Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

I refill Bishop’s glass. When I hand it over, I can feel the heat pumping off him like a midnight freight. The girl comes back to the table holding a little envelope.
    “What’s that?” I ask.
    “Some of my secret herbs and spices.” She gives me a smile that would stun a snake. “Old family recipe, just for special occasions. This feels like a special occasion, doesn’t it?”
    She empties the envelope into her hand, mixes the contents with the sugar in a highball glass, and puts it over that little flame that’s been keeping the coffee hot.
    “We need to melt the sugar,” she says. “Just like the song, you know.”
    She adds a little bourbon and uses a strawberry to muddle everything together. When I can see it bubbling and steam rising, she breaks a cupcake in half, pours the mixture over it, and takes the plate over to Bishop. She gets down on her knees in front of him, and his smile glows like toxic waste.
    “This is best if you take it all in one gulp, sugar. It’s got a little bit of an after burn, but the bourbon makes it all better.”
    “What is this?” Bish asks.
    “It’s something my mama showed me. It’ll keep you going for a good long stretch. If you get my meaning.”
    She offers him the cupcake on the plate. “One nice big bite. It’s going to be hot, so you have to swallow it right down. Then chase it.”
    He takes the cake and looks at her. She winks like Delilah probably winked at Samson.
    “Go for it, sugar. One time, just for me.”
    The cake disappears into his mouth, and she’s already bringing up the glass and tilting it between his lips. He swallows and coughs a little before he sits back on the couch.
    “Whoa,” he croaks. “Hot.”
    “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” She squeezes his hand with the glass in it. “But it’s going to be so good in a little while.”
    “That’s what I’m thinking too, honey.”
    She stands up and looks at me, still over by the cart, most of the bourbon gone, and a lot of the fruit and champagne. She turns back to Bish.
    “You like any of the young players out there now?” she asks. “Anyone coming up who can really play the blues?”
    “There’s a kid out of Texas.” Bish taps his chest like he’s got a big belch stuck in there. “Stevie Ray Vaughan. I saw him in Houston a couple of years ago. Heard that he’s cutting an album now.”
    He tries to swallow again and she pours him another glass of Jim Beam.
    “Funny,” she says. “Blues is black music, but now only white guys seem to play it.”
    “Lots of black singers don’t like blues now,” I say. “They say it reminds them of slavery. And they think it’s too country.”
    Bish rattles the ice in his glass. “Yeah. They’re into rap now ’cause it’s more modern. City music.”
    Shonna Lee offers him a cherry.
    “Modern, my ass,” he goes on. “It’s a fad. A year from now, everyone will have figured out it’s crap and it’ll go away.”
    “I don’t know if anything ever really goes away,” she says. “I think maybe it all just goes underground until the time is right again.”
    “Sure.” Bish chases the cherry and grimaces. “Like Santa Claus comes every year.”
    “Have you heard of a guy named Robert Cray? He’s black.” Shonna Lee watches Bish drink, and the bourbon seems to burn him all the way down like the melted sugar did.
    “I’ve heard the name. Haven’t heard him play, though. You like him?”
    “He’s not as hot as you, but he’s got a sweet sound.”
    She looks at him like she’s just decided not to trade in the station wagon for the fancy sports car after all. She threads her arm into the sleeve of her corduroy jacket and turns to me. I can feel her eyes from across the room.
    “Jack.” She sweeps her sneakers from under the coffee table and slides them onto her feet in one flowing motion. “It’s getting awfully late. Would you care to walk me home?”
    “What?” Bishop’s voice rises, and it catches a little at the end. He’s still holding the empty glass. “No way, honey, you’re not leaving.”
    “Yes, sugar,” she says. “I am. Thank you for the interview. I’ll send you a copy when I get it written. And maybe I’ll see you at breakfast.”
    I’m reaching for what’s left of the bourbon, but she grabs my wrist.
    “What the hell?” Bish slams his hand on the table, and I hear the highball glass crack.
    “Oh, sugar, did you hurt yourself ?” She moves over and grabs his hand. “You better take care