“I think … yeah, three.”

Now Fenton stood sentry over three full fifths of J&B scotch, which really, for these men at least, was a good thing to have three bottles of. Miles of course would drink anything—for that matter they all would soon enough-but the traditional drink of choice at Tony’s was scotch.

“One more, something different,” reported Rudd.

It turned out to be a bottle of Malinowa Raspberry Cordial Austrian Liqueur (seventy-six proof). The men stared at the bottle as if it were a copy of Good Housekeeping mixed in with the pornography.

“What is it?”

“Seventy-six proof, looks like,” answered Rudd as he puzzled over the label. “I don’t know what the hell it’s doing down here on the scotch shelf.”

It seemed they couldn’t make up their minds whether to be angry over not finding another bottle of J&B or pleased over finding another bottle of anything, especially something sporting a reasonable proof such as this. There had been something of a liqueur orgy on the seventh day, the stranger stuff being kept to single orders, mostly for the visual appeal of the unusual bottles, and hence not back-stocked down here. They’d burned through it all that night and it wasn’t pretty, but it did save them one night’s worth of real booze, which now of course was lost.

“I think we should give Osmond his share out of this stuff,” said Rudd. “By the way, what the hell is he passed out on?”

“I don’t know, but he’s out cold in his booth, been that way all morning.”

“Son of a bitch. Think he had a bottle hidden?”

“Don’t know. Maybe, could’ve, I suppose.”

“Son of a bitch. Well he definitely gets his share from this shit. Passed out. Son of a bitch.”

They nodded as one, in evident agreement over the son-of-a-bitchedness of Osmond.

Rudd stood up. “That’s it for that shelf,” he said.

They silently resumed their scanning, but no other backs of bottom shelves had survived the damage. In less than three minutes they knew and ten minutes after that they admitted: no other unbroken bottles were present in dry-storage. Out of forty-some bottles four had survived. Fenton almost proclaimed this but thought better of it and stopped himself in time, waited.

“That’s it,” Rudd told him. “Run upstairs and get … oh, I don’t know, two I suppose, juice containers. We’ll pour what we can from these broken bottles into them.”

“There are plenty of juice containers. We could have one for scotch and another for vodka, one for whiskey, like that.”

“Umm, no. It won’t be worth it. We’ll end up with five or six almost empty containers: too depressing. Best we just mix it. Believe me, by the time we need it we won’t care at all.”

Fenton went upstairs, where later he, Rudd, and the others inspected what was salvaged from dry-storage. Balanced on the bar, three fifths of J&B, one of Malinowa Raspberry Cordial Austrian Liqueur (seventy-six proof), one and two-thirds juice containers of Amalgamash, stood the attention of Rudd, Fenton, Miles, Langston, somewhat fortified by the very odor of alcohol, Jill, as sort of a disinterested de facto supervisor or lady principal, and the busboy, who stood passive, cognizant, and secretly resentful of mostly himself. Absent was only Osmond, who remained passed out in his booth and that was frankly just as well because anybody who managed to pass himself out for that long must have had something stashed and though if somebody was gonna do that it would’ve been Osmond it didn’t change the fact that it was wrong at the very least and way outside the conduct agreed upon by this group at the very worst, which it was, the very worst.

One of the juice containers, the one with the lesser volume, was darker than the other. Different colors, even through the translucent plastic, they were, like amber and chestnut.

“How’d that happen?” asked Miles, pointing very closely at but not quite touching the chestnut-colored bottle. This in keeping with the demeanor that prevailed among the men present, one of chemistry students surrounding a rack of fuming test tubes.

And in the role of white-coated professor, Rudd started to answer but was momentarily interrupted by gunfire on the street out front. Everyone paused, as was their custom, bowing their heads as if in prayer. But no one felt threatened, and the attitude of their lips, the way they were mostly, slightly cocked, made the group look like they were merely waiting for someone to finish a coughing fit.

When the shooting stopped, Rudd said, “How’s the shoulder, Miles?”

Miles dropped his eyes. “Fine,” he muttered, not looking at anybody.