I don’t think he had been there very long because the barkeep didn’t know Lippit’s brand. Lippit pointed up at the shelves with the bottles, and then the barkeep took down the bottle Lippit wanted. The barkeep poured out a double, a Chivas Regal double, which went in one toss. Lippit held the glass out and watched as it was refilled. The barkeep smiled, half like a strong man and half like a very weak one, because he was also the owner. Chivas Regal, it said on the little list on the wall, came at one buck a shot.

Lippit paid attention to none of that, nipped down half his double, and watched me come the length of the bar.

“Jack,” he said, “you don’t have to put on the dog for Mister Stonewall here,” and looked at my tux. Then he said to the barkeep, “Mister Stonewall, meet our man Jack St. Louis.”

Stonewall and I mumbled and smiled and had a firm handshake.

“You want a drink, Jack?” said Lippit. Stonewall’s hand became weak and fluttery.

I said, no, I didn’t want a drink, and that I was sorry to be late, and what a nice, new place Mister Stonewall had here. Stonewall smiled, but said nothing, because he was watching Lippit finish the rest of the drink. He held that smile when Lippit set the glass down on the bar and still didn’t relax when he saw clearly what Lippit did next. Lippit pulled a handful of bills out of his pocket, pulled four ones off, and fanned them out on the bar. “I never tip the owner,” he said, pushing the price of the scotch at Mister Stonewall.

Now Lippit was ready for business, and so was Stonewall. He was ready, it looked like, to allow Lippit free reign on installing a jukebox at every barstool in the place.

“With the decor like it is,” said Lippit, “elegant like it is, what we should put in here is the new one hundred we just got.”