Scotch Glasses With Quotes

You know how we make a Scotch and water in this home?" "No, sir," Gus said. "We pour Scotch into a glass and then call to mind thoughts of water, and then we mix the actual Scotch with the abstracted idea of water.

Hitch: making rules about drinking can be the sign of an alcoholic,' as Martin Amis once teasingly said to me. (Adorno would have savored that, as well.) Of course, watching the clock for the start-time is probably a bad sign, but here are some simple pieces of advice for the young. Don't drink on an empty stomach: the main point of the refreshment is the enhancement of food. Don't drink if you have the blues: it's a junk cure. Drink when you are in a good mood. Cheap booze is a false economy. It's not true that you shouldn't drink alone: these can be the happiest glasses you ever drain. Hangovers are another bad sign, and you should not expect to be believed if you take refuge in saying you can't properly remember last night. (If you really don't remember, that's an even worse sign.) Avoid all narcotics: these make you more boring rather than less and are not designed—as are the grape and the grain—to enliven company. Be careful about up-grading too far to single malt Scotch: when you are voyaging in rough countries it won't be easily available. Never even think about driving a car if you have taken a drop. It's much worse to see a woman drunk than a man: I don't know quite why this is true but it just is. Don't ever be responsible for it.

I hover over the expensive Scotch and then the Armagnac, but finally settle on a glass of rich red claret. I put it near my nose and nearly pass out. It smells of old houses and aged wood and dark secrets, but also of hard, hot sunshine through ancient shutters and long, wicked afternoons in a four-poster bed. It's not a wine, it's a life, right there in the glass.

Try to roll with the punches. Keep your chin up. Don’t take any wooden nickels. Vote Democrat in every election. Ride your bike in the park. Dream about my perfect, golden body. Take your vitamins. Drink eight glasses of water a day. Pull for the Mets. Watch a lot of movies. Don’t work too hard at your job. Take a trip to Paris with me. Come to the hospital when Rachel has her baby and hold my grandchild in your arms. Brush your teeth after every meal. Don’t cross the street on a red light. Defend the little guy. Stick up for yourself. Remember how beautiful you are. Remember how much I love you. Drink one Scotch on the rocks every day. Breathe deeply. Keep your eyes open. Stay away from fatty foods. Sleep the sleep of the just. Remember how much I love you.

sweet music It beats love because there aren’t any wounds: in the morning she turns on the radio, Brahms or Ives or Stravinsky or Mozart. She boils the eggs counting the seconds out loud: 56, 57, 58…she peels the eggs, brings them to me in bed. After breakfast it’s the same chair and listen to the classical music. She’s on her first glass of scotch and her third cigarette. I tell her I must go to the racetrack. She’s been here about 2 nights and 2 days. “When will I see you again?” I ask. She suggests that might be up to me. I nod and Mozart plays.

We pour Scotch into a glass and then call to mind thoughts of water, and then we mix the actual Scotch with the abstracted idea of water.

Their complaint is eight pages long, detailing instance after instance of inappropriate, homophobic language. And a few racial slurs, too. I drank a very large glass of scotch after reading it. I had no idea things were so bad.

Perhaps what I liked far more was the evening. Everything about it thrilled me. Every glance that crossed my own came like a compliment, or like an asking and a promise that simply lingered in midair between me and the world around me. I was electrified — by the chaffing, the irony, the glances, the smiles that seemed pleased I existed, by the buoyant air in the shop that graced everything from the glass door to the petits fours, to the golden ochre spell of plastic glasses filled with scotch whiskey, to Mr. Venga's rolled up sleeves, to the poet himself, down to the spiral staircase where we had congregated with the babe sisters — all seemed to glow with a luster at once spellbound and aroused.

That beautiful glass of lemonade, so cold it made the glass sweat? It was colored water at room temperature, in a glass that had been sprayed with Scotch Guard, and misted with glycerin, so the “sweat” didn’t run down the glass before the photograph was taken. And the ice cubes were acrylic.

My glass was empty. I poured more scotch into it, took a small sip, and all at once the silly thing was empty again. Strange. Then it was full again. And then it was empty again. Strange, I thought. Fool glass must have a hole in it. Scotch disappears the instant it's poured. Strange. Then I was stretched out on the bed, too tired and too drunk to bother removing my shoes. My eyes closed themselves and the world crept away on little cat feet, leaving me floating in the middle of the air.

Paper: Some inexpensive plain bond paper A pad of Strathmore Drawing Paper, 80 lb., 11" × 14" Pencils: A #2 ordinary yellow writing pencil with an eraser at the top A #4 drawing pencil—Faber-Castell, Prismacolor Turquoise, or other brand Marking pens: Sharpie (or other brand) fine point non-permanent black A second marker, fine point permanent black Graphite stick: #4 General’s is a good brand, or other brand Pencil sharpener: A small handheld sharpener is fine Erasers: A Pink Pearl eraser A Staedtler Mars white plastic eraser A kneaded eraser—Lyra, Design, or other brand Masking tape: 3M Scotch Low Tack Artist Tape Clips: Two 1-inch-wide black clips Drawing board: A firm surface large enough to hold your 11" × 14" drawing paper—about 15" × 18" is a good size. This can be improvised from a kitchen cutting board, a piece of foam board, a piece of Masonite, or thick cardboard. Picture plane: This too can be improvised using an 8" × 10" piece of glass (you will need to tape the edges), or an 8" × 10" piece of clear plastic, about 1⁄16" thick. Viewfinders: You will make these from black paper—“construction” paper is a good thickness, or you could use thin black cardboard. You will find instructions for making the viewfinders here A small mirror: About 5" × 7" that can be taped to a wall, or any available wall mirror.

Happy Birthday, Jennifer. And a pencil-line drawing of a house. And under a piece of Scotch tape a ring, just a cheap ring with a blue glass stone. I'm back, it read. Love, Cameron Quick.

I swear you don't know how to have any fun at all," I teased. "This is not exactly my idea of it," he said wryly. I gestured toward the ballroom. "But you're royal. It's your kind of party. You should be relaxed, letting everyone suck up to you." He laughed and my chest tightened. God, I loved that sound. "Kendra, not everything about being royal is enjoyable." "So what would you consider fun?" I asked, curious. Tristan was obviously well-liked and respected. But I'd never seen him when he wasn't in either instructor, gardinel, or prince mode. I got the feeling he wasn't very social and spent a lot of time alone. His eyes turned thoughtful. "Relaxing in a quiet room with a nice glass of scotch, listening to Bach." I rolled my eyes. "Are you serious, grandpa?" He hid a smile.

