Walt shoved the door open and Wes Farrell grinned as he always did at the sign that read:
JOE'S
The Best Bar
in
Twenty-seven Million Miles
(minimum)
Arden entered and found a place at the long bar. The three men lined up on either side of her and Joe automatically reached for the Scotch and glasses.
"Now," said Channing, "what is it?"
Walt lifted his glass. "I drink to the Gods of Coincidence," he chanted, "and the Laws of Improbability. 'Twas here that I learned that which makes me master of the situation now."
Arden clinked her glass against his. "Walt, I'll drink to the Gods of Propinquity. Just how many problems have you solved in your life by looking through the bottom of a glass—darkly?"
"Ah—many," he said, taking a sip of the drink.
He swallowed.
A strange look came over his face. He spluttered. He grew a bit ruddy of face, made a strangling noise, and then choked.
"Migawd, Joe—what have you mixed this with, shoe polish?"