"Hey, Richard!"
"Mark . . . Oliver . . . The boss let us out early." Pleased with this statement, Richard O'Grady, who acknowledged no boss but "The Man Upstairs," shuffled to his customary place at a long table on the other side of the bar. He was bright eyed, slight, and stooped, a survivor of diabetes and severe arthritis.
"Amazing smile!" Oliver said.
"A world authority on blood chemistry," Mark said. "You'd never know it—in here every night drinking scotch."
"Every night but Sunday," Oliver said. "I asked him, one time, where he got that smile. I thought he'd say something like: it was his mother's. He said, 'Don't know.' Then he said, 'Use it!' It was like a command he'd been given."
"Not too many around here that haven't had a drink on Richard," Mark said. "I'm outa here. Duke, man."
"Boo."
"Oliver," Richard called, "Help me with this plowman's lunch." Oliver sat on a wooden bench across the table from Richard.
"I'll have a bite," he said. "What's happening?"
"Oh, the usual," Richard said. "Palace intrigue. Too many chemists in one lab. I shouldn't complain; they do a good job." He bent over the table and lowered his voice. "One of the supervisors is a bit rigid. I hear about it, you know. I've tried to talk to her. It's delicate." He brightened as he straightened. "I'm sending her to a conference in Amsterdam. Maybe something will happen."