The Color of Whiskey

The Color of Whiskey

A Novel by Johnnie Mcdonald

Frankie and Johnnie Publications

2 Gove Isle Drive, #1403

Coconut Grove, Florida 33133

Copyright © 2016

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Other Publications by Johnnie Mcdonald

Disclaimer

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Other Publications by Johnnie Mcdonald

Novels

The Deweyville Church Secretary Humorous trilogy written with Frankie Carroll

Devil’s Basement

Loose LIPS

Boilerman

The Property, Romantic Suspense

Final Test, Romantic Suspense, Adventure

Texans First, The New Republic, Romantic Suspense (extended version of The Color of Whiskey)

Biography

Something Special by Frank and Peg Brady

Disclaimer

Although the author has utilized stores, characters, and events from history as inspiration, The Color of Whiskey is a work of fiction. References to real people, incidents, dates, or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity, not to represent historical fact.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Dedication

I was working at the local hospital in Cleveland, Texas in the late ‘90’s when a trail ride paraded through town. I have never forgotten the thrill of the colorful event, or my time spent in Texas with its vast spaces and variety of geography from forests to bayous, from deserts to lakes, and from hill countries to the gulf waters. When Texas claims it’s like a whole other country, they have the right to brag about the beauty of their state.

The Color of Whiskey is dedicated to the indomitable spirit of Texans. Whether reenacting age old trail rides, or celebrating its pioneer past with Go Texan Day, the pride and the fortitude demonstrated by the residents of Texas are what makes America great.

Chapter One

A sticky, red substance clung to Pinkie Laroux’s chubby hands. Using three paper napkins and two moistened towelettes, he cleaned beneath each nail of his manicured hands, taking excessive pains to polish the diamond studded rings he sported on both pinkie finger. He removed another napkin from the collar of his hand-tailored shirt and used it to dab at the sauce clinging to his cropped, red beard. A gaseous burp threatened to erupt, and he squelched it with a fist as his eyes darted around the crowded joint looking for patrons of importance. Although sated, his pug nose wrinkled as he sniffed the smoky aromas of the hickory used to enhance the charred meat permeating all surfaces within the confines of Bo’s Bar-B-Q Shack.

The drawl of Texan English bantered back and forth made Bo’s a noisy little place, more a family picnic than a restaurant. Pinkie’s luncheon companion waited patiently to regain his boss’s attention before continuing in a hushed voice, Gil says the auditing firm is sending someone from Boston tomorrow. He says to tell you not to worry. Everything is neat and tidy.

"C’est sa couillion, Lyle. Worry is my middle name. I didn’t get to be Road King of east Texas without worryin’. And I don’t run millions of dollars through Gilbert Hardin’s goddamned bank without a heap of anxiety. Pinkie pointed a pudgy index finger at his personal accountant and confidante. I want you to stay on top of this audit like a tick on a hound dog. You hear me? As the biggest depositor, the auditors will look at my accounts, and I want to know to the very second when that occurs, what they’re lookin’ at and, more important, what they’re sayin’." The normal ruddiness of Pinkie’s complexion turned a shade deeper with his admonition.

Lyle Robinson straightened himself in the vinyl booth, shoved away the bone-laden dirty dishes, and replied through tightened lips. Yes, sir. Don’t wor…uh, I mean, I’ll definitely stay on top of it. The skinny, balding accountant recognized the gravity of his boss’s warning.

A man Pinkie recognized sauntered by the booth. Howdy, Bud, what brings you over to Cleveland? With some difficulty, Pinkie raised his ample body out of the booth to shake hands with the newly arrived customer.

The man pumped Pinkies’ proffered hand. Howdy, Pinkie. Oh, I can’t go more than a coupla weeks without some of Bo’s award winning ribs with the secret recipe sauce. I swear I could smell the hickory all the way to Wildwood. How’s the Road King doing these days?

Can’t complain, Bud. Life’s been good to me. Pinkie plopped down in the booth while continuing to stare up at Bud Daniels.

Bud grinned as he steel blue eyes returned the scrutiny from beneath the shadows of his straw hat. I would say that’s an understatement, Pinkie.

Pinkie chuckled. "Hey, you comin’ out to the house Saturday for my campaign rally? I could sure use your good name representing the community. There’s gonna be a fais dodo, plenty of grub, and a Zydeco band."

