Drinking alone was not going to be good for me, so I elected for the lesser evil: drinking in company. I put on my hat, tugged my sunglasses over my eyes and drew up the collar of my raincoat. There was nobody outside the office, nobody on the stairs, not even anybody on the streets. Just me. I made my way directly to Chill's Bar in New York City, stopping only once to make a short phone call.

I went in the back way, the hidden way that Nether had installed. Judging by the noise, the bar was already busy with early evening drinkers. I found Rosie in her little office, apparently searching for some vital piece of paper from amongst the mountain of abandoned paperwork on the desk. I coughed discreetly. Rosie span around, gasped then, collecting herself, smiled warmly.

"Findo Gask," she said sympathetically, "How are you?"

"I hate funerals," I said gruffly, "I need a drink."

Her smile widened and the look in her eyes softened.

"Well, you've come to the right place."

Within moments, Rosie has installed me in a darkened corner, one where the stools were low enough to be comfortable for a Goblin, and where the beer barrels which functioned as tables made it difficult to tell that one's legs did not quite reach the ground. One of the young and friendly - and worldly-wise, especially in the world of the Goblins - waiting staff hurried over carrying a tray and presented me with a glass - a human half-pint - of the best dark Irish stout accompanied by a shot-glass of what I would shortly discover was a very good Irish whiskey.

Sensibly, the waiter left me to my own thoughts and bustled back to the bar. I scanned the room automatically - I very rarely fail to take the most basic precautions - but sensed no threat, no risk. Rosie was on best form, entertaining the regulars at the bar, and the clientele seemed to be delighted to have another Leprechaun about the place, if only for a while.

Ten minutes later, Gumshoe hurried in, looking faintly harassed. I think this is just his default appearance, the way his face settles when no strong emotion is driving him. He looked around wildly for a moment, then saw me nearly hidden in the corner.

"Martin Gamshack, finally," I said as he approached, "So you do pick up your messages sometimes, then?"

"Gask," he replied, "I came as quickly as I could. You said it was an emergency."

"It is an emergency," I replied, "It was my sister Trinity's funeral yesterday. I haven't slept much. Now I really, really need to get drunk."

"Ah," he said, sitting down heavily on one of the low stools, "I can relate to that. What do I have to do to get a drink in here?"

Gumshoe looked around but the attentive waiting staff was ahead of him. The same young person hurried over with a refilled tray: another couple of glasses for me and the same for him. I lifted the replenished shot-glass in a toast, Gumshoe following my lead. Our glasses clinked, then there was that moment of internal struggle while we both winced at the fiery liquid burning its way down our throats.

We talked for hours, the human detective and I, while the beer and spirits flowing freely. Every now and then, one of the more forthright of the regulars would drop by and press yet more beverages into our hands. Rosie stayed at the bar, but she glanced frequently in our direction, a glance that was always returned by Gumshoe.

We talked about the closed case, confirming all we both knew about recent events. Then we moved on to previous glorious triumphs - modestly downplayed in my case - and ignoble disasters, played for laughs. Gumshoe seemed to have as many tales as I did, all suggestive of a detailed knowledge of the seamier side of life on the surface, at least as far as the East Coast of North America was concerned. It all helped take my mind of things.

"We should form a partnership," Gumshoe suggested suddenly, out of the blue, "Gamshack and Gask."

It was an intriguing idea, especially after a few drinks.

"Gask and Gamshack," I countered, grinning broadly.

"Nah," he replied airily, gesturing with his half-empty beer glass, "Doesn't scan as well. Better my way."

In English, that was probably true. I tried it in the Goblin tongue. Gumshoe looked at me strangely, probably at the sound of his own name pronounced in the Goblin fashion.

"How about 'Gamshack and Gask' up here and 'Gask and Gamshack' in the Lower Realms?" I suggested, my judgement only slightly pickled by the booze I had consumed.

"It's a deal," he laughed, standing up only slightly unsteadily and sticking out an enormous paw in my direction.

I took it and shook hands. This might just work.

-- The End --

Part 107

Other books in the Findo Gask - Goblin Detective series can be found here. This series is very much a work in progress, with new chapters and volumes being added from time to time.

Why not take a look at my Lyndesfarne Bridge series of novels: New Bridge to Lyndesfarne, Bridge at War, Death on the New Bridge and Bridge of Stone and Magic.

You may also like my collection of fifteen interlinked fantasy and science fiction short stories under the title Four Square Less One. Can you work out the connection between the stories?