The Last Smile in Sunder City (The Fetch Phillips Archives #1) - Luke Arnold Page 0,18
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.