“Do so.” I neared him. “Tell me something. Did Lewent say anything — uh — disagreeable about Miss Riff to you this afternoon?”
He squinted at me. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just asking. Did he?”
“No. I haven’t seen Lewent this afternoon, not since he brought you up to my room and left us. Now I’ve answered, why did you ask?”
“Something someone said. Forget it.”
“Who said what?”
I shook my head. “Later. If you don’t want to forget it, I’ll save it for after dinner. We’ll be late for cocktails.”
He tossed the paper towel at a wastebasket, missed it, growled something, went and picked it up and dropped it in, told me to come on, and led the way to the elevator.
The provision for drinks in Huck’s room, which was large and lush with luxury, was ample and varied. They were on a portable bar near the center of the room, and alongside it was Huck in his wheelchair, freshly shaven, his hair brushed with care, wearing a lemon-colored shirt, a maroon bow tie, and a maroon jacket. Also the plaid woolen shawl that had covered his lower half had been replaced by a maroon quilted one. The room was lit softly but well enough, with lamps around — one of them a rosy silk globe at the end of a metal staff clamped to the frame of Huck’s chair. As Thayer and I approached, Huck greeted us.
“Daiquiri as usual, Paul? And you, Mr. Goodwin?”