I went down to the lobby and slipped the catch and then took a shower and put my pajamas on and lay down on the bed. I could have slept for a week. I dragged myself up off the bed again and set the catch on the door, which I had forgotten to do, and walked through a deep hard snowdrift out to the kitchenette and laid out glasses and a bottle of liqueur Scotch I had been saving for a really high-class seduction.

Without a word, he walked over to the sideboard and grabbed one of the decanters and a crystal glass. He returned to his seat and poured two fingers’ worth of Scotch. He drank half of it in one swallow and thumped his glass down roughly. He waited for the burning sensation in his throat to abate. He waited for the liquid courage to adhere to his insides, fortifying him. But it would take much more Scotch to dull the ache in his heart.

She took the glass he offered her and drank deeply, then grimaced and shuddered, staring in horror at the contents. “That’s ghastly. What is it?” “Hundred-year-old scotch.” “No wonder it tastes so vile. Do you have anything more recently brewed?

Peter turned his attention to Gus, asking, "You know how we make a Scotch and water in this home?" "No, sir," Gus said. "We pour Scotch into a glass and then call to mind thoughts of water, and then we mix the actual Scotch with the abstracted idea of water.

The moment we walk into the suite, Tommy descends on us. “The Queen’s on the line. On Skype, Your Grace.” Anxiety rings in his voice like the ping of a tapped crystal glass. “She’s been waiting. She does’na like to be kept waiting.” I nod briskly. “Have David bring me a scotch.” “Oh, me too!” Henry pipes up. “He’ll have coffee,” I tell Tommy. And I think Henry sticks his tongue out at me behind my back. I head into the library and he follows, seeming marginally closer to sober—at least he’s walking straight and unassisted now. I sit behind the desk and open the laptop. On the screen, my grandmother looks back at me, wearing a pale pink robe, hair in rollers and a hairnet, gray eyes piercing, her expression as friendly as the grim reaper’s. This should be fun. “Nicholas.” She greets me without emotion. “Grandmother,” I return, just as flat. “Granny!” Henry calls, like a child, coming around the desk into view. Then he proceeds to hug the computer and kiss the screen. “Mwah! Mwah!” “Henry, oh, Hen—” My grandmother swats the air with her hands, like he’s actually there kissing her. And I do my damnedest not to laugh at them. “Mwah!” “Henry! Remember yourself! My gracious!” “Mmmmmwah!” He perches, grinning like a fool, on the arm of my chair, forcing me to shift over. “I’m sorry, Grandmother—it’s just so good to see you

Or dispense with any heating and combining and buy a few dark chocolate bars. Break them into big squares and serve them in a tumble on a plate, with a glass of Scotch per person, which will make each appetite feel listened to, and provide a tiny anesthetic to the pain of letting go.

So you’re really going to do this?” Tohrment asked him. Darius glanced across the shallow table. The other vampire’s eyes met his own. “Yeah. I am.” Tohrment nursed his Scotch and smiled grimly. Only the very tips of his fangs showed. “You’re crazy, D.” “You should know.” Tohrment tilted his glass in deference. “But you’re raising the bar." -Tohrment & Darius

Swirling a glass of ice splashed with Scotch, the host seemed oblivious to the contradiction between what he’d just finished saying and what he was now showing me. After his second drink, he began to tell me about his failed marriage, to an American. “She insisted on riding around in my Rolls without covering her face. Of course, everyone stared at her,” he said with distaste. After

Are you deliberately torturing me?” he growls. My heart kicks. Wild and unrhythmic. “Torturing you?” He raises the scotch, downing the contents in one fell swoop before returning the glass to his side. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” There’s a warning in his voice. A delicious subtle threat. My throat tightens. My chest, too. Everything is so painfully, invigoratingly restricted that I have to fight hard to maintain level breathing. I raise my other leg, crossing both at the ankles against the rim of the tub. I shouldn’t be doing this. Warning bells ring in the farthest recesses of my mind. If only they were loud enough to put a stop to the craziness. “Join me.” His jaw ticks. That’s his only response. No movement. No words. “Matthew?” His features tighten, almost setting in a glower as he grates, “Be sure about this, Layla.” “I think I am,” I lie. I’m not even partially certain. I’m running on instinct alone. No, not instinct—infatuation.  “Then I’m staying where I am.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the glass moving to rest in the crook of his arm. “I’m on the precipice here. I can only pretend to be a stand-up guy for so long, then I’m going to start pushing my own agenda. So don’t play with me, amore mio.

The day came: a Monday at the end of September. The night before he had realized that it was almost exactly a year since the beating, although he hadn’t planned it that way. He left work early that evening. He had spent the weekend organizing his projects; he had written Lucien a memo detailing the status of everything he had been working on. At home, he lined up his letters on the dining room table, and a copy of his will. He had left a message with Richard’s studio manager that the toilet in the master bathroom kept running and asked if Richard could let in the plumber the following day at nine – both Richard and Willem had a set of keys to his apartment – because he would be away on business. He took off his suit jacket and tie and shoes and watch and went to the bathroom. He sat in the shower area with his sleeves pushed up. He had a glass of scotch, which he sipped at to steady himself, and a box cutter, which he knew would be easier to hold than a razor. He knew what he needed to do: three straight vertical lines, as deep and long as he could make them, following the veins up both arms. And then he would lie down and wait. He waited for a while, crying a bit, because he was tired and frightened and because he was ready to go, he was ready to leave. Finally he rubbed his eyes and began. He started with his left arm. He made the first cut, which was more painful than he had thought it would be, and he cried out. Then he made the second. He took another drink of the scotch. The blood was viscous, more gelatinous than liquid, and a brilliant, shimmering oil-black. Already his pants were soaked with it, already his grip was loosening. He made the third. When he was done with both arms, he slumped against the back of the shower wall. He wished, absurdly, for a pillow. He was warm from the scotch, and from his own blood, which lapped at him as it pooled against his legs – his insides meeting his outsides, the inner bathing the outer. He closed his eyes. Behind him, the hyenas howled, furious at him. Before him stood the house with its open door. He wasn’t close yet, but he was closer than he’d been: close enough to see that inside, there was a bed where he could rest, where he could lie down and sleep after his long run, where he would, for the first time in his life, be safe.

Ah, yes, poverty," said Chatterjee and smiled as if the word had deeply ironic connotations. "Indeed, there is much poverty here. Much squalor by Western standards. That must offend the American mind, since America has repeatedly dedicated its great will to eliminating poverty. How did your ex-President Johnson put it . . . to declare war on poverty? One would think that his war in Vietnam would have satisfied him." "The war on poverty was another war we lost," I said. "America continues to have its share of poverty." I set my empty glass down, and a servant appeared at my elbow to pour more scotch.

