Chapter Seven

Terry Wilford watched as the brown-haired, well-built and sharply dressed man entered The Varnish, one of the most famous speakeasy-themed cocktail lounges in Downtown LA, and took a seat at the bar. As the man sat down, he took off his glasses, closed his eyes, placed both elbows on the bar counter, and used the tips of his fingers to slowly massage his eyelids.

Terry, who had just started mixing a couple of cocktails for table seven, lifted a quick finger at the man. ‘I'll be right with you, sir.'

That Thursday night, Terry was working the bar alone.

‘There's no rush,' the man replied, still massaging his eyelids. His voice sounded tired and rough. ‘Take your time. I won't be going anywhere for a while.'

Terry had been working as a bartender at The Varnish for just over four years now. During that time, he'd seen more than his share of similar-looking customers – pristine haircut with manicured nails, dressed in perfectly fitted, overpriced suits, smelling of expensive cologne, and looking like the world was just about to cave in on them.

Terry wasn't really surprised by how distraught the man looked. The Varnish was located slap bang in the middle of the Los Angeles Financial District and since it first opened its doors back in 2009, it had become one of LA's favorite drinking dens for the entire financial sector. Terry had been behind the bar during some of the most lavish of celebrations, where $10,000 bottles of champagne were being handed out as if they were wine coolers and cocaine was being passed around as if it was a bag of Skittles. On the flip side, Terry had also witnessed some of the most depressing and embarrassing scenes he'd ever seen – desperate grown men on their knees, bawling their eyes out, asking their bosses for forgiveness. Once, right there at the far end of his bar, Terry saw a man empty a bottle of sleeping pills into his mouth and swig down a full glass of whiskey. If not for Terry's sharp eyes and fast reaction in immediately compressing the man's stomach until he vomited, that man would've probably ended his life right there at The Varnish, and that was never good for business.

Terry finished mixing two traditional Sidecar cocktails, placed them on the waitress's tray, and approached the man sitting at the bar. From the troubled look on the man's face, together with the way in which he kept on slightly shaking his head disapprovingly, Terry guessed that he had probably lost a considerable amount of money that afternoon.

‘Good evening, sir,' Terry said, placing a coaster on the bar in front of the man. ‘What can I get you tonight?'

The man finally stopped massaging his eyes and reached for his glasses. ‘What would you say is the strongest cocktail you…' The man paused, his uncertain eyes resting on Terry. ‘Don't I know you from somewhere?'

The main reason why Terry knew very few of his customers by name was because the daily customer flow at The Varnish was truly overwhelming, but he could still recognize a great number of returning patrons from looks alone, and Terry was very certain that he had never seen that man before.

‘I don't think so,' Terry replied, his head shaking just a touch.

The man's eyes narrowed, as he studied Terry's face for a couple more seconds. ‘Are you sure? You do look rather familiar. Did you ever work in Santa Monica Pier, or in any of the bars at the promenade? I used to go there a lot.'

‘No, never,' Terry lied. ‘All the bars I've worked in until now have been here… in Downtown.' He didn't allow the silence to stretch. ‘But people say that I have one of those faces.'

Physically, Terry, who was forty-three years old, was a slight man. An inch under six-foot, with a thin, ascetic body, helped by a daily exercise routine and a diet that stopped him from having sweets and ice creams, which he secretly adored. His longish black hair was pulled back into a messy manbun, and his three o'clock shadow contoured a pretty average jawline.

‘One of those faces?' the man asked.

‘The plain, average-looking face,' Terry explained. ‘The one that looks like a million other faces.' He gave the man a single-shoulder shrug. ‘Every now and then I catch people squinting at me from afar, clearly trying to place me against some old memory because my face looks vaguely familiar.' He pointed to his hair. ‘Even with the manbun.'

‘Yeah… maybe,' the man accepted. ‘But if you've always worked in busy bars and lounges like this one, they probably have seen you before somewhere. That's why I asked about Santa Monica.'

‘Yeah, that's true.'

It was Terry's turn to quickly study the man sitting at the bar in front of him. He looked to be in his early to mid-thirties, with shaggy brown hair that fell over deep-brown eyes. His beard was long enough to cover his jawline. He was slender, but not thin, with enough muscle to add plenty of power to his frame. The bones on his face were delicate, which only added to his somewhat attractive looks. If Terry had seen him before, he was sure that he would've remembered.

‘So,' Terry said, going back to his original question. ‘What can I get you tonight?'

The man let out a deep breath before his expression turned serious. ‘What would you say is the strongest drink you can make?'

‘That depends,' Terry replied, handing the man a cocktail menu. ‘Strong as in…?'

‘As in obliterating brain cells,' the man answered, before sniggering. ‘Not that I seem to have that many left, anyway.'

‘That bad of a day, huh?' Terry asked.

The man once again took off his glasses, but this time he didn't place them on the counter, he just used his thumb and index finger to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if trying to halt a headache that was already lurking behind his eyelids. ‘I'm Liam,' the man said after a couple of seconds, offering his hand.

