“And that’s what I think,” Myra said ominously.
“It’s going to be difficult,” I said, finishing my drink. “If your father says she’s you, you’ll have a hard job convincing anyone.”
The barman brought Myra’s cocktail. There was a lot of it in a large brandy glass. He put it on the table beside her. “It is my own invention, madam,” he said.
Myra picked up the balloon glass and took a long pull from the blue-green liquor. Then she shut her eyes, held her breath and her feet traced quick little patterns on the carpet. When she could speak, she said faintly, “Any smoke escaping from me?”
“You like it, madam?” the barman asked anxiously.
“That is the wrong word,” Myra said, putting the glass on the table and staring at it. “You don’t like a thing like that. A corpse doesn’t like embalming fluid, but it does it good. What do you call it?”
“The breath of a Tiger,” the barman said, not knowing whether to be complimented or not. Myra shuddered. “I’m glad it’s only his breath,” she said. “Somehow, I don’t think I could have managed the tiger itself.”
“If madam does not like it, I will bring her something else,” the barman said, looking hurt.
“I have another specialty which I call the Panther’s spit.”
Myra waved him away. “Some other time perhaps,” she said, and he returned behind his bar with a puzzled expression on his face.