I appreciate the invitation and I’d like to come, but I’m getting ready for my next trail ride. Bud turned his attention to Pinkie’s employee. Say there, Lyle, you still interested in going on a ride?

I’d like to do it, Bud. First, I have to get permission from Mr. Laroux here and my other boss. That would be Mrs. Robinson. Lyle snickered, proud of his rare attempt at levity.

Just let me know when. Well, gentleman, I think there are some beans and potato salad over there with my name on ‘em. Good day. He touched the brim of his hat and ambled to the order line to make his selections.

Pinkie watched Bud’s departure and, almost as if thinking out loud, commented, There goes a fine example of Texas manhood. Too bad he doesn’t have a little more starch in his britches like his ole daddy. Come on, Lyle, pay the check and let’s get back to the office. I got roads to build.

Hey, Bo, them ribs was mighty fine today. While picking his teeth with a toothpick, Pinkie leaned over the counter and complimented the good-looking Black man tending to the mass of glossy ribs smoking on the open pit.

Thank you, Mr. Laroux. How about the tangy coleslaw? It was a recipe I borrowed from my Aunt Cordelia? Bo Slater wiped his brawny hands on a sauce stained apron and waived a giant turning fork at one of his best customers.

Best I ever ate. With Lyle in tow, Pinkie gave the owner and chief cook a nod as he pushed past a small crowd and headed out the front door. When the two were seated in Pinkie’s Cadillac Escapade, Pinkie moaned, "Merde, I smell like hickory smoke. Rhonda’s gonna bust my balls for goin’ off my diet again."

* * *

Liquid sloshed over the sides of Rhonda’s tumbler as she wound her way through the crowd toward her husband Saturday afternoon. I swear, Pinkie, you been actin’ like a one armed paper hanger, glad handin’ and gushin’ over every man here. You’d think you was runnin’ for president or somethin’. Lord, Lord, what’s that woman gone and done with this here drink? This scotch is as watered down as my petunias. The college degree in Communications bestowed upon Rhonda Lou Babcock Laroux erroneously suggested she had learned the King’s English. What she had mastered was how to utilize her natural beauty and southern charm to bag a rich husband. Once the objective was achieved, her grammar somehow slipped, especially when she indulged in her favorite pastime of sipping scotch whiskey with a stingy drop of water.

Pinkie pinched her elbow as he led her to the rose bushes and away from the guests. The deceitful smile on his face was designed to disguise his chiding words. Rhonnie, sugee bee, get yourself together, gal. This ain’t no time to be swillin’ that stuff. I done told you, I’m runnin’ for the U.S. senate and this here is a genuine political rally. You need to have your wits about you and impress these people. Now, you look gorgeous today in that pretty new green dress, and I want everybody to think you’re the perfect hostess and we’re the perfect couple. Give me that drink and go mingle. Worried about causing his puerile wife to commence one of her crying jags and create a scene, Pinkie was gentle in his reproach. He patted Rhonda’s behind while he directed her back into the crowd.

Rhonda did not give Pinkie her drink. She did adjust the shoulder straps of her low-cut green sundress and smoothed its gauzy fabric over her shapely hips. Deliberately overdressed for any occasion and always wearing a shade of green to highlight her Rita Hayworth red hair and fair complexion, she knew she was a beautiful woman with limited talents. Her lot in life was to hang on the arm of a successful man and play the part of Miss Congeniality.

Okay, sugah, I’ll play nice-nice. She tilted her summer straw hat and batted her eyelashes at her husband of ten years, then puckered and blew her sugar daddy a kiss.

Chapter Two

This is Lisa Dent of station KIKK reporting live from the NRG Stadium where preparations are under way for the annual Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. In just a few weeks, elaborate rigs will begin rolling in filled with expensive show horses, prize hogs and cows, pet sheep, and perhaps a llama or two. Farm kids from all over Texas will be pampering and grooming carefully bred and raised entries in hopes of winning the prized blue ribbon. Yes, folks, it’s rodeo time and it’s also country and western music time. The entertainment lineup this year is amazing including top stars Miranda Lambert, bad boy Eric Church, Brad Paisley, Blake Shelton, even John Legend, and many more. Stay tuned to 95.7 where we play continuous country and where you can win free tickets to this fun-filled event which starts March third....

