"Lissen," that character said. "I got no time to be runnin' back and forth for you. These here are Queen Georgianas, 'n if you don't want 'em, run 'em in your — " He glanced at Avalon, colored. " — well, rub 'em."
"But I ordered," the Saint said very patiently, "Old Foresters. Highballs."
" 'N if you're gonna be fussy," the waiter said, "you're 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 situation 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.