The restaurant of the hotel is done in the same Victorian motif as the rest of the place, and is laid out in the style of a gentleman's club (though it caters to both genders). There is a smoking room, a sitting room, a library, a dining room, and a bar. The group heads for the dining room. Most of the tables are occupied -- in fact, only one table has four seats available at it -- and everyone almost immediately recognizes the english gentleman with the swollen nose sitting at that table talking to a waiter. Likewise, Nigel spots Sam, Marda, Kitty, and Leo heading in his direction.
When he notices that there are no unoccupied tables, Leo's grin decreases somewhat. His stomach rumbles ominously, reminding him that the pizza he had at C&I is now several hours in the past. He addresses the head waiter politely.
"How long is the wait for a table for four?"
Sam, now covering his tattoos with tan kaki pants and an Hawaiian tee-shirt peruses the situation. (The tattoos, by the way, appear to be transcribed with something like a permenent marker). "I'd be weary of the fellow with the crooked nose," he says. "The only thing he'd be good for is an object to strap dynamite to."
Leo's good humour returns upon hearing Sam's opinion. He nods vigourously. "I had the same impression. Maybe we can try after breakfast and see what happens... Uh, just kidding! " he adds hastily, realising that Marda is listening to this and might start believing that exploding people is really a good idea. Who knows, on Al Amarja, she might just be able to get the materials...
Marda looks up from the flower (from which she has been removing petals with surgical precision) to whine, "I'm hungry. I wanna eat."
The maitre'd approaches the group. The chocolate brown of his skin contrasts sharply with his starched whites. "Good morning," he says, in passable English, "I am afraid that there are no tables abailable at the moment. Would your party care to be seated with the gentleman?" He motions towards Nigel's table.
Nigel looks towards the group, "Yes of course, please join me. It will give me a chance to make up for my rudeness earlier today..."
Kitty looks at the group and then looks at the table. "How long of a wait is it? I really would like to get back to my hotel for a nap."
"I believe that the wait for a table will be about ten minutes," the waiter answers.
Leo glances at Kitty, Sam and Marda. "Well, ten minutes is not very long," he whispers, "but on the other hand the fellow is trying to apologise." He gives a small nod towards Nigel. "Maybe we should give him a chance... since Marda is already getting fidgetty and hungry."
Kitty smirks and wispers under her breath "I would rather wait for another table, but everyone gets their vote."
"This guy's a little too greasy for my diet", Sam says, referring to Nigel. It's hard to tell if he's just making a joke or adamant about not sitting with the guy. Come to think of it, most of Sam's humor seems a little lame and hard to place.
Marda chirps out "What's so bad about him?" with casual innocence.
Nigel looks at the group holding their little debate society and shrugs. "Wait, then, it makes no difference to me. I have offered to make amends the best I can, if you still don't desire my company, I can certainly live with that." Nigel calls over to the waiter "If you don't mind, my good man, I'M ready to order."
"Hey, don't get your gilded panties in a bunch," retorts Sam. "We don't like you much either, prissy ass."
Nigel raises his eyebrows at the rather crass remark. "If I may remind you, I made a gesture of goodwill, offering to apologize, and you people, instead of taking me at my word, debated whether I was fit company to join for breakfast. And you're saying I was rude? Please... Now, I am once again willing to let bygones be bygones and offer you a seat at this table."
Nigel turns to the waiter "I'll have the spinach quiche, and a large glass of orange juice please."
"Yes sir," replies the waiter to Nigel's order. "What sort of cheese do you want on your quiche? Would you prefer it with our house hollandaise sauce or without? And do you want your orange juice deep or jumped?"
Nigel thinks a minute. "A nice swiss on my quiche, with a small amount of Hollandaise. And I'm afraid I don't understand my juice options. Could you explain the difference between deep and jumped please?"
"Certainly sir. On Al Amarja, beverages are commonly spiked with either amphetamines -- 'jumped' in common usage, or barbiturates -- referred to as 'deep'."
Nigel's eyes seemed to glaze over. "Oh, yes. Well, I believe I'll take mine deep, as you put it, thank you."
Sam looks as if he might have had something else (of poor taste) to say, but with the presence of the waiter he refrains, and holds his ground, waiting for the next table.
Kitty looks for a place to flop down in the waiting area. "No need to stand up and wait for a table unless there is no place to flop down at..." she mutters.
"Correct-o-mundo, as far as I'm concerned", says Sam.