Now where's this artist?" His eyes darted around the room, landed on Gennie and clung. She thought she saw surprise, quickly veiled, then amusement as quickly suppressed, tug at the corners of his mouth. "Daniel MacGregor," Grant said with wry formality. "Genvieve Grandeau." A flicker of recognition ran across Daniel's face before he rose to his rather amazing height and held out his hand. "Welcome." Gennie's hand was clasped, then enveloped. She had simultaneous impressions of strength, compassion, and stubbornness. "You have a magnificent home, Mr. MacGregor," she said, studying him candidly. "It suits you." He gave a great bellow of a laugh that might have shook the windows. "Aye.And three if your paintings hang in the west wing." His eyes slid briefly to Grant's before they came back to hers. "You carry your age well, lass." She gave him a puzzled look as Grant choked over his Scotch. "Thank you." "Get the artist a drink," he ordered, then gestured for her to sit in the chair next to his. "Now, tell me why you're wasting your time with a Campbell." "Gennie happens to be a cousin of mine," Justin said mildly as he sat on the sofa beside his son. "On the aristocratic French side." "A cousin." Daniel's eys sharpened, then an expression that could only be described as cunning pleasure spread over his face. "Aye,we like to keep things in the family. Grandeau-a good strong name.You've the look of a queen, with a bit of sorceress thrown in." "That was meant as a compliment," Serena told her as she handed Gennie a vermouth in crystal. "So I've been told." Gennie sent Grant an easy look over the rim of her glass. "One of my ancestors had an-encounter with a gypsy resulting in twins." "Gennie has a pirate in her family tree as well," Justin put in. Daniel nooded in approval. "Strong blood. The Campbells need all the help they can get." "Watch it,MacGregor," Shelby warned as Grant gave him a brief, fulminating look.

Jeff and Amy were part of this, though never in the sense that the natives were. They were not indigenous: they were outlanders, ‘foreigners,’ distinguished by a sort of upcountry cosmopolitan glaze which permitted them to mingle but not merge. Even their drinking habits set them apart. Deltans drank only corn and Coca-Cola; gin was perfume, scotch had a burnt-stick taste. They would watch with wry expressions while Amy blended her weird concoctions, pink ladies and Collinses and whiskey sours, and those who tried one, finally persuaded, would sip and shudder and set the glass aside: “Thanks”—mildly outraged, smirking—“I’ll stick to burrbon.

How about something to drink. Coffee, tea, soda, water, scotch. Never too early for scotch. Violet, some scotch. Ice. I said ice. No ice, then. Me too. Always neat for me. Look at my view. No, not at the gardener. José! José! Got to pound on the glass to get his attention. He's half deaf. José! Move! You're blocking the view. Good. See the view. I'm talking about the Hollywood sign right there. Never get tired of it. Like the Word of God just dropped down, plunked on the hills, and the Word was Hollywood. Didn't God say let the be light first. What's a movie but light. Can't have a movie without light. And then words. Seeing that sign reminds me to write every morning. What. All right, so it doesn't say Hollywood. You got me. Good eye. Thing's falling to pieces. One O's half fallen and the other O's fallen altogether. The word's gone to shit. So what. You still get the meaning. Thanks, Violet. Cheers. How do they say it in your country. I said how do they say it. Yo, yo, yo, is it. I like that. Easy to remember. Yo, yo, yo, then.

My kin would sooner have a badger in their house than a Campbell." Alan saw his mother open hermouth and shook his head to silence her. He not only knew Shelby could hold her own but wanted to see her do it. "Most MacGregors were comfortable enough with badgers in the parlor." "Barbarians!" Daniel sucked in his breath. "The Campbells were barbarians, each and every one of them." Shelby tilted her head as if to study him from a new angle. "The MacGregors have a reputation for being sore losers." Instantly Daniel's face went nearly as red as his hair. "Losers? Hah! There's never been a Campbell born who could stand up to a MacGregor in a fair fight. Backstabbers." "We'll have Rob Roy's biography again in a minute," Shelby heard Caine mutter. "You don't have a drink, Dad," he said, hoping to distract him. "Shelby?" "Yes." She shifted her gaze to him, noting he was doing his best to maintain sobriety. "Scotch," she told him, with a quick irrepressible wink. "Straight up.If the MacGregors had been wiser," she continued without missing a beat, "perhaps they wouldn't have lost their land and their kilts and the name.Kings," she went on mildly as Daniel began to huff and puff, "have a habit of getting testy when someone's trying to overthrow them." "Kings!" Daniel exploded. "An English king, by God! No true Scotsman needed an English king to tell him how to live on his land." Shelby's lips curved as Caine handed her a glass. "That's a truth I can drink to." "Hah!" Daniel lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow before he thumped it onto the table at his side. Cocking a brow,Shelby eyed the Scotch in her glass,then proceeded to follow Daniel's example. For a moment,he frowned at the empty glass beside his. Slowly,with the room deadly silent,he shifted his gaze back to Shelby.His eyes were fierce, hers insolent. Heaving himself out of his chair, he towered over here, a great bear of a man with fiery hair.She put both hands on her hips, a willow-slim woman with curls equally dramtic. Alan wished fleetingly he could paint. Daniel's laugh, when he threw back his head and let it loose,was rich and loud and long. "Aye,by God,here's a lass!" Shelby found herself swept off her feet in a crushing hug that held welcome.

I have since thought a great deal about how people are able to maintain two attitudes in their minds at once. Take the colonel: He had come fresh from a world of machetes, road gangs, and random death and yet was able to have a civilized conversation with a hotel manager over a glass of beer and let himself be talked out of committing another murder. He had a soft side and a hard side and neither was in absolute control of his actions. It would have been dangerous to assume that he was this way or that way at any given point in the day. It was like those Nazi concentration camp guards who could come home from a day manning the gas chambers and be able to play games with their children, put a Bach record on the turntable, and make love to their wives before getting up to kill to more innocents. And this was not the exception—this was the rule. The cousin of brutality is a terrifying normalcy. So I tried never to see these men in terms of black or white. I saw them instead in degrees of soft and hard. It was the soft that I was trying to locate inside them; once I could get my fingers into it, the advantage was mine. If sitting down with abhorrent people and treating them as friends is what it took to get through to that soft place, then I was more than happy to pour the Scotch.

