lucky to get anything. Wait a
minute. Here comes the manager.”
The
manager was thin, dapper, and dark, like George Raft in his halcyon days.
He strode up to the table, took in the situa tion with an
expressionless look of his dark eyes, and turned them on the Saint.
“Yes?”
he said.
“Whom do you have to know here?”
Simon inquired. “I’ve been trying to get some bourbon for about
thirty minutes.”
“Why
don’t you ask for it then?” suggested the manager.
“Look,” Simon said. “I don’t
mind buying your watered drinks at about three times the normal
prices. All I want is the right flavor in the water. I do not want Queen Georgian as, or Old Fashioneds. I want Old Forester. It’s a simple
thing. All the waiter does is
remember the order until he gets back to the bar. I’ll write it out for him if he has a defective memory.”
“Nothin’s wrong with my memory,” the
waiter growled. “Maybe you’d like these drinks in your puss, smart
guy. You asked for Queen Georgianas, and you’re gonna take
‘em.”
Simon
clenched his hands under the rim of the table.
“Believe me,” he said earnestly,
“the last desire I have is to cause difficulty. If I must take these
obscenities, I’ll take them. But will you please, please get us a round of
bourbon high balls?”
“Why don’t you go away, if the service
doesn’t please you?” asked the George Raft manager.
“The service,” the Saint said,
“leaves nothing to be desired, except everything.”
“Then
why don’t you just go away?” asked the manager.
The Saint
decided to be stubborn.
“Why?”
“No reason,” the manager said. “We reserve the
right tore fuse service to anyone.
Our sign says so.”
He indicated a sign above the
bar.
“And
you are refusing me service?”
“No.
Not if you don’t cause trouble.”
“And?”
The
manager nodded to the waiter. “Get him his drinks.”
“I’m
not gonna serve him,” the waiter said.
The manager stamped a gleaming shoe.
“Did you hear me?”
The waiter
went away.
“Now,” the Saint said, “where
were we? Oh, yes, we were discussing,” he said to the manager, “the more obscure
aspects of suicide in American night clubs.
Would you have anything to add to our data soon?”
The manager smiled a crooked smile and
departed. The Saint caught
the eye of James Prather and formed a question: “Now that we’ve gone through the preliminary moves,
shall we get down to business?”
Prather goggled rather like a fish in an aquarium tank, but before the Saint could begin to explain he caught
sight of the waiter returning with a
tray of pink concoctions in champagne glasses.
“I,” Simon announced, “am beginning to become
annoyed. Avec knobs on.”
The waiter slammed the tray on the table and
distributed the drinks. The Saint eyed his.
It was definitely not a Pink Lady. Nor was it
pink cham pagne. There was grenadine in it, judging from the
viscosity apparent to the eye. There might be gin, or even water.
He raised his eyes.
“What—is—this?”
The waiter’s eyes were like small blue
marbles. “They’re bourbon and sodas, see?”
“Pink
bourbon?”
“Ja
ever see any other kind?” the waiter snarled.
“I believe,” Simon said gently, “that I have been
patient. Compared to the way I’ve conducted
myself, burros are subjects for
straitjackets. You have brought four rounds of liquid abor tions that no self-respecting canned-heat hound
would dip a finger in. While this
went on, I have kept my temper. Job him self would stack up beside me like a nervous cat. I have taken all your insults with a smile. But I warn you, if
you don’t bring the right order on your next trip, you are going to wish
your mother had spanked the bad manners out
of you before I had to.”
“So
you wanta make trouble, huh?” The waiter signalled. “Hey,
Jake!”
The bartender, who seemed to be Jake, stopped
shaking a whiskey sour at the top of the motion, looking something
like a
minute. Here comes the manager.”
The
manager was thin, dapper, and dark, like George Raft in his halcyon days.
He strode up to the table, took in the situa tion with an
expressionless look of his dark eyes, and turned them on the Saint.
“Yes?”
he said.
“Whom do you have to know here?”
Simon inquired. “I’ve been trying to get some bourbon for about
thirty minutes.”
“Why
don’t you ask for it then?” suggested the manager.
“Look,” Simon said. “I don’t
mind buying your watered drinks at about three times the normal
prices. All I want is the right flavor in the water. I do not want Queen Georgian as, or Old Fashioneds. I want Old Forester. It’s a simple
thing. All the waiter does is
remember the order until he gets back to the bar. I’ll write it out for him if he has a defective memory.”
“Nothin’s wrong with my memory,” the
waiter growled. “Maybe you’d like these drinks in your puss, smart
guy. You asked for Queen Georgianas, and you’re gonna take
‘em.”
Simon
clenched his hands under the rim of the table.
“Believe me,” he said earnestly,
“the last desire I have is to cause difficulty. If I must take these
obscenities, I’ll take them. But will you please, please get us a round of
bourbon high balls?”
“Why don’t you go away, if the service
doesn’t please you?” asked the George Raft manager.
“The service,” the Saint said,
“leaves nothing to be desired, except everything.”
“Then
why don’t you just go away?” asked the manager.
The Saint
decided to be stubborn.
“Why?”
“No reason,” the manager said. “We reserve the
right tore fuse service to anyone.
Our sign says so.”
He indicated a sign above the
bar.
“And
you are refusing me service?”
“No.
Not if you don’t cause trouble.”
“And?”
The
manager nodded to the waiter. “Get him his drinks.”
“I’m
not gonna serve him,” the waiter said.
The manager stamped a gleaming shoe.
“Did you hear me?”
The waiter
went away.
“Now,” the Saint said, “where
were we? Oh, yes, we were discussing,” he said to the manager, “the more obscure
aspects of suicide in American night clubs.
Would you have anything to add to our data soon?”
The manager smiled a crooked smile and
departed. The Saint caught
the eye of James Prather and formed a question: “Now that we’ve gone through the preliminary moves,
shall we get down to business?”
Prather goggled rather like a fish in an aquarium tank, but before the Saint could begin to explain he caught
sight of the waiter returning with a
tray of pink concoctions in champagne glasses.
“I,” Simon announced, “am beginning to become
annoyed. Avec knobs on.”
The waiter slammed the tray on the table and
distributed the drinks. The Saint eyed his.
It was definitely not a Pink Lady. Nor was it
pink cham pagne. There was grenadine in it, judging from the
viscosity apparent to the eye. There might be gin, or even water.
He raised his eyes.
“What—is—this?”
The waiter’s eyes were like small blue
marbles. “They’re bourbon and sodas, see?”
“Pink
bourbon?”
“Ja
ever see any other kind?” the waiter snarled.
“I believe,” Simon said gently, “that I have been
patient. Compared to the way I’ve conducted
myself, burros are subjects for
straitjackets. You have brought four rounds of liquid abor tions that no self-respecting canned-heat hound
would dip a finger in. While this
went on, I have kept my temper. Job him self would stack up beside me like a nervous cat. I have taken all your insults with a smile. But I warn you, if
you don’t bring the right order on your next trip, you are going to wish
your mother had spanked the bad manners out
of you before I had to.”
“So
you wanta make trouble, huh?” The waiter signalled. “Hey,
Jake!”
The bartender, who seemed to be Jake, stopped
shaking a whiskey sour at the top of the motion, looking something
like a
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