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behind the bar at Japp’s. Tonight was to be a celebration of sorts. A reward for myself. Why? I’ve grown pudgy.
    Except for one interesting night when we dealt with that business of the spoon, my time at ‘The Offices of Prescott Carmichael' have been exceedingly dull. However, Mr. Carmichael’s compensation—three times what I had made in any year before!—drove me to not give a whip what my bar tab rang up to. By insouciantly downing Molly’s cocktails, I’d added way too much to my waistline. The three suits I’d bought when I started with Mr. Carmichael were now supporting a too-large gut built on ethyl alcohol. So I decided to impose some discipline on myself and avoid Molly and her fabulous cocktails for a short while.
    That was two weeks ago and now my belt buckle wasn’t groaning so much. I decided it was time I got reacquainted with the cool, smooth feel of a cocktail glass.
    I jumped a frozen puddle as I crossed Jackson. I thought a Manhattan might be just the thing for a night like this. Rye, sweet vermouth and three dashes of Angostura. Served up, I thought. Who needs ice tonight?
    But by the time I trudged over a snow pile on Walnut, I thought that a Sidecar would better fit the bill. I was almost as cold as that long-ago, sidecar-riding Army officer it was first made for. And I loved how Molly sugared the rim of the glass on those.
    Then I crossed Clay and could see the crowd through Japp’s window. I could almost feel the warmth from the light splashing onto the sidewalk, changed my mind to a Blood and Sand. Equal parts Scotch, Italian vermouth, OJ and Cheery Heering. That was it. I’m not ashamed to say I was a bit aroused.
    Then my phone gave a round of rings. I’d normally have let it go right to voicemail, but it was Mr. Carmichael. I’ve worked for Prescott Carmichael for six months and it was only the second time after four in the p.m. that he’d rung, so I didn’t mind, but I knew this would be a case of cocktailius interuptus . My arousal retracted.
    "I apologize for calling you after hours," he told me, "but we have a client service issue."
    Mr. Carmichael is the principle of an investment advisory firm and I’m the only associate. He tells me that our business is all about trust. He tells me that we build trust by handling his client’s ‘service issues’ no matter how far off the beaten path they might be for investment advisors.
    "Anything you need," I said.
    "I need you to pack a bag and board a plane for Hilton Head Island. You’ll be gone up to a week. The Fink and Nottle wedding has been called off. Messrs. Fink and Nottle both called me and requested our help. Mrs. Johnson has your tickets. She’s at the office waiting for you now. The next flight leaves in three hours.
    This wedding has been in the works for a year," Mr. Carmichael went on. "Their parents have invested a lot into it. Not only the wedding itself but in the succession plans for the business… and emotionally."
    I could see the folks in Japp’s warming themselves over their drinks. I spotted Molly lifting a shaker above her head ready to give it a good what-for, then laugh at something a customer said. I turned around in the cold and headed back to the office, keeping the phone to my ear.
    "So what are we going to do down there?"
    "We’re going to try to figure out if this break is serious or not, and if not, get them back together in time for the wedding."
    I hiked it over to the office on Seventh Street.
    "Here is your ticket," said Mrs. Johnson. "You’ve got just a short time to pack and get to the airport."
    We call Mrs. Johnson our receptionist, but every day I’m learning she’s more than that. She’s five-eleven in her stocking feet and normally wears very sensible shoes in the office, but tonight Mr. Carmichael must have interrupted an evening out on the town. She’s got twenty years on me but still grabs my eye. Tonight she is wearing a dress that was cut by a designer who loves to show off