by Josan
Not together. Separately.
But they left together.
It was only around the third time that we realized they were playing a game.
A bit dangerous, even considering the kind of place we run.
My partner and I run a leather bar.
Not one of those noisy, pseudo weekend-yuppies-getting-their- thrills
leather bar. Not one of the really rough ones either where the smell of
oiled leather, male sweat, booze overlays the odour of blood.
Nope. Our customers are the ones who are into the life style as a... a
vocation. They are doms and subs who want a place to relax without having
to worry about people's reactions. Or that someone might come over and
start some rutting ritual over some pretty toy.
No, we're a nice place to spend an evening in public.
I guess you could say that we run the equivalent to a family restaurant.
One with nice, clean, safe rooms upstairs to rent if you want to play. We
get a lot of out of town visitors who come to D.C. for conferences,
meetings. Who don't want to worry about the noise coming from their hotel
room.
Our customers are mainly male, though we don't discriminate. I mean, hell,
both of us are women. And no, we're not lovers though we do love each
other. But we couldn't live together. I mean, she lives with a herd of
small dogs and I have a cat that is twice the size of one of her "pitous".
But we both had a similar idea about a business and so far it's been working
well. We've about to celebrate our tenth anniversary and we haven't killed
each other yet. Which in business, I am given to understand, is as good as
it gets.
As I was saying, they came in separately and left together.
Every time.
Not that they did it often. We only saw them maybe once every six to eight
weeks.
We're pretty discreet here. I mean, we don't ask our customers for their
business cards. If they become regulars, we usually get to know them by
name, if they care to introduce themselves. Most do. As I've said, we're
discreet.
The ones who aren't real regulars, but whom we recognize, we name ourselves.
Like with these two.
One of them was easy.
Armani.
I mean even I could recognize the cut of those suits he wore. And the name
suits him too. He's tall, slender, with a nice pair of shoulders for the
build. Intelligent eyes, mobile face, in spite of a nose that must have
made his life miserable as a kid.
And as sensual as the material those fancy suits of his are made from. You
know what I mean: you have to fight off the urge to stroke your hand along
it just to feel it against your skin.
Not surprising that he attracted the attention of some of the doms who were
hanging around, just looking for a relaxing evening.
Not that he strutted for them. Hell, all he had to do was walk in, with
that loose-hipped walk of his, and he had eyes following him. All the way
up to the bar where he'd ask for a beer, a bowl of peanuts and take them to
a small table where he could look over the room.
He never stayed alone long.
The other one was completely different.
First of all, no suits for this one. Leather and denim.
Harder.
Sexual, not sensual.
It took us that entire first evening to figure out that the left arm wasn't
real. Not that it was obvious, he knew how to hide the fact real well, but
my partner is in a wheelchair and she's more sensitive to things like that
than I am.
He attracted a different crowd. Subs who were between masters, subs whose
masters allowed them to play elsewhere.
Not that this one went out of his way to attract them any more than the
other did. But, hell, it was like having a sex magnet in the place.
I mean, even one or two of the doms offered to buy him one of those vodkas
he nursed all evening. Not that he accepted. He never accepted no matter
who offered to buy.
We called him Vodka.
We were a little surprised that first time, when, after not even looking in
each other's direction, Vodka finished his drink—which by then had to
have been mostly ice melt—stood up, walked over to Armani's table and
whispered something in his ear.
Armani looked interested. He smiled to the two men who had been sharing his
conversation and peanut bowl all evening, rose and left with Vodka.
There were some disappointed looks in the place, but nothing beyond the
norm. It happens sometimes.
The second time they came was about two months later.
Same routine.
My partner was handling the bar that night. "They're back," she told me
when I came ask her about one of the invoices.
I was doing the monthly books. I like playing with numbers but I hate
dealing with orders. My partner's just the opposite, which is why we work
well together. Mind you, there are times I find myself questioning some of
her purchases.
I should explain, we supply not only rooms, but toys as well. I mean, doms
on business trips to the Nation's capital don't always want to drag around
another case with their sub's toys. We provide a variety of clean, sterile,
vacuum packed implements approriate for a variety of play. Not as good as
the stuff at home, but fine for the occasional trip out.
And we get a lot of foreign visitors, a lot of Brits, French diplomates who
have learnt to rely on us. Even a few of the German ones. As I've said,
we're discreet.
