In the meantime, he went back to the bar to think some more. He was on his second bourbon-and-soda, still thinking but without any new ideas, when BeeBee tapped him gently on the shoulder.
"Pardon me," the maître d' said, "but are you English?"
"Am I what?" Malone said, spill
ing a little of his drink on the bar.
"Are you English?" BeeBee inquired.
"Oh," Malone said. "No. Irish. Very Irish."
"That's nice," BeeBee said.
Malone stared at him. "I think it's fine," he said, "but I'd love to know why you asked me."
"Well," BeeBee said, "I knew you couldn't be American. Not after the phone call. You don't have to hide your nationality here; we're quite accustomed to foreign visitors. And we don't have special prices for tourists."
Malone waited two breaths. "Will you please tell me," he said slowly, "what it is you're talking about?"