sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 12:53 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 12:53 am
Entry tags:
Nothing Constant, Ch. 9
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4
Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8
***
We agreed to go to Portobello Road the next day, because they both wanted to find the book for academic reasons and I wanted to find it for, hah, spiritual ones. I let Lovejoy kip on the sofa that night, which caused a storm with Kit. She doesn't like me bringing the work home. Still, he was tidy and polite to her, so she couldn't really say anything. If she doesn't like threadbare men sleeping in her flat she shouldn't have shacked up with me.
Lovejoy charmed her over breakfast, though; he cooked bacon and eggs and had hot toast when we woke up, and didn't use all the hot water in the shower. Kit appreciates these things, because she sure as hell doesn't get them from me very often.
We make it down to the top of Portobello Road, where the market starts, just as an enormous antique car pulls up. Lovejoy's having fits of pleasure. I watch as Death Wimsey gets out, and then as his woman Meredith follows.
"We go alone," I say, jerking my head at her.
"Meredith comes with me everywhere," he replies. "I'm not satisfied yet that this isn't some sort of trick."
"Cagey bugger, aren't you?" Lovejoy asks. Breakfast did him a world of good.
"You wouldn't be the first to try," says Wimsey. "Besides, I do my research the same as anyone. You're a con-man and petty thief, Lovejoy."
"Am not!" Lovejoy retorts. "Forgery's an art."
"Mmmh. And you, Mr. Constantine, are an ex-convict and, though I use the prefix lightly, an ex-lunatic. A two-year stay in a mental institution for the criminally deranged," Wimsey continues, damn him.
Lovejoy glances at me. I shrug.
"So she comes along, or it all ends here. You should also know that I've placed the book in a safety-deposit box; if someone is even now robbing my house they'll have an unpleasant surprise."
"Booby traps?"
"No; armed resistance. I have a cousin who's a policeman."
"Right then!" says Lovejoy cheerfully. "Let's go find a book."
***
Nothing turned up in Portobello Road except for three or four antique volumes Lovejoy uncovered and Wimsey bought on the spot, once he'd verified Lovejoy's finds. It went a long way towards verifying our story, too. Lovejoy's useful when he wants to be.
We sit at a pub near the end of the road and drink beer; Meredith doesn't sit with us, pity, but stands outside talking to the latest in a long line of market-stall owners.
"I don't see what you're going to accomplish by destroying the book," Wimsey tells me.
"Both books," I grunt.
"Are they dangerous somehow?"
"Not to normal people."
"What the hell does that mean?" he asks.
"Listen," I say. "I don't know harpsichords from handcarts, right? If you sit down at one you can bang out a pretty tune but if I sit down at one I'd break something. Now imagine the harpsichord is reality and I'm you -- "
Lovejoy snorts into his beer.
"And the men who want your book are me. They don't know what they're doing, or if they do they can't mean anything good by it."
"Are you trying to tell me you're somehow saving the world by burning my book?" Wimsey inquires mildly. "Because you know, I think Adolf Hitler said something along those lines."
"It's not about philosophy, you stupid bastard," I say. He scowls. "It's deeper than that. These books don't have ideas in them -- "
"You can say that again," Lovejoy remarks.
" -- but they are dangerous."
"Tell me how," Wimsey insists.
"Yes, because you already think I'm a nutter. I'm not going to back up your assumption."
"I want to find this book as much as you do; volumes of a set should go together," Wimsey says. "But, and I want to make this perfectly clear, you will not put light to any book in my possession until you tell me the truth."
I groan. "I'll tell you what, if and when we find this book, you'll know then, right?"
"Well, we have to find it first. I don't think Portobello Road's a very good place -- things are sold too often here," Wimsey says. "I can make inquiries amongst a few agents I know."
"Yeah -- I've already done that," I say. "Well, one agent."
"Just one?"
"He's very good."
"Pendleton?"
I laugh. "No."
"Then who? Not Markham, he's a swindler."
"No. You don't know him, Wimsey, I promise."
Wimsey looks put out. Well, hells, it wouldn't hurt to show him, and I have to check in anyway.
"Finish your beer and I'll introduce you," I sigh.
***
I hate angels. I mean, I really do. Supercilious bastards, the lot of them. And they have no moral compass at all. I fucking hate angels. Especially that son of a bitch Gabriel.
Az is the exception, though. He's all right.
For one thing, he's spent more time with actual people than all of the rest combined. And he chums around with a demon. Don't get me wrong, I hate demons too, but if I had to choose between an angel and a demon -- well, I'd slit my throat, but if that wasn't an option give me demons any day.
So, Az spends his time with a demon named AJ, which makes him a little less of a bastard than the rest. He can still get on his high horse if he wants, but AJ keeps him humble.
"Hullo Az," I say, pushing the bookshop door open. There's a sound like a dove flying off, and then he shows up from behind a shelf. He looks like Gabriel's older closeted-gay Tory brother, knit pullovers, round-faced, the whole costume.
"I really must insist you not call me that, Mr. Constantine," he says, instead of hello. I roll my eyes.
"Fell, fine."
"Good. And how are you this afternoon? You look rather footsore, would you like some tea?"
