“It’s not too garish,” she said. “So many American places are too light.”
“Do they have a floor show?” asked Holton.
“A very unusual one,” said Lewis, giggling. “I’m sure you’ll think it great fun. Hermes de Bianca is the star of the show and his dance is perfectly magnificent. He is one of the great artists, great interpretive artists, I mean.”
“Is that right?”
A waiter came to take their order. He was a curious-looking waiter, a type which Carla recognized but Holton did not. He wore no uniform. She looked around the room and found that none of the others wore uniforms. They were dressed casually. This waiter’s hair was long, unpleasantly long and the front of it had been carefully bleached. He was thin and moved stiffly, self-consciously, like a woman thinking of rape. On one of his fingers he wore a large ring with a bizarre stone in it.
“What do you people want?” His voice was irritable and high. He was looking interestedly at Holton who was looking just as interestedly at him.
“I’d love something to drink,” said Lewis. “How about the rest of you?”
The waiter looked at Lewis for the first time. His face brightened. “George, it’s you! How lovely to see you! You haven’t been here in such a long time.”
“I’ve been dreadfully busy,” said Lewis coldly, disengaging himself from the waiter’s assumed relationship.
“I think,” said Holton, “that I’d like a highball.” They all decided to have the same thing and the waiter, with a slight toss of his head, walked away.