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I started to spend a lot of time on the surface, more than most Goblins would feel comfortable with; indeed, far too much time, even in my own opinion, as I felt I was neglecting Mother. But I was able to make a great many - very cautious - enquiries, using as contacts some acquaintances in that branch of the Lower Realms police force that was concerned with retrieving fugitive Goblins desperate enough to think they could hide out on the surface. The Goblins that police the upper world have a long-standing reputation for weirdness and a wilfulness bordering on sloth. They tend not to go out of their way to give themselves work, but prefer to mooch about with their human cronies or drive powerful cars far too fast. As far as anybody knew, Nether had committed no crime and his "missing person" bulletin had been long forgotten. Nevertheless, the coppers kept their ears to the ground for rumours about the location of persons who might be runaway Goblins - if only to make their task easier when they really did have to go and arrest somebody. It was from buying one of the coppers a few stiff drinks that I got my real lead. They say there are more humans claiming Irish extraction in New York City than there are people in Ireland. True or not, there are certainly any number of taverns with an Irish theme on Manhattan island, and they all seem to house a tight coterie of regulars: men - and a few women - who never drink anywhere else and leave unsteadily at closing time every night. So it was that I was advised to talk to Tighe o'Chill, then the proprietor of Chill's Bar, an Irish pub in one of the quieter parts of upper Manhattan. I stood outside, in the rain, wearing a long waterproof coat - collar turned up - and a trilby hat large enough to conceal my ears. It was an ensemble I have made my own over the years. Through the misted-up windows, I sized up the place. The decor featured scuffed wooden floorboards, panelling creaking and groaning under the weight of endless coats of dark brown paint, and beer-stained tables supported by empty barrels. It was dimly-lit, dark enough for one such as me to be comfortable without sunglasses; much of the light came from dusty illuminated signs displaying lucky four-leaved clovers or advertising authentic dark stout beer. I pushed open the door and led it close quietly behind me. Conversation didn't stop, although a few patrons turned their heads lazily to see who had arrived. One group was clustered at the end of the bar, and a few others were sitting at the tables in conversation or with their noses buried in newspapers. Some recorded music played on: traditional pipes and accordions accompanying soft sad ballads of lost paramours and unrequited love. Nobody seemed interested in me. The barkeeper was short and fat, ruddy-faced and with a polished dome as hairless as my own. His face was alive with bonhomie, with smiling features which seemed to emit all the welcome that an Irishman could want. The publican wore a clean and crisply laundered white cotton apron over what looked like a tailor-made shirt - white with fine emerald green pinstripes - open at the throat and held together at the wrists by heavy gold cuff-links. I ordered whiskey - Irish, of course - and a large measure appeared almost instantaneous on the bar in front of me. I sipped and then nodded to signify my approval. It was good stuff. "Looking for Tighe o'Chill," I said gruffly. "You've found him," the barman said, "And in me own bar, too. Welcome to o'Chill's very own pub." "Glad to be here," I said, "Now, I've a couple of questions for you. Could you spare me a few minutes?" Tighe looked at me closely. I could practically hear the wheels in his head turning. "Are you who - or what - I think you are?" he asked shrewdly, in a low voice. I took off my glasses and looked the man straight in the eye. He jerked back, then swore a loud and sustained oath which I half-expected to turn the air blue, although the actual effect was that every head in the place turned to look at him. "Another one," he said to the room at large, "Thirty years thinking he was unique, and another one comes along, just like that." A head appeared over the edge of the bar. Just a head. The figure was too short for any more to show. It wasn't human. The ears were a dead giveaway. "Findo Gask," Nether said in the Goblin tongue, "Good of you to find time in your busy schedule to stop by."
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Part 6