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A bid for the publishing company splits Ryan and Maggie.
In cruel comparison the water out of the taps was bitter and metallic, but Mr White drank it anyway while Red drank nothing, waiting for the bar.
They had asked the woman at the front desk where the nearest bar was and she had stabbed her finger out the door. Left, she had said, her eyes like coals. They had walked out and turned right and found the bar just a short way down the street. It was dirty and the windows were scarred and cracked. A sign swung loosely from a broken post outside, glittering blue neon advertising it as a BAR by no other name. Inside it smelled of sweat and spilled spirits, and the crude perfumes of the men and women. They sat at the bar or around tables or milled in groups and some of the people looked at them as they entered and some of them didn't. The lights were low and shadows slung themselves drunkenly over breasts and stubble alike.
Mr White was sat at a table now, waiting patiently with a beer he didn't like for Red to come back from the bar for a second time. He sipped at it unenthusiastically, willing it to go down. After a few minutes of observing Red flirting with the buxom, scantily clad bar girl, and tipping her heavily, he saw him turn, brandishing his purchased wares with cavalier care.
Tequila! announced Red triumphantly as he brought a tray of shots, lemon and salt over to their table.
Tequila? Oh no.
I got salt and lemon too. Just what we need. Ready?
Not at all. Mr White looked sorry for himself but picked up the first of his shots and clinked it sadly with Red's.
Red looked Mr White in the eyes with a wicked grin and as if they shared some telepathic connection they both downed them in perfect unison.
Red flushed and exhaled harshly, smiling fiercely while Mr White gagged.
Go on, off you run, Red said throatily, and Mr White nearly overturned his chair in his haste to reach the nearest toilet. Neither had touched the salt and lemon.
I'll bring the rest of the shots to you! Red called out after him.
It wasn't an idle threat. Red pushed open the cubicle door, left unlocked in haste, and crouched by Mr White as he retched emptily into the bowl, saliva dripping from his lips.
What . . . do . . . you want?
I brought the rest of the shots. Red couldn't keep the grin out of his words.
You have got to be kidding me.
I paid for em, so you got to have em. That's the rules. And look, you ain't even been sick. You just thought you would, but you ain't.
I'll be sick if I have any more.
Well then you'll feel better, won't you?
Mr White's body told him that this was sound judgement. His mind was too clouded by alcoholic burn to think it through.
Red laid the tray out on the cubicle floor and held up a torn sachet of salt.
Here, gimme your hand. Red took Mr White's unresisting hand, raising it up to wipe his dripping lips.
There you go, Red said soothingly. He lowered the hand and poured some of the salt on to it where it stuck to the spit.
Red took another shot and offered it up to Mr White, holding a lemon slice in his other hand.
Mr White took hold of the shot with his unsalted hand and stared at it dumbly.
It's to drink, Red said helpfully. Preferably quickly.
Mr White sucked the salt, his hand and mouth acting together as if formed some rebellious coalition independent of the brain, and he downed it, quickly, clenching his teeth into the lemon a second before it fell out of his mouth as he retched again and his eyes streamed.
Quick man, this'll take the edge off. Red handed him another.
It's water, it'll help.
Mr White threw it down his gullet as if it was life-saving.
It weren't water, it was more tequila, I'm sorry.
Mr White's head went right into the toilet bowl.
Don't worry, smiled Red happily, as he took a shot himself and coughed and his cheeks went red again. There's only four more left for you.
It was twenty minutes later and miraculously Mr White had drunk two more of his shots.