“I’ve eshhtablished a new movement. I’m calling it, Occupy the Lounge. And all you gotta do to join is keep ordering the daily from the bar.”
“Have you had anything to eat today, Irv?”
“Shure!” He began ticking items off on his fingers. “Nuts. Cherries. And I shucked on a few limes.”
“You’ve been drinking on an empty stomach?”
He nodded. “Besht way to enjoy alcohol. All by itshelf. Did you know you can order the daily speshial shtarting at nine o’clock in the morning? And the reashon you have to wait sho long is because that’s when the bartender goes on duty.”
Patrice arrived with our drinks—tall highball glasses filled with ice cubes and cola, and garnished with lime and cherries. Irv fluttered his forefinger at the order pad. “Put ’em both on my tab. And keep ’em comin’.”
“Would it be possible to order some food for him from the kitchen?”
“The kitchen is closed for the galley tour, madame, but perhaps when the tour is over they might prepare something for him? Cheese? Fruit? Bread?”
“What do you say to that, Irv?”
He stuck his tongue out in distaste. “Nope. I’m not shpoiling a perfectly good highball by contaminating it with any of the major food groups. Beshides, I don’t trust the food. You don’t want me to end up like Victor, do you?”
“Have you had an update on his condition?” My stomach turned a slow somersault as I braced myself for news I was afraid to hear.
Irv swung his head back and forth in a lazy arc. “My shources have been abshent today, sho my reporting has been cut off. Shorry. But I’m pretty shure old Victor is shtill the shame international man of myshtery that he was yesterday. But now, Patreesh here. Patreesh is an open book, aren’t you, Patreesh?”
“If you say so, monsieur.”
I shifted my gaze away from Patrice as Woody entered the lounge all by himself, looking as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He didn’t acknowledge me as he passed by, but kept his head down and gaze lowered, as if he were wishing he could disappear. He flopped down in a chair close to the bar, propped his elbow on the armrest, and braced his head in his hand, his body language signaling that if any guest dared disturb him, it would be at their own risk.
Patrice hesitated, eyeing him with some trepidation, before flashing a resigned look. He tipped his head and sighed. “Pardonne.”
I guess no matter how miserable a guest looked, there was always an outside chance that an outrageously expensive highball would make him feel better.
Irv watched Patrice cross the floor. “He walks pretty good for shomeone’s who’s been pieced back together again, doeshn’t he?”
“I didn’t know he’d fallen apart.” Despite his despondency, Woody seemed to treat Patrice with great civility as he placed a drink order.
“Yup. He waz in a bicycle crash awhile back. Fractured his leg and broke his hip in so many shpots, they had to replace it.”
“No kidding?”
“He waz out of commisshion for the better part of a whole year. But look at him now. Good ash new. He walks better’n me.”
“That’s because he’s sober,” I said matter-of-factly. “You should try it sometime, Irv. Your balance might return so quickly, you’d be able to retire your cane.”
He reached out a hand to pat its carved handle. “Shobriety gives me indigestion.”