The Secret History by Donna Tartt

to inspect them for dust. He looked like a very young Teddy Roosevelt, sans moustache, about to lead the Rough Riders up San Juan Hill or go out and track a wildebeest or something.
    “It was wonderful. Thanks.”
    He blew out a ponderous cloud of blue, foul-smelling smoke. “Great food, good company, lotsa drinks, couldn’t ask for much more, could we? What’s that song?”
    “What song?”
    “
I want my dinner,
” sang Bunny, “
and conversation, and …
something, dum-te-dum.”
    “Don’t know.”
    “I don’t know, either. Ethel Merman sings it.”
    The light was growing dimmer and, as I struggled to focus on objects outside our immediate area, I saw the place was empty except for us. In a distant corner hovered a pale shape which I believed to be our waiter, a being obscure, faintly supernatural in aspect, yet without that preoccupied air which shadows are said to possess: we were the sole focus of its attention; I felt it concentrating towards us its rays of spectral hate.
    “Uh,” I said, shifting in my chair with a movement that almost made me lose my balance, “maybe we should go.”
    Bunny waved his hand magnanimously and turned over the check, rummaging in a pocket as he studied it. In a moment he looked up and smiled. “I say, old horse.”
    “Yes?”
    “Hate to do this to you, but why don’t you stand me lunch this time.”
    I raised a drunken eyebrow and laughed. “I don’t have a cent on me.”
    “Neither do I,” he said. “Funny thing. Seem to have left my wallet at home.”
    “Oh, come on. You’re joking.”
    “Not at all,” he said lightly. “Haven’t a dime. I’d turn out my pockets for you, but Twinkletoes’d see.”
    I became aware of our malevolent waiter, lurking in the shadows, no doubt listening to this exchange with interest. “How much is it?” I said.
    He ran an unsteady finger down the column of figures. “Comes to two hundred and eighty-seven dollars and fifty-nine cents,” he said. “That’s without tip.”
    I was stunned at this amount, and baffled at his lack of concern. “That’s a lot.”
    “All that booze, you know.”
    “What are we going to do?”
    “Can’t you write a check or something?” he said casually.
    “I don’t have any checks.”
    “Then put it on your card.”
    “I don’t have a card.”
    “Oh, come on.”
    “I
don’t
,” I said, growing more irritated by the second.
    Bunny pushed back his chair and stood up and looked around the restaurant with a studied carelessness, like a detective cruising a hotel lobby, and for one wild moment I thought he was going to make a dash for it. Then he clapped me on the shoulder. “Sit tight, old man,” he whispered. “I’m going to make a phone call.” And then he was off, his fists in his pockets, the white of his socks flashing in the dim.
    He was gone a long time. I was wondering if he was going to come back at all, if he hadn’t just crawled out a window and left me to foot the bill, when finally a door shut somewhere and he sauntered back across the room.
    “Worry not, worry not,” he said as he slid into his chair. “All’s well.”
    “What’d you do?’
    “Called Henry.”
    “He’s coming?”
    “In two shakes.”
    “Is he mad?”
    “Naw,” said Bunny, brushing off this thought with a slight flick of the hand. “Happy to do it. Between you and me, I think he’s damned glad to get out of the house.”

    After maybe ten extremely uncomfortable minutes, during which we pretended to sip at the dregs of our ice-cold coffee, Henry walked in, a book beneath his arm.
    “See?” whispered Bunny. “Knew he’d come. Oh, hello,” he said, as Henry approached the table. “Boy am I glad to see—”
    “Where’s the check,” said Henry, in a toneless and deadly voice.
    “Here you are, old pal,” said Bunny, fumbling among the cups and glasses. “Thanks a million. I really owe you—”
    “Hello,” said Henry coldly, turning to me.
    “Hello.”
    “How are you?” He