Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge (25 page)

The impromptu courtroom erupted in shouts of outrage at Bailey’s accusation. Oleg Kozlovsky had to bang his shot glass five times before the audience calmed down. “Apologies, Ms. Chen,” he said, stooping forward to lean on the bar. “Repeat, please, what you’ve said.”

At his side stood Ida Worth, the South Side Tribune, and Garrett Whelan, who knew perfectly well what Bailey had just said. With volcanic eyes he stared down at her, as if he were trying to boil her from the inside out.

But Bailey wasn’t backing down. Warmth coursed through her, and she used it to shield herself from his withering gaze. It was almost fun, she thought, standing in open defiance against him. Maybe she imagined it, but even now her fingertips felt electric.

“I said, ‘On the charges of conspiracy, conduct unbecoming, and extralegal distillation, I accuse Garrett Whelan.’ Unless we stop him—”

More shouts of outrage.

“Silence!” roared Kozlovsky. Again he slammed the shot glass.

The bar—a Greektown joint operated by Kozlovsky—was filled with a few staff who had sat down to watch the proceedings but then jumped out of their chairs in protest. A young woman bartender taking minutes on a yellow legal pad paused long enough to give Bailey a withering stare. And of course Bucket, Mona, and
Zane were there. She’d expected them to come, and to be angry, so she wasn’t surprised by their looks of utter disgust. Vincent’s hand tightened reassuringly on Bailey’s shoulder as Poppy stepped forward and raised her hackles.

“It would appear I was errant when I remanded young Bailey into your custody for the furtherance of her education, Vincent.” Garrett’s gaze passed through Bailey and landed on the hulking man behind her. “Certainly, I underestimated the magnitude of your persuasiveness. Scarcely a month under your tutelage, and already she appears to have wholly adopted your vendetta-driven credo.”

“It’s not about vendettas,” Bailey said. “It’s about safety. It’s—”

“Absolutely about vendettas,” Zane interrupted. Bailey swallowed a lump in her throat. “You may not know, Bailey, but there was a time when Vincent was in here every other week accusing my uncle of something shady.”

“Unnecessary commentary,” Worth shot back. “But not inaccurate. Ms. Chen, do you want to tell us why this charge is any less of a snipe hunt than all the other crank calls Vincent has made over the years? What exactly is the immediate danger?”

Bailey breathed deeply and swallowed. Just yesterday she’d carried on a pleasant casual conversation with one of the greatest tech success stories of the recession age. Now she was in danger of becoming tongue-tied in front of this pack of oddball bartenders.

“Go for it, kiddo.” Again Vincent squeezed her shoulder. “Just tell ’em what you told me.”

Bailey felt a surge of gratitude that he was standing next to her. “Garrett Whelan is, through illicit means, attempting to manufacture a Long Island iced tea. And once he’s succeeded, he intends to use it for personal gain.”

She heard a chair scrape behind her and turned to see Zane standing, with Mona tugging at his forearm to sit him back down. Bailey flashed him the most sincerely apologetic look she could, but
she got only a steely glare in return.

“Eyes forward,” Vincent said.

“Yes, Ms. Chen,” said Kozlovsky. “Explanations are for our ears first.”

If Zane was pissed off now, he’d be downright livid when she was done.

“Two weeks ago I, Zane Whelan, and, er”—it occurred to Bailey that she didn’t know either Mona’s or Bucket’s last names or even if Bucket was his real first name—“Bucket and Mona were attacked by a delirium of tremens. We barely managed to escape. When I relayed this information to Vincent, which as his apprentice I was required to do, he told me it had happened before. He theorized that the tremens were attracted to something bearing a more potent magical signature than that projected by people—specifically, the Long Island iced tea. According to him, the last time a delirium had shown up was while he and Garrett had been trying to complete their own formulas.”

She had more to say—lots more—but Kozlovsky raised a finger. Both he and Worth turned to Garrett, who shrugged and said: “I was callow then, and bearing the simultaneous burdens of a surfeit of ambition and a dearth of common sense. Moreover, the world we lived in wasn’t the one we inhabit today. I would add, however, that neither Mr. Long nor Ms. Chen has offered any proof to correlate heavy tremens activity with the appearance of our noble craft’s panacea.”

Can’t you just use normal words?
Bailey thought.
You sound like you swallowed an SAT prep book
.

“Look.” She yanked a folder out of her bag and opened it to reveal a color-coded graph. “Vincent and I conducted an informal poll of bartenders in the Chicagoland area. Across the board they reported higher levels of tremens activity in the past year.” She tapped the oldest coordinate on the graph’s timeline, which dated back to
November of the previous year. “And do you know what’s special about twelve months ago?”

