“It doesn’t really matter,” Mason says. “I’d rather just not go home right now.”
Yeah. I can understand that.
* * *
We’ve been sitting in this dive for about three hours now and, apart from catching and maintaining a decent buzz, we’ve accomplished nothing else.
It feels pretty good.
The problem is that I need to call my mom, but I don’t know what to tell Mason when I get off the phone. There’s always the chance it’s something else, maybe dad’s finally topped $100,000,000. That has been his white whale ever since he found he and mom could make all sorts of money if they were ethically flexible.
Still, Mason just got done telling his brother to take responsibility for his own crimes. If I tell him this same day that my parents are in trouble, but not to worry because they already own the judge and the prosecutor… I don’t think Mason would blame me, but I don’t think it would do any favors for our relationship.
Finally, I have an idea.
“I want you to get prepared for something,” I tell him.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Earlier you asked me about Neptune, and I gave you a positive review of their Irish car bombs,” I start.
“Yeah,” he answers.
He’s swaying a little. Maybe he’s already drunk enough that I don’t have to do this.
“Have you ever had one?” I ask.
Better to be on the safe side.
“No,” he says. “I can’t drink that often, doing what I do. Getting sloshed isn’t exactly the path toward staying cut.”
“I think you should try one at Neptune,” I tell him. “It’s one of those things like a beer bong that everyone’s got to try at least once.”
“Oh, I plan on getting blotto tonight,” he says.
“I’ll have to ask you what that means later,” I tell him as I start growing impatient. “I think it might be a good idea to do a test run with you and that particular drink before we get to the club.”
“Is it one of those things that involves like twenty steps and doesn’t end up being any different than just pouring two drinks together?” he asks.
That’s almost exactly what an Irish car bomb is, but I don’t think that’s going to help me sell this.
“It has a few steps,” I tell him, “but the process is actually pretty necessary for what you’re getting. Are you up for giving it the old college try?”
“You talk funny,” he says with a sloppy laugh. “Yeah, I’ll give it a try.”
He really doesn’t hold his liquor as well as I’d expected, but if there’s any chance I’m going to end up telling him the family secret, I don’t want him buzzed. I want him drunk.
I motion for the bartender and, when she’s arrived, I place the order. Every time I’ve ever gotten one of these, even when I’m just ordering for someone else, I always expect the bartender and everyone in the immediate proximity to stop and marvel at my bravery.
It’s not the harshest drink you can order in a bar, and it’s not the one with the highest alcohol content, but this is by no means a casual drink. Still, it seems I’m going to just go on waiting for the reverence and high regard I still think should accompany an order like this.
“’kay,” the bartender says and sets about the preparations.
While we’re waiting, I glance around the bar. It won’t be a whole lot longer before Neptune’s open and we can start throwing our money away there instead of here, but even as we cruise through prime drinking time, the bar sits mostly empty.
There are a couple of older guys playing pool and a few people scattered around in booths, but Mason and I are the only ones sitting at the bar itself.
“Here you go,” the bartender says, setting the shot glass and the beer glass in front of me.
I slide both in front of Mason and give him the simple instructions. “What you want to do is drop the shot into the beer and then chug until it’s all gone,” I tell him.
“Why not just take the shot and drink the beer afterward?” he asks.
“It gives it a better flavor,” I answer, though I’m not sure that’s necessarily accurate.
“What’s goes into all of this?” he asks.
I sigh, getting impatient at him for not just letting me get him drunker so I can sneak out, call my mom and then come back in here to break whatever humiliating news she has to share.
“In the shot glass is mostly Irish whiskey,” I tell him, “but Irish cream is mixed in for flavor. The beer is Irish beer. Which one changes depending on what you ask for and what a particular place has, but they call it an Irish car bomb because—”
“All the stuff in it’s Irish,” Mason says, finishing the thought. “Okay,” he says. “I just drop the shot in the beer and drink it all?”
“Yep,” I tell him. “You’ll want to do it fast, though. You don’t want that cream mixing with the beer too much before you drink it or it’s not going to be the most pleasant experience in the world for you.”
It sounds believable. It may even be true.
“Okay,” he says. “Here goes.”
He gingerly places the shot glass above his beer and takes a few long, deep breaths before dropping it in. The shot hasn’t even hit the bottom of the beer glass before he’s drinking the mix down.
Mason takes a breath about halfway through, but he manages to finish it all in a respectable amount of time.
He sets the empty glass down on the bar a little too hard, causing the shot glass inside to clink loudly, attracting the attention of the bartender. Mason wipes his mouth, saying, “Wow.”
“Right?” I respond. “How’d you like it?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s a bit hardcore for me, I think, but I’m glad I tried it at least.”
“Great,” I tell him, “order up another one. I’ve got to pop over to the ladies’ room.” Almost as an afterthought, I add, “I should probably see what my mom wanted, too.”
He apparently doesn’t think this is nearly as big a deal as I know it is, so he just says, “Okay,” and leaves it at that. As I’m walking away, I’m a little relieved when I hear him ordering another drink.
The ladies’ room thing was a total front, so while Mason’s back is turned, I slip out the front door of the bar and make sure I’m a decent ways down the block before I pull out my phone. I enter my mom’s number and make the call.
“There are some things we need to discuss,” mom answers.
“Hi, mom, haven’t talked to you in a while,” I scoff. “Things are all right, thanks for asking.”
“I’m sure you’re attempting to make some sort of point, but we don’t have time for that now,” she says.
“What did you do?” I ask.
She gasps like all upper-class criminals gasp when they’re accused of something they’re guilty of doing. “I am shocked that after not speaking with one another over such an expanse of time, you would just assume that—” she starts.
I interrupt. “Could you skip ahead to the part where you tell me what you and dad are in trouble for this time?” I ask. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”