Sometimes you can tell a lot by the costumes people choose for Halloween parties.
For example, John wore full Highland regalia for the mayor’s party: kilt, Prince Charlie jacket and vest, cream-colored hose—jewel-topped sgian dubh included—fur-covered sporran—whisky-filled silver flask included—and black leather ghillie brogues. From his black satin bow tie to his navy-blue garter flashes, he was the living embodiment of his own cultural fantasies.
But sometimes the choice of costume comes down to what was left on the costume store shelf. Which is how I ended up dressed as Sherlock Holmes.
When I joined John at the bar downstairs, his eyebrows shot up.
“Elementary, my dear Macduff. I waited too long to order my costume. And if you say I told you so, you can fix your own breakfast tomorrow.”
“I always fix breakfast on Sunday,” John pointed out.
“The hat—deerstalker?—is cute. You definitely have the head for hats.”
I sidled onto the barstool. “Nice to know I have a head for something.”
He grinned, handed me a glass of wine. “¡Arriba.”
“Adentro.” I drained the glass.
John whistled. “Thirsty?”
He was amused. “You’re not nervous about tonight? You were born with a cocktail glass in your hand.”
“True. It made for a difficult birth.”
I said, “No. I’m not worried about tonight.” That was the truth. News of the death—even the possible homicide—of someone like Eddie Darquez would not have infiltrated the upper echelons of City Hall. Not yet.
John considered me for a second or two, and I knew he had questions. I braced myself. Instead, he glanced at his watch. “Did you want another?”
I set my empty glass on the bar counter. “Nope. Lead on, Macduff.”
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