Alfred shook his head. “Nosie—I mean, no, thank you. I—uh—some business. Maybe later.”

He started to walk away and found that his sleeve failed to accompany him. Mme. Du Barry continued to hold it between two fingers: she held it winsomely, delicately, archly, but the hold was absolutely unequivocal.

“Aw,” she pouted. “Look at the whizzy-busy businessman. No time for drinkie, no time for mesie, just busy, busy, busy, all the livelong day.”

Despite his irritation, Alfred shrugged. He wasn’t doing himself much good any other way. He came back and sat across the table from her in the booth. Then, and only then, was his sleeve released by the dainty fingers.

The angry-looking man in the spade beard and white apron appeared at their booth. “Nyehh?” he grunted, meaning, quite obviously, “What’ll you have?”

“I’ll have Scotch on the rocks,” she told Alfred. “Scotch on the rocks is absolutely the only ever drink for me.”

“Two scotch on the rocks,” Alfred told the bartender, who replied “Nyehh” signifying, “You order the stuff, I bring it. It’s your funeral.”

“I heard you asking about contests. I won a contest once. Does that make you like me a little better?”

“What kind of contest did you win?” Alfred asked absent-mindedly, studying her. Under that mask she was probably somewhat pretty in a rather bony, highly ordinary sort of way. There was nothing here.

“I was voted The Girl the Junior Plumbers of Cleveland Would Most Like to Wipe a Joint With. It was supposed to be The Girl Whose Joint the Junior Plumbers Would Most Like to Wipe, but some nasty people made a fuss and the judges had to change the title. It was three years ago, but I still have the award certificate, Now, does that help me at all?”

“I’m afraid not. But congratulations anyway on winning the title. It’s not everybody who can—uh, say that.”