Remember the 1001 Tales of the Arabian Nights? I have 1001 Tales of Ishihara to speak of. Even in my Private Investigator circles this is one of my lesser known topics — and people already know that if they want my “war stories” to be (a) better and (b) completely truthful they’d better buy me a drink after a PI meeting or convention. As the old Ukrainian proverb goes, “what’s on a sober man’s mind is on a drunk man’s tongue.”
Back in the 70′s, I used to hang out, along with my mentor James William “Jim” McDonald, with a guy who some seemed to think was Yakuza (Japanese Mafia). Naturally, I wouldn’t know what his affiliations were. But sure as hell, either the FBI who investigated him and put him away (and later deported) him for auto embezzlement either conveniently failed to tell all they knew to the defense, or else they were just incredibly stupid. But that’s a story for another time. That’s just another one of the 1001 Tales of Ishihara.
Today’s story is about how that SOB got me drunker ‘n a skunk.
Shortly after Jim and I had met him, we arranged for him to meet us with seven (7) legal secretaries at the El Torito in the Marina (Del Rey). Before Ishihara’s limousine picked us up, we’d been drinking red wine.
When we got to the bar at the El Torito, Ishihara throws his Diner’s Club card on the bar and says, “No one pays for drink tonight. I pay for all drink.” Back in those days, when I was young, I could drink up a storm on somebody else’s money, so I promptly had four Mai Tais. By the time we sat down for dinner, I was so drunk I ordered a Grasshopper and wound up pouring it all over my face because there was too much ice in it: all this green junk all over my face!
A legal secretary whose divorce had become final the day before, Julie, was sitting next to me. She dips a tortilla chip and puts it in my mouth. I dip one and put it in her mouth. Then I say, let’s do this right: we cross arms and put tortilla chips in each other’s mouths.
At some point, Julie asks if dinner is on Ishihara. “Of course I say,” so the word gets around the table and the women are changing their orders from “Taquitos” to “Waiter, make that a crab meat burrito;” “Oh waiter, make mine a lobster meat tostada.” So the bar tab is now around $500 (in 1970′s era dollars) and the dinner tab is probably around another $500…and Ishihara’s not getting anywhere with any of the ladies.
After dinner, we go back to the bar and he’s furious that Julie’s hitting on me but nobody’s hitting on him. He decides to pull a macho routine and says, “Tucker, I never see you drink hard liquor. To prove you are man, you must drink triple shot Tequila!” This was shortly after I’d gotten my B.A. with a double major including Chicano Studies, which meant I had to learn to out-drink my professors. So I chug a triple shot, and then say (because two can play at a macho game) “Now to prove you’re a man you must drink Mescal with me.” Ishihara says “what Mescal?” to which the Mexican bartender responds, “Only hombres drink Mescal. It has a worm in it.”
Ishihara: “No No No No No No. We drink triple shot Tequila!” So, Jim, Ishihara and I down another triple shot. Jim and I chug ours, and Ishihara chokes on his. I do a third triple shot to show him how its done and then too more straight shots in case he can’t do a triple. I’ve now consumed for the evening red wine, 4 Mai Tais, a Grasshopper, and 11 shots of Tequila. Ishihara: “Bartender. Why he not dead?” Bartender: “He must be mucho hombre!” Ishihara says: “Bartender! I buy bottle!”
Ishihara grabs the Tequila bottle and pours it down my throat. I remember walking out of the bar on my own two feet. I remember passing out in the limousine and waking up briefly at the Century Plaza Hotel. Next thing I’m throwing up on Jim’s lawn, which probably saved my life…and finally waking up 15 hours later with the worst hangover of my life.
Just another page from the Detective’s Diary.
