“When I think back on the wonders of lamb Amirstan,” said Costain, “I quite understand what you’re driving at. And, by the way, isn’t it nearly due to appear on the bill of fare? It must have been over a month ago that it was last served.”
The waiter, filling the tumblers, hesitated. “I am so sorry, sair. No special this evening.”
“There’s your answer,” Laffler grunted, “and probably just my luck to miss out on it altogether the next time.”
Costain stared at him. “Oh, come, that’s impossible.”
“No, blast it.” Laffler drank off half his water at a gulp and the waiter immediately refilled the glass. “I’m off to South America for a surprise tour of inspection. One month, two months, Lord knows how long.”
“Are things that bad down there?”
“They could be better.” Laffler suddenly grinned. “Mustn’t forget it takes very mundane dollars and cents to pay the tariff at Sbirro’s.”
“I haven’t heard a word of this around the office.”
“Wouldn’t be a surprise tour if you had. Nobody knows about this except myself — and now you. I want to walk in on them completely unsuspected. Find out what flimflammery they’re up to down there. As far as the office is concerned, I’m off on a jaunt somewhere. Maybe recuperating in some sanatorium from my hard work. Anyhow, the business will be in good hands. Yours, among them.”
“Mine?” said Costain, surprised.
“When you go in tomorrow you’ll find yourself in receipt of a promotion, even if I’m not there to hand it to you personally. Mind you, it has nothing to do with our friendship either; you’ve done fine work, and I’m immensely grateful for it.”
Costain reddened under the praise. “You don’t expect to be in tomorrow. Then you’re leaving tonight?”
Laffler nodded. “I’ve been trying to wangle some reservations. If they come through, well, this will be in the nature of a farewell celebration.”
“You know,” said Costain slowly, “I devoutly hope that your reservations don’t come through. I believe our dinners here have come to mean more to me than I ever dared imagine.”
The waiter’s voice broke in. “Do you wish to be served now, sair?” and they both started.
“Of course, of course,” said Laffler sharply, “I didn’t realize you were waiting.”
“What bothers me,” he told Costain as the waiter turned away, “is the thought of the lamb Amirstan I’m bound to miss. To tell you the truth, I’ve already put off my departure a week, hoping to hit a lucky night, and now I simply can’t delay anymore. I do hope that when you’re sitting over your share of lamb Amirstan, you’ll think of me with suitable regrets.”
Costain laughed. “I will indeed,” he said as he turned to his dinner.
Hardly had he cleared the plate when a waiter silently reached for it. It was not their usual waiter, he observed; it was none other than the victim of the assault.
“Well,” Costain said, “how do you feel now? Still under the weather?”
The waiter paid no attention to him. Instead, with the air of a man under great strain, he turned to Laffler. “Sair,” he whispered. “My life. I owe it to you. I can repay you!”
Laffler looked up in amazement, then shook his head firmly. “No,” he said; “I want nothing from you, understand? You have repaid me sufficiently with your thanks. Now get on with your work and let’s hear no more about it.”
The waiter did not stir an inch, but his voice rose slightly. “By the body and blood of your God, sair, I will help you even if you do not want! Do not go into the kitchen, sair. I trade you my life for yours, sair, when I speak this. Tonight or any night of your life, do not go into the kitchen at Sbirro’s!”
Laffler sat back, completely dumbfounded. “Not go into the kitchen? Why shouldn’t I go into the kitchen if Mr. Sbirro ever took it into his head to invite me there? What’s all this about?”
A hard hand was laid on Costain’s back, and another gripped the waiter’s arm. The waiter remained frozen to the spot, his lips compressed, his eyes downcast.
“What is all what about, gentlemen?” purred the voice. “So opportune an arrival. In time as ever, I see, to answer all the questions, hurr?”
Laffler breathed a sigh of relief. “Ah, Sbirro, thank heaven you’re here. This man is saying something about my not going into your kitchen. Do you know what he means?”
The teeth showed in a broad grin. “But of course. This good man was giving you advice in all amiability. It so happens that my too emotional chef heard some rumor that I might have a guest into his precious kitchen, and he flew into a fearful rage. Such a rage, gentlemen! He even threatened to give notice on the spot, and you can understand what that would mean to Sbirro’s, hurr? Fortunately, I succeeded in showing him what a signal honor it is to have an esteemed patron and true connoisseur observe him at his work first hand, and now he is quite amenable. Quite, hurr?”
He released the waiter’s arm. “You are at the wrong table,” he said softly. “See that it does not happen again.”
The waiter slipped off without daring to raise his eyes and Sbirro drew a chair to the table. He seated himself and brushed his hand lightly over his hair. “Now I am afraid that the cat is out of the bag, hurr? This invitation to you, Mr. Laffler, was to be a surprise; but the surprise is gone, and all that is left is the invitation.”
Laffler mopped beads of perspiration from his forehead. “Are you serious?” he said huskily. “Do you mean that we are really to witness the preparation of your food tonight?”
Sbirro drew a sharp fingernail along the tablecloth, leaving a thin, straight line printed in the linen. “Ah,” he said, “I am faced with a dilemma of great proportions.” He studied the line soberly. “You, Mr. Laffler, have been my guest for ten long years. But our friend here—”
Costain raised his hand in protest. “I understand perfectly. This invitation is solely to Mr. Laffler, and naturally my presence is embarrassing. As it happens, I have an early engagement for this evening and must be on my way anyhow. So you see there’s no dilemma at all, really.”
“No,” said Laffler, “absolutely not. That wouldn’t be fair at all. We’ve been sharing this until now, Costain, and I won’t enjoy this experience half as much if you’re not along. Surely Sbirro can make his conditions flexible, this one occasion.”
They both looked at Sbirro, who shrugged his shoulders regretfully.
Costain rose abruptly. “I’m not going to sit here, Laffler, and spoil your great adventure. And then too,” he bantered, “think of that ferocious chef waiting to get his cleaver on you. I prefer not to be at the scene. I’ll just say goodbye,” he went on, to cover Laffler’s guilty silence, “and leave you to Sbirro. I’m sure he’ll take pains to give you a good show.” He held out his hand and Laffler squeezed it painfully hard.
“You’re being very decent, Costain,” he said. “I hope you’ll continue to dine here until we meet again. It shouldn’t be too long.”
Sbirro made way for Costain to pass. “I will expect you,” he said. “Au ’voir.”
Costain stopped briefly in the dim foyer to adjust his scarf and fix his Homburg at the proper angle. When he turned away from the mirror, satisfied at last, he saw with a final glance that Laffler and Sbirro were already at the kitchen door; Sbirro holding the door invitingly wide with one hand, while the other rested, almost tenderly, on Laffler’s meaty shoulders.