Uncle Peter.
Clad in apron and cap, he was behind the bar serving out drinks. This shook me to the core. It was a little like seeing Barney Baruch hit a three-bagger in Yankee Stadium and slide into third base.
But there he was, taking orders and dishing out drinks with an attitude as solemn and impersonal as an owl on a tree branch.
Also, he had an assistant—his blonde bombshell. She was fully dressed now and I was struck by the peculiar manner in which this peculiar team functioned.
Uncle Peter would mix a drink, glance at his wrist watch as he served it, then turn and whisper some sort of information to the girl. She noted it down in a small book and the routine was repeated.
At this exact moment, I felt a sharp dig in the ribs. This brought my attention back to Joy, who had done the digging.
"I'm still here, husband mine. Your bride—remember? Or are you waiting for that blonde hussy to start stripping?"
"Darling, I'm afraid you're not paying close attention to things of importance. Don't you see Uncle Peter there—serving drinks?"
"Of course I see him. What of it? If the old roue feels like dishing out a little alcohol to the boys, what—"
"It's absolutely beyond all conception. Uncle Peter never does anything without a good reason. And this—"