1) previous 2) start at chapter one
Chapter Two (continued)
I pull the old pink woolen blanket tighter around my shoulders. Don’t think so, I say.
He slows down on the gas, grabs my shoulder and squeezes slowly with his big hand.
Happened before, he says and palms the wheel. Driving along, pick this guy up middle of nowhere, take him to town. He was so cold you nearly see right through him. A man- shaped block of ice. Fed him a few beers at The Hamilton. Booked him a room, said I’d send the doctor to check him out as soon as she’s back. She’s out at some accident a hundred kilometers away. Pulls in, gets my note, heads down to The Hamilton, guy’s gone. Man I booked into the hotel had the same name as the guy she found dead at the scene. Nobody’s seen him since.
Cigarette smoke clouds blue against the vents. The tiki doll’s hips sway to the hiss of the heating.
That happens up here, then, I ask. That’s normal, is it, I say. I hate the cold, I say. The blanket feels good against my neck, my jaw. The rough wool traps my body heat and returns it twice over. I say, Can I have one of those cigarettes?
The old man holds out the pack. The smoke stings my eyes and I, too, squint at the dusty radio. George Jones is singing about being a fool. There’s no profit in the business, apparently.
My name’s Woodlock, I say. I work for The Bloody Eagle Limited. You know, you’ve heard. Make OUR good fortune YOURS.
He frowns and says, The whiskey company?
Research and development.
Mostly vodka, he says. That’s what I like. And cucumber sandwiches. That Russian stuff, Moskovskaya, the green label. You know it?
I guess, I said. Sorry, I don’t really know.
He shakes his head. Still, he says, Wouldn’t think whisky would need to advertise. I never needed anyone to tell me to start drinking. Never found anybody who could tell me to stop, either. He leans forward and stubs out the cigarette in the dimpled aluminum ash tray. His hood is down, his face is large and harsh. Canyons of wrinkles around cool blue eyes, axe blades for cheekbones, a stern mouth and set jaw. A cowboy in a sealskin parka. His hands have to be twice as large as mine. I instantly believe no one would dream of telling this man to stop doing anything he chose to do.
We more or less encourage people to buy from us instead of the other guys, I say.
Good at that, then?
I lean against the bench seat and think back. I’m a chemist, originally. Degree at Leicester and an after degree at Christ's. The last job had been simple. Cracking open Shackleton’s scotch came under my mandate, sure, and preferably employing a syringe or two as I went. Sampling the whiskey to make sure it hadn’t spoiled, and immediately analyzing why it if it hadn’t, that was the heart and lungs of my jurisdiction. And Whyte and Mackay would be able to claim to duplicate, if not the aging process, at least the taste of the scotch itself. But directly uncorking one of the ancient bottles was swimming upstream. And downing two bottles meant one might as well swim out and drown one’s career in the current. And breaking international treaties focused on the preservation of Antarctic history wasn’t a move calculated to amuse my employer or his friends. Pissing off the politically connected head of the Antarctic Heritage Preservation Group – by which I mean that the president of the AHPG’s son signed off on every liquor license in Australia – was not a wise move. But the failure to actually analyze the scotch, well, I had a feeling that not doing that might be the proverbial straw. It very nearly might. But, then again, drowning men will grasp at straws. Might also means might not. I felt the need to explain all this to myself nearly everyday. I don’t like the idea of looking at the mirror. Trying to get somewhere else by focusing on where I’ve already been. But, I mean, am I misunderstanding this or isn’t that what psychology is for? I’m just a chemist. A man has to be everything to himself, Saint Paul notwithstanding, before he can be all things to all men, scapegoat included. I was very slowly learning to blame myself. That is, I think I am very slowly beginning to blame myself.
Screwed up, then? The old man’s tough, he won’t shut up.
More like I probably pushed things too far.
Yeah, he says, the ice only holds so much.
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