He sat down on one of the tall bar stools. The bartender bustled over and eyed him speculatively.
"Tequila con limon" he said negligently.
"Ah," the bartender said. "Si, senor."
Malone waited with ill-concealed impatience. At last it arrived.
Malone took the small glass of tequila in his right hand, with the slice of lemon held firmly between the index and middle fingers of the same hand, the rind facing in toward the glass. On the web between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand he had sprinkled a little salt. Moving adroitly and with dispatch, he downed the tequila, licked off the salt and bit his teeth into the lemon slice.
It felt better than good; it felt wonderful. He hadn't had such a good time in years.
He had three more before he left the Xochitl.
Then, noticing the time, he moved in a hurry and got out of the bar before temptation overcame him and he started ordering still more. It was nearly six o'clock, and he had to meet Dorothy at Topp's.
He hoped he could find it.