‘Terry.' The bartender shook it.

‘Well, Terry… on a scale from one to ten – ten being the worst day possible – I'd say that today was a seven-point-five million.'

Terry almost choked.

When the man returned the glasses to his face, the bartender was looking back at him wide-eyed.

‘That's a hell of a lot of bad,' Terry said, his chin angling forward as he nodded.

‘You don't say,' Liam agreed, his voice sounding as defeated as he looked. ‘So… if by any chance you've got any sort of poison behind that bar, Terry, just pour it and I'll drink it. Neat. No ice.'

‘No poison,' Terry replied with a sarcastic, disappointed look. ‘But I can mix you up something that'll hit like a heavyweight champ.'

Liam smiled a smile that was small and tense… and it didn't linger. ‘Sounds like it's just what I need… times a whole bunch.'

Terry nodded. ‘Any drinks or flavors I should steer away from?'

Liam tried to chuckle, but it came out more like a cough. ‘Right now, my friend, I'll drink dirty water from the devil's barrel… I don't much care. Just pour it.'

If I'd just lost seven and a half million dollars in one day,Terry thought, as he reached for the cocktail shaker, I wouldn't much care what I was drinking either.

‘Heavyweight champ knockout coming right over, buddy,' Terry announced, as he slid a few cubes of ice into a tall glass.

Liam didn't look to see what spirits Terry was pouring into the mixer. Instead, he turned and allowed his gaze to move around the cozily lit drinking lounge.

At 9:55 p.m. on a Thursday evening, The Varnish was busy and getting busier. Two very attractive waitresses, dressed in sexy secretary outfits, took orders from customers sitting at the old-fashioned dinner booths scattered around the bar floor. As Liam observed one of the waitresses, a medium-height, short-haired man, also dressed in an expensive-looking pinstriped suit, entered The Varnish, walked over to the bar and indicated the stool to Liam's right.

‘Is this seat taken, buddy?' he asked.

Liam's stare moved to him but he stayed quiet.

The man's eyebrows lifted, inquisitively.

‘No,' Liam finally replied. ‘I don't think so.'

The man smiled and took the seat just as Terry placed a glass containing a dark-colored cocktail on the bar in front of Liam.

‘Hey, Terry,' the new arrival said, with a nod.

Terry reciprocated the gesture. ‘Hey, Ken, what can I get you tonight?'

Ken eyed Liam's glass. ‘What is that?' He frowned at Terry.

‘I call it Amnesia,' Terry said. His smile was aimed more at Liam than at Ken. ‘It makes you forget things for a while… a lot of things.'

‘Interesting,' Ken nodded. ‘What's in it?'

Liam lifted a hand at Terry. ‘I actually don't want to know.'

Terry's attention moved to Ken. ‘Neither do you, Ken. Believe me.'

Liam reached for the glass and had a healthy sip. As the drink cleared his throat, on its way to his stomach, his cheeks puffed up with air and his eyes seemed like they were about to melt on his face.

‘Damn,' Liam said, as he took a deep breath. ‘This thing could degrease engines.'

Terry nodded his agreement. ‘And then some.'

‘Yep,' Ken said, his hands up in the air. ‘I'll pass.' He thought about it for an extra second. ‘For now, at least.'

‘Ken,' Terry said, as he introduced the two men at the bar. ‘This is Liam.'

Liam and Ken shook hands.

‘I'll have a beer with a chaser, please, Terry,' Ken said, placing a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. ‘And just keep them coming, will you?'

As Terry turned away to fetch Ken's order, Ken turned to face Liam. ‘It must've been a particularly bad day, if you chose to drink engine degreaser.'

Liam had another sip of his cocktail… or at least he pretended to.

‘I think you could say that.'

‘Are you in finance?' Ken asked.

Liam nodded once. ‘Isn't everyone in here?'

‘Most of them, yes,' Ken replied, looking left then right. ‘And don't worry, we all have similar bad days every now and then. It's the nature of our business. I'm sure you know that, but the good thing is – it's never our money that we lose.' Ken winked at Liam. ‘So who really cares, right?'

Liam looked down at Ken's shiny Italian-leather shoes. They looked like they had been polished just seconds before he entered the bar.

‘The customers care,' Liam replied, returning to his drink. ‘Very much, actually.'

Ken laughed a little harder than Liam expected. ‘Investment, stock market, finance… all of those are risky businesses, my friend. The customers know that. They knew that before they decided to invest. Don't beat yourself up about it.'

‘Too late,' Liam whispered, just as Terry placed a bottle of beer and a whiskey shot on the bar in front of Ken.

‘Thanks, Terry.' Ken reached for the shot and lifted it at Liam. ‘To better days, my friend. To better days.'

Liam nodded as he brought his glass to his lips, but once again, he simply pretended to have a sip. He really wasn't there to get drunk.