"What do you have?" Mae's neighbor asked.
"Anything you want," the bartender said. "Whiskey, bourbon, Scotch,
gin, vodka. Soda, ginger ale, Seven-up. The combinations are limitless."
"I'll have a Scotch and Seven-Up," the stranger said.
The bartender didn't blink an eye. "Yes, sir," he said, and proceeded
to blend the two strange ingredients.
"Scotch and Seven-Up!" Mae said to me. "He must be one of them. Who
ever heard of such a thing?"
"That's pretty circumstantial evidence," I said.
"Change seats with me, Sam," she said. "I'm getting nervous again."
"Okay," I said. "Want another drink?"
"Definitely." She swallowed the rest of her first one as she slid onto
my stool.
"Two more of the same," I told the bartender.
"Coming up," he said. "Right after this Scotch and Seven-Up." He gave
me a shrug.
"Say something to him," Mae whispered, meaning my new neighbor at the
bar.
"Like what? Shall I ask him what he thinks of American women?"
"You're the newsman," she said. "You ought to know what to ask him."
"This is my day off," I reminded her.
"Go on. Ask him."
"Okay."