Webb frowned as his stare hopped back to the envelope on the table. ‘What else?’

She reached for the envelope, tipped it, and allowed whatever else was inside it to slide out on to the tabletop.

Thirty-Seven

With an imposing, three-hundred-plus collection of bourbon, rye, blended and single malt Scotch whisky, the Seven Grand was one of the most accomplished bars in the whole of Los Angeles for whisky aficionados.

Hunter jumped out of the cab directly in front of number 542, on West Seventh Street. The wind blowing from the coast had picked up considerably, and the night air had acquired the slight smell of damp soil, announcing that rain was imminent. Hunter pulled the collar of his jacket tight against the nape of his neck, pushed open the door and took the steps to the second floor, where the whisky bar was located.

‘Hello and good evening.’ The five-foot-seven, brown-haired hostess greeted Hunter by the Seven Grand glass door with an encouraging smile. ‘Will you be having dinner with us tonight, or only drinks?’ She spoke with a very charming Scottish accent.

‘Probably both.’

Being five inches shorter than Hunter, the hostess tilted her head to one side, trying to look behind him. There was no one else there.

‘Party of one?’

‘Story of my life,’ Hunter joked, nodding.

Her smile brightened as she collected a couple of menus.

‘Please follow me.’

She guided Hunter through the short entrance hall, which was decorated with plaid wallpaper and taxidermy, past the pool table room and bar on the right, and on to the busy restaurant floor. The sound of loud conversations mixed unevenly with the quickstep beat of electro swing playing from the ceiling speakers.

‘Have you dined with us before?’

‘Yes, I’ve been here a few times, mostly just at the bar. It’s been a while since my last time, though.’

‘I was about to say, I don’t recall seeing you here before, and I’ve been working here for the past eight months.’

‘Well, I don’t blame you,’ Hunter replied. ‘I don’t have a very memorable face.’

The hostess paused and turned to look at Hunter. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She renewed her smile. ‘On the contrary, you have a very . . . striking face, with kind-looking eyes. People remember that.’

‘Thank you.’ Hunter reciprocated the smile.

They moved past a large table where eight young men in expensive-looking, tight-fitting suits seemed to be having a party.

‘Hey there, sexy lassie,’ one of them said, addressing the hostess in the worst Scottish accent Hunter had ever heard. For some reason, as the young man threw them into his sentences, he decided to stress the few Scottish terms he knew. He also sounded way past his limit. ‘We need another tipple over here, but none of this Scottish nonsense. We need another bottle of good old American bourbon – Tennessee-style, you hear? The lads over here are thirsty.’

The rest of his friends all broke out in loud laughter.

‘No problem, sir,’ the hostess replied politely. ‘I’ll send a new bottle to your table straight away.’

‘Aye,’ the young man retorted, stepping in front of her and blocking her path. ‘I think it would be better if you brought it over yourself, lass.’ From his wallet, he produced three fifty-dollar bills and waved them in front of her nose.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, taking a step back, but still keeping a well-mannered tone. ‘I can’t take payment right now, and I’m just seatting a customer. If you wait a moment I can either send a bill together with the bottle, or you can just pay it all at the end when the table gets the check.’

‘Oh, I’m sure the customer can find his own table, can’t you, lad?’ The man placed a hand on Hunter’s arm and left it there.

Hunter first looked at the hand resting on his right arm then back at the drunken young man. As the man caught the look in Hunter’s eyes, his smile vanished and his hand quickly returned to the side of his body. The hostess saw it and bit her bottom lip, stiffening a smile. But the young man wasn’t done yet. Turning his attention back to the hostess, he then placed his arm around her shoulders.

‘You should come party with us, lassie. We can show you a reeeeeal good time, can’t we, blokes?’

‘Aye,’ the other seven said in unison before, once again, breaking into loud laughter.

Hunter was about to intervene, when the hostess, stepping away from the man’s embrace, put him back in his place herself.

‘Three things,’ she said calmly, showing the count on her fingers. ‘One: “Bloke” is a term that’s used mainly in England, Ireland, Australia and New Zealand. It’s not that popular in Scotland.’

The first finger came down.

‘Two: It’s never used vocatively. “Can’t we, blokes?” makes no sense, really, and frankly, it just displays your ignorance when it comes to English grammar. You should’ve stuck with “lads”. And three: I don’t party with little boys.’

The laughter and shouts got even louder, as the entire table began mocking their friend. None of them seemed to realize that the comment had been aimed at the entire group.

‘I like your style,’ Hunter said as they finally moved past the annoying, drunken table. ‘But I don’t think any of them really know what “vocatively” means.’

‘Probably not,’ the hostess replied with a laugh. ‘They look dumb enough.’

‘And drunk enough,’ Hunter added.

‘Financial district city boys,’ she said, looking over her shoulder at Hunter. ‘We get a least one group of them in here every night of the week, since the financial district is just around the corner. It’s always the same – too rich, too young, and because they have more money than they know what to do with, they think that they can do whatever they fancy. We have plenty of those back in Glasgow as well. Back home we call them “dickheeds”.’

Hunter smiled. ‘Appropriate.’

‘Wait . . .’ She stopped as they finally reached a small squared table at the back of the spacious and packed restaurant floor. ‘You don’t work in the finance sector, do you?’ She looked truly embarrassed.

Instinctively, Hunter looked at what he was wearing – black jeans, black shoes, and a blue shirt under a thin black leather jacket. ‘Do I come across as if I worked in the finance sector?’ He sounded a little concerned.

‘No, not at all,’ the hostess came back. ‘But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about LA it’s that appearances over here are almost always deceiving.’

‘Yeah, that’s very true,’ Hunter agreed. ‘And no, I don’t work in the finance sector.’

‘That’s a relief,’ the hostess said. ‘Or else I would have to back-paddle like a pro.’ She looked at the vacant table they were standing in front of. ‘Here we are. At the moment this is the only table I have free. Unless you’d like to sit at the bar.’

‘No. This is perfect. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’ The hostess waited for Hunter to have a seat before placing two menus on the table in front of him. ‘A waiter shall be with you shortly. Meanwhile, since you’ve been here before, perhaps I can get you something from the bar?’

Usually, Hunter would take his time and look through the whisky list, which was more like a booklet than a list, but he already had a pretty good idea of what he would like.

‘Yes, that would be great, thank you. Do you still serve Kilchoman here?’

The hostess nodded in a way that told Hunter that she approved of his choice.

Kilchoman were one of the few distilleries in the whole of Scotland that still carry out traditional floor malting, taking whisky back to its roots, and in turn creating some stunning expressions.