"How's he get it from back there to here? Lynn watched him and said he's positive the guy doesn't carry anything when he goes back and forth."
"He doesn't, not in his hands."
"How's he do it then?"
"Enjoy your wine and watch him," Jack Graves said, smiling. "It's good to have somebody to talk to."
Breda looked into Jack's brown eyes. They were nice eyes, but sad. She said, "Okay, Jack, I'll enjoy my wine."
A group of six at the bar were called to their table by a bosomy hostess in an off-the-shoulder beaded dress. When they'd gone the bartender glanced down the bar, peeked out toward the front, then headed for the alcove.
When the bartender came back, Jack Graves whispered to Breda, "Watch him wash the glasses."
Breda raised up a few inches on the barstool for a better look. The bartender nodded to a customer who called for a Tanqueray on the rocks, and then bent over the sink to rinse out a few glasses, just as Jack Graves had predicted.
"Did you see it?"
"No," Breda said. "What?"
"He's carrying it in his mouth. That guy can probably carry six ounces of Scotch without changing expression. When he bends over to wash glasses, he's spitting it into a bowl next to the sink on his end of the bar. His partner may or may not know what he's up to."
"Ree-volting!" Breda shuddered. "Disgusting."
Jack Graves grinned. "It really is. I've never seen it before."
"I guess I should tell Riegel right away. Jesus, what if the guy has AIDS or something? Gross!"
"I wish you wouldn't," said Jack Graves.
"Why?"
"Your Mister Riegel's pals back in that banquet room have been ordering a lotta Scotch. He might think they got some from his bowl."
"All the more reason!"
"They aren't the kind a guys that have cucumber sandwiches every afternoon. They'll hurt this bartender."
"I can't let my client serve second-hand Scotch!"
"Lemme have a talk with the guy. Gimme a few minutes."
He signaled to the bartender and when the guy came over saying, "Another beer?" Jack Graves simply said, "If you take one step toward that bowl of booze behind the dirty glasses I'll stop you from dumping it. Then my partner here'll call your boss."
"Who are you?" The bartender jerked his face toward the front door at the mention of Riegel.
Jack Graves said, "Someone who doesn't wanna see your legs broken. Just go straight back to that alcove, retrieve whatever you have stashed there, and grab your coat at the same time. On the way out tell the hostess you're getting severe chest pains and a numbness in your arm. Tomorrow you can call Riegel and say you had a mild heart attack and you're quitting your job. And if you ever work in any other bar in this valley I'll tell Riegel what you did to him."
"Who are you?" the bartender demanded.
"I'm the timer," Jack Graves said, looking at his watch. "You got exactly three minutes to get it all done and be outta here. If you don't, whatever happens to you tonight isn't my fault."
The bartender looked at Breda, then back to Jack Graves. Then he looked at the boisterous crowd of cigar smokers in Armani suits with Mr. Riegel in the banquet room.
The bartender turned and headed for the alcove. Less than a minute later he came out wearing a cardigan sweater and said something to the hostess on his way out the door.
"Tell Riegel you spotted the guy serving lots of free drinks," Jack Graves suggested to Breda. "Tell him you're sure he was just giving away booze for big tips and he must've figured out who you are and panicked."
"Riegel'll probably try to withhold some of my fee for letting the guy spot me."
"He'll be glad you got rid of him. People with egos like Riegel's can't stand to be had. He knew the bartender was having him, he just couldn't spot it."
"What if the guy does have AIDS?"
"I don't think he's an AIDS candidate," Jack Graves said.
"That'd add new meaning to the term, 'dying for a drink,' " Breda said.
"Everybody dies," Jack Graves said, light glancing off his bony cheekbone. "Why not for a drink? How about another Chardonnay?"
By the time Lynn Cutter and Nelson Hareem had consumed their first drink at The Furnace Room, another failed actor and longtime friend of Wilfred Plimsoll was ranting about how television had destroyed his profession and, parenthetically, been the cause of the fact that in the past thirty years he'd been gainfully employed for about twenty-two days, all told.
The actor, Walter Davenport, had blue-white hair, wore a plaid double-breasted sport jacket, white cotton trousers, white leather loafers and a school tie from a private academy he'd never attended.