Well, being a free person and not on parole was all well and good, but there was no point in overdoing it. Hunching a shoulder against the spy-cam, Dortmunder said, "Whadaya say, Rollo?"

"With you in a minute," Rollo said. Inside each glass now, it looked as though an elf had blown up, but Rollo was not done. To cap it all, he dropped a shiny red spheroid on top of each; could those be related to cherries somehow?

Surely that was all even these glasses could stand, but no. Turning to a little-used drawer under the backbar, Rollo came up with five Oriental pastel parasols and plopped one onto each drink, as though some poor shipwrecked son of a bitch were marooned on each of them.

And now they actually were done. Since apparently total concentration was not necessary while loading glasses onto a tray — not even glasses like these — while Rollo did that operation he said, "You already got the beer and salt back there."

"Good."

Tray full, Rollo reached under the bar and came up with a bottle of sluggish brown liquid behind a label reading,

Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon

"Our Own Brand"

Placing this bottle on the bar before Dortmunder, he said, "The other bourbon and ice? He coming?"

"Yeah."

"I'll get you two glasses," Rollo said, and while he did, Dortmunder told him, "Also the rye and water, the one that tinkles his ice cubes all the time."

"Haven't seen him for a while." Rollo knew everybody not by their name but by their drink, which struck him as the professional way to go about things.

"He's the one called this meeting," Dortmunder said. "Let's hope it's good news."

"I'll drink to that," Rollo said, though he didn't. Instead, he carried the tray of weirdness toward the five tourist ladies, who filmed his approach.