining male, shrugged.
“I should go, too,” Bess said, getting to her feet.
Rodell grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. “Uh-uh. Not this time, ice queen. You barely touched your drink. You don’t want to offend Blessing. You know how sensitive some … people are.”
My smile felt like it was turning to stone as I watched him shoot his second apple-tini. I used the last of the shaker’s contents to drown his apple slice. The cocktail would be a little watery, but I didn’t think that would matter too much to Rodell.
He got two sips down before his head dropped sharply enough to cause whiplash, chin digging into his chest. He dropped the glass to the floor and slumped forward over the bar.
“Holy crap,” the girl who was not Bess exclaimed. “Is he dead?”
I pressed Rodell’s carotid artery. “No such luck,” I said. “But I imagine he might settle for death when he wakes up in the morning. Think you folks can get him home, or shall we just roll him into the alley?”
The others were staring at the unconscious man as if uncertain what to do.
“I guess I could phone Mrs. Rodell,” I said.
“I’ll get him home,” Edmund said. He was a big enough boy to handle it. Before he had a chance to move his boss, I took out my cell phone and snapped a shot of the unconscious DA.
“What are you doing?” Bess asked.
“For the website,” I said. “You know, another satisfied customer.”
I took a second shot of Edmund dragging Rodell off the bar, making sure to include the two ladies.
“You’re not really going to put that picture on your website?” Bess asked.
“That’ll be up to your boss,” I said. “When you’re dealing with a rodent as vicious as Rodell, it’s best to have a rock handy.”
She stared at me for a second, as if trying to decide something. Then she smiled. “You’re a very interesting man, Mr. Blessing.”
“I try to be,” I said. “And it’s Billy to my friends, Bess.”
“Well, thank you for the drink and the entertainment, Billy.”
“If I do use the shot, I’ll Photoshop you out,” I said, prompting another smile.
When the law folk had gone with their fallen chief, Juan took a dustpan and brush to the broken glass.
The remaining couple were curious about the little vignette. “Who was that creep?” the man asked.
“Just another bad drunk,” I said.
“Sucker sure can’t handle the sauce.”
I nodded, though I knew that Rodell’s sauce had been particularly hard to handle. It had been enhanced by three tabs of Alprazolam that I’d stuck in his green-apple slice.
I’d have to tell Stew Gentry that the warning on his pill bottle was correct. You really didn’t want to mix alcohol with those bad boys.