The Winners [antikvár]

"The marquise left at five," Carlos Lopez thought. "Where the devil did I read that?" He was at the London Café on Peru and Avenida; it was five-ten. Did the marquise leave at five? Lopez shook his head to push away the incomplete recollection, and tried his Quilmes Cristal beer. It wasn't cold enough. "Take a person away from his routine, he's like a fish out of water," Dr. Restelli said, staring at his glass. "I'm used to my sweet maté tea at four, you know. Look at that woman coming out of the subway; I don't know if you can see her, there are so many people. There she goes, the blonde. Do you think we'll run into such free and easy blondes on our cruise?" "I doubt it," said Lopez. "The most beautiful women always travel on another ship. That's how it is." "Ah, skeptical youth," said Dr. Restelli. "I'm well past the dangerous age, though naturally I go on an occasional fling. I'm optimistic, however; I've packed three bottles of brandy in my suitcase, and I'm almost sure we'll have the company of lovely young ladies." "We'll see, if we ever leave at all," said Lopez. "Speaking of women, here comes one worth turning your head about seventy degrees toward Florida. There . . . stop. The one talking to the long-haired guy. They look like the types who'd be going on this trip with, us, although I'll be damned if I know how anyone has to look to go on this trip. Let's have another beer."