Doughnut - By Tom Holt Page 0,40

Theo walked in, recoiled in terror, looked around wildly for somewhere to run, lunged sideways, slipped in a pool of spilt beer, skidded five yards, crashed into a wall and slowly crumpled into a heap. The woman behind the bar gave Theo a startled look, then beamed at him. “Drinks on the house, stranger,” she said. “Anyone who can throw a scare like that into Big Red—”

“Could I possibly have a glass of water, please?” Theo said.

“Water.” She said it the way a professor of geography might say “Atlantis”. “Sure. You want whisky in that?”

“Not really, no.”

She turned and examined a row of bottles lined up on a shelf behind the bar, eventually picking one out. It was dusty and draped in cobwebs, and a peeling handwritten label read WATR. She poured two fingers into a glass and slid it along the bar. Theo took a sip. It tasted of watered-down whisky.

“I’m looking,” he said, “for someone called Max.”

“Right. Would that be Crazy Max, Spanish Max, Big Little Max, Max the Axe—?”

“Nondescript Max.”

“Oh, him.” She frowned. “You just missed him. He was in here earlier with that other one.”

“Short fat bald—”

“I threw them out.” She peered at him closely. “You a friend of theirs?”

“Sort of.”

“Door’s right behind you, mister.”

It was the same story in the Golden Garter, the Long Branch, the Birdcage and the Lucky Strike. That just left the Last Chance –

“Well,” said the bartender, “there’s Slim Max, Fat Max, Apple Max—”

“Nondescript Max,” Theo said wearily. “Goes around with a short, fat, bald guy called Pete. They’re weird.”

The bartender nodded. “Wait there,” he said.

He scurried off into the back; and, for the first time since he’d arrived in wherever the hell it was supposed to be, Theo felt a tiny spasm of hope. He wasn’t kept waiting long. A few minutes later, the bartender was back. He’d brought some people with him. About twenty of them, including the sheriff.

“That’s him,” the bartender said.

They took him outside, put him on a horse and led him to the edge of town, where a single sad-looking tree stood beside the road. All of its branches had been sawn off except one, which stuck out at right angles, parallel to the ground. Why would anyone do that, he asked himself. Oh, he thought.

“Any last request?” the sheriff asked, as he threw the other end of the rope over the horizontal branch.

“Yes,” Theo replied. “I’d like a doughnut, please.”

“What is it with you people and doughnuts?” the sheriff asked; but he sent a runner to the Last Chance all the same. He looked surprised and hurt as Theo looked at him, through the doughnut’s hole, just before dematerialising –

He landed on the wine cellar stairs and there was still a noose around his neck. He clawed at it with both hands until he managed to prise open the knot and drag it off over his head. It was, of course, his tie.

The hell with you, Pieter, he thought, as he tottered up the stairs on legs that seemed to have no bones in them; and also with you, Max, even though you’re dead. When he reached the top of the stairs he couldn’t bear to put the tie back on, so he stuffed it in his pocket.

“Your brandy,” he said. “Sorry I was so long, but—”

Mr Nordstrom grabbed the bottle, ripped off the foil with his teeth, unscrewed the cap and swallowed five eye-watering mouthfuls. Then he wiped his mouth and put the bottle on the desk. “Why aren’t you wearing a tie?” he asked.

“Um.”

“Sloppy,” he said. “Improperly dressed. I never take my tie off, no matter what.”

Interesting mental images, for which he didn’t have the time or the processor capacity. “Sorry,” he said. “I won’t—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Mr Nordstrom glugged another three mouthfuls. The bottle was a third empty. “Charge it to my room, all right?” He stood up, straight and perfectly steady. “Oh, there was a phone call while you were gone. I wrote it down.”

The message, in immaculate old-fashioned copperplate on a yellow sticky –

Janine called. No message. Wouldn’t leave number. Will call back.

Well, of course. She probably had private detectives watching the hotel through lenses the size of rhino horns; the moment he left the desk, they called her and she called him. It was the sort of thing she might just conceivably do too.

When he got back to his room, he found the door was locked, which surprised him since the last time he’d looked there hadn’t been a lock