As Bruce looks their way, Leo waves at the Australian, who seemed like a nice guy. Kitty looks at the kneeling man, at the bar, then at Bruce with a look on her face as if to say, "I'm blonde, duh, did I just miss something?". She then continues to stare a hole right through the host's head waiting and waiting impatiently.
Sam turns to his group of dinner mates and says abruptly, "A little booze sounds good to me". With that he saunters over to the bar, staking out a seat far enough away from the rowdy group already occupying that territory to avoid interfering with their debate.
Marda dutifully follows Sam to the bar, mounts the stool next to him like the hero of an old Western, and begins to spin with wild abandon.
Leo turns to Kitty, scratching his cheek. "Well, it's a bit too early or too late for me to have alcohol, but maybe I can get a 'virgin' tequila sunrise..." He gives a lopsided grin to Kitty. "Shall we join them?" He gestures towards the bar. As he does so, however, he spares a frowning glance for the increasingly rowdy turbanned patrons.
Kitty smiles softly and thinks for a second while gazing over at the turban convention. "I really don't trust those, but I really could use something to get rid of this headache." Smiling at Leo as she passes, she strides confidently to the bar and wedges herself into an open space among the group and other patrons.
Leo follows and, since he can't show courtesy by pulling Kitty's chair for her, decides to make up for it by bowing dramatically to her before plopping himself on the next barstool. He turns his head left and right to look down the bar, grinning at Sam and Marda, and waving at Bruce and his strange drinking companions.
True to his promise, when the bartender comes to hear the order of the four new arrivals, Leo smiles: "I'm picking up the tab for these two ladies and this gentleman, here," he says, indicating Kitty, Marda and Sam. "I'll have an orange juice with just a dash of grenadine. Any munchies we can purchase here?" He looks at his companions again. "What will it be for you, guys?"
Looking at Leo, then to the fellow occupants of the bar, Kitty thanks Leo politely and then looks past the bartender and at the alcohol usually sitting around the bar. "I'll have a Mexican Coffee, please."
Marda considers the various bottles, cans and other receptacles on the rack for a few moments, and then selects one of the shinier bottles. "I want that."
Noting the particularly expensive brand of vodka that Marda has picked for breakfast, Leo hastily waves to the bartender. When the man approaches, Leo whispers, keeping his best poker face in case Marda is watching:
"The young lady over there can't have any alcohol, but please let her believe you have poured from that bottle for her. However, please serve her a fizzy italian soda, with a cherry and parasol in it of course." He grins again at the bartender and drops a reasonable tip along with enough to cover the drinks.
The bartender nods to Marda and Kitty. He is a large, ugly man with a bullet-shaped bald head. He looks like he would be more comfortable in a boxing ring or wrestling the "Goon of Doom" than standing in a nice outfit behind a nice bar. He breathes through his mouth because his nose is a hopelessly flattened mass of flesh. With a good deal of dexterity for one as muscle-bound as he appears to be, he removes the bottle that Marda pointed to from the wall, pours some in a glass, mixes it with soda, and hands it over to her. The concoction fizzes slightly and smells... odd.
He then turns back to Kitty. "Yeth ma'am" he says, with a slight German accent, "vould you lige dat goffee deep or jumbed?"
Kitty looks at the tender with a blank look on her face and then mumbles to herself. "Deep is with...and Jumped is with..." then looks at the bartender and shakes her head. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but is there any way to get the coffee without any added ingredients other than the alcohol? If not then I'll just have a glass of 7-up with a shot of vodka in it". All this said while flirtatiously tucking in her shirt and placing her hair behind her ears while glancing over to the baboons in turbans. Then quietly commenting to herself in Russian: "Great men with bodies, but too wild..." Leo gives her a bemused look, but makes no comment.
Marda holds her nose and downs the strange-smelling thing with one gulp.
Sam motions for the barkeep. "I'll take a purple hooter," he says. Then motioning toward Leo, "That fellow's paying."
The bartender busies himself for a moment or two and then deposits the appropriate beverages in front of the various patrons. He then turns to deal with the guy who was last seen clutching at Bruce's ankles, who has now arrived to order drinkies.
Sam takes a long savory sip of his beverage and contemplates the ravages of the day. Partaking in a somber moment, he relishes the feeling of the viscous beverage trickling down his throat, gliding over parched and weary taste buds. Surely not even the cruel world, with its chaotic fate and malicious humor, could break the serene beauty of a Purple Hooter on the rocks.
"Hey kid," Sam says to Marda, putting his beverage down. "What are you doing here?"
Marda just gives a eerily disarming smile and says, "I'm just following you, Tata." She then looks at the empty glass before her and adds, "I want another one of these," in a very detached manner.
