Every day at noon he arrives in the dining room of the private club. It is a ritual he has observed for decades. He walks slowly, with shuffling steps, but his back is straight, and on his way to his reserved table, he reaches a hand toward a chair-back to steady himself for a moment before proceeding.
There is a tired look to the imperious, heavy-lidded eyes, as his long fingers grasp the typewritten menu that the waiter has handed him. He scans the menu, but it is just a cursory inspection, for he orders the same meal every day: a bowl of tomato soup, chicken breast in a sauce béarnaise, two black olives and julienned carrots cooked with raisins.
The waiter pours ice water into his glass, next to which is a small dish with two slices of lemon pierced with a cocktail pick. The waiter dips the lemon in the water briefly, and then sets them back on the dish.
The old man's eyes survey the dining room, beginning at the entrance through which he had come, moving first to the left, then across to the right, where they rest on the two women who are sitting at a table next to the far window. The older of the two glances up from her soup plate, sees the old man, nods a greeting, then whispers something to her companion. The younger woman gazes momentarily at the man, displaying no sign of recognition, and resumes her meal without a word.
The old man knows who they are, knows, in fact, their family backgrounds as far back as three generations, knows that the older woman has debts well beyond her ability to repay, that her late husband also had a problem with managing his finances, that her children are good-for-nothing wastrels, and that the younger woman will be picking up the tab for this lunch and might even have been touched for a loan, perhaps not for the first time.
At a table by the wall, below large formal portraits of founding members of the club, sits another regular diner, a corpulent man in his late sixties. He has finished his dessert of blancmange, drained the last of his coffee, and carefully wiped his lips with his napkin. He looks up, appearing just at this very moment to notice the old man, and yells out a hearty greeting across the room. Then he gets up, picks up his golf cap, walks over to the table where the two women are sitting, and offers his compliments, which the older one returns with a labored smile. There is a brief introduction to the younger woman, and a gallant kissing of her hand.
The old man watches all this with Sphinx-like impassivity, his hooded eyes barely moving. He knows that the fat man has an enormous bar tab at the club, and the installment payments he has been making will barely cover his new purchases. He perceives that the fat man today did not have his customary two martinis at lunch.
Having finished with the two women, the fat man now approaches the old man's table. He has a slight limp. He is not invited to sit, and stands uneasily twisting his cap in his hands. The old man knows all the signs. He is quite prepared to deny the request he expects will issue from the fat man's mouth. The hooded eyes are raised to the ceiling. There is a curt sideways movement of the head. Negative. There will be no reinstatement of the fat man's credit at the bar, certainly not until the entire bill is paid in full.
The old man's chicken arrives. Without another word he begins to eat. The fat man stands there for a moment, then turns and starts to walk away. Several feet from the exit he stops, and retraces his steps to the old man's table. Again he hesitates. The old man does not look up from his meal. The fat man leans forward, whispers in the old man's ear.
The old man starts to cough and choke. Bits of chewed chicken fly out of his mouth. His face changes color, as the fat man backs away. A waiter rushes to the old man's side. The two women stare.
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