"Who's back?" I really wasn't paying attention to the crowd: I wanted to
ask her why we were paying for watermelon-flavoured lube all of a sudden.
"Armani and Vodka."
I looked up and sure enough, there was Armani holding the attention of one
dom who had recently released his sub because the guy really always wanted
to be in control...
What? You think bartenders in leather bars don't get their ears bent off
with the customer's private troubles?
Sheesh! Get real, eh!
Anyways, this dom was on the look-out for a new pet and he was giving Armani
a serious once over. Armani didn't seem to know what was going on. Else he
was very good at ignoring the tolerant look the dom was giving him,
listening him run on about the reproductive system of little green men.
Or were they grey?
Not important.
And Vodka was at another table, with a couple of toys who were just taken by
his cold green eyes...
What? I didn't mention the colour of his eyes before? Oversight on my
part. Let me tell you, he had a pair of green eyes a cat would kill for.
And Armani's weren't bad either.
Hazel. But the kind that changed colour depending on the mood he was in.
So we watched them and sure enough, at one point, Vodka went over to
Armani's table, whispered in his ear and they left together.
The toys were very dramatic in their sighs: the dom more restrained.
Still, his evening wasn't a total loss. He went home with the two toys and
started showing up after that with one of them in tow.
The third time, we knew what was going to happen. And some of the regulars
had also clued in by then. I think they tried to guess which newcomer would
end up at whose table. Maybe even placed a few bets.
Around midnight, Vodka left his table, went over to Armani's. They went
through the usual script, got up, left.
And this time too the dom at the table ended up with the sub at the other.
They didn't become an item, but they played around for a few weeks.
That happened the next time as well.
So, whenever they came in after that, it was sort of understood that the
doms who hung around Armani were in the market for some new toys while the
subs who gravitated to Vodka were up for grabs.
One or two good relationships came out of that understanding.
This went on for about a year. Once, one of the doms who had found himself
a new pet thanks to them sat at the table with Vodka, discussing training
methods. Another time, one of the subs whose dom had died suddenly got
drunk at Armani's table, poured out his heart to the guy who certainly
looked as though he was listening to him.
All in all, they weren't much trouble. And every time, sometime between
midnight and one, Vodka would excuse himself, walk over to Armani and they
would leave together.
We got used to them.
So, why am I telling you this story?
Well, one night something did happen. Took all of us by surprise, and let
me tell you, that's not easy to do in this bar.
It was one of those busy nights. Storm outside, heavy rains. The place was
filled with doms and subs who were hoping that the wind would drop and that
it would be safe to drive home.
Vodka and Armani were each holding court at his table.
My partner and I were both tending bar, we were that busy.
It just happened that I was looking out the door window to see if the wind
had dropped when the door opened.
The guy who stepped in was big. Not big big. I mean we have some mountains
here who are regulars. But had shoulders that even the wrinkled suit
couldn't hide.
Not that the suit had been tailored to hide them.
In fact, I was willing to bet my share of the night's take that the Hugo
Boss had been tailored especially for that body. For the shoulders, the
chest, that waist and those hips.
And he wasn't particularly young. Had lost most of his hair. Wore wirerims.
He looked around the room as he wiped the rain off them with a pristine
handkerchief.
Put them back on.
By then, he had attracted a bit of attention. One or two of the top level
doms looked him over and gave him a nod. That type recognizes each other no
matter what they're wearing or where they meet.
He gave them a slight one back, still looking around the room.
And his gaze stopped on Vodka.
Growing colder as it stayed there.
My partner looked over at me with raised eyebrows, asked a question with her
shoulders. I shook my head.
The Boss man waited until someone at Vodka's table noticed that they were
garnering attention and pointed it out to the man holding court.
Vodka looked up, drink on the way to his mouth.
It never got there.
The Boss man pointed a finger at him and then to the floor by his feet.
I swear, the speed at which that man moved was a lesson to any training sub.
One moment he was at the table, the next, he was on his knees at the Boss
man's feet, ass high in the air, hands clasped behind his back, forehead on
the dirty wet floor.
I mean, whodda thought that he, of all people, was a sub!
All this caught the attention of the people at Armani's table.
Now I know the light in this bar is pretty garish. That it distorts
colours.
But I swear—and my partner will back me up on this—Armani went green.