Recipes TOM PEPPER’S HOT BREW To soothe the throat or otherwise ease a long day. 1.4 drachm (1 tsp) local raw honey 16 drachm (1 oz) scotch or bourbon ½ pint (1 cup) hot water 3 sprigs fresh thyme Stir honey and bourbon at bottom of mug. Add hot water and thyme sprigs. Steep five minutes. Sip while warm. BLACKFRIARS BALM FOR BUGS AND BOILS To subdue angry, itchy skin caused by insect bites. 1 drachm (0.75 tsp) castor oil 1 drachm (0.75 tsp) almond oil 10 drops tea tree oil 5 drops lavender oil In a 2.7 drachm (10 ml) glass rollerball vial, add the 4 oils. Fill to top with water and secure cap. Shake well before each use. Apply to itchy, uncomfortable skin. ROSEMARY BUTTER BISCUIT COOKIES A traditional shortbread. Savory yet sweet, and in no way sinister. 1 sprig fresh rosemary 1 ½ cup butter, salted 2⁄3cup white sugar 2 ¾ cup all-purpose flour Remove leaves from rosemary and finely chop (approximately 1 Tbsp or to taste). Soften butter; blend well with sugar. Add rosemary and flour; mix well until dough comes together. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper. Form dough into 1.25-inch balls; press gently into pans until 0.5-inch thick. Refrigerate at least 1 hour. Preheat oven to 375°F. Bake for 10–12 minutes, just until bottom edges are golden. Do not overbake. Cool at least 10 minutes. Makes 45 cookies.

Only as a young man playing pool all night for money had he been able to find what he wanted in life, and then only briefly. People thought pool hustling was corrupt and sleazy, worse than boxing. But to win at pool, to be a professional at it, you had to deliver. In a business you could pretend that skill and determination had brought you along, when it had only been luck and muddle. A pool hustler did not have the freedom to believe that. There were well-paid incompetents everywhere living rich lives. They arrogated to themselves the plush hotel suites and Lear Jets that America provided for the guileful and lucky far more than it did for the wise. You could fake and bluff and luck your way into all of it. Hotel suites overlooking Caribbean private beaches. Bl*wj*bs from women of stunning beauty. Restaurant meals that it took four tuxedoed waiters to serve, with the sauces just right. The lamb or duck in tureen sliced with precise and elegant thinness, sitting just so on the plate, the plate facing you just so on the heavy white linen, the silver fork heavy gleaming in your manicured hand below the broad cloth cuff and mother of pearl buttons. You could get that from luck and deceit even while causing the business or the army or the government that supported you to do poorly at what it did. The world and all its enterprises could slide downhill through stupidity and bad faith. But the long gray limousines would still hum through the streets of New York, of Paris, of Moscow, of Tokyo. Though the men who sat against the soft leather in back with their glasses of 12-year-old scotch might be incapable of anything more than looking important, of wearing the clothes and the hair cuts and the gestures that the world, whether it liked to or not, paid for, and always had paid for. Eddie would lie in bed sometimes at night and think these things in anger, knowing that beneath the anger envy lay like a swamp. A pool hustler had to do what he claimed to be able to do. The risks he took were not underwritten. His skill on the arena of green cloth, cloth that was itself the color of money, could never be only pretense. Pool players were often cheats and liars, petty men whose lives were filled with pretensions, who ran out on their women and walked away from their debts. But on the table with the lights overhead beneath the cigarette smoke and the silent crowd around them in whatever dive of a billiard parlor at four in the morning, they had to find the wherewithal inside themselves to do more than promise excellence. Under whatever lies might fill the life, the excellence had to be there, it had to be delivered. It could not be faked. But Eddie did not make his living that way anymore.

I wish you’d stop acting as if-as if everything is normal!” “What would you have me do?” he replied, getting up and walking over to the tray of liquor. He poured some Scotch into two glasses and handed one to Jordan. “If you’re waiting for me to rant and weep, you’re wasting your time.” “No, at the moment I’m glad you’re not given to the masculine version of hysterics. I have news, as I said, and though you aren’t going to find it pleasant from a personal viewpoint, it’s the best possible news from the standpoint of your trial next week. Ian,” he said uneasily, “our investigators-yours, I mean-have finally picked up Elizabeth’s trail.” Ian’s voice was cool, his expression unmoved. “Where is she?” “We don’t know yet, but we do know she was seen traveling in company of a man on the Bernam Road two nights after she disappeared. They put up at the inn about fifteen miles north of Lister. They”-he hesitated and expelled his breath in a rush-“they were traveling as man and wife, Ian.” Other than the merest tightening of Ian’s hand upon the glass of Scotch, there was no visible reaction to this staggering news, or to all its heartbreaking and unsavory implications. “There’s more news, and it’s as good-I mean as valuable-to us.” Ian tossed down the contents of his glass and said with icy finality, “I can’t see how any news could be better. She has now proven that I didn’t kill her, and at the same time she’s given me irrefutable grounds for divorce.

What I’m saying is that you’ll find a man who loves you like that—a man who loves and respects you because of your courage, not despite your injury and the physical challenges you face.” She liked what he’d said, sweet words she wished she could believe, but she had to be honest. “I’m not as brave as you think I am. I haven’t been able to pick up a firearm since the day I was shot.” “Anyone who tells you you’re not brave because you won’t pick up a gun hasn’t experienced a fire-fight first hand.” There was understanding in his eyes. She’d needed to hear that so very badly, but his compassion didn’t change the rest of it. “The kind of men I’m attracted to—athletic, outdoorsy guys—want women who can keep up with them. Besides, I’m forty-five.” “You don’t look a day over thirty-eight.” He gave her a devastatingly sexy smile. “And, hey, if an old codger like me can’t play the age card, then neither can you.” She couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s different for men. You know that.” “You’re a beautiful woman.” The way he said it made her breath catch. Warmth rushed into her cheeks. “Is that you talking—or the Côte de Brouilly?” “It takes more than a few glasses of wine to make me say things I don’t mean—scotch if you want poetry.” He moved closer, took their wine glasses, and set them down on the coffee table. “Janet…” His words trailed into silence. Then he leaned in and kissed her. His lips were soft and warm as they brushed lightly over hers, their caress an invitation.

Kenilworth, Mountainside, Scotch Plains, Dunellen... they themselves seemed far from Jersey: names out of Waverley novels, promising vistas of castles, highland waterfalls, and meadows dotted with flocks of grazing sheep. But the signboards lied, the books had lied, the Times had lied; the land here was one vast and charmless suburb, and as the bus passed through it, speeding west across the state, Freirs saw before him only the flat grey monotony of highway, broken from time to time by gas stations, roadhouses, and shopping malls that stretched away like deserts. The bus was warm, and the ride was beginning to give him a headache. He could feel the backs of his thighs sweating through his chinos. Easing himself farther into the seat, he pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The scenery disappointed him, yet it was still an improvement over what they'd just come through. Back there, on the fringes of the city, every work of man seemed to have been given over to the automobile, in an endless line of showrooms and repair shops for mufflers, fenders, carburetors, ignitions, tires, brakes. Now at last he could make out hills in the distance and extended zones of green, though here and there the nearness of some larger town or development meant a length of highway lined by construction, billboards touting banks or amusement parks, and drive-in theaters, themselves immense blank billboards, their signs proclaiming horror movies, "family pictures," soft-core porn. A speedway announced that next Wednesday was ladies' night. Food stands offered pizzaburgers, chicken in the basket, fish 'n' chips.