Martie reached for the dial to switch the station to a classical selection rather than the country she was unaccustomed to listening to in her native Boston. No, I better leave it on this station. If I’m going to make intelligent conversation with the locals, guess I should know what’s going on. She removed her hand from the dial and decided to enjoy the twangy music and livestock commercials. Oh, hey, that’s Carrie Underwood. I’ve heard of her.

Although using the GPS on her cell phone, directions to Cleveland were mapped out and taped to the dashboard of the thrifty, compact rental car she picked up outside the Houston International Airport. Yes, this is right…U.S. Highway 59 north…just passed Humble and coming upon Kingwood, The Livable Forest. Should have about twenty-five or thirty miles left to Cleveland.

The moderately heavy, midday traffic didn’t bother her. Martie was used to doing battle with crazy Boston drivers in her speedy, black Porsche 911, but the huge trailer trucks dominating the traffic were intimidating, and she made a concerted effort to maintain distance. When she wasn’t dodging the semis, she noticed flat terrain. Despite Kingwood’s Livable Forest sign, her highway vantage point was inadequate opportunity to glimpse what lay behind the thick woodlands. The sky was definitely noticeable: big, open and clear blue. No unsightly office buildings or high rise apartments crowded the view.

Martie located The Holiday Inn of Cleveland easily and slid her credit card in front of the young and chatty desk clerk who gave his best rendition of concierge by welcoming Martie to Cleveland, edge of the Piney Woods, predicting the weather, and bragging on the local football standings. When Martie solicited his advice for a nearby bistro or quaint café, he cocked his head then, in a slow drawl complete with elongated syllables, complimented her accent before informing her, Your best bet for a good supper is a place located just a couple blocks from the motel. Tell Estelle Donnie sent ya.

After unpacking a suitcase and a wardrobe carrier consisting of professional clothes, leisure clothes, and exercise clothes, Martie chided herself for bringing too much for a two-week stint. She donned a pair of designer jeans and a crisp white shirt and walked the short distance to the restaurant. Two blocks off Main Street, Estelle’s Italian Restaurant was located in a frame house circa 1930’s.

Martie studied the menu listings of what appeared to be the quintessential American interpretation of Italian food and opted for the standby of spaghetti and meatballs. The server scribbled on her tiny tablet and started to hobble away when Martie summoned her. Excuse me, oh there, server. When the woman shuffled back to the table, Martie requested a glass of red wine.

Over her the rim of her glasses and with scrunched brows, the waitress studied the stranger before responding, Oh, honey, I ain’t no server. I’m just Trixie, a plain ole waitress and have been for forty years. I serve whatever’s on the menu and there ain’t no spirits on it. This here’s a dry county and ya’ll have to go over to Polk County to the Joy Juice to get yourself somethin’ with a kick in it. How ‘bout I fetch ya a glass of ice tea? Sweetened or no? Trixie limped away and returned shortly with a basket loaded with gooey cheese bread and a giant sized glass of non-sweetened tea requiring two hands to lift.

To Martie’s enjoyment, the pasta and sauce were delicious and definitely crafted by Estelle’s own hands. She mentally calculated her caloric intake however, and ate less than half the mound on her plate.

Ya ain’t touched your noodles much. Ya don’t care for it? Trixie asked when she checked on Martie’s progress.

Oh, yes, Trixie, I like it very much. Have to watch my carbs, you know, Martie replied with a polite smile.

Deep wrinkles formed between Trixie’s eyes. Umph. Estelle don’t put nothin’ but natural ingredients in them noodles. Well, here’s your check, honey. Pay at the register when you’re done. Ya’ll come back now. Trixie licked her pencil before scribbling on the check, placed the check upside down on the table, and returned her pencil to its position in her dyed black hair.

By her earlier remarks to the desk clerk and now to the ancient waitress, Martie realized she had announced herself as a newcomer to the town of eight thousand population and declining. She placed a generous tip on the red checked table cloth and walked to the register to pay her bill to a woman in a stained apron whom she assumed was the famous Estelle. She offered commendations on the meal and relayed Donnie’s directive. Estelle told her to, Tell my son hey and thanks. Ya’ll come back now. As Martie was exiting, she observed Trixie counting her tip and heard her whistle through hollowed cheeks, Bless your heart, lil’ lady, I sure hope ya’ll come back.

