Fredrick cleared his throat. “Ah, Messieurs, that fifty I turned over you. I suppose it turned out to be spurious?”
Steve grinned at him. “Afraid so, Fredrick. The department is holding it.”
Larry took out his wallet. “However, we have a certain leeway on expenses on this assignment and appreciate your co-operation.” He handed two twenties and a ten to the maître d'. Fredrick bowed low, the money disappearing into his clothes magically. “Merci bien, monsieur.”
At the bar, Steve scowled at his colleague. “Ha!” he said. “Why didn't I think of that first? He'll get down on his knees and bump his head each time he sees you in the joint from now on.”
Larry Woolford waggled a finger at the other. “This is a status conscious town, my boy. Prestige means everything. When I take over my Boss' job, maybe we can swing a transfer and I'll give you a position suitable to your attainments.” He pursed his lips judiciously. “Although, come to think of it, that might mean a demotion from the job you're holding now.”
“Vodka martini,” Steve told the bartender. “Polish vodka, of course.”
“Of course, sir.”
Larry said, “Same for me.”
The bartender left and Steve muttered, “I hate vodka.”
“Yeah,” Larry said, “But what're you going to do in a place like this, order some weird drink?”