Speaking of debutantes,” Jake continued cautiously when Ian remained silent, “what about the one upstairs? Do you dislike her especially, or just on general principle?” Ian walked over to the table and poured some Scotch into a glass. He took a swallow, shrugged, and said, “Miss Cameron was more inventive than some of her vapid little friends. She accosted me in a garden at a party.” “I can see how bothersome that musta been,” Jake joked, “having someone like her, with a face that men dream about, tryin’ to seduce you, usin’ feminine wiles on you. Did they work?” Slamming the glass down on the table, Ian said curtly, “They worked.” Coldly dismissing Elizabeth from his mind, he opened the deerskin case on the table, removed some papers he needed to review, and sat down in front of the fire. Trying to suppress his avid curiosity, Jake waited a few minutes before asking, “Then what happened?” Already engrossed in reading the documents in his hand, Ian said absently and without looking up, “I asked her to marry me; she sent me a note inviting me to meet her in the greenhouse; I went there; her brother barged in on us and informed me she was a countess, and that she was already betrothed.” The topic thrust from his mind, Ian reached for the quill lying on the small table beside his chair and made a note in the margin of the contract. “And?” Jake demanded avidly. “And what?” “And then what happened-after the brother barged in?” “He took exception to my having contemplated marrying so far above myself and challenged me to a duel,” Ian replied in a preoccupied voice as he made another note on the contract. “So what’s the girl doin’ here now?” Jake asked, scratching his head in bafflement over the doings of the Quality. “Who the hell knows,” Ian murmured irritably. “Based on her behavior with me, my guess is she finally got caught in some sleezy affair or another, and her reputation’s beyond repair.” “What’s that got to do with you?” Ian expelled his breath in a long, irritated sigh and glanced at Jake with an expression that made it clear he was finished answering questions. “I assume,” he bit out, “that her family, recalling my absurd obsession with her two years ago, hoped I’d come up to scratch again and take her off their hands.” “You think it’s got somethin’ to do with the old duke talking about you bein’ his natural grandson and wantin’ to make you his heir?” He waited expectantly, hoping for more information, but Ian ignored him, reading his documents. Left with no other choice and no prospect for further confidences, Jake picked up a candle, gathered up some blankets, and started for the barn. He paused at the door, struck by a sudden thought. “She said she didn’t send you any note about meetin’ her in the greenhouse.” “She’s a liar and an excellent little actress,” Ian said icily, without taking his gaze from the papers. “Tomorrow I’ll think of some way to get her out of here and off my hands.” Something in Ian’s face made him ask, “Why the hurry? You afraid of fallin’ fer her wiles again?” “Hardly.” “Then you must be made of stone,” he teased. “That woman’s so beautiful she’d tempt any man who was alone with her for an hour-includin’ me, and you know I ain’t in the petticoat line at all.” “Don’t let her catch you alone,” Ian replied mildly. “I don’t think I’d mind.” Jake laughed as he left.

May I ask you a question? If you have to hold your breath too long, what is it that makes you desperate to breathe again?” “I’m running out of oxygen, I guess.” “That’s the interesting fact. It isn’t the absence of oxygen. It’s the presence of carbon dioxide. Kind of the same thing, but not exactly. The point is, you could suck up any kind of gas, and as long as it wasn’t carbon dioxide, your brain would be happy. You could have a chest full of nitrogen, no oxygen at all, about to kill you stone dead, and your lungs would say, hey man, we’re cool, no carbon dioxide here, no need for us to start pumping again until we see some. Which they never will, because you’ll never breathe again. Because you’ll never need to. Because you have no carbon dioxide. And so on. So those folks started sniffing nitrogen, but you have to go to the welding shop and the cylinders are too heavy to lift, so then they tried helium from the balloon store, but you needed masks and tubes, and the whole thing still looks weird, so in the end most folks won’t be satisfied with anything less than the old-fashioned bottle of pills and the glass of scotch. Exactly like it used to be. Except it can’t be anymore. Those pills were most likely either Nembutal or Seconal, and both of those substances are tightly controlled now. There’s no way to get them. Except illegally, of course, way down where no one can see you. There are sources. The holy grail. Most of the offers are scams, naturally. Powdered Nembutal from China, and so on. Dissolve in water or fruit juice. Maybe eight or nine hundred bucks for a lethal dose. Some poor desperate soul takes the cash to MoneyGram and sends it off, and then waits at home, anxious and tormented, and never sees any powdered Nembutal from China, because there never was any. The powder in the on-line photograph was talc, and the prescription bottle was for something else entirely. Which I felt was a new low, in the end. They’re preying on the last hopes of suicidal people.

Okay, try this, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, setting down a shot glass with a clear liquid in it. “What is this?” Faith said. She sniffed it and her nose wrinkled. “Seriously? A Marine has to drink?” “Not has to, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Just interested. And it’s chilled vodka. Try it.” Faith tossed back the drink as the assembled group watched with sneaky smiles. “Okay, that’s not bad,” Faith said, shrugging. “No reaction at all?” Paula said, looking shocked. “No coughing? No choking?” “Was there supposed to be one?” Faith asked. She picked up the bottle, poured another shot and tossed it back. “There, happy?” “Try this one… ” Sophia said, carefully, sliding across a shot of dark liquor. “Ick,” Faith said. “That’s not so good. What was it?” “Twenty-five-year-old Strathsclyde,” Sophia said. “Which is?” Faith asked. “Scotch, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Good scotch.” “Tastes like piss,” Faith said. “Not that I’ve ever drunk piss. Okay, what else you got?” Thirty minutes later there were a dozen bottles on the table and Faith had had at least one shot from each. “Okay, rum’s pretty good,” she said, smacking her lips. “Not as good as Razzleberry tea but not bad.” “She’s not even slightly drunk?” Derek slurred. He was, for sure. “Isn’t it supposed to be doing something by now?” Faith asked, taking another shot of 151. “I mean, I’d just finished seventh grade,” Faith said. “I’ve been to, like, two school dances! I’m never going to get to go to prom… ” She took another drink and frowned. “That sucks. That’s one of the reasons I hate fucking zombies. I’m never going to get to go to prom.” “Marine corps ball, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. He’d stopped drinking when the LT started to get shit-faced. Which had taken enough straight booze to drown a Force Recon platoon. “Way better than prom.” “Really?” Faith said. “Really,” Derek said. “Marine Corps ball is like prom for Marines.” “Christ, it’s coming up, isn’t it?” Januscheitis said. “Time’s sort of gotten to be one of those things you forget.” “We gonna have one?” Derek said. “Bet you,” Januscheitis said. “Gunny will insist. Probably use the Alpha or the Money.” “That’d be cool,” Derek said, grinning. “Use the Alpha. Marine Corps ball on a megayacht captured from zombies? I can dig that. Besides it’s more trashed out. You know how ball gets… ” “Semper fucking Fi,” Faith said. “I get to go to prom.” “We’ll make sure of it, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Great!” Faith slurred. “So why do I gotta puke?

