Mercer was sipping her icy drink and trying to remember how many she’d had. With Bruce continually topping her glass, it was difficult to keep count. She was buzzed and needed to slow down. She ate a taco and looked around for a bottle of water, or maybe even some wine, but there was nothing else on the porch. Only a fresh pitcher of daiquiris, just sitting there waiting on them.

Bruce topped off their glasses and began telling a story about daiquiris, his favorite summer drink. In 1948, an American writer named A. E. Hotchner went to Cuba to track down Ernest Hemingway, who lived there in the late 1940s and early 1950s. The two became fast friends, and in 1966, a few years after Hemingway’s death, Hotchner published a famous book, Papa Hemingway.

Predictably, Mort interrupted with “I’ve met Hotchner, think he’s still alive. Must be pushing a hundred.”

Bruce replied, “Let’s assume you’ve met everybody, Mort.”

Anyway, as the story went, during Hotchner’s first visit, which was for some type of interview, Hemingway was reluctant. Hotchner pestered him and they finally met in a bar not far from Hemingway’s home. On the phone Hemingway said the place was famous for its daiquiris. Of course, Hemingway was late, so while Hotchner waited he ordered a daiquiri. It was delicious and strong, and since he was not much of a drinker, he took it slow. An hour passed. The bar was hot and sticky so he ordered another. When it was half-gone he realized he was seeing double. When Hemingway finally arrived he was treated like a celebrity. Evidently, he spent a lot of time there. They shook hands and found a table and Ernest ordered daiquiris. Hotchner toyed with his fresh one while Ernest practically drained his. Then he drained another. During his third, Ernest noticed that his new drinking buddy was not drinking, so he challenged his manhood and said that if he wished to hang out with the great Ernest Hemingway he’d better learn to drink like a man. Hotchner manned up, gave it a go, and the room was soon spinning. Later, as Hotchner tried gamely to hold up his head, Ernest lost interest in their conversation and, with a fresh daiquiri, began playing dominoes with the locals. At some point—Hotchner had lost all concept of time—Ernest stood and said it was time for dinner. Hotchner was to follow him. On the way out, Hotchner asked, “How many daiquiris did we drink?”

The bartender thought for a second and said in English, “Four for you, seven for Papa.”

“You had seven daiquiris?” Hotchner asked in disbelief.

Ernest laughed, as did the locals. “Seven is nothing, my friend. The record here is sixteen, held by me of course, and I walked home.”

Mercer was beginning to feel as though she was on number sixteen.

Mort said, “I remember reading Papa when I was in the mail room at Random.” Stuffed with tacos, he relit his cigar. “Do you have a first edition, Bruce?”