On her way back to the motel, Martie observed empty streets and locked businesses. She laughed to herself as she remembered an old colloquialism. I guess this is one of those one horse towns where they roll up the sidewalks at night.

With the absence of a music alternative in the motel room and the lack of ambition for starting the latest John Grisham novel she brought along, Martie resorted to switching on the TV. To her chagrin, she discovered there was no PBS, no National Geographic, no history channel. After listening to the local news and hearing more about the upcoming rodeo, she turned off the TV and plugged in her laptop to check her stock quotes and e-mail. The market was down and the only e-mail was from her secretary asking if she had arrived in Cleveland safely and found the accommodations acceptable. She wasn’t about to have a grievance filter through to Malcolm, so she responded her accommodations were excellent and she was anxious to get started bright and early the next morning.

I can’t get a glass of wine; can’t get an educational television station; can’t call Randall or Malcolm to complain. What possessed me to come down here, anyway? Oh, yeah, it was my idea: peace and quiet—a break from the rat race. I’m certainly getting what I asked for.

Martie reminisced about how this idea of hers had germinated a few months earlier. Randall was excited about going to Paris on a business trip in the summer and invited her to come along. Following Paris, he planned for them to hop over to Geneva or London on the way home. She threw out an alternative suggestion. Randall, suppose we might skip the big city tours in favor of a French country inn or a villa in the Tuscan hills. We could rent a car, drive to quaint, out-of-the-way villages, drop into home-grown restaurants, wing the trip.

Randall’s retort was unfavorable. My God, Martie, it’s Europe. What are you thinking? You seemed to have enjoyed our previous trips. I’m certain it’s because I planned them meticulously.

I know, Randall, but I’m weary of these overly planned trips. I’ve been to Europe numerous times with you or on my own business engagements. We get off the plane, arrive at a luxury hotel via chauffeured limousine, eat at Michelin rated restaurants, attend plays and museums and dinner parties. We’re wined and dined by arrogant people who could care less about us. A written agenda dictates our every waking hour. I’d like to throw on a pair of blue jeans and relax, meet the locals, and enjoy a pastoral journey.

Oh, here we go again, M-a-r-c-i-a. Irritated by Martie’s complaints, Randall Caruthers rolled his eyes and used her given name for emphasis. I’ve never heard anyone who shows such disdain for the finer things in life. This continuous lament of yours about the hustle and bustle of the big city is trite. We live in a big city, we work in a big city, our work takes us to big cities. I happen to love every invigorating moment of it.

Don’t you ever get tired of it, though? Don’t you ever have a desire for a moment of peace without a car honking? Do you dream about wide-open spaces without a million people crushing you on the sidewalk or in the elevator? Martie paced the room and looked out the window of her posh apartment in Boston’s historic Beacon Hill district. The old but upscale neighborhood close to downtown was full of charming, ivy-covered brownstones tucked beside narrow, cobblestone streets brimming with congestion and traffic. At ten thirty, the street noise could be heard through the closed French doors.

Obviously not as much as you do. Martie, let’s not get into this conversation tonight. I’ve got an ugly headache. Listen, I have a first rate idea, though. Would it make you feel better if we got away this weekend? I’ll call my brother in Wellesley and ask if the cottage is available. You’ll get your fresh air and quiet, and I’ll have an opportunity to visit a bit with Lawrence. He’s been after me to spend time with the family.

Martie stopped her pacing and gave Randall an appreciative hug and kiss. That would be positively divine and it would allow me a breather before I start on the Swanson project.

Great. I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow. I really do have a headache, sweetheart. Do you mind if I cut our evening short?

