“You’re quite right. I’ll also have a whiskey. Neat and double.”
The elderly face kept the broad smile as I handed him back the menu. With a graceful nod, he made his way back to the kitchen.
The floor of the restaurant was bare cement, mostly. Three tiles had been laid in the corner but it was impossible to tell whether they were a new addition waiting to be completed or a remnant of its past life. A dozen small tables had each been assigned two chairs, a white tablecloth and a fresh, unlit candle. Years of chemical burns and flooding had painted the red bricks in a distinctive pattern as if an orgy of sick rainbows were climbing up the wall. Still, he’d set the tables nicely, and it looked clean.
The old fellow got me thinking about Edmund Rye, who had turned his hand to teaching after three hundred years of life. While others were wallowing in what was lost or crawling back towards their past, he was hoping to pass things on.
How was Rye so happy to accept what had happened? Maybe it was just his nature. If he was really one of the rare ones who knew that his time was over but still wanted to make things better for the rest of us, then I needed to find him soon; dead, undead or alive.
It took twenty minutes for the old man to return with my meal and he did a little bow as he placed it down in front of me.
“And the whiskey?” I asked.
“Of course. Francis!”
The lazy grandson appeared from the kitchen with a low-ball and a surprisingly decent bottle of hooch. He handed it to the silver-haired man and disappeared back into the nether regions of the restaurant.
The old man’s fingers trembled as he turned the cap on the brand-new bottle and poured generously.
“Neat and double,” he said with a pride that felt unfitting for the situation. That’s when the pressure of my role revealed itself in his eyes.
I was the first customer. Shit. In his mind, the hopes and dreams of his establishment rested on my upcoming review. I reluctantly turned my attention to the plate.
The first things I noticed were the mushrooms. It was hard not to. They were the size of coasters and cooked in sauce so watery you could call it soup. I had to use my spoon to clear them out the way to get a look at the rest of the meal. It wasn’t much better.
Cutting open the eggs revealed a spoonful of chalk where the yolk had once been. The tomatoes had liquefied, gone rogue and attacked the toast, creating a red paste that looked like something left over after surgery. There was a black thing in the corner of the plate which was maybe a sausage or perhaps some kind of fruit. I let it be.
When I took a sip of whiskey instead of a bite, he seemed to get the message.
“You not like?”
I offered feeble protest.
“No, it looks marvelous. I just think maybe it’s a bit late for breakfast.”
He leaned over and re-examined my plate.
“Ah, yes. I overcooked the eggs.”
“A little.”
“You wanted them runny.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“I am sorry. I will try again.”
“No, that’s fine. I have to be going anyway.”
“Next time?”
“Okay.”
“I will make them runny.”
“Fantastic. I’ll be sure to bring my appetite.”
He lifted the plate and walked back towards the kitchen, holding it under his nose and muttering to himself.
“Ah, yes. Tomatoes, too soft.”
A heated discussion rang out from the kitchen as I threw some cash on the table and finished my drink. I wasn’t mad, just happy to be out of there. You had to admire the guy. He was three times my age and starting over. I don’t think I ever got started in the first place.
I had time to kill before my meeting with Principal Burbage so I headed north up Riley Street to Jimmy’s, the place the librarian had told me was Rye’s favorite bar. The entrance was a narrow stairwell between the tanners and a little butcher that closed long ago – faded signs still advertised roast rabbits (a favorite among Werewolves) and controversial cuts of meat like Gryphon steak. A little red sticker on the door read, “Blood donations – on request”. Whether the butcher placed an order with a supplier or opened a vein of his own was unclear. Both options made me uneasy.
I climbed the stairs to an intimidating black door that opened into a small moody room with no windows.
It was something out of another, better, era. The bar was polished to perfection and reflected the glow of the overhanging chandelier. The stools were covered in red velvet and five freshly upholstered booths lined the back wall. There were even little bowls of roasted nuts on all the tables. I strolled in, took a sample from one of the bowls and waited for heads to turn. It didn’t take long.
There were two patrons: a long-haired Wizard with bloated cheeks and a Gnome in a white suit and matching feathered, pork-pie hat. The barman was a six-foot slab of steak with one large eye in the center of his head. I sat my cheap ass down on one of the fancy stools and dropped some coins on to the bar.
“Burnt milkwood.”
Old one-eye didn’t move an inch.
“None o’ that syrupy shite here,” he gurgled.
I glanced over the wine racks behind him: all rare and expensive vintages, similar to the bottles I saw at Rye’s, and all well outside my price range.
“Just give me something with a kick to it.”
The Cyclops snorted and came over to my part of the counter. He used one thick sausage of a finger to shift the coins around, counting them in his head. Then he went over to the sink.
He picked a glass out of the dirty pile and wiped it on his apron. He turned the tap, filled it with water, came back and placed it in front of me. Then he sniffed, leaned forward and spat into the glass.
“There’s the kick.”
I didn’t bother guessing what had so swiftly placed me on the brute’s bad side. It could have been my clothes and my taped-up boots. It could have been my asking-for-trouble attitude. It could have been the fact that I was Human. Or, it could be that I just have one of those faces people dream about pushing into a beehive.
Well, there was no point bothering with the niceties.
“I’m here about a Vampire.”
One-eye flared his nostrils but didn’t say a thing. Instead, he picked up the coins, one by one, leaving the last piece lonely on the deck. Then he put his index finger on it and pushed it back towards me.
“Your change,” he growled, and it sounded like the broken choker of a ride-on lawn-mower. I reached out for the coin.
“Thanks.”
SLAM!
He dropped a meaty fist onto the back of my palm. I reached up with my other hand, expecting the second fist to find my face, but instead, he reached over, grabbed the sleeve of my jacket and ripped it back.
He found what he was looking for: the four tattoos.
“Allo. What’s this then?”
He pointed to the thick black band closest to my wrist.
“A recluse.”
Next, the detailed pattern with an olive-green shine.
“A recruit.”
The solid mark from the military.
“A soldier.”
The barcode.
“And a criminal.”
I gave him my sweetest smile.
“Almost. The second one is for jazz ballet. Don’t worry, it’s a common mistake.”