Emmanuel Rubin did not, as a general rule, ever allow a look of relief to cross his face. Had one done so, it would have argued a prior feeling of uncertainty or apprehension, sensations he might feel but would certainly never admit to. This time, however, the relief was unmistakable. It was monthly banquet time for the Black Widowers; Rubin was the host, and it was he who was supplying the guest; and here it was about twenty minutes after seven and only now - with but ten minutes left before the banquet was to start - only now did his guest arrive. Rubin bounded toward him, careful, however, not to spill a drop of his second drink. "Gentlemen," he said, clutching the arm of the newcomer, "my guest, the Amazing Larri - spelled L - A - R - R - I." And in a lowered voice, over the hum of pleased - to - meet - yous, "Where the hell were you?" Larri muttered, "The subway train stalled." Then returned smiles and greetings. "Pardon me," said Henry, the perennial - and nonpareil - waiter at the Black Widower banquets, "but there is not much time for the guest to have his drink before dinner begins. Would you state your preference, sir?" "A good notion, that," said Larri, gratefully. "Thank you, waiter, and let me have a dry martini, but not too darned dry - a little damp, so to speak."