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I hung around outside the alley that led to the Deepest Joy for ten minutes or so, trying to look inconspicuous. I needn't have bothered. Nobody passing by paid me the slightest bit of attention, and probably wouldn't have done so even if I was naked, painted in yellow and purple stripes, and performing handstands. I decided I had waited long enough and strolled casually down the alley to the nearly-hidden tavern doorway. Once inside, I stood quietly for a few moments while my eyes adjusted to the gloom, then made my way to a vacant stool at the bar itself. As I seated myself, the skinny barkeeper scurried up, apparently wearing the same green waistcoat from my previous visit. There was a faint glimmer of recognition in his eyes, although nothing of that recognition was apparent in his professional demeanour. "What'll it be?" "Scotch on the Rocks." The whiskey appeared almost instantly, neatly laid out with a paper coaster and a little bowl of spicy toadstool snacks. I sipped the drink - a decent measure - and nodded approval; I was pretty sure I had got a better class of single malt than any average Joe would have received. I beckoned to the bartender whose name I recalled as Maddoes - confirmed by his badge, of course - and pointed out Angus, who sat at a small table away from the bar itself. One of the waiting staff was presenting him with a large glass of dark liquid - his second, judging by the empty being collected - and a bowl of bar nuts, into which he immediately dug one paw into and scooped out a handful. "What do you know about that one?" I asked quietly. Maddoes looked over briefly, then leaned forward confidentially. "He comes in here almost every night. Don't know his name. He drinks much, but not too much, eats the bar snacks greedily, tips meanly when he is on his own and overtly generously when in company - which doesn't happen often. Always pays cash. Oh, and he eyes up the females in a hungry kind of way." I nodded. No doubt a shady place like this would attract unattached ladies of a variety of kinds, all trouble. "So he likes the ladies, does he?" I sneered. "I guess he does, but," Maddoes hesitated for a moment, then when on, "Only in a theoretical kind of way. He never approaches any, never tries to talk to them. Frankly, he doesn't seem to be able to summon the backbone. He looks far too thoroughly married, if you ask me." I had noticed the overfed look, not to mention the wedding band on his finger. I glanced in his direction. "So who does he talk to?" Maddoes shrugged. "He occasionally meets people here, males always. They're always strangers; they arrive, seek him out, take just one drink, talk to him for a while, then leave. Otherwise keeps himself to himself. Never any trouble. Leaves quietly at closing time and goes home to the missus." "So, a good customer then?" The bartender snorted. "As good as any we get here." Just at that moment, Coupar Angus caught sight of me across the bar. Even from that distance, I could see a frown wrinkling his forehead; the familiar look of somebody who recognises another - they are almost certain of it - but cannot quite place when or when they met. I swallowed the rest of my whiskey and threw a few bills on the bar - enough to pay the bar tab and a generous tip to thank Maddoes for his helpfulness, and to ensure his future helpfulness, too. It was time to leave. I needed more information; I had someplace else I needed to be tonight.
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Part 41