It was basically the same speech every year, and he wisely kept it short. His concluding remarks were greeted by applause. He nodded and shook hands, quickly surrounded by senior directors, the suck-ups.
On one of the tables was a punch bowl filled with red liquid, fruit and ice cubes bobbing in it. I picked up the ladle, filled two cups, and took a quick sip. It was nonalcoholic, although I was certain it wouldn’t stay that way long.
“Joyeux Noël, Vince.”
I flinched. That was the worst accent I’d ever heard.
“Merry Christmas, Smitty. I almost didn’t recognize you.” Usually he was in scrubs or a lab coat. “You’re looking good too, Max. Does this mean what I think it does?”
The little Frenchman smiled his sweet smile and leaned against the pathologist. “He’s my present this year.”
“Go