Sniff, swill, sip 329 words Leading whisky expert Charles MacLean on the underrated art of downing a good Scotch. USE ALL YOUR SENSES We all love a splash of golden liquor now and then, but the fine art of appreciating whisky requires a heightening of the senses. 'Nosing' whisky, a technique employed by blenders, is called sensory evaluation or analeptic assessment. Prior to sipping, examine its colour and 'tears', which are the reams left behind on the glass after you swirl it. Even our sense of hearing can help us judge the whisky; a full bottle should open with a happy little pluck of the cap. APPRECIATE A GOOD MALT Appreciation and enjoyment are two dimensions of downing a stiff one. Identify how you like your whisky (with ice, soda or water) and stick with it. Getting sloshed on blended whisky is all very good, but you will need single malt and an understanding of three simple things to truly cherish your drink. A squat glass with a bulb at the bottom releases the full burst of its aroma when swilled. A narrow rim is an added advantage. Instead of topping the drink with ice, which dilutes the aroma, go for water. NIBBLE, DON'T GOBBLE Small bites pair best with your whisky. It excites the palate minimally, letting you detect the characteristics of the whisky through contrast. If you're not a big fan of food and whisky pairing, skip it. OLD IS GOLD While old whiskies are not necessarily better, it's a known fact that most of the finer whiskies are well-aged. I would consider whiskies that are anywhere between 18 and 50 years as old, but it also depends on the age of the cask. If the cask is reactive, it will dominate the flavours of the whisky within ten years of the ageing process. If you leave the spirit in the cask for much longer, the flavour of the whisky will be overpowered by the wood, lending it a distinct edge. Maclean was in Delhi to conduct the Singleton Sensorial experience.

Three mice are sitting in a bar late at night, in a pretty rough neighborhood, trying to impress one another about how tough they are. The first mouse slams back a shot of scotch, pounds the shot glass to the bar, turns to the other mice, and says, “When I see a mousetrap, I get on it, lie on my back, and set it off with my foot. When the bar comes down, I catch it in my teeth and then bench-press it a hundred times.” The second mouse orders up two shots of tequila. He grabs one in each paw, slams back the shots, and pounds the glasses to the bar. He turns to the other mice and says, “Yeah, well when I see rat poison, I collect as much of it as I can and take it home. In the morning, I grind it up into a powder and put it in my coffee so I get a good buzz going for the rest of the day.” At that point the first two mice turn to the third, wondering how he can possibly top this. The third mouse lets out a long sigh and says, “I don’t have time for this bullshit. I gotta go home and fuck the cat.

Nevertheless, we wanted to make Mr. Bud feel that we fully understood the food and drink expectations of America’s decamillionaires. So after we introduced ourselves, one of us asked, “Mr. Bud, may I pour you a glass of 1970 Bordeaux?” Mr. Bud looked at us with a puzzled expression on his face and then said:    I drink scotch and

Nevertheless, we wanted to make Mr. Bud feel that we fully understood the food and drink expectations of America’s decamillionaires. So after we introduced ourselves, one of us asked, “Mr. Bud, may I pour you a glass of 1970 Bordeaux?” Mr. Bud looked at us with a puzzled expression on his face and then said:    I drink scotch and two kinds of beer—free and BUD WEISER! We

He had acted spontaneously. He had asserted his own wishes. He was tempted to celebrate his own boldness with a large glass of Scotch, but as he reached the kitchen he decided that a large glass of sodium bicarbonate would be more prudent.

She walks over to the antique bar cart and pours herself a glass of Scotch from the decanter, like a heroine in a Hitchcock film. Playing the part.

Malcolm pours a scotch, takes a slug, deposits the tumbler on the coffee table. Then he reconsiders, finds a coaster, even though the liquid is room-temperature and the table is glass, and there's no possibility of condensation damage. But Allison is a coaster fanatic, and he doesn't need to go out of his way to drive his wife nuts; she's more than capable of piloting herself to that destination all on her own.

Let other poets raise a fracas Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, An’ crabbit names an’ stories wrack us, An’ grate our lug: I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or jug.” Evans smiled at Stewart in confusion. “Burns on scotch, Mr Evans. A very fine poet and a very fine drink.

Hey, you got the makings of a star, the way you reel that off." Otis dribbled fresh Scotch into his glass. The mostly empty bottle was now on the table. "Now I’m gonna take you further. Paul, you know we got 16 tens and 36 not-tens in the deck of fifty-two. The face cards count as tens." Paul nodded. Nina couldn’t follow, but knew there must be some reason Paul was egging Otis on about the cards. She let her attention direct itself to the way Paul was rubbing his knee. He looked absorbed, and maybe he was. You had to get to know him, to watch the hazel eyes close into slits, to realize how hard he worked to keep powerful impulses under wraps. "It’s a simple point-count method. Like an index to the Thorp ratios. The idea is, the more ten cards are left in the deck, the better your chance of getting an early bust out

Henry, my God," I said at least. My voice was flat and strange even to my own ears. He raised an eyebrow and said nothing, empty glass in hand, face half in shadow. I looked at him. "My God," I said. "What have you done?" He smiled wryly, and leaned forward out of the light to pour himself some more Scotch. "I think you already have a pretty good idea," he said. "Now let me ask you something. Why have you been covering up for us?" "What?" "You knew we were leaving the country. You knew it all the time and you didn't tell a soul. Why is that?" The walls had fallen away and the room was black. Henry's face, lit starkly by the lamp, was pale against the darkness and stray points of light wrinkled from the rim of his spectacles, glowed in the amber depths of his whiskey glass, shone blue in his eyes. "I don't know," I said. He smiles. "No?" he said. I stared at him and didn't say anything. "After all, we hadn't confided in you," he said. His gaze on mine was steady, intense. "You could have stopped us any time you wanted and yet you didn't. Why?" "Henry, what in God's name have you done?" He smiled. "You tell me," he said. And the horrible thing was, somehow, I did know. "You killed somebody," I said, "didn't you?" He looked at me for a moment, and then, to my utter, utter surprise, he leaned back in his chair and laughed.

