Page 29 of Rears & Vices

There was a pause.

Vitaliy said, “James can handle himself.”

The doorman turned and grinned toothily through a black beard. “Only jesting. C’mon.”

Everard snuck glances over to Vitaliy as they walked—he found himself somehow looking down, which was absurd, because he remembered quite well how their respective bodies lined up, and Vitaliy was definitely the taller. But Vitaliy was hunching somehow, and had combed his hair back severely against his scalp, had queued it into a tight knot at the nape.

In short, he looked different, yet again. What connected the pirate Varfolomey, of Caribbean and Gulf of Mexico fame, to little Kingston, Upper Canada?

The Welshman pushed open the door to reveal a narrow single-file stair, and the familiar noisy clamor and clink of a coffeehouse came down like a wave.

“Good to see you, Vee. Have fun, boys.”

The door shut behind, and they climbed. At the top of the stair, Vitaliy held out his hand. Everard understood; doorman or no doorman, there would be eyes on them as they entered—eyes looking for mirror images, for same. He took the hand with his gloved one.

The staircase opened to an ordinary-extraordinary first-floor coffeehouse, sweltering in the June morning.

Ordinary: a handful of two- and four-top tables on pedestals, some of them occupied, were situated around a centre serve-station. This was manned by a white woman in a peach-colored dress and bonnet. To the left of the tables were four intimate wood-panelled booths with hat hooks; on the far wall, three twelve-pane windows overlooked the street and beyond, to the water.

Extraordinary: he and Vitaliy passed muster with no more than a few glances, and then they were ignored. Everard let out his breath.

Vitaliy let go his hand, and Everard went on to the farthest booth: unoccupied but for a bright stream of morning sunshine coming through the window. Vitaliy veered to the serve-station bar in search of a coffeepot. Hopefully a large one.

Through the panes Everard could see the masts and drawn-up sheets of Netley, naturally still in harbour. She probably already had a new captain read to her decks. It felt strange to see her unchanged when so much for Everard had.

Everard reflexively reached for his hat to put on the hook—found no hat—and sat sheepishly on the bench seat that faced the windows. He had the feeling Vitaliy was the sort to like to watch the door, “safe” or no.

“I didn’t know Kingston was a large-enough settlement for such an establishment,” Everard said when the man had returned, cups and coffeepot and newsprint-wrapped pasties in hand.

“And you a Navy man.” Vitaliy sat, glanced round at the sparse occupation. He poured unerringly into both cups. “It was louder during the war, I’ll grant you. Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

Vitaliy’s eyes crinkled as he lounged back against the panelling, cup in his palm. “Didn’t think so.”

Everard watched the steam rise from his own cup and be lit into opacity by the sunshine. He sniffed appreciatively.

“Oh, good day,” he said, pleased. “That isn’t twice-boiled.”

“No.” Vitaliy sipped, heedless of temperature. “Amélie would have the server’s head.”

Everard marvelled to think that Vitaliy had been in Kingston at some point in the past three years. Long enough a time to know the manager of an invitation-only coffeehouse, one with a custom of men like them. He’d been so close… if Everard had been even a fraction less reserved...

Let’s not fool ourselves, a voice whispered. Uptight, not reserved.

He wondered if D’Arcy knew of the place. If they served alcohol, almost definitely he did.

Vitaliy did like to watch the door. Everard couldn’t blame him. V. Varfolomey, a thousand American dollars on his head; in his shoes, Everard would do the same. In fact, perhaps it was a practice he too ought to take up, now there were officially redcoat patrols out for him.

The problem was that if he let such a paranoia sink in, it would never let him go. Where Vitaliy kept discreet watch with heavy-lidded glances, Everard would sit like someone possessed, fingers under his thighs, staring wide-eyed at the door.

Indeed, best not. He curled his hand around the cup and sipped cautiously.

And then sipped some more. Just-off-a-boil hot, the coffee was certainly not the watery stuff doled out by ship’s mess. It was not even the tea-like replacement served in larger cities. It was true coffee, the rich stuff of his boyhood a stone’s throw from Arabia. He groaned.

Vitaliy asked, “What do you think?”

“I may curse,” Everard admitted. “It’s very good.” He looked up. Vitaliy was smiling.