And all the Boss man had to do was point his finger to the floor and Armani
was there, pant legs sopping up the water feet had brought in throughout the
evening, hands behind his back, forehead on the floor.
The whole place went quiet.
The Boss man looked down and waited, it had to be a good minute. Then he
spoke.
"It's a good thing that I decided to leave the conference on an earlier
flight to avoid the storm."
He waited a breath, then added, very cold, "Isn't it?"
"Yes, Master."
I mean the two of them answered at exactly the same time. Except that they
didn't sound very sincere in their agreement.
The Boss man rested his fists on his hips. "I'm giving you a five minute
head start to get back before I do. When I get there, we will discuss the
kind of things you two get up to when I'm out of town."
Armani looked up, his hair dripping with the dirty water it had soaked up.
"But, Master..."
"This is coming out of your five minutes. Are you sure you want to use up
your time here?"
Vodka was out the door first, followed closely by Armani.
The Boss man took a deep breath, shook his head. He came down to the bar
where my partner and I were staring, our mouths open.
"I'm sorry if they behaved improperly," he said.
"Not at all," said my partner. "They were never a problem."
"Excuse me," I got his attention as he turned to go. "They never stayed
later than one. They never drank too much. And they never left with anyone
other than each other."
Well, I mean, I didn't want him to think that he had a couple of sluts on
his hands. And, in a way, I hoped he realized that they were a compliment
to him. They probably deserved some discipline, but I didn't want him to
think that he had to punish them severely.
He looked at me, then my partner. He nodded. "Thank you."
The dom who had been watching from the bar commiserated, "They must be a
handful."
One of the Boss man's eyebrows hovered just over the top of his glasses.
"Yes," he admitted, "they are."
The dom nodded in agreement. Then he added, "But well worth the effort."
There is nothing like a slow grin on a dom's face. And this one made the
Boss man look a hell of a lot less cold.
The dom gave him back an understanding grin of his own.
And, with a nod to the two of us, the Boss man left.
I can tell you, that night was a subject of discussion for some time after.
Armani and Vodka, did we ever see them again?
Yep. They're regulars, all three of them.
Sometimes Armani and Vodka come on their own and they play that game they've
always played. It works well with new-comers, amuses the regulars.
But often they come with the Boss man.
He sits at a table with a couple of the other doms and they talk sports and
things like that.
Those visits, Armani and Vodka kneel very nicely at his feet, wait until he
asks them to get him another beer, or more of those peanuts Armani seems to
like so much.
Yes, they're a fine example, all three of them, of the kind of people we
like to attract here at the bar.
Part II—Hot and Humid
That day, my partner had been in a pissy mood.
Actually, when I think about it now, it was rather funny.
We'd gotten a couple of visitors who had had the place
recommended to them.They'd arrived in full leather regalia,
expecting to find what they usually found in a typical leather
bar.
Except that's not really what we are. Typical, I mean.
They had strutted up to the bar, looked around and found that
they pretty much stood out.
Well, we are a leather bar.
Sort of.
Generally, people do seem to associate the dom subculture with
leather. And we do have the requisite rooms for rent upstairs.
Except that we're more of a place where members of that culture
can come and hang out without the costuming, if you know what I
mean.
They thought we were, and I quote: quaint.
That's why she, my partner, was so pissed off. Quaint, to her,
conjured up images of little old ladies with white gloves,
sipping their tea with their little fingers jetting out, nodding
over the "quaint" little doily from Louisiana one of them had
added to her collection.
Personally, I thought it was a rather strange term to describe
us.
Oh, well.
So, I was alone behind the bar that night. She'd gone home to
her herd of small dogs, litanizing all the things she would do to
those idiots if they were ever stupid enough to show their faces
in here again.
It was a Thursday night and it was typical weather for July:
hot, humid. And the AC was not working well. So the crowd was
light that night.
Mostly regulars.
At one table, there were a couple of subs whose doms were out of
town. At another, a dom and his new toy, a pretty little thing
who devoured him with his eyes. Made me wonder who was domming
whom?
One of our oldest regulars was playing pool with his brother. I
knew it was his brother because he'd taken the time to introduce
us when they'd come in. The brother was not into this scene and
he kept on nervously looking around the place as though he was
expecting to be gang-raped at any minute. Not that he would have
been even if our regulars had been that type: he wasn't pretty
enough.
