It’s my chance.
Carefully, I slide the envelope out of my sleeve into my palm. I take the stone grinder and shake the dried leaves into it.
With a stone mortar and pestle, I grind the flower in a few swift movements until it’s only a fine, whitish powder.
Swiftly, I transfer the powder back into the envelope and turn my back to the bar.
From the shelf, I grab the last jar of marinated cherries. Returning to my station, I shove the jar behind the dish with garnish.
The other bartender finishes mixing the drink and goes over to the shelf to look for cherries.
Once he notices that there are none left, he rushes to the back of the bar to look for more.
Whistling a joyful tune under my breath, I take a wet cloth and start wiping the surface of the bar.
My movements are casual, tune cheery, eyes trained on the table in front of me.
Everyone’s occupied. Not a single pair of eyes pays attention to the lone bartender scrubbing the bar top clean.
With a pounding heart, I wipe the bar next to the whiskey drink and pour the powder inside in one swift movement.
I’ve got the hands of a thief, after all.
In no rush, I finish wiping the bar and return to my station to cut some more fruit.
When the other bartender returns with a new jar of marinated cherries, I pay him no attention.
Carefully, he scoops out three cherries and drops them inside the glass.
Time slows.
Thump-thump.
One.
Thump-thump.
Two.
Thump-thump.
Three times he stirs.
He scoops some more cherries into the side dish he places next to the drink.
Thump-thump.
Another bartender comes around to pick up the tray with the drink. He brings it to the General.
Thump-thump.
When the General takes the fresh drink and brings it to his mouth, I think I may pass out.
Thump-thump.
But the General doesn’t hesitate. He drains half the glass in one gulp.
A few laughs.