As the silence stretches a bit uncomfortably, Leo starts playing with a handful of peanuts, juggling them one-handed though not very high. He glances at his three companions, then down the other end of the bar a Bruce and his mates. He looks back at Sam, Marda and Kitty and finally shrugs.
"I get the impression that people rarely come to Al Amarja without a special reason," he says wistfully. "I had never even heard of the island until, oh, three or four days ago. My time sense is a bit confused... I travel a lot, and yet I'd never seen a reference to Al Amarja, or The Edge. I find that curious. As it is, and as you might guess from my last statement, I'm not here as a tourist. I'm looking for a friend who disappeared without a warning; she left no trace except a crumpled ticket receipt in a waste basket."
He stops juggling the peanuts by tossing them into his mouth in a graceful arc, and chews, swirling the orange juice and grenadine syrup in his glass pensively.
In response to Marda's request, the bartender pours another drink.
Marda downs the second drink with even more zeal than that which accompanies
most of her actions (at least those which don't involve Teddy).
And Charlie begins quietly taking notes, realizing sadly that all this can NEVER show up in a novel. Who would believe it? Murmur, to Bruce, "Call me up another 'alf-n-'alf?"
Bruce begins looking around the room for the waiter. When sees Leo,he gives a nod and mouth a "G'day!", gesturing with his empty glass. Bruce also looks carefully towards the turban crowd, hoping that all the current commotion hasn't attracted too much attention, at least not until he has had a few more beers.
The sinister looking guys in the turbans are all talking in some obscure dialect, and have begun drinking heavily. They vary in age from over 60 to around 14. They appear to be having some sort of debate or discussion. One of the really young ones, clearly not much interested in whatever the topic of discussion is, begins looking around the bar.
Francois lets go of Bruce's legs, stands up and offers his hand to Bruce saying, "I am Francois Nedelec and I would consider it an honour if you would let me purchase you, and your friend, a bee-a".
"Thanks, mate! I'll 'ave a Fost-as, me mate 'ere," pointing to Charlie, "will 'ave a 'alf-n-'alf! Mind the drongos," Bruce says, pointing over his shoulder towards the "Turban Boys". "Caused me a bit o' trouble befo-a!"
"So, 'oo the bloody'ell are they?" asks Charlie.
"Good question! All I know is these blokes chased me through the bloody airport with knives! Damn! I wish I knew what the 'ell they wer-a saying, and what the 'ell they want with me!" Bruce peeks over again at the turban crowd to see if they are paying attention to anyone else in the bar.
"Welllll..." muses Charlie. "Vere's too many woggers for a punch-up...
unless you know ve
loonies at ve bar?" (limbering his knuckles, hopefully).
"A Fost-as and an 'alf-n-'alf', it will be a pleasure," says Francois, turning towards the bar. Puzzled by Bruce's colloquialisms he turns back. "Drongos, M'sieur? Here? I haven't seen Drongos since all the trouble with Titivilius and Saint Augus..." It suddenly dawns on François that Bruce is referring to something else. "Perhaps you mean those Worthy Oriental Gentlemen in the corner. What trouble would that be?"
Bruce opens his eyes wide at the phrase 'Worthy Oriental Gentlemen', like as if François had just called the warthog the most beautiful animal on the planet. "Mate! Them bastards chased me through the airport with knives screamin' 'KILL'! I wish I knew...Wait... Can you understand any bloody thing they-a sayin'?... Well, even if you can't, I think I may 'ave a plan 'ere..."
Charlie listening closely, taking notes, struggling with that fookin Aus' accent.
Francois considers this for a moment. "Perhaps your manner offends them?', I myself speak so many languages but Americans are always difficult to understand. Let me get you that drink and we can talk some more." Francois wanders over to the bar.
Charlie yawns, pays his check, and heads for the bathroom.
François gets two beers for Charlie and Bruce, a Pernod for himself and heads back. "Voilà pour mes amis," he says handing back the drinks. "Oh, where is your friend?," he asks Bruce, seeing that Charlie has left. "Well that means two be-as for you. Now tell me what is this strange place and how did you come to be here?"
Returning from the Gents', Charlie reels up to the table in time to hear Frenchie's question. "Research!" he cries, "the whore-goddess of every self-respecting writer! Al-Amarja is an island of mystery, and I, dear Froggy, am a writer of *hic* mysteries! Quod... erotic... dem... demon... demonstration!" He loses his balance, and tumbles in the general direction of the bar.