Oh, and at the table, just to the side of the bar, where I could
hear them talking—not that I was listening, mind you. Well,
not then, I wasn't. But placed where I could certainly follow
the evening's conversation were three of our newer regulars:
Boss Man and his two subs, Armani and Vodka.
Yes, I know. Not their names. We knew who they were. I mean,
D.C isn't such a big town if you're not part of the political
sweep we have every four to eight years.
It was hot and they had dropped in for a cool drink and some
relaxation.
That's what we offer, here. A place to be yourself without the
need for posturing. Hmmm. I don't think there's anything
"quaint" about that.
Anyways, there they were, looking pretty, all three of them, each
in his own way.
Boss Man had dropped the Hugo Boss tailored look for an off-white
polo shirt and jeans. He was sitting very straight in his chair,
nursing one of those Canadian brews we import. Armani was
slouching back in his chair, an American beer in hand, baggy
shorts and sleeveless t-shirt sweat-stained, as though he'd been
for a run. Vodka was explaining something that had the other two
listening intently. He wore a light green shirt, sleeves not
rolled up, and dark olive pants.
Vodka had been holding their attention a good while when suddenly
his concentration was broken by, "Alexander!
A...lex...an...der!"
The room went dead silent.
Vodka grew very still.
"Alexei, dearest. It's I."
Boss Man and Armani turned around to see who was at the door.
Vodka let his head droop, not even looking, pretending to be
suddenly very interested in the patterns the condensation off his
vodka on the rocks had formed on the table.
"Dear god!" Armani gasped.
"Oh. My," agreed Boss Man.
Shit! I thought. Haven't seen anything like that in...well,
let's be honest, in this place, I'd have remembered if anything
like...
He was tall, slender. Blond, curly hair that ended mid-back. He
stood just inside the room, twirling a curl around a long, narrow
finger. He wore a huge smile on his face. As though he was
rather pleased with himself. I mean, he had to know he had the
attention of the whole place.
But somehow I thought he looked a little jittery, like a...I was
going to say pony, but this was no pony. More a fine-boned
thoroughbred.
Large blue eyes. Seriously. I could see the colour from where I
stood, they were that blue. Probably helped by what my sister
would call "a touch of summer make-up", but still such a blue as
to make me wonder if he wore specially-tinted contacts.
If I hadn't figured out he was British from the accent, the walk
would have told me. What is it with those Brits? You know what
I mean? Like at the Oscars a few years ago. Jeremy Irons walked
like he was gliding, smoothly, an inch above the stage. The
American actors walked out like lumbering idiots who didn't know
where to put their feet, never mind their hands.
In concession to the temperature, he was wearing a white t-shirt
that was so thin you could see the colour of his nipples. And it
was silk, not cotton. As were the white pants he wore. White
sandals completed the image.
"Alexei, fancy meeting you here."
He'd made his way, quickly and efficiently—all eyes
following—to the table where Boss Man, Armani were looking up
at him, eyes not certain of what they were seeing.
Vodka sighed loudly, sounding very put upon.
He looked up from the patterns he'd been making with the water
and a finger. "Hello, Dorian. What are you doing in D.C.?"
The curl twisted faster around that finger. "Well, what do you
think I'm doing here?"
"Would you like to join us?" Boss Man was having a hard time
restraining that grin of his.
Armani didn't even try. He jumped up and hauled over another
chair, set it behind Dorian who flashed a smile that would have
done a toothpaste commercial proud. "Thank you. So very kind."
And he sat down.
"Aren't you going to introduce us, Alexander?" Boss Man wasn't
hiding the grin any more.
Vodka looked like he'd like to do something other than that. But
I've got to give this Dorian credit: he just countered that
glare with another of those smiles.
"Walter, may I..."
"Walter? Walter! Oh, Alex, you've gotten your Walter!"
Reaching over, he patted Vodka on his fake hand, a hand most of
us ignored. Then he leaned over, mesmerized all of us watching
with his beatific smile and whispered loudly, "I know all about
you. Alex talked about nothing else the last time I was with
him. I am so happy for you, for both of you."
Even Boss Man looked a little taken aback then. Not a usual
circumstance for him.
Armani laughed.
"Well, now, if that's Walter, then you must be...you have to
be...say that you are...Fox?"
Armani's smile was suddenly shy. "Did he talk about me, too?"