"Ta," I say, as Lovejoy and Wimsey follow me in. Wimsey's left Meredith in the car this time, which I guess means he's starting to trust the con-man and the ex-lunatic. "This is Lovejoy, he's a mate, and that's Wimsey. He's a Lord."
"Surely not Lord Death Wimsey?" Fell asks warmly. "This is an unexpected pleasure. Make yourselves at home, do; I'll just fetch the tea."
"How have I never found this place before?" Wimsey asks, looking around him like a crackwhore in a police impound warehouse.
"You have to know where to look," I answer. Automatically I'm lighting a cigarette, but the lighter doesn't work. Fuckin' Az.
Lovejoy's gone all silent and blissful again, and he's gravitating slowly to the back of the shop, when Az emerges again with tea. He's coming out a different door he went in, but all these old shops have a million passages and cubbyholes and all.
"Tea and biscuits. Do sit down," he adds, waving to an arrangement of wingchairs grouped around a small table. I swear they weren't there the minute before.
Lovejoy, to everyone's surprise, pours. Could be the antique teapot, I guess. Az settles in as if he spends all day with lords and crooks.
"I must say I'm surprised to see you with my friend Mr. Constantine, Lord Death," he says.
"Wimsey, please," Death Wimsey says.
"Quite. Are you in the way of wishing to purchase -- " there's a slight shudder on the word; he hates selling books, " -- some of my wares? Or you, Mr. Lovejoy? I assume Mr. Constantine is acting as an agent for one of you two gentlemen."
"It's the book I came in for earlier," I say.
"Ah yes, the naughty Renaissance literature," Az says with a smile.
"Was wondering if you had any leads. Found the other one," I say. He blinks at me in astonishment for a moment.
"Did you? That's wonderful! I -- "
There's an interruption, someone entering the shop, and a voice calls out.
"Angel? Fell? Listen, where the heaven are you?"
Az sighs. "Excuse me. I'm over here, Crowley," he calls, raising his voice. "I should have known you'd show up when tea was in the offing."
AJ Crowley's not a very fearsome sight either. He wears black a lot and has flash sunglasses, but he's mostly harmless as long as you don't annoy him. And it's not a good idea to ask him to take off the sunglasses.
They're off now, unfortunately. His slitted catlike eyes are yellow in the bookshop's dim light.
"Crowley, this is Lord Death Wimsey; John Constantine you know, of course, and that's Mr. Lovejoy," Az says, helpfully making introductions I'd hoped to avoid.
"Hullo lads," he says, looking right at me. "Out for a bit of a romp, are we?"
There's trouble on the wind.
Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8
***
We agreed to go to Portobello Road the next day, because they both wanted to find the book for academic reasons and I wanted to find it for, hah, spiritual ones. I let Lovejoy kip on the sofa that night, which caused a storm with Kit. She doesn't like me bringing the work home. Still, he was tidy and polite to her, so she couldn't really say anything. If she doesn't like threadbare men sleeping in her flat she shouldn't have shacked up with me.
Lovejoy charmed her over breakfast, though; he cooked bacon and eggs and had hot toast when we woke up, and didn't use all the hot water in the shower. Kit appreciates these things, because she sure as hell doesn't get them from me very often.
We make it down to the top of Portobello Road, where the market starts, just as an enormous antique car pulls up. Lovejoy's having fits of pleasure. I watch as Death Wimsey gets out, and then as his woman Meredith follows.
"We go alone," I say, jerking my head at her.
"Meredith comes with me everywhere," he replies. "I'm not satisfied yet that this isn't some sort of trick."
"Cagey bugger, aren't you?" Lovejoy asks. Breakfast did him a world of good.
"You wouldn't be the first to try," says Wimsey. "Besides, I do my research the same as anyone. You're a con-man and petty thief, Lovejoy."
"Am not!" Lovejoy retorts. "Forgery's an art."
"Mmmh. And you, Mr. Constantine, are an ex-convict and, though I use the prefix lightly, an ex-lunatic. A two-year stay in a mental institution for the criminally deranged," Wimsey continues, damn him.
Lovejoy glances at me. I shrug.
"So she comes along, or it all ends here. You should also know that I've placed the book in a safety-deposit box; if someone is even now robbing my house they'll have an unpleasant surprise."
"Booby traps?"
"No; armed resistance. I have a cousin who's a policeman."
"Right then!" says Lovejoy cheerfully. "Let's go find a book."
***
Nothing turned up in Portobello Road except for three or four antique volumes Lovejoy uncovered and Wimsey bought on the spot, once he'd verified Lovejoy's finds. It went a long way towards verifying our story, too. Lovejoy's useful when he wants to be.
We sit at a pub near the end of the road and drink beer; Meredith doesn't sit with us, pity, but stands outside talking to the latest in a long line of market-stall owners.
"I don't see what you're going to accomplish by destroying the book," Wimsey tells me.
"Both books," I grunt.
"Are they dangerous somehow?"
"Not to normal people."
"What the hell does that mean?" he asks.
