The streets were even more terrifying than they had been in the daytime. Ephraim walked east on 82nd Street, south on Central Park West, then east on Central Park South. He'd had it in mind to locate the Pig and Whistle. Realizing the futility of such an attempt he stopped in at the next place he came to exuding a familiar aroma and laying the dollar Gertie had slipped into his pocket on the bar, he ordered, "Rum."
The first thing he had to do was find gainful employment. As a Harvard graduate, lawyer, and former Congressman, it shouldn't prove too difficult. He might, in time, even run for office again. A congressman's six dollars per diem wasn't to be held lightly.
A friendly, white-jacketed, Mine Host set his drink in front of him and picked up the bill. "I thank you, sir."
About to engage him in conversation concerning the state of the nation, Ephraim looked from Mine Host to the drink, then back at Mine Host again. "E-yah. I should think you would thank me. I'll have my change if you please. Also a man-sized drink."
No longer so friendly, Mine Host leaned across the wood. "That's an ounce and a half. What change? Where did you come from Reuben? What did you expect to pay?"
"The usual price. A few pennies a mug," Ephraim said. "The war is over. Remember? And with the best imported island rum selling wholesale at twenty cents a gallon—"
Mine Host picked up the shot glass and returned the bill to the bar. "You win. You've had enough, pal. What do you want to do, cost me my license? Go ahead. Like a good fellow. Scram."
He emphasized the advice by putting the palm of his hand in Ephraim's face, pushing him toward the door. It was a mistake. Reaching across the bar, Ephraim snaked Mine Host out from behind it and was starting to shake some civility into the publican when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Let's let it go at that, chum."