Free Jack Daniels and Tea by Phyllis Smallman Page A

“Give me a Jack Daniels.”
    When I slid the J.D. towards him with my fingertips he said, “You’re the best looking thing in town. When are we going to get together?”
    You couldn’t discourage this guy for long but I was always willing to try. “When you get a note from your wife.”
    He smirked and spread his arms wide. “This is your lucky night. Megan and I just separated.” He leaned across the bar and whispered, “Treat yourself to the best.”
    If he was the best, I was changing sides.
    A song started playing that had everyone on their feet screaming, “I love this bar.” Drinks were spilled, angry words were exchanged and then it all went back to laughter as the swirl of lunacy continued.
    Charlie Lockhart, another regular, waved a lottery ticket at me. “Give me this week’s numbers, will you, Sherri?”
    I reached under the bar for the newspaper clipping of the winning Florida Lotto numbers. So many hopeful fingers had already handled the cutting it was barely readable. I dropped the piece of paper in front of Charlie and took an order from the man standing next to him.
    When I came back with two dry martinis, Charlie was still standing with the clipping spread out between his fingers. His face was pale. Sweat glistened across his forehead. Heart attack! Had to be. But how old was Charlie? Forty? Forty-five? Wasn’t that too young to die in a bar from a coronary?
    â€œCharlie?”
    His eyes refocused. “Yeah?”
    â€œYou alright?”
    â€œYeah.” He was saying it but he wasn’t looking it. “Yeah,” he said again and wiped his hand across his mouth. “I’m alright now.”
    â€œAre those mine?” The man waiting for the vodka martinis was almost drowned out by a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday.
    An hour later I slid another J.D across the bar.
    â€œI’ve got the top down,” Jordan informed me. “How ‘bout a little midnight swim out at South Beach?”
    I bit back the caustic reply dancing on the tip of my tongue. Bartenders live on tips and for me financial disaster was never more than a few bad nights away. I grabbed my cigarettes from under the bar and motioned to Mark that I was taking a break.
    On the way down the hall I saw the birthday girl wobbling ahead of me. I knew the look. Come to that I knew the feeling.
    I caught up to her and wrapped an arm around her. “This way.” I bustled her past the door to the toilets. “More privacy.” I led her to the exit at the end of the hall and then a few steps up the alley to the parking lot. Under the floodlights mounted on the corner of the building, right where Jordan Parish always parked and taking up two places, sat a yellow Viper convertible. As promised, the top was down.
    Beside me Kelly whimpered and clamped a hand over her mouth.
    I leaned her well over the camel colored leather. “Okay, Hon.” And right on cue, she delivered.
    â€œYou’ll feel better now.”
    When her delicate frame finally stopped shuddering, she braced herself with both hands on the door of the car and took deep ragged breaths. “I just threw up in somebody’s car.”
    â€œThis isn’t a car, honey.” I took the leather bag off her shoulder. “It’s a Viper owned by a snake.” I rummaged around and found her a tissue. “Want me to call you a cab?”
    She nodded, pressing the tissue to her lips and fighting back a new wave of nausea.
    Never one to leave well enough alone, when Kelly was safely off I decided to sign my masterpiece. I went to the far side of the parking lot to where a hedge of red hibiscus grew. That’s when I spied the polished oxford sticking out of the bushes. I crept closer and parted the greenery. I saw a gold insignia ring on a liver spotted hand lay.
    â€œDoc?” Crouching down beside him, I took his hand. “Sweet Jesus.” It was already