Chapter 130 - The Drunken Master (1/2)

Miguel's vision is spinning, as though he's on an aircraft on a tailspin to nowhere. His brain is swimming in a shitload of single malt whisky; his body seems on autopilot, and yet he couldn't control it. He feels, in the dimness of whatever control he had, that if he crosses the road to The Residence, a car would hit him and he would die. He also feels like he doesn't care; he's nothing, anyway.

He didn't really drink all three bottles of whisky; he'd given up not even halfway through the drinking. He was so restless since that phone call. He'd been itching to go back to The Residence after hearing Claire's voice. He's a bit drunk, but he's fine. He was even able to drive. The winner was the bartender, who not only was able to make a hugely profitable sale of his prized Yamazakis, he got to drink most of it, too. Miguel left him in his bar, still drinking, enjoying the liquor Miguel had paid for. A single bottle cost more than a hundred thousand bucks; all three had set him back by almost four hundred thousand. Was it foolish? Definitely. Does he care about burning money he no longer needs? Definitely not. There's only one thing that matters in his world right now, and she's right up there, in that lighted window at the very top of this building; he wonders if she's dreaming of him. He hopes it's a good dream.

The bartender had brought out the bottles of whisky, one by one, so tenderly as if holding a new-born baby, allowing him to check the labels and confirm the provenance was correct. A few years ago, when he was in Tokyo with a girl whose name he no longer remembers, he'd first tasted a glass of Yamazaki, and the extraordinary clean taste of it was like a powerful punch to the face: finer things exist, he realized, and he had yet to discover them all. ”To whom or what do we dedicate the pŀėȧsurė of this drink?” the bartender had asked him as he offered the first glass. That made Miguel think. ”This drink is for all hopelessness,” he said, raising the glass. The bartender looked at him, and reciprocated the gesture. ”For all hopelessness, then!” Much later, after they had downed a few shots, the bartender said, ”Mr. Tan, you have everything in the world. You're young. You're famous. You're rich. I presume the hopelessness is not about you, no?” To which Miguel answered, ”Everything is about me, my friend. Everything.”

Indeed, for the longest time, everything revolved around him. He cared about little else. Whenever he liked someone, he got her. Then after he'd consummated his dėsɨrė, he'd discard her like trash in the gutter. He never realized that such women had feelings, too. That they got hurt because of his behavior. Now it all comes back to him: is this what they meant when they said ”What goes around comes around?”

Miguel looks to the left and right, making sure the coast is clear. Cars are rarely on the road at this hour; this city, after all, sleeps, too. When he's sure, he takes a cautious, uneven step forward, crossing the road. It's almost impossible; he is, after all, considerably drunk. He can hold his drink, but it's not a constant thing; it wavers and pulsates. There are moments when his vision is clear, there are moments when things appear double, like the world is attempting to spin and spew him out. But he wills himself to be steady; find your center, and settle there. He puts one foot ahead of the other one; he repeats it until the main road gives way to the sidewalk, and the sidewalk shifts to the faux cobblestone pavement of The Residence's foyer. He repeats it, putting one foot after another, until he comes face to face with a burly, tall-ish man standing by the entrance door.

Miguel looks up, and in his mind, he's sure he clearly says, ”I'm Miguel Tan. Don't you know me?”

But for the doorman, who happens to be one of Gabriel's bodyguards, he hears him slur something that sounds like, ”Ayymmmiggwelddddddyukkkkkknoms.

”He's here,” the doorman says.

”Yeah, but where exactly.”

”Right in my face, Sir. He's standing right in front of me.”

”Jesus. Hold him right there,” the voice on the comms says. ”And remember, he is not to be hurt in any way. This is the Big Boss's dear brother. If anything happens to him, even the slightest bruise, and we'd be spearing woodworms for lunch in some god-forsaken island in the Pacific, possibly for the rest of our lives. You got me?”

”Absolutely, Sir.”

Miguel has been standing there, watching the bodyguard's face, as all this conversation happens. ”Are you new?” he asks.

Which, again, comes across as, ”Arrrryunnnn?...”

I don't talk drunk, sir, is what the bodyguard wants to say. But his face stays deadpan, like one of those Royal Guards at Buckingham Palace.