Dorian reached over and patted Armani on the knee. "Of course!
When he wasn't gushing about Walter, he was moaning about you."
He used his other hand to rub Vodka's shoulder.
"Alex," said Boss Man, "don't you think you should introduce us?"
Vodka closed his eyes, sighed—very melodramatically for a man
who never really did anything to call attention to himself, other
than just being.
"Walter, Fox, this is Dorian Red Gloria, Earl of Gloria."
"Gloria?" Armani looked more interested. "Gloria." He squinted
at the newcomer. "Geoffrey the Glorious. Fought with William
the Bastard. 1066. Made Baron, wasn't he? Earldom came with
Elizabeth."
"The first of that name," agreed Dorian. He beamed at Vodka.
"He's every bit as bright as you said he was."
"Yeah," scowled Vodka.
"And, may I ask, your lordship, why are you gracing America with
your presence?" Boss Man was getting into the scene.
"Please, Dorian. I feel I know both of you so very well. I'm
here..."
"To rob some museum," groused Vodka. He looked around the table,
ending with His Earlness. "He's a cat burglar."
"Vile, vile fabrication!" His Earlness fanned his hand in front
of his face, trying to look severely affronted. "I have never
burgled a cat in my life. Mind you," he leaned over to a
grinning Armani, "if you were the cat..."
"Dorian! Knock it off!" Vodka snapped, eyes on Boss Man,
waiting to see how he was going to react.
"Sorry," said Boss Man, in that slightly threatening voice of
his, "that...cat is mine."
His Earlness assumed a serious face. "Yes, sir. Understood,
sir. And may I say, sir, that I now acknowledge that Alex was
not exaggerating your masterly ways. Sir."
"Where the hell is Klaus?" Vodka sat back in his chair, rolling
his eyes.
Now His Earlness looked tragic. "At some embassy show and tell.
He's been ignoring me, Alex." He turned to the others. "Not all
of us are fortunate enough to have our innermost wishes, desires,
dreams come true, you know." He tossed his hair off his face and
gave them one of the saddest, most pathetic looks I have ever
witnessed.
Armani leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. "So, who is
Klaus?"
"The aspiration of my lustful heart," His Earlness said in tragic
tones. "The object of my desire."
Boss Man raised his eyebrows at Vodka.
"Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach," he explained.
Boss Man's eyebrows rose a little higher.
"Major, seconded from the German Tank forces to NATO. He's a spy
buster."
"And so beautiful," sighed His Earlness.
"You are, too," said Armani, in that tone that has you spilling
your guts out. His Earlness was no exception.
"Thank you." The flirty tone was gone and he sighed. "What do
superb looks mean when the love of my life hates me?" And he
drooped back into his chair.
Boss Man and Armani looked at Vodka who shrugged, seemingly not
at all moved by His Earlness's declaration of unrequited love.
He got up and came over to the bar, ordered another round for the
table and added a Dubonnet on the rocks to that.
As he turned to hand the beers over to Armani, something caught
his attention.
At the doorway was another fine specimen.
"Shit," he muttered. "Klaus."
As tall, as slim as the first, but that's where the similarities
ended. Though his hair was long, it just brushed his shoulders.
Dark instead of blond. Eyes a bottle green—like Vodka's, but
colder. Face closed compared to the openness of the other. Body
dressed in an elegant tux of European cut. He was lighting a
cigarette, looking around the room when he caught sight of His
Earlness.
There was a sensual stiffness to his walk as he made his way to
the table.
Repressed.
He wore the word in large capital letters across his forehead.
I looked at His Earlness.
Poor little shit. Loving that must be like pitching your heart
against a spiked wall. I added more of the Dubonnet to his glass
before handing it over to Vodka.
"Recruiting, Eroica?" He spoke with a clipped German accent. I
wasn't sure I was going to like this one.
I caught Boss Man giving His Earlness one of those assessing
looks of his. Like most doms do when someone new walks in.
His Earlness lost some of the campy behaviour. He looked quite
offended. "Not at all," now his voice was almost cold. "Merely
having a drink with some friends."
The Major reddened the tip of his cigarette. "And in which
prison did you meet these friends of yours, pervert?"
No, I definitely was not going to like this one.
And I wasn't the only one: the three men at the table glared
their displeasure with the newcomer. Not that he even seemed to
notice: his eyes were focused on His Earlness.
