He closes his eyes and imagines it again: slyly dropping the pills into Albert’s drink. Two sips, and Albert’s speech will slur. Three, confusion and drowsiness will set in. By the fourth he’ll be unconscious, at which point Sam will strangle him and then, for good measure, stab him with the putty knife tucked under his thigh. His beloved four-inch putty knife, which he’s kept hidden under the mattress, carefully smoothing away every remnant of wallpaper paste, polishing it until it glows. He envisions it piercing the soft spot on Albert’s temple, again and again, watching that sad, deranged brain unspool all over whatever dumb college sweatshirt Albert will be wearing tonight.
Sam closes his eyes and sighs. Freud was right. Aggression really is as satisfying as sex.
The clock strikes six, and Sam hears the key in the lock.
“Hey there, heartbreaker,” Albert says, sticking his head into the room. “You ready?”
Sam smiles. “Sure am.”
Albert steps inside, leaves the door open, and parks the cart near the wall. It’s set with two glasses and something hidden under a yellow dish towel. “I have a surprise for you,” Albert says, excited. He pulls the towel off the bottle with a flourish.
“Johnnie Walker Blue.” Sam is stunned. “How did you know—”
“That this is your go-to drink on special occasions? You said so, in the interview with the newspaper. Question number twelve.”
“Didn’t know you saw that,” Sam says, surprised.
“My mother instilled me with an appreciation for local journalism,” he says, turning his back to Sam. “I read the paper religiously and remember you mentioned this drink.”
“Lucky for me,” Sam says. And he means it, too. Not only is it the world’s finest scotch, it’s also going to deal quite a blow when mixed with a gazillion milligrams of whatever the hell these pills are.
“You sure do have expensive taste,” Albert says.
Sam nods and keeps his eyes on the bottle in Albert’s hand.
“May I do the honors?” Sam asks. “Nothing like the first whiff of Johnnie Walker Blue.”
Albert hands Sam the bottle, and he pauses to stroke the smooth glass, appreciating its weight. “This was my mom’s drink,” Sam says, turning the cap and leaning in for the scent. “Kept a bottle in the cabinet. After my dad left, she poured herself a glass every year on her wedding anniversary.”
“That’s sad.”
“Sure is.” Sam takes the glass tumbler Albert hands him. “Most bartenders believe a pour is one and a half ounces,” he says, watching the whisky stream slowly into the glass. “But I find that amount is inadequate, especially for a first drink.”
“Not too much,” Albert says, holding up his hands. “I’ve never had scotch before.”
Sam pours a drink for himself and then sets the bottle on the bedside table as Albert sits in Sam’s chair. “To a return to happy hour,” Sam says, raising his glass.
“That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Albert says, red-faced. “To happy hour.”
Sam raises his glass to his lips and then lowers it quickly. “Wait. Stop. This isn’t right.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The ice cube.”
“What ice cube?”
“For the drinks. It’s key,” Sam says. “A slight chill enhances the flavor.”
“You know so much about everything,” Albert says. “Hang on.” He sets his glass on the bedside table and walks out of the room.
Game time.
Sam pulls out the square of paper towel holding the pills and gently unfolds it. Beads of sweat sprout on his forehead as he crushes two pills over Albert’s glass.
“How many?” Albert calls from the kitchen.
“One ice cube for each of us,” Sam says, watching the powder dissolve in the copper liquid, leaving a chalky film that rises to the top of the glass. “Medium ones.” Sam drops the last four pills in and swirls the glass, his hand trembling so badly he fears he’s going to drop it. He replaces the glass on the table and picks up his own just as Albert walks into the room, an ice cube in each palm.
“Perfect,” Sam says, the sweat pooling on his lower back, as Albert drips a cube into his glass. “Thank you.”
Albert sits down. “One more time,” he says. “Cheers.”
Sam watches as Albert takes the tiniest sip. “Good lord. It tastes like lighter fluid.”
“Whisky is an acquired taste,” Sam says. “But trust me, it’s worth it.” He lifts his glass, allowing himself one swallow. The whisky warms him immediately, and he has to hold himself back from drinking it all in one satisfying gulp. There will be plenty of time to sip whisky at home, with Annie, and he needs a clear head.