Fuck the glass. Liam tipped his head back, taking a large gulp of the Scotch that bore his own title. He allowed the liquid fire to slide down his chest and ease the way for the subsequent inhales. At this point, his breath was likely flammable, but he didn’t care. It was drinking or fratricide, and he didn’t want Jani to have to clean blood off the study floor.

Everything all right?” “Dandy,” he said. He lifted his drink. “Swell.” Cameron hadn’t even sipped his drink when Paul walked in. He sat next to Cam and put his elbows on the bar. “What you got there?” he asked Cameron. “Scotch.” “Gimme a Crown. Same recipe,” Paul said to Jack. Jack got down a glass and poured. “I could’ve sworn you had plans for the evening,” he said to Paul. “I thought so,” he said. He lifted his glass and took a drink. “But then Abby came home, having some kind of emotional crisis, and Vanni got all hooked up in that.” Paul glared briefly at Cameron. “Lots of crying. Carrying on.” Cameron turned toward him. “I did not do anything to bring that on,” he said rather harshly. “I was completely courteous. Thoughtful. I was wonderful.” “I know that,” Paul said. “I gather she brought it on herself. She said she lost her temper. Said some rude things. Mean things.” He sipped. “You’re gonna have to let it go, man. Cut her some slack. For being pregnant and out of her mind. You know?” Jack

One day you will want to attract a man,” Emma said, glaring at me pointedly. “Your father and I have to prepare you for that.” “Emma thinks you should have a coming-out party,” he explained, cupping the heavy base of his scotch glass. “You’ve got to be joking. Out where?

You earned him fair and square. He’s not mine to take back.” He rose to get himself a drink. The peaty odour of scotch flickered up and stung my nose. “I’d like one of those.” He looked at me, surprised. “You’ll have to go for water.” I shook my head. “All right,” he said. “I guess you’ve earned that, too.” He handed me the rounded heavy glass, and we sat in silence as the sun retreated. I’d had wine and champagne, but this was different. It made me feel older.

I never thought I’d get married,” I told Boy as he poured for us. Scotch spilled into the squat glasses with reassuring lapping noises. “I should have left well enough alone.” “You don’t need to explain.

I look at the selection behind the glass. There are a few pasties and pastries, things like Scotch eggs and potato salad, as well as sliced meat and wrapped cuts. "Can I have a Scotch egg and..." The man's hand reaches for the Scotch egg at the top of the pile and wraps it in thin plastic, then places it on the counter. "...a cheese and... bacon pastry thing..." I point, and he gets a small paper bag from behind him and uses tongs to pick the pastry up. "And one of those sausages, maybe a couple of those smaller sausages too, some potato salad---and yeah... um... do you have, like, some pig blood?

once. A cheroot. Took it right from Leo’s office.” Honestly, nothing Phaedra did surprised Olivia anymore. “A disgusting habit and one in which a lady should not indulge,” Olivia answered in an imperious tone. The taste of a cheroot was a curiosity though. Gentlemen seemed to enjoy their cheroots quite a bit. “Are you saying Georgina isn’t a lady?” Phaedra gave her an innocent look. “She’s from New York. They do things differently there.” Not that Olivia actually thought New York society was terribly different from London. Only that Georgina liked to make her own rules. “You’ll be pleased to know I didn’t find a cheroot to be as compelling as I’d hoped,” Phaedra informed her, striding along the stone path. “Now, a good glass of brandy. That, I can see the benefit. Makes you cough a bit but leaves a lovely ball of warmth in your stomach.” Olivia didn’t comment. She’d developed a taste for scotch. Accidentally. But that was information she would keep to herself. “Sherry, Phaedra, is what a lady enjoys. Or ratafia.” Olivia stopped abruptly beside

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of Dudley's, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it. "In the car crash when your parents died," she had said. "And don't ask questions." Don't ask questions- that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

Nevertheless, we wanted to make Mr. Bud feel that we fully understood the food and drink expectations of America’s decamillionaires. So after we introduced ourselves, one of us asked, “Mr. Bud, may I pour you a glass of 1970 Bordeaux?” Mr. Bud looked at us with a puzzled expression on his face and then said: I drink scotch and two kinds of beer—free and BUDWEISER!

General George Patton drank a shot of cheap scotch before battle, Kent’s dad always said, and a glass of good scotch after a victory.

Ilifted the glass to my mouth and felt the ice cubes slide all the way down until they touched my lips. Like pieces of winter, they cooled my mouth just before the burn of the scotch hit my throat and seared me from the inside out. I lived for that burn. Jackson was supposed to meet me nearly fifteen minutes ago, but that piece of shit hadn’t shown his face. A hot little number probably got his attention along the way, and like always, he got sidetracked. Couldn’t blame him. The black ring on my right hand felt heavy with commitment. It was the only piece of jewelry I wore other than my watch, and it took some getting used to. To everyone else, it was just a ring. It had no meaning and no voice. But in my world, its significance was quite clear.

I drink only vodka,” Levett said, pouring clear liquid from a crystal decanter. “And only Russian vodka. It is by far the most healthful of liquors. Colorless and pure—do you know what goes into Scotch?” “No,” McGregor said. He was handed a glass of vodka without ice. “Fusel oil, wood extracts, formalin, a little benzene. That is what gives it its color. Bourbon is worse. Rum, though colorless, is wildly impure and exerts a dreadful effect upon the nervous system. It contains paranitrophenol. Quite nasty.

On the table near the big globe were tree-ripened olives, mahallebi, three bowls of nuts, and a comprehensive array of liquids ranging from Wolfe’s best brandy down to beer. Each of the guests had a little table at his elbow. At a quarter to nine, when the last arrival had been ushered in, Bernard Daumery and Ward Roper had nothing on their tables but their napkins, Cynthia had Scotch and water, Demarest a Tom Collins, and Polly Zarella a glass and a bottle of Tokaji Essencia. Bernard had phoned around seven o’clock that we could expect him.

mean no disrespect to any of these people when I say as a simple matter of observable fact that the majority of would-be religious Canadians and Americans are not like them. We are more like the young Muslim student from Morocco described by the anthropologist Clifford Geertz. Both Hands Full He is on an airplane bound for New York, his first trip away from home, where he will study at an American university. Frightened, as well he might be, by the experience of flying (as well as the thought of what awaits him when he lands), he passes the entire trip with the Koran gripped in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other. Like him, most of us have discovered not scotch but the elixir of modernity, which we do not easily let slip from our grasp, even as we hold equally fast to the texts and forms of our premodern youth. As they say, “You can’t go home again.