“Halloween?” Kozlovsky’s thick brows knitted. “More tremens. Is usual.”

But Garrett knew where Bailey was going. He smiled ruefully. “Eleven months ago I broke ground on my newest enterprise, Apex.”

More muttering throughout the bar. Bailey thought she could hear Zane sizzling with anger through the white noise.

“No,” Bailey said. “You broke ground earlier than that. A year ago was when you began distilling and aging.” She flipped to the next page and held up her dossier for all to see. It showed the article from the
Chicago Tribune
. “Apex’s financier, Bowen Sorensen—”

“—the Third,” Garrett interjected.

“—was interviewed by the
Trib
, and he mentioned his intent to distill and distribute his own liquor. So I decided to sit down with him on a fact-finding mission.”

“Who sent you on this mission?” Worth said.

“I did,” said Vincent. “She said she had an in with the guy, so I told her to look into it.”

Kozlovsky frowned. “You are running hotels?”

“Not an
inn
,” Bailey said. “A connection. Someone I went to high school with works for him and—”

“Who?” Zane interrupted. He was no longer standing but had settled for slouching moodily in his seat.

“That’s your second outburst,” Worth said.

“Sorry, Ida,” Zane said. The woman was at least twice his age and far higher on the food chain, but apparently being a Whelan gave you an in
—not a hotel
, Bailey thought with irritation—with the powers that be. “Bailey and I went to high school together. Anyone she names, I’d know.”

Bailey and Zane locked eyes for a long moment. “Jess Storm,”
she said, daring him to interrupt her again. Then she turned and continued: “During my interview with Sorenson I was able to glean that they were manufacturing vodka, gin, tequila, and rum, as well as triple sec, in industrial vats. No other liqueurs, and no whiskey. Just the ingredients necessary for a Long Island iced tea. And since one of the Long Island’s alleged effects is supernatural longevity—”

“Fuck that,” Vincent said. “Try immortality. And that’s exactly what a guy might want if he’s set to be mothballed in the next year.”

When Vincent spoke, no murmurs arose, only gasps followed by crushing silence. Finally Garrett stirred, shooting his longtime rival an ugly look.

“I’m almost as old as you, Garrett,” Vincent said. “After everything I’ve done in life, you think I like the idea of walking away from it all? I figure even a guy like you’s gotta feel the pinch when his ass is against the wall.”

Bailey laid a hand on his tattooed forearm to let him know she could handle it from there. “Each attempt at mixing the Long Island creates powerful shock waves. The more he tries, the more the tremens start coming.”

“Which Thumbelina over here knew, of course,” Vincent said.

“Garrett’s going to rile up the demons enough to justify wartime powers from the Court,” Bailey said. “Once he’s secured an effective dictatorship, he’ll make himself untouchable via the Long Island. Unless we do something to stop him, he’ll rule Chicago forever.”

“That’s one hell of an accusation,” Worth said.

But Bailey wasn’t even looking at Ida Worth. She was looking at Garrett, who was whispering in Russian into Kozlovsky’s ear. Whatever he said Kozlovsky seemed to like, and he turned back to Bailey.

“Where did you get this idea about wartime powers?” he asked.

“From me,” Vincent said, stepping forward protectively.

“I was asking Ms. Chen,” said Kozlovsky. “Where?”

“From Vincent,” Bailey said. “But it still—”

“Are you aware of the history between Garrett and Vincent?”

“This ain’t about me, Oleg,” Vincent said. “It’s about the—”

Kozlovsky pounded his shot glass on the counter. “No more interruptions. Ms. Chen, you have proof of your accusations?”

“Well, no,” Bailey said. “But I believe that if the Court investigates, they’ll find—”

“Ms. Chen,” said Garrett, “Bailey. Kindly describe the distilling equipment Mr. Sorensen showed you.”

“Um.” She didn’t know much about the technical specs of distilling equipment or even what that had to do with anything. “They’re big. Made of steel.”

Garrett nodded. “I see. And how did you know they were made of steel? How did you know specifically which liquors they were manufacturing?”

“Sorry?”

“The machinery used in Apex’s distillery is indeed made of steel,” Garrett said. “But as we all know, the standard material is copper. To my knowledge—and I know quite a lot—you’ve never visited Apex. Nor was the equipment pictured or described in the news article you’ve submitted for our scrutiny.”

Shit
, Bailey thought. Apparently someone
did
still read newspapers. “Sorensen showed me,” she said, which was sort of true.

“How?”

“On his phone,” she said. “He’d taken pictures during a visit to the construction site.”

