The Glass Inferno by Thomas N. Scortia & Frank M. Robinson

Author:Thomas N. Scortia & Frank M. Robinson [Scortia, Thomas N. & Robinson, Frank M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-06-14T04:00:00+00:00

32

The great thing about coming up to Consolidated Distributors, Krost thought, was that you could really pick and choose. And the very least any good drinker should be allowed was a choice.

He leaned back in his chair and, bleary-eyed, inspected the ten bottles he had lined up before him on the desk. He had intended only to steal a cheap bottle of brandy; it would never be missed. He doubted that they kept any kind of inventory check on their office samples. But a whole new shipment of liquor had come in, including a number of brands Krost had never heard of before. Naturally, the situation needed investigating.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it but it wasn’t much use. He was drunk, he thought. Too drunk. Daisy wouldn’t let him in the front door and Donaldson would fire him. For a moment he felt tearful and maudlin: it was a cruel world for Michael Krost.

The moment passed and he glanced down the row of bottles again with a feeling of anticipation. He was very pleased with himself. He reached for the water tumbler, wondering which it should be now . . . The Irish whiskey, an off brand with an intriguing amber color, a Kentucky bourbon in a holiday decanter shaped like a log cabin, or an eight-year-old imported scotch that he bet would cost a fortune in a liquor store. Well, why not the Irish? He sloshed some into his glass, then realized with dismay that he had been trying it all evening, and now the bottle was empty. No matter; he could hardly put empties back in the display cabinet. Here’s to me, Mr. Krost, he hummed, then downed the inch or so of whiskey in a few quick gulps. If only old pink-scalp Donaldson was there to see him now . . .

He had his face in his hands. Conjuring up an image of Donaldson stumbling on him right now really took the edge off the evening. He should be getting back to work; he didn’t like the thought but Donaldson might very well be looking for him. He glanced at his watch and whistled soundlessly to himself. Donaldson probably was looking for him. Well, if he called, Krost could always think of some excuse. But then there was the possibility they might meet face to face.

He abruptly felt like crying. Meeting Donaldson face to face wouldn’t be fair, the damned Scotsman would know what he had been doing. It wouldn’t matter what he said . . . His mood changed again. Thinking of Scotsmen, he hadn’t tapped the bottle of scotch yet, had he? Well, he had, but only a little. It deserved at least equal time with the Irish. The bottle was out of reach on the table and he stood up to get it, then immediately sat back down again. That had been a mistake. The whole room had shifted sideways. He’d have to edge over, little bit by little bit.

His fingers closed on the bottle and he dragged it back triumphantly to pour himself another shot.

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