The toilet, bidet, gold faucets, marble tile, Jacuzzi tub, and glass shower floated around me as I rushed to the toilet, vomiting the acid of scotch and mixed nuts.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of Dudley’s, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose.

you could have cut a cube of her tone and dropped it in a glass of scotch to bring it down to exactly the right temperature. A little below, actually.

...do you want to do the exercises here where you can sit in the kitchen chair, or in the living room so you can slump on the couch after?" "Oh, living room, definitely. Closer to the scotch too," David muttered as he stood and walked in that direction, ignoring the small smile he'd seen on Trace's face. He collapsed on the couch, telling himself to grow up. Being a big baby would annoy Trace, who'd leave, and where would that leave him and his barely healed shoulder? He rubbed at his eyes and told himself he needed to suck it up. "Sling off, please," Trace said as he walked in with the piece of paper the therapist had given David to take home. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he slid on his glasses and started studying the diagrams. "This shouldn't be too bad." "You're not the one with the broken shoulder." Trace didn't respond to the jibe as he sat down next to David. "All right. First exercise. You're going to hold your arm, elbow bent at ninety degrees, and lift it up and out, away from your body." David watched as Trace copied the movement drawn on the sheeet, and he had to stifle a laugh. "What?" Trace glanced up at him. "You look like a chicken," David snickered. "Well, I am the cock of the roost, C'mon, chickadee. Flap that wing," Trace instructed with a wink.

as he poured a stiff Scotch and downed it in one swig. Without pause, he poured another. Gripping the crystal glass, he tried in vain to keep it from clattering

Jonathan still hadn’t found the courage to go home. He finished another Scotch and held his head in his hand, his broad shoulders slouched. He pushed the empty glass away and ran his fingers through his dark hair, sighing deeply.

A gentleman sips his scotch,” Will said, joining Jeremy behind the bar. Jeremy swirled his ice through the ebbing liquid in his glass. “Well, Evans, that’s where you and I differ. I’ve never been accused of being a gentleman.

A Rusty Nail.” He actually sputtered before echoing, “A Rusty Nail?” “Yep.” Setting the glass back down, Cale narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “As in Drambuie and scotch whiskey?” “I take it with bourbon, not whiskey. Never whiskey.” Shaking his head in disbelief, Cale insisted, “You can’t be serious.” Mickey nodded firmly. “I most certainly am.” “Well, I’ll be damned.” He gave a low whistle, grinning crookedly. “You’re not at all what I expected.

Toddy, excellent both as a cure for cold and as an elixir of life, requires careful preparation. The ingredients are sugar, boiling water and preferably a well-matured malt whisky. First, you heat the tumbler with warm water and, when the glass has reached a comfortable temperature, you pour out the water. Then into the empty glass you put two or three squares of loaf-sugar and add enough boiling water - a wine glass should suffice - to dissolve the sugar. Then add a wineglass of whisky and stir with a silver spoon; then another wineglass of boiling water, and finally to crown this liquid edifice top it with another wineglass of whisky. Stir again and drink the contents with slow and loving care. As a cure for cold, take your toddy to bed, put one bowler hat at the foot, and drink until you see two.

How about something to drink. Coffee, tea, soda, water, scotch. Never too early for scotch. Violet, some scotch. Ice. I said ice. No ice, then. Me too. Always neat for me. Look at my view. No, not at the gardener. José! José! Got to pound on the glass to get his attention. He's half deaf. José! Move! You're blocking the view. Good. See the view. I'm talking about the Hollywood sign right there. Never get tired of it. Like the Word of God just dropped down, plunked on the hills, and the Word was Hollywood. Didn't God say let there be light first. What's a movie but light. Can't have a movie without light. And then words. Seeing that sign reminds me to write every morning. What. All right, so it doesn't say Hollywood. You got me. Good eye. Thing's falling to pieces. One O's half fallen and the other O's fallen altogether. The word's gone to shit. So what. You still get the meaning. Thanks, Violet. Cheers. How do they say it in your country. I said how do they say it. Yo, yo, yo, is it. I like that. Easy to remember. Yo, yo, yo, then.

younger than himself. He watched the drug buys going down as dancers swirled into and out of the penumbra of a tall, Latin-looking man with a pencil mustache and yellow-lensed glasses. The man seemed to be under the care of three other men, who examined all comers, searching with their eyes, most likely for weapons that might hurt the dealer. Two more scotches, and Guy himself sauntered up to the dealer. They talked. Four hours later, the three torpedoes and the dealer, Monte, were guests aboard Guy’s sailboat at the yacht club. It was freezing on the boat that night, so they rushed the deal since there was no heat on the boat. Guy and Monte bartered for a good ten minutes before agreeing on twelve thousand per kilo. It was far less than Guy could have gotten if he had more time to look

we also have a few bottles of sixteen-year Lagavulin we keep aside.” “You mean, like, actual scotch from Scotland?” “From the island of Islay, to be precise,” the waiter replied. “It’s twelve hundred a bottle.” “I want that.” “Yes sir, and four glasses.” The waiter tipped his head and headed off to the bar. “We’re going to play blackjack now,” Naomi said, laughing. Amos was pulling a stack of chips out of his tray and pushing them across the table to her. “Want to come?” The band in the next room stopped playing, and the background noise dropped to an almost tolerable level for a few seconds before someone started piping Muzak across the casino PA. “Guys, wait a few minutes,” Holden said. “I’ve bought a bottle of something nice, and I want to have one last toast before we go our separate ways for the night.” Amos looked impatient right up until the bottle arrived, and then spent several seconds cooing over the label. “Yeah, okay, this was worth waiting for.” Holden poured out a shot for each of them, then held his glass up. “To the best ship and crew anyone has ever had the privilege of serving with, and to getting paid.” “To getting paid!” Amos echoed, and then the shots disappeared

Mikolaj moves to the bar beneath the dusty, leaded-glass windows to pour himself a drink of scotch. Without asking, he pours one for me, too. I take it from him. Mikolaj raises the glass and says, “To Enzo.

Rudy entered and almost tripped over something. “Danny, you really ought to stop sweeping things under the rug. What the hell is this anyway?” “Uh,” Danny peered around the corner, “I’m pretty sure that was a toaster.” Rudy was holding up mangled pieces of metal that he fished from beneath the carpet. “It broke,” Danny shrugged. “Drink?” Rudy put the toaster back under the rug. “Please. A single malt, preferably from the Highlands.” “You’ll take a glass of carrot juice and you’ll like it!” Danny poured Rudy and himself a few fingers of something that was either scotch or carrot juice.

Blending smoothly into a throng of foreign dignitaries, businessmen, and socialites, I headed for the bar, ordered a drink, and absorbed the high-octane mixture of new oil money and old European wealth before the bartender pushed a glass of scotch between my fingers.