Randall had invited a client to their standing Thursday night dinner date and was now cutting the evening short. Martie would be sleeping alone again. When he placed a perfunctory goodnight kiss on her forehead, she stifled the disappointment. She wanted to entice him to stay by suggesting she could fix his headache with some much-needed sex, but it wouldn’t change the mind of her obsessive-compulsive boyfriend of three years. Everything had to be planned and plotted. Thursday was dinner at the elegant L’Espalier in Boston’s Back Bay where Randall impressed his clients. Friday was the opera or a play followed by a late dinner at Café Louis, a small but popular jewel box where Randall knew the chef from Chicago’s Spiaggia; and on Saturday night they usually dined at Olives which gave Randall an opportunity to hob knob with Boston’s other celebrities. Even their inexpensive Sunday brunch at the Marche Movenpick deli was turned into an eventful outing shared with a few hundred other people. Brunch was followed by the preplanned sex. Of course, the sex would be arranged before or after gallery openings or a special museum outing. Once a month, they visited his mother on Cape Cod and took tea in the solarium of her thirty room mansion near Long Pond. Randall rarely slept over, saying he preferred waking up to his own space surrounded by his own things. Other than a toothbrush and his personal choice of dental floss, he hesitated bringing any personal belongings to Martie’s apartment and he skirted all topics regarding living arrangements.

Randall Caruthers was listed on Boston’s most eligible bachelors’ list when Martie first gained his attention at a children’s hospital fund raising gala three years previously. His conservative good looks, urbane style, bespoke wardrobe, and above average intellect were a few of the attributes which endeared him to women. Add the Bostonian pedigrees of traceable ancestry, old and obscene wealth, Harvard education, and financial acumen to the newly earned money he made working as a tax attorney for one of Boston’s most prestigious law firms, and he was a hot commodity. The overall packaging of Randall Caruthers attracted everyone: females, males, reporters, other elite, politicians, but not Martie. It was the man she believed existed behind the façade that gained her attention Martie was not among the dozen women who flocked around him at the gala, but a photographer managed a photo op of them being introduced, and the picture made it into the local society magazine with a caption identifying them as the most gorgeous couple at the ball. Following the gala publicity, Randall called Martie, and their relationship began.

Indeed, Martie Malone is arresting. At five foot nine she stands above the female crowd, bearing her height in a confident and regal manner. Her fawn colored hair is long and full, and she wears it in a chignon while working. Bright green eyes, fair skin, and lovely features are not in themselves remarkable, but the entire package embodies the definition of aristocratic beauty. Although Martie’s spoon is only silver-plated compared to the Randall’s pure silver, providing her with a stint to Vassar and later to Duke for an MBA caused no hardship to the Malone family.

If there were a real-life Ken and Barbie, Martie Malone and Randall Caruthers were they. He draped her on his arm and escorted her everywhere to see and be seen. Martie is as successful in her career as is Randall. As the youngest junior partner in the auditing and financial consulting firm of Stokes Brand & Stokes, her job involves her with profitable companies in Boston and throughout the world. Making a presentation to a group of Japanese businessmen or to a small, local factory is second nature, and she can hold her own in any executive boardroom or at any high-society soirée.

Martie had her own list of suitors, most with pedigrees to rival those of Randall’s. She wasn’t attracted so much to his aforementioned qualifications as she was to the man she thought he was—a deep thinking, private individual who was concerned with the public welfare—a man of substance. It wasn’t until the last year of their relationship that she began to doubt her initial impressions. As workaholics, they each put in sixty-five hour weeks and, when they weren’t on the job, they were playing hard to enhance their careers and strengthen their standing in the community. There didn’t seem to be any time or energy left to work at the personal relationship. The intimacy Martie longed for had never developed, and she was now hungry for some semblance of dependency or commitment. She intended to breach the subject on the weekend trip to Wellesley.

A perfect fall day in Massachusetts always includes a leisurely drive in the country with a picturesque view of falling leaves accompanied by a crisp but sunny chill in the air. The drive to Lawrence Caruthers’ country estate had achieved the perfection rating. Randall allowed himself to relax and forego any shoptalk on the trip. Martie leaned back in the seat of his Mercedes and gazed at the falling leaves and the azure sky through the sunroof. The couple was met by the Caruthers family: a look alike Randall, an impeccably dressed and consummate hostess of a Junior League suburban wife, two well behaved children, and two equally well behaved Irish Setters. The Lawrence Caruthers family was slightly snobbish and bordered on boring, but Martie admired them for their devotion to family. She looked forward to hearing the kids talk about their soccer games and dance classes and she loved sitting by the fireplace in the evening cuddled up with the dogs. Randall, on the other hand, avoided the dogs because of his allergies and seemed to have an unidentified allergic reaction to the children.

On Saturday afternoon, following a