“For what?”
“Baby, you gonna make a decision now, or do you need time to think?”
“Arrest records are public,” I pointed out.
“Then, look it up,” he said.
I sighed. “I’d rather hear it from you.”
“I’d rather tell you.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Crew Faulkner.”
“What was your brother’s?” I asked, and I saw sadness in Scooby’s eyes for a brief second.
“Otis.”
“Tell me about him.”
“That might require a drink,” he said.
I nodded, making my way to my liquor stash.
“All I have is Gin. I hope that’s okay,” I called out from the kitchen.
“Gin?” Scooby replied with a chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, returning with two glasses.
“I just wouldn’t have figured you for a gin drinker. That’s all.”
“And why is that?” I challenged.
“Well, because you’re not an eighty-year-old man, or a hipster living in Brooklyn. Besides, I’ve barely seen you tilt a glass of anything since I’ve been around you, let alone gin.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m quite the gin connoisseur,” I said, putting on my best poker face as I poured.
“Really?” Scooby asked, clearly not buying my act. “Please educate me. What are we drinking tonight?”
“I’m glad you asked,” I said, stalling as I quickly scanned the label. “For this evening’s selection, we have a fine bottle of Cow Run gin,” I said. “It’s from the…uh, the Scottish Highlands.”
“I see,” Scooby said, nodding before knocking back the contents of the glass in a single shot. “Jesus,” he rasped. “This is fucking rocket fuel.”
“I suppose you simply don’t have the sophisticated palate needed to enjoy fine gin,” I replied before taking a larger than normal sip from my glass.
Scooby was right of course. I wasn’t much of a drinker, and almost never drank hard alcohol and this was most certainlyhardalcohol. I choked and coughed so hard, I half expected flames to shoot from my mouth like a dragon.
“You okay?” Scooby asked.
I nodded and waved.
“Hold on,” he said, going to the kitchen and returning with a glass of water. “Here you go.”
I managed to get down a couple of gulps of water as Scooby read the label on the gin bottle.
“Holy shit. No wonder this stuff feels like drinking nitroglycerine. It’s one-hundred and eight proof.”