The Anubis Gates

“Do you know? Have you been? You ought to, you know, that m-moustache looks like—” His voice had been rising again but abruptly he stopped, and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, lad. There’s tensions involved.”

“I know.”

For a moment they just sat and drank beer.

“You say you’ve been looking for him?” said Chinnie. “Why?”

“He killed my fiancé,” Jacky said evenly.

“And what’ll you do if you find him?”

“Kill him.”

“What if he’s in my old body?”

“I’ll still kill him,” said Jacky. “Face it, man, you won’t get the body back.”

“I’m… not resigned to that. What if I find him, and tell you where he is—will you, in return, help me get him to … switchback?”

“I can’t imagine the circumstances.”

“Never mind imagining them. Will you?”

Jacky sighed. “If you can find him, and set it up—sure, if I can be certain of killing him afterward.”

“Very well.” Chinnie reached across the table and they shook hands. “What’s your name?”

“Jacky Snapp, at one-twelve Pye Street, near Westminster Cathedral. What name are you using?”

“Humphrey Bogart. It came to me in a dream I had, the first night I was in this body.”

Jacky shrugged. “It might be a name that meant something to Doyle.”

“Who cares? Anyway, you can reach me at Malk’s Bakery, St. Martin’s Lane. And if you find him, will you let me know?”

Jacky hesitated. Why should she take on a partner? Of course a strong companion could be useful, and Joe would certainly be in another body by now, so Chinnie’s concern for his ex-body’s welfare wouldn’t be a hindrance… and certainly nobody had a better claim to share in her revenge. “All right,” she said finally. “I’ll take a partner.”

“Good lad!” They shook hands again, then Chinnie glanced at the clock. “I’d better be moving on,” he said, getting to his feet and throwing some change on the table. “The yeast is working, and time and dough wait for no man.”

Jacky drained her beer and got up too.

They walked together out of the pub, though the landlord tapped Chinnie on the shoulder and, when he paused, said, “You’re right about what Jackson’s moustache looks like. If I you can’t get him to shave it off, I advise you to give him an exploding cigar.”

The laughter of the patrons followed them out into the street.

* * *

On Christmas Eve the taproom at the Guinea and Bun in Crutchedfriars was already fairly crowded by three-thirty in the afternoon. Aromatically steaming cups of hot punch were being handed, free, to each patron after he’d beaten the snow from his hat, hung his cloak or coat on one of the hooks along the south wall and hurried, shivering, over to the bar.

The bartender, an affable balding man called Bob Crank, had poured punch for the last couple of arrivals and now leaned back against the counter and took a sip from his mug of fortified coffee as he glanced around the low-ceilinged room. The crowd seemed to be cheery—as well they ought to be on Christmas Eve—and the logs in the fireplace were set up for a good draft, and wouldn’t need attention for an hour or so. Crank knew nearly everyone in the room, and the only patron he might have felt even slightly doubtful of was the old man sitting alone at the table nearest to the fireplace—a crazy-eyed smirking old fellow who, despite the warmth of his position, had his shirt buttoned up to the neck and was holding his glass with gloved hands.

With a bang and a squeak the front door opened, letting a swirl of snow into the entry hall. Crank had poured the cup of punch before looking up, and was holding it out before he recognized the newcomer. “Doug!” he exclaimed when the burly, gray-haired man stepped up to the bar. “Cold out there, is it? Let me,” he said, lowering his voice and the cup, “put a bit of flying buttress in that, eh?” He uncorked a brandy bottle and, down behind the bar, topped up the cup. “Thankee, Crankie.”

They both laughed, and Crank stopped laughing first. “Your mates are yonder,” he said, nodding toward the fire. “Ah, so they are.” Doug Maturo drained the punch cup and clinked it down on the bar. “Send over a brandy, will you, Crank?”

“Right.”

Maturo clumped across to the indicated table and sat down, acknowledging with a grin and a wave the drunken greetings of his friends.

“You bums,” he said, helping himself to a stray mug of beer until his brandy would arrive. “Who’s minding the shop?”

“The shop can look after itself, Mr. Doug,” mumbled one of the men at the table. “Nobody gonna want hub bosses on Christmas Eve.”

“Damn right,” agreed another. “Tomorrow too, by God. Here’s to Christmas’”

They all raised their glasses, but paused when the old man at the next table said, distinctly, “Christmas is for idiots.”

Maturo turned around and stared at him, noting with one contemptuously raised eyebrow the effeminate gloves. Crank arrived just then with his brandy, though, so he shrugged and turned back to his companions. He muttered something that set them all laughing, then took a hearty swig of the brandy as the momentary tension relaxed.