Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

He signaled the one who appeared to be in charge and asked, "Is it against the law to order a Bloody Mary without any booze?"

"How hot?" asked the man with expressionless face and voice. He reached for a glass.

"Three-alarm fire." Qwilleran counted the dashes of hot sauce going into the tomato juice, took a critical sip, and nodded his approval. The bartender leaned against the backbar with arms folded, and that was Qwilleran's cue to say, "You run a smooth operation here."

"Keeps us stepping, all right. We service two dining rooms and the pool, as well as this bar and lounge. We've got twenty-five stools here, and on Friday and Saturday night they're double-parked." He had the eyes of a supervisor, roving around the room as he talked.

"I know what it takes," Qwilleran said sympathetically. "I've tended bar myself." He was referring to a Saturday night gig during senior year in college. "Are you from Washington? I seem to remember you at the Mayflower."

"Nope. Wasn't me,"

"The Shoreham! That's where I've seen you."

The man shook his head. "Chicago. I worked the Loop for eighteen years. Poured enough booze to flood Com-miskey Park."

"You get a different class of customer at a place like this."

"You tellin" me? Big crowds, small tabs, smaller tips." He looked hastily up and down the bar before saying, "The cola crowd—they're the worst! Order a soft drink, spike it with their own flask, and fill up on free peanuts." His busy eyes spotted an empty glass, and he signaled to a barhop.

Qwilleran asked, "What's the Pirate Gold drink that you're pushing?"

"All fresh, all natural. Fruit juice with two kinds of rum and a secret ingredient. The health nuts go for it."

Qwilleran gulped the rest of his tomato juice and slid off the stool. "Thanks. What's your name?"

"Bert."

"You mix a helluva good drink, Bert. Wish I'd known you when I was on the hard stuff. I'll be back." He left a tip large enough to be remembered.

In the lobby, a fierce character in pirate garb presided at a reservation desk. Qwilleran asked him, "Do you have a no-smoking section?"

"There's no smoking anywhere in the hotel, sir—orders of the fire department."

"Good! Do you have a no-kids section?" The lobby was teeming with vacationing small-fry, whooping and jumping with excitement.

"Yes, sir! The captain in the Corsair Room will seat you."

At that moment a friendly voice boomed across the lobby. "Qwill, you dirty P.O.B.! What are you doing here?" A young man grabbed his arm. Dwight Somers was employed as director of community services for XYZ Enterprises. They had met on a trip to Scotland and had developed an instant camaraderie. Jovially Dwight called Qwilleran a print-oriented bum and was called, in turn, a Ph.D., or doctor of publicity hackery.

"If the piracy doesn't extend to the prices," Qwilleran said, "I intend to take my life in my hands and have dinner here. Want to join me?"

It was quiet in the Corsair Room. The tables, most of them unoccupied, gleamed with white tablecloths, wine glasses, and flowers in crystal vases. "We're making some changes," Dwight said. "This class act intimidates your average tourist. We're down-scaling to vinyl tablecovers and ketchup bottles. Only tank tops will be a no-no. If you look around, you'll see we're the only dudes in club shirts."

A server in the official black-and-bones T-shirt took their order for drinks, and Qwilleran remarked to his dinner partner, "Don't you think you're working the pirate theme overtime?"

The XYZ publicity man shrugged apologetically. "The kids like it, and Don Exbridge says it's a historical reference. The island was a base of operations for lake pirates at one time. They lured ships onto the rocks so they could loot their cargo."

"You should change the name of this place to the Blackbeard Hotel. I hear one of your guests walked the plank last week. And that sea chantey on the backbar is right on target, with fifteen guests poisoned and one guest dead. Who was the guy? Do you know?"

"Just some lush from Down Below, looking for girls, or whatever."

"I'd question the secret ingredient in your Pirate Gold," Qwilleran advised.

The drinks came to the table, and Dwight said, "Where've you been? Don asked me why you didn't attend the press preview."

"I prefer to sneak around incognito and dig up my own stories. I'll be here a couple of weeks."

"Where are you staying? I know you're not on the hotel register, unless you're using an alias. I check daily arrivals."

"I'm at the Domino Inn."

"How come? There's a posh bed-and-breakfast on the west beach—called the Island Experience. It's run by two widows. Expensive, of course, but a lot better than where you're staying."

"Well, you see, I had to bring my cats," Qwilleran explained. "The Bambas are letting me have a catproof cottage."

"That makes sense, but isn't the Domino Inn the most godawful dump you ever saw? Still, it gets mentioned in all tlie national publicity, so maybe the Bambas knew what they were doing . .. I'm hungry. What are you going to eat?"

"Not chicken! Where has the hotel been getting its poultry?"

"From a chicken factory in Lockmaster. It's being investigated by the board of health. The hotel is absolved of blame. Don Exbridge has been in Pickax, smoothing things over. In the matter of the drowning, our head bartender is being fined for serving the guy too much liquor."

Qwilleran nodded and thought, The hotel pays his fine, and Exbridge gives him a bonus for keeping quiet. The menu featured Creole and Cajun specialties, and he ordered a gumbo described as "an incredibly delicious melange of shrimp, turkey, rice, okra, and the essence of young sassafras leaves." "Turkey" was inked in where a previous ingredient had been inked out.

"You'll like it," said the enthusiastic waitress. "Everyone in the kitchen is giving it raves!" The waitstaff consisted of college men and women, who breezed around the dining room in a festive mood—all smiles, quips, and fast service.

Dwight, who had ordered a steak, said, "Okra! How can you eat that mucilaginous goo?"

"Are you aware that gumbo is the African word for okra?" Qwilleran asked with the lifted eyebrows of a connoisseur.

"By any other name it's still slimy." The two men concentrated on chomping their salads for a while, and then Dwight said, "How do you like the generic signs on the strip mall? There's a big turnover in resort businesses, and if Luigi's pizza parlor doesn't make a profit this summer, he can be replaced by Giuseppe next summer."

"Sounds like Exbridge's idea."

"Yeah, he comes up with some good ones, and others not so good—like his helicopter stunt. There's a landing pad behind the rescue station, and Don wants to rent a chopper and offer sightseeing trips over the island."

"If he does that," Qwilleran said with a threatening scowll, "the islanders will shoot it down with their rabbit the private club will take him to court; and I'll personally crucify XYZ in my column! I don't care how much advertising revenue they pour into our coffers."