Who had discovered his spine. His voice fairly dripped British
Upper Class. "You know that I have never spent any time in any
prison, Klaus. May I introduce you to Walter S. Skinner,
Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations."
My, my, my! The lad had done his homework, hadn't he?
"Special Agent Fox Mulder, also of the Federal Bureau of
Investigations. And Alexander Krycek, who, if I remember well,
was introduced to me by you, yourself."
I guess the man had had a proper upbringing somewhere in his
background. He pulled his eyes from His Earlness, spared a
glance for each of the men and gave a sharp nod at the
introductions.
"Gentlemen, may I present the man who uses my skills at the
behest of his political masters, all the while abusing me."
I am pleased to say that Boss Man came through beautifully. I
could see why he had the reputation he had, just from the look he
bestowed on our reproving visitor.
"Herr Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach, I believe."
And that voice! Shit! It sent chills down my back and I
hadn't done anything to upset Boss Man.
Even Vodka did us proud. He went to stand behind His Earlness
and placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "Von dem Eberbach,"
he said, voice as clipped as the Major's.
The man didn't seem to notice anyone's reaction. He just exhaled
through his nostrils, like some fire-breathing dragon. Come to
think of it, there was something dragony about his face, in the
bone structure, with the hooded eyes, that long thin nose, the
narrow lips, the large mouth.
"Hanging around with a better class of people these days,
Krycek."
"More honest than the ones you're involved with. How's Baum?"
The Dragon grunted, shrugged his shoulders slightly, then ignored
them. "I want to talk to you, Gloria. Alone."
His Earlness raised his head. "Well, so very sorry, Klaus, I
don't want to speak to you."
Armani stood up. "You're going to have to wait. The pool table
is free and we're up next."
And with that, Armani and Vodka each took one of His Earlness's
arms and pulled him away to the corner with the pool table.
The Dragon's lips thinned even more. Then, he raised a hand to
his forehead and rubbed hard.
Boss Man used his foot to push a chair towards the Dragon. "Sit
before you fall."
For a moment, I wondered if I was going to have a fight break out
in front of me, the way the two of them glared at each other.
Made me doubly glad I didn't have to deal with either of them in
work-mode.
Then, suddenly, the "contest" was over and the Dragon sat down in
the chair. Boss Man glanced over to the pool table, but the
three men there weren't looking anywhere but at the game. He got
up, came over to the bar.
"Got anything for a headache?"
So I handed him four Tylenol and a glass of seltzer on ice. He
nodded his thanks and placed them in front of the Dragon.
He waited until the pills had been tossed back to prod. "I take
it the embassy was a command performance."
The Dragon closed his eyes and held his head very still.
Boss Man said nothing.
After a minute or so, the Dragon took a deep breath and looked at
the man who shared the table. "Idiots," he said tersely.
Boss Man nodded sympathetically. Took a mouthful of his brew.
"Still, no reason to take it out on him."
The Dragon looked over to the corner where His Earlness was
skilfully sinking ball after ball to Armani's surprise and
Vodka's amusement.
I swear I saw him smile. Not a big smile. Not even a little
one. More of a hint. But his whole face softened—for just a
breath, mind you—but it did.
I looked over at His Earlness and thought his cause may not be so
lost after all.
The two at the table just sat there, watching the corner. Boss
Man finished his beer. The Dragon sipped on his seltzer.
After they'd played a couple of games—His Earlness winning
both—Boss Man got up, signalled for his subs who quickly took
their places by him. His Earlness looked on with sad approval.
With a nod to the Dragon, Boss Man and his subs left. Armani
turned and gave His Earlness the old thumbs up for encouragement.
Vodka glared at the Dragon who ignored him.
His Earlness put down his cue, came up to the table. He reached
out to touch the Dragon, then stopped himself.
Instead, he picked up the glass with the Dubonnet and finished
the little that remained in it. He replaced the glass on the
table.
For a moment, I thought he was going to say something, but he
didn't.
He walked away from the table, smiling as he passed me on his way
out.
The Dragon waited until he was out the door. Then, with a sudden
brusqueness, he pushed his chair back. He stood. Nodded very
formally at me.
And followed His Earlness out the door.
Part I—It was a Dark and Stormy Night 
remember the first time they came into the bar.
