Free Bad Samaritan by Michael J. Malone Page B

they’ll be pumping my stomach down at the Western.’
    â€˜Would you no rather get something else pumped?’ one of her friends shouts. Laughter erupts from everyone else at the table. High pitched enough to pierce an eardrum.
    â€˜Did you just turn down a drink?’ another friend asks. ‘You mental?’
    â€˜We’re drinking champagne, Ray,’ says another one.
    â€˜Are you one of the boys in blue, Ray?’
    â€˜Why don’t you join us?’
    â€˜Sorry, ladies. I’m working.’
    A chorus of “awwwww” rings round the table.
    Then.
    â€˜Disnae mean you can’t buy us a drink.’ It’s the one with the brown bob. Mediterranean tan. Cleavage reaching all the way down to the table top. She catches me looking and winks.
    â€˜So what it is then? What are you all drinking?’ I ask, caught up in the good mood flowing from the table.
    â€˜It’s alright, Ray,’ says Maggie, patting the top of my arm. ‘We’ve more than enough, thanks.’
    â€˜A bottle of their finest Taittinger,’ says one.
    â€˜Naw, that’s cheap crap,’ says another. ‘They’ve a cheeky wee Dom Perignon on the menu.’
    â€˜But you can only buy it if you join us,’ says another.
    â€˜Seriously, Ray,’ says Maggie. ‘I apologise that my friends are badgering you…’
    â€˜She’s thirty-one today,’ someone shouts.
    â€˜Gawd, that makes me feel ancient,’ another responds.
    â€˜Shut it, cheeky,’ says Maggie. Back to me. ‘There’s no need, Ray.’ She looks embarrassed.
    I’ve got to milk this.
    â€˜Now what kind of friend would I be, Maggie…’
    â€˜From what we’ve heard you guys have been way more than friends.’ More high squeals. Maggie looks like she wants to run away. I just grin. She throws me a “see you” look.
    â€˜I’m going to have you, Littlejohn. And you, Weir.’
    This is rewarded by a snort from one and a giggle from the other.
    â€˜Excuse me a moment, ladies. I’ll just go to the bar,’ I say to a chorus of cheers.
    Maggie follows me. ‘You don’t have to get me anything, Ray. My birthday isn’t really until tomorrow. But this was the best night to get everyone together.’ We reach the bar. ‘But if you insist.’ Cheeky grin. ‘You can get me this one.’ She pulls a menu out from a stand, and her finger-nail, painted deep red and crested with a diamante, rests on the description: “The granddad of all prestige cuvee champagnes, truly iconic. Moët ensure pristine quality, regardless of the volume produced. The 2000 vintage is full of life, with vibrant fruit and a piercing intensity of dried fruits, cocoa and vanilla.” It is indeed a Dom Perignon and comes in at a wallet busting £140.
    â€˜You can fuck right off,’ is my succinct reply.
    A waiter approaches. Male. If he’s a day over twenty-one, I’ve got fifteen toes. Shaved head, skin so fresh it looks like he applies it each morning and sporting a beard so thick and bushy it could have come right out of a photo of the troops in the American Civil War.
    Surreal.
    â€˜Am I drunk already?’ I ask Maggie.
    â€˜What can I get you, sir?’ he asks.
    I drag Maggie’s finger up the page. Find a price that suits. £47.
    â€˜That one.’ I fish my credit card out of my wallet.
    â€˜What? No moths?’ grins Maggie.
    â€˜It is a special day.’ Caught up in the moment, I lean forward and kiss her. On the lips. Maggie steps back. Flushed. I hear a comment from the table.
    â€˜Oh, Maggie could be getting a birthday shag after all.’ Cue more giggles.
    â€˜Ignore them,’ Maggie says.
    â€˜They seem a good bunch,’ I say.
    â€˜Could do a lot worse,’ she replies with a fond smile. She touches her lips with the tips of her fingers. Lightly. Then scratches her cheek,