"The Shoff?"
"No. Ha-ha. Sh'off. S.H.O.Ah.F.F. Sh'off."
"Shroff?"
"Yes. Yes. Whiskey?" The Shroff led them to the bar, snapped his fingers at the bartender, then rapidly undid his immaculate tie and collar and opened his shirt. He displayed a livid bruise on his shoulder. "Las' Satuhday night," he beamed. "Me'y Kissmus p'esent f'om Hu-li."
Lennox stared at the stout gentleman in amazement. "Hu-li?" he repeated. "Who he?"
"You," the Shroff beamed.
"Did he do that to you Saturday night?" Gabby asked.
"Oh yes. Yes. Ha-ha."
"Shame on you, Jordan," Gabby said reproachfully.
"I swear I don't remember. I—Gabby, this, apparently, is my good friend, Mr. Stanley Fu, the Shroff. Mr. Fu, this, positively, is Miss Gabrielle Valentine."