Francois grabs Charlie's arm. "Demon, DEMON? What do you know about that?" he exclaims right into his face. Droplets of Pernod splatter everywhere and the sweet smell of aniseed pervades the air.
"Easy, mate!" Bruce gulps half of the glass of beer. "Let's not bring any attention over he-a!" and Bruce motions over his shoulder towards the 'Turban Boys'. "Now, whoots all this about?" Bruce takes another chug of beer. "And why do you greet strange-as by throwing ye-a-self at the-a feet?" Bruce leans back in his chair in a "this outta be good" kind of way.
"It's this mad place", exclaims Francois, waving his arms around in
an alarming fashion. "How long have you been wandering around here?
Days, seconds, millennia, who can say? I've seen strange mad scenes,
twisted rituals. I've spoken in languages I don't even understand".
Francois looks desperate but then he smiles, "Then I saw you, M'sieur Bruce,
the first sane thing since I've been here. Somehow I was drawn to
you and you saved me, just by being there. I am so grateful. Let
me buy you another drink."
"What the?" Sam says, seeing Marda rocket out of the building. He turns to the others, "Freak'n kids!" Quickly, he gets up and follows suit, trying to catch the human torpedo.
Marda, running as only gazelles and small children are capable of running (that is, at high speed, and able to turn on a dime) sprints for the exit to the club, closely pursued by Sam, while Leo and Kitty stare in shock at Marda's sudden departure.
Meanwhile, over at the sinister-looking dudes table, the young boy who has been looking at Bruce closes his mouth, turns to the man next to him, and begins urgently tugging at his sleeve, pointing in Bruce's direction.
Charlie shakes his head, wondering why he didn't just stay in the gents'... "Oy, Bruce... wot's wiv dem towelheads, any'ow?"
Leo looks at the pursuit for a moment, then back at the silent Kitty, feeling self-conscious. This breakfast conversation idea hasn't worked too well so far. "Hmm, well, I'd like to go say hello to Bruce there. Would you like to come along?"
As he speaks, he gets up, leaving an ample tip for the barkeeper, and starts walking down towards Bruce and his companions. He notices the excitement growing among the turban crowd, and frowns. Is he heading into more madness? He sigh and shrugs. When on Al Amarja, do as Martians do...
He approaches Bruce, still sitting with François and the just returned Charlie.
"Hello, Bruce! How have things been since we left you with Fang and company?"
As an odd hush falls over the bar, Charlie steps around the unmoving Bruce and offers Leo a hand. "Kennedy. Charlie Kennedy." Leo smiles at the Irishman and takes the offered hand, shaking it. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Leo Barbeau, and as you can probably guess, I'm new here."
Over at older sinister looking turban dude turns to stare at Bruce, along with the younger one. After a few seconds he leaps out of his chair and begins screaming at the others in a language that no one can understand, while gesturing madly in Bruce's direction.
Over the course of the next few seconds complete silence falls at their table. All heads turn in Bruce's direction.
Leo turns to Bruce with worry in his eyes. He glances at the Australian, then back at the turban crowd, as he would rather not miss any of their actions. "Bruce, why are these people so upset about you?" he asks, as he reaches for a bowl of peanuts and a shalt shaker.
Charlie nods to Leo. "Aye, so'm I... eh, you 'ave any idea wot dem towel'eads is goin on about?" He mumbles to himself with satisfaction. "Rollin' up me sleeves... gettin' ready for a punch-up!"
Leo shrugs, as he generously pours salt over the peanuts. He gestures
with bowl and salt shaker at the turban-boys and Bruce,
keeping his eyes on the former as he answers Charlie.
"No," he says, "not a clue. It looks as if they object to Bruce's
presence, though..." He leaves the sentence hanging, clearly
hoping for an explanation from the Australian.Kitty say quietly while
looking at the towel heads: "Mmm, Bruce had a run-in with them in one of
these corridors." She quickly crosses her arms in a bouncer stance.
Bruce quickly finishes his beer. "Bloody 'ell! 'Ere we go again!" Talking out loud while watching the turban-boys Bruce says, "I 'ave no idea-a why these blokes are aft-a me. They 'ave knives...Does anyone see one of them drongo peace office-as about?..A weapon might be nice.." Bruce figgets with his side, keeping his eyes on the turban clan. "Damn! I wish I 'ad MY knife.."
"Well..." says Charlie, "I've got a chair..." Hefting his chair, he wonders... is it light enough to bonk over a guy's head? "I was wondering what a pack of Muslim are doing boozing it up...?" he addds.