“I see.” Garrett pulled out his own phone, which seemed surprisingly advanced for a man of his age; she supposed that being partners with a tech kingpin had its benefits. “And would it surprise you to know that shortly after your departure from his office, my esteemed partner sent me a communiqué informing me of your
conversation? And that just now I sent him one in return, asking if at any point he had shared pictures with you. Do you know what he said, Bailey?”

“Um …”

“That your assertion was categorically untrue,” Garrett said. “Which leaves unresolved the matter of how you obtained information you should not have.”

“I can explain,” Bailey said.

“Really?” Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Because it seems to me that you came by this information as if by
magic
.”

He knows
. The words sent a chill through her.
Fuck, fuck, fuck
. She’d just have to hope the Tribunes would hear her out.

“Ms. Chen, have you ever ingested the concoction known as a gold rush?”

Before Bailey could answer, Vincent said, “Yeah. She has. I watched her do it.”

Bailey wheeled on him. “Boss—”

“Kiddo, I’m not letting you take the fall for something I put you up to,” he said. “You want the truth? Yeah. This was always about me and the runty little bastard.”

That wasn’t the truth at all. But Vincent wouldn’t let her stop him.

“A guy knows when he’s lost the game, and I got outplayed. You wanna take down the king, there’s no need to drag the pawn with him. It’s not Bailey’s fault.”

Bailey felt a stab of guilt. She’d broken the rules, but Vincent was taking the fall.

“Using a cocktail on a civilian is forbidden.” Garrett couldn’t hide the triumphant gleam in his eye. “And so is utilizing said cocktail outside the parameters of work. Both offenses have been admitted to, and both carry the penalty of erasure and … 
disbarment
.”

No
. Bailey’s stomach gave a sickening roll.
Not oblivinum
.

Vincent nodded. “Yeah. Figured you’d give me the clean slate.”

Bailey clenched her fist; the tingling electrified her fingertips. This was it, her do-or-die moment. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to die.

“Boss,” she said in a low voice, “get ready.”

Before Vincent could ask why, Bailey threw up a hand and, with an ozone-scented crack, shot a blinding blue-white lightning tendril from her palm. The feeling was like sticking her finger in a socket but in reverse, and she stumbled from the recoil.

“Kiddo!”

The bottles behind the bar exploded in a shower of glass and liquid, and the air filled with smoke. No one could see, but one person knew how to move without sight.

“Come on!” Bailey said, placing her small hand in Vincent’s calloused one. “Get us out of here!”

Vincent pulled Bailey and Poppy through the confusion of blasted chair legs and jagged bottle fragments and out to the street.

“Trust no one, huh?” Vincent shouted over the din.

“You taught me well!”

“Well, school’s out!” he said. “You’re in the real world now!”

THE DEVIL’S WATER DICTIONARY.
Planter’s Punch

A libation of lightning

1
. In a shaker filled with ice, combine two ounces of dark rum, one and a half ounces apiece of pineapple juice and orange juice, half an ounce of lime juice, and one teaspoon apiece of grenadine and simple syrup
.

2
. Shake well; then strain into an iced highball glass
.

3
. Add three dashes of Angostura bitters
.

4
. Serve garnished with a maraschino cherry and an orange slice
.

P
lanter’s punch, so named for the Planters Inn in Charleston, South Carolina, is alike in procedure (if not in makeup) to the mai tai. But where the former comes from Western appropriation of Polynesian culture, the latter is rooted in Western appropriation of Jamaican culture, which is a different matter entirely.

Though some version of planter’s punch is believed to have existed in the Caribbean during the pre-Blackout era, the modern iteration suddenly and inexplicably emerged in Charleston in the mid-nineteenth century. When local bartenders arrived to contain the situation, they were greeted by a lightning-singed disaster area, an unfortunate side effect of the hotel’s policy to make its signature punch by the bowlful.

G
RENADINE
.

A sweet and tart syrup made from pomegranate juice, grenadine is known for its distinctive red color. A curious problem unique to modern-day America is that the industrialization of grenadine has led to a product made entirely of artificial ingredients. The average bottle of commercial grenadine, though similar to the genuine article in taste and appearance, is dangerous because of its utter lack of magical utility. Bartenders are encouraged to buy grenadine in international markets, where the original recipe is still in wide use, or to make it themselves.

P
INEAPPLE
J
UICE
.

Despite its close association with the Pacific islands, the pineapple is in fact native to South America. Caribbean natives were using it for culinary purposes centuries before Europeans arrived and spread it throughout the globe. The fruit’s flavor is strong and distinct, making it an ideal partner for dark rum; the similarly aggressive nature of the two substances creates a feedback loop, which the New Orleans barmaid Dorothy Deschamps once compared to a shouting match in a glass.