"Listen," I say. "I don't know harpsichords from handcarts, right? If you sit down at one you can bang out a pretty tune but if I sit down at one I'd break something. Now imagine the harpsichord is reality and I'm you -- "
Lovejoy snorts into his beer.
"And the men who want your book are me. They don't know what they're doing, or if they do they can't mean anything good by it."
"Are you trying to tell me you're somehow saving the world by burning my book?" Wimsey inquires mildly. "Because you know, I think Adolf Hitler said something along those lines."
"It's not about philosophy, you stupid bastard," I say. He scowls. "It's deeper than that. These books don't have ideas in them -- "
"You can say that again," Lovejoy remarks.
" -- but they are dangerous."
"Tell me how," Wimsey insists.
"Yes, because you already think I'm a nutter. I'm not going to back up your assumption."
"I want to find this book as much as you do; volumes of a set should go together," Wimsey says. "But, and I want to make this perfectly clear, you will not put light to any book in my possession until you tell me the truth."
I groan. "I'll tell you what, if and when we find this book, you'll know then, right?"
"Well, we have to find it first. I don't think Portobello Road's a very good place -- things are sold too often here," Wimsey says. "I can make inquiries amongst a few agents I know."
"Yeah -- I've already done that," I say. "Well, one agent."
"Just one?"
"He's very good."
"Pendleton?"
I laugh. "No."
"Then who? Not Markham, he's a swindler."
"No. You don't know him, Wimsey, I promise."
Wimsey looks put out. Well, hells, it wouldn't hurt to show him, and I have to check in anyway.
"Finish your beer and I'll introduce you," I sigh.
***
I hate angels. I mean, I really do. Supercilious bastards, the lot of them. And they have no moral compass at all. I fucking hate angels. Especially that son of a bitch Gabriel.
Az is the exception, though. He's all right.
For one thing, he's spent more time with actual people than all of the rest combined. And he chums around with a demon. Don't get me wrong, I hate demons too, but if I had to choose between an angel and a demon -- well, I'd slit my throat, but if that wasn't an option give me demons any day.
So, Az spends his time with a demon named AJ, which makes him a little less of a bastard than the rest. He can still get on his high horse if he wants, but AJ keeps him humble.
"Hullo Az," I say, pushing the bookshop door open. There's a sound like a dove flying off, and then he shows up from behind a shelf. He looks like Gabriel's older closeted-gay Tory brother, knit pullovers, round-faced, the whole costume.
"I really must insist you not call me that, Mr. Constantine," he says, instead of hello. I roll my eyes.
"Fell, fine."
"Good. And how are you this afternoon? You look rather footsore, would you like some tea?"
"Ta," I say, as Lovejoy and Wimsey follow me in. Wimsey's left Meredith in the car this time, which I guess means he's starting to trust the con-man and the ex-lunatic. "This is Lovejoy, he's a mate, and that's Wimsey. He's a Lord."
"Surely not Lord Death Wimsey?" Fell asks warmly. "This is an unexpected pleasure. Make yourselves at home, do; I'll just fetch the tea."
"How have I never found this place before?" Wimsey asks, looking around him like a crackwhore in a police impound warehouse.
"You have to know where to look," I answer. Automatically I'm lighting a cigarette, but the lighter doesn't work. Fuckin' Az.
Lovejoy's gone all silent and blissful again, and he's gravitating slowly to the back of the shop, when Az emerges again with tea. He's coming out a different door he went in, but all these old shops have a million passages and cubbyholes and all.
"Tea and biscuits. Do sit down," he adds, waving to an arrangement of wingchairs grouped around a small table. I swear they weren't there the minute before.
Lovejoy, to everyone's surprise, pours. Could be the antique teapot, I guess. Az settles in as if he spends all day with lords and crooks.
"I must say I'm surprised to see you with my friend Mr. Constantine, Lord Death," he says.
"Wimsey, please," Death Wimsey says.
"Quite. Are you in the way of wishing to purchase -- " there's a slight shudder on the word; he hates selling books, " -- some of my wares? Or you, Mr. Lovejoy? I assume Mr. Constantine is acting as an agent for one of you two gentlemen."
"It's the book I came in for earlier," I say.
"Ah yes, the naughty Renaissance literature," Az says with a smile.
"Was wondering if you had any leads. Found the other one," I say. He blinks at me in astonishment for a moment.
"Did you? That's wonderful! I -- "
There's an interruption, someone entering the shop, and a voice calls out.
"Angel? Fell? Listen, where the heaven are you?"
Az sighs. "Excuse me. I'm over here, Crowley," he calls, raising his voice. "I should have known you'd show up when tea was in the offing."
AJ Crowley's not a very fearsome sight either. He wears black a lot and has flash sunglasses, but he's mostly harmless as long as you don't annoy him. And it's not a good idea to ask him to take off the sunglasses.
They're off now, unfortunately. His slitted catlike eyes are yellow in the bookshop's dim light.
"Crowley, this is Lord Death Wimsey; John Constantine you know, of course, and that's Mr. Lovejoy," Az says, helpfully making introductions I'd hoped to avoid.
"Hullo lads," he says, looking right at me. "Out for a bit of a romp, are we?"
There's trouble on the wind.
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