“What’s in it?”
“Does it matter?” Chaka slides the shot glass toward me.
“Yeah. It might.”
Chaka shakes his head. “The only thing you need to think about, if you gotta think about something, is the absinthe. From the Czech Republic. Imported. I heard the green fairies that come with it get freaky sometimes.”
I kill the shot and drop my glass to the bar with the vigor of a salute.
“What you think?” Chaka’s smiling that charming half-smile that shows up when he’s drunk.”
“It still tastes like liquorice, but I like whatever else is going on.”
“Raspberry liqueur, baby. Raspberry liqueur, ginger ale and sour. It’s called a Violent Femme.” Chaka slides me another shot as surf groove toms and Belinda Carlisle’s voice fill the bar.
“It’s my bar. I can play what the hell I want.” Chaka thrusts a thumb toward one of the speakers on the wall behind him.
“You just don’t seem like a Go-Go’s kind of guy.”
“What kind of guy do I seem like?”
“I don’t know. Jacques Brel. Leonard Cohen. George Clinton.”