He was a tall, learned-looking man, about fifty, slightly stooped, with
a bulging midriff, tortoise-shell glasses, graying hair, and a strange
look in his eyes. I'd noticed him standing outside Shannon's Bar for
about ten minutes, pacing back and forth. Then he came in and sat down
next to me. It was late afternoon, before the rush hour, and we were the
only customers in the place.
Jimmy, the bartender, put down the towel with which he'd been idly
wiping glasses, and came over. "What'll it be?"
The stranger jumped nervously and looked blank for a moment. "Uh ... er
... a glass of beer, please. _Root_ beer."