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What was the hardest goodbye you've ever had to say to a pet?

They have all been very hard, but the hardest was the last one, because it was not expected at all. Our 12 year old cat Webster, a 32 pound Maine coon lovingly nicknamed “Little Baby” (from when he came to us as a 1 pound kitten), went for a few days acting like he was going to throw up a hair ball. We did not think too much of it, usually he slowed down his eating and then yacked up the hair ball and went back to eating normally.By the 3rd day, we started to get worried, because he LOVED to eat (seriously he was 32 pounds!) and we realized he really was not eating much at all. I called and made an appointment for the next day, still not thinking it was too serious. My sister and I talked about the fact that it was probably just a bad hair ball, and they would give him some medication to dissolve it or worst case scenario he had a bowel blockage and he might need surgery, but we really thought we were being cautious by taking him to the vet.I dropped my sister off at the door with Webster and went to park. By the time I got there, my sister was in the room with Webster, so I sat down in the waiting room and started to look at my phone, still not too worried about Webster. A few minutes later, my sister called me to come into the room.The vet told us that he was in heart failure and that there was nothing she could do, that we could try to take him to the emergency vet hospital and they may be able to do something, but it was only a small chance they could help and he would need to go thru a lot. I was still confused, he acted like he had a hair ball and now he has heart failure, what was she talking about?? She said his lungs were full of fluid and he had to decide whether to breathe or eat, as he was so sick he could not do both, so he decided to breathe. After a few minutes it finally started to sink in what she was talking about and then I knew that my Little baby was going to die, that he was not going to come home with us.We knew right away that we had to let him go without trying for a hail Mary at the emergency vet, he was terrified of anyone but us, so he could not tolerate a lot of treatments easily. When it was such a slim chance for survival it was just not fair to him.The vet said she would go get him so we could say good bye (they had taken him in the back room for a blood test). A minute later the assistant came running out and said come quick, he is getting worse, we can’t move him. We went to back room and he was laying on the table breathing raggedly, and the vet said that she should sedate him now, because he is in pain. We said of course, please give him a sedative and we stayed with him and kissed his head and petted him as she gave him the sedative. Then she looked at us and we nodded and she gave him the shot to stop his heart. He had died within 15 minutes of arriving at the vet. We were crushed, could not believe our Little Baby was gone.It has been a year since he died and we still cannot believe that he is gone or how fast it happened. My other cats are wonderful and helped me get thru it, but I still miss him. He was the sweetest most beautiful cat in the world, we were lucky to have him for a short 12 years.

If you had to create your own personal "canon" of essential sci-fi, fantasy, and “weird fiction” writers, novelists, and series to recommend to other readers, whom and what would you include, and why? The more comprehensive, the more exciting.

This is not based purely on merit but also on influence. Some of these books are great, others good, a few not brilliant but hugely influential. A handful created the landscape of sci-fi, fantasy, and weirdness that we now understand.I make no distinction between books written specifically for the young and those for the young at heart or old in cynicism. I am not going to split this into sections. If it’s weird, sci-fi, fantasy, or just plain odd, it’s in.There is no order. That would not be odd enough.Terry Pratchett’s Discworld. All of it. Throw in his Nation, Dodger, and Johnny and the… series too. He is the funniest, wisest, and angriest writer to ever happen to fantasy.Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next books, particularly The Eyre Affair. Most of his other books too. His literary allusions are weightless yet hefty, and his use of the gun-toting, Bronte reading, dodo owning Thursday is sublime.CS Lewis’s Narnia. Because Aslan.Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. This is seriously weird stuff, yet brilliant too, and Alice is a heroine for the ages.HP Lovecraft. All of his, for the weirdness is unmatched and inspirational.Frank L. Baum’s Oz books, for the hallucinogenic properties and inspirations, and the Cowardly Lion. We’re all off to see the Wizard, as long as we don’t lie down in any poppy fields.Ovid’s Metamorphoses, for the pathos, the weirdness, and the jokes. My gods, the jokes!Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Actually, Kafka full stop. No one did weirdness or craziness that could be real quite like Kafka.JK Rowling’s Harry Potter for giving us Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans, including earwax flavoured.Otto Preussler’s Satanic Mill. Twenty years after first reading it, I can still remember the tension in the shapeshifting scene.Virgil’s The Aeneid. He gave us the story of the Trojans after Troy and the Gods laugh.Neil Gaiman. All of his, but particularly Sandman, American Gods, Good Omens, and Neverwhere.Philip K Dick. All of his. We don’t have sci-fi without him.Walter M. Miller Jr’s A Canticle for Leibowitz. He was visionary, his novel saw further.Daniel Keyes’s Flowers for Algernon, because it can make grown men cry and reminds us intelligence is not everything but is a lot.Ellen Raskin’s The Westing Game, because it’s genuinely strange and wonderful.Thomas Malory’s Morte d’Arthur. Arthur gets his round table, his Guinevere, and Lancelot, and fantasy gets started properly.George MacDonald’s The Princess and the Goblin and The Princess and Curdie. For influencing so many people that came later and for having a good heroine who wasn’t a wimp.Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising sequence and undervalued Boggart series. Dark, compelling fantasy for kids.Robert Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. An almost unrivalled depiction of darkness and madness.Madeline L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time, for her heroines and genius.Douglas Adam’s Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Dirk Gently series. For all the jokes and the answer to the Meaning of Life, Universe and Everything.J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. We believe in fairies now.Ursula K. Le Guin. All of hers. As if you need to ask why.Patrick Ness’s A Monster Calls and Chaos Walking trilogy. Because he gave us dark and clever stories and once made me cry.The Beowulf poet’s Beowulf. Points if you use the Heaney translation. Double points if you read it in the original. Beowulf becomes a hero for the ages.Arthur C. Clarke’s everything. Again, as if you need to ask why.Alan Garner’s Weirdstone of Brisingamen, Elidor, and Owl Service. If you haven’t read him, you should have, weird and wonderful British fantasy.Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time (16 books). Every single fantasy author since its publication owes something to Wheel. My favourite fantasy series.Unknown Sumerian poet’s The Epic of Gilgamesh. 4,300 years later, and the story still resonates and makes me weep.J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. For turning fantasy into something serious and deep while giving us some genuinely great characters.Raymond E. Feist’s Magician series, though preferably not all of it. He influenced so much and yet still feels different. The later books are lazy, but the Riftwar is good.Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files (15 mainline books and counting). Take Philip Marlowe’s hard boiled gumshoe, add magic, faeries, werewolves, and fallen angels, blend with great action and sarcastic jokes, and serve. I love you, Harry Dresden.Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Because a 19 year old girl kicked off science fiction as we know it and it’s a damn good novel.T.H. White’s Once and Future King Arthurian novels. When Arthur is still Wart, he has a lot to learn. Merlin, and his owl Archimedes, are here to teach us all.Robert Browning’s Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came, for being fantastic poetry and phantasmagorical.Bram Stoker’s Dracula, for introducing us to properly scary vampires and kicking off the whole vampires-are-sexy thing.Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene because fairies deserve their own massive poem.Cornelia Funke’s Inkheart trilogy. In which a man can read people literally into and out of books and magic is all too real.Eva Ibbotson’s Haunting of Hiram, Which Witch?, Secret of Platform 13, and Dial-a-Ghost. She crafts beautiful language around her sweet stories and her quiet, comi-tragic magical beings are a delight. I loved them as a child and still do now.Homer’s The Iliad. Mayhem.Homer’s The Odyssey. Magic.Kristin Cashore’s Graceling. You won’t have read this, but the heroine is great and I enjoyed it.Robert Heinlein’s everything. Grok him.Ray Bradbury’s everything, but particularly Fahrenheit 451 and The Halloween Tree. It’s not fair he was not only a prophet but a writer of huge grace.Isaac Asimov’s everything. For giving us visions.Joe Haldeman’s Forever War for a different view of war and sci-fi.Edgar Rice Burrough’s John Carter series, or his Tarzan. He invented so much of what came later and is so iconic. Plus I have a soft spot for Tarzan and his menagerie.a) Snorri Sturrlison’s Prose Edda and 49. b) an unnamed collective’s Poetic Eddas, without whom we would not know half what we do about the Norse gods.Brandon Sanderson’s everything, but particularly Stormlight Archive and Mistborn books. Most of his books start with the idea that “the prophesied hero has lost. What do you do now?” Each time, the answer is different but compelling.Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London series, for being modern, urban, funny, and almost as much in love with London as I am. And for the very funny jokes.Jules Verne’s everything, but particularly his Journey to the Centre of the Earth and Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, for inspiring thousands of writers, scientists, and dreamers.William Shakespeare’s The Tempest, Midsummer Night’s Dream, and MacBeth, because he gave us the fairies, witches, and Puck we now love.William Nicholson’s Wind Singer trilogy. I’m not sure how to describe this, other than to say he took a very different route to other fantasy authors and that thinking of the ending can still make me sad nearly 20 years on.John Wyndham’s Day of the Triffids and Midwych Cuckoos. Prepare to be spooked.Larry Niven’s Ringworld. Prepare for greatness.Tad Williams. All of it, because he offers teenagers a route into fantasy.Robin Hobb’s Assassin series, because she felt new and gave us something different.Edwin A. Abbott’s Flat Land, a different dimension.Hans Christian Andersen’s everything, because he can make us cry and think and doesn’t always give us the ending we want but the one we don’t deserve.George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire sequence. He started a different tone of fantasy, and is still its best exponent.Harlan Ellison’s I Have No Mouth and I must Scream. Short but effective sci-fi horror that has sparked a thousand nightmares.Andy Weir’s The Martian, because he rebooted hard sci-fi for the masses and gave us Mark Watney: Space Pirate.Joe Abercrombie’s First Law trilogy, though really, just for Glotka who remains one of the great characters of any fantasy novel.Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian, mostly so you can understand Pratchett’s jokes.Roger Zelazny’s Chronicles in Amber. World crossing fantasy that sparked so much.Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller. Not a fantasy or sci-fi, but an exploration of stories, sometimes including those themes. A tantalising dance of a book.Edward Lear’s Nonsense, including the Owl and the Pussycat. Need I say more?Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser novels. He started sending things up and inspired Pratchett to do so too.Richard Matheson’s I am Legend. Tragic sci-fi horror that deserves its reputation.Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Come on, as if I could leave Yahoos and Lilliputians off this list.Colin Dann’s Animals of Farthing Wood, for giving us a very different view of animals and yet also building a fantasy for their lives. Also a very good animated show that haunted a generation of British kids.James S.A. Corey’s Expanse series. I’ve read three so far, and the first two are properly good hard sci-fi with the kind of integrated hero you are used to from Hollywood, but in book form.William Goldman’s The Princess Bride. For the fairy tale inversion that you never knew you needed, and for “Life is pain. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.”Charles Perrault’s Fairy tales. For giving Disney all his best ideas and still being delightful.David Weber’s Honor Harrington and Safehold series. For Honor Harrington, space’s answer to Admiral Nelson with a telepathic pet cat-cum-bodyguard and some ferocious space battles, and Nimue Alban, Safehold’s answer to Merlin with a rocket launcher.Frank Herbert’s Dune series. Without this, we have so much less sci-fi. It is a foundation stone and great.William Gibson’s Neuromancer, for influencing of so much that came after.Norton Juster’s Phantom Tollbooth. If you haven’t read this, please consider it. Odd does not cover it. No I’m not saying more.Cressida Cowell’s How to Train your Dragon. Reimagining dragons for kids.Charles Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer. A genuine oddity about a man who wins an extra 150 years of life and struggles to deal with it. You probably reference it without knowing.George Orwell’s 1984 and Animal Farm. He writes through a glass darkly, but is prophetic, and should be heeded. He also has one of the best opening lines in all literature: “It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.”Margaret Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale. A female view of what dystopia is going to be and terrifically good story.Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. Ferocious, sad, and tender by turns, this has its faults but also saw so much.Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl is Ireland’s brightest twelve year old criminal mastermind. Young enough to believe in fairies, old enough to want their gold, he has a bodyguard called Butler, a plan, and just one problem, the Lower Element Police Recon (LEPRecon) officer, Holly Short, who isn’t going down easy. The first book is the best.John Scalzi’s Redshirts and Old Man’s War. Redshirts in particular, because the reversals are epic, and unexpectedly layered.Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park, for all he inspired with it. And for giving us dinosaurs in the modern era.Patrick Rothfuss’s Kingkiller Chronicles. He takes forever to produce each book, but they have so far been worth it. The style, the grace, the effortless allusions and new takes on old themes, Rothfuss is the nearest thing to Le Guin we’ve seen in a while.Scott Lynch’s Lies of Locke Lamora. Because it’s funny and influential.Goethe’s Faust, for giving us a hold on the devil.Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials and now La Belle Sauvage. If you haven’t read Pullman’s trilogy, you have missed so much. He gives us an awesome heroine in young Lyra Silvertongue, talking polar bears with a deep culture of their own, and a beautifully imagined set of worlds. The third book drops the ball a bit, but is still mesmeric.Stephen King’s The Dark Tower. I would probably add his Pet Sematary (note, that is not a spelling error) to weird books too. Hugely influential.Philippa Pierce’s Tom’s Midnight Garden, time travel for a young boy who discovers he can reach into the past through his garden.Anne McCaffrey’s Pern series, giving us dragons with a sci-fi basis and some damn good stories.David Edding’s Belgariad. Responsible for hooking a generation on fantasy. OK, it’s derivative of Lord of the Rings, but what isn’t?Unknown storytellers’ 1,001 Arabian Nights. Scheherazade lives to tell another tale and gives us hundreds of stories full of magic, djinns, heroes, villains, and comedy.Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Pardoner’s Tale. Do not be put off by the language, this is a rollicking tale about what happens when three young men try to kill Death. If that isn’t a weird yet epic fantasy plot, I don’t know what is.Virginia Woolf’s Orlando, because a near immortal gender swapping Elizabethan noble is weird and great.Richard Adams’ Watership Down. Weird in that it explores a different side to nature and animals, but also beautiful in its exploration of themes of violence, grief, loss, and joy. Hazel, sniff.Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn. Unicorns are fading from the world, and the writing is lovely.E. Nesbit’s Five Children and It and The Psammead series. The Psammead is a delightful creature that grants wishes, and wishes are never what they seem.Brent Weeks’s Lightbringer series. It’s not done and may not end well, but Weeks can write a ripping yarn while also dropping reverse upon reverse on you, like Sanderson hiding his secrets in plain sight. Plus points for a complex depiction of female sexuality.Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, where Soviet Russia is visited by the Devil and his cat, Behemoth. Weirdness happens, allegorical for the era, with a cameo by Jesus. This book is bliss.Glen Cook’s The Black Company, for starting grimdark fantasy and providing a gritty setting for his flawed heroes, Cook inspired a thousand imitators, few of whom are as good.Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast. Confession time. I actually am not a huge Peake fan, but he wins on both weirdness and fantasy. There is nothing quite like this.Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus sequence. Hilarious Bartimaeus is a djinn who is summoned by young Nathaniel, a wizard. Bartimaeus is not impressed by being used like this and the plot quickly thickens. The alternate reality setting is well-realised and there are many, many funny jokes.Edward Ormondryod’s David and the Phoenix. A slightly older, lovely children’s book about a magical being in a forest and a boy trying to find his place in the world.Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are and In the Night Kitchen. I don’t know if these fall under fantasy or odd, but be prepared for strange happenings in Sendak’s picture books for children.Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto, which begins with a giant helmet falling out of the sky and onto a bridegroom on his wedding day. Things only get weirder and some classic Gothic tropes are born.Carl Hiaasen’s everything. It’s all odd or offbeat, often with ridiculous happenings in the Florida Everglades.Natalie Babbitt’s Tuck Everlasting, where children are introduced to the idea that immortality can be uncomfortable. Twenty-five years later, it still haunts me.Roald Dahl’s The Witches, James and the Giant Peach, OK, his everything too, he was a genius who isn’t valued highly enough.Malorie Blackman’s Noughts and Crosses, for reimagining what other worlds could look like and one of the best explorations of racism and forbidden love.Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain was inspired by the Welsh tradition of folklore, and has a talking, oracular pig.Brothers Grimm’s everything. Any “Happy ever after” stories we don’t owe to Perrault or Andersen, we owe to the Grimms. Read away from just the best known tales for some delights like the Juniper Tree.Mary Norton’s The Borrowers, where we discover tiny people live and borrow from us. A delight of a book.Tove Jansson’s Moomins books, for weird and beautiful fantasy.Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story, a book which introduced many children to fantasy and has some genuinely weird moments.Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, because if a Toad wearing a waistcoat and driving a motor car while saying “Toot-Toot!” isn’t weird, I don’t know what is.Diana Wynne Jones’s everything, particularly Howl’s Moving Castle, for her beautiful imagination.GK Chesterton’s Man Who Was Thursday. If you don’t think this was pretty weird, you need to read it again. It’s also brilliant.David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, which was both sci-fi in places and weird as all hell in others. A bit marmite, sometimes loathed, but with interesting ideas.Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, who basically gave us a guide to the 20th century and insisted we laugh and weep at the same time. A tour de force.Iain M. Banks’s everything. Without the Culture, we would be much the poorer in sci-fi ideas.H.G. Wells’ everything. As if I need to explain.Margaret Wise Brown’s Goodnight Moon, because my brother in law pointed out how utterly weird it is.Edit: added after I first published this answer, when I finished hitting myself in the head for forgetting them:James Thurber's 13 clocks. It's ferociously weird and funny.Ted Hughes’s The Iron Giant, because it’s the only time that a robot has brought me to tears. There’s also a fabulous animated film by Brad Bird.Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary and Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, for being funny and utterly spooky.Washington Irving’s Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. If you don’t know why, you’ve been asleep for a few hundred years.OK ones I haven’t read enough of to pick a book to represent them but should probably be on the list:C.J. Cherryh.Neal Stephenson.Michael Moorcock.Gene Wolfe.China Mieville.Cory Doctorow.Brian Aldiss.Terry Brooks.Octavia Butler.Lois McMaster Bujold.Mercedes Lackey (Sorry! You’re on my reading list).Marion Zimmer Bradley.Guy Gavriel Kay.Three realisations from this:British do funny sci-fi and fantasy better than Americans.I have read next to no non-British and non-American sci-fi and fantasy. Suggestions welcomed.Weirdness is subjective.I’ve forgotten at least a dozen authors, major works, or books. Help a fellow reader out?OK so far we’ve got:Mark Twain (from Marva Dasef)Edgar Allen Poe (also from MD)Baron Munchausen (also from MD)NK Jemisin (from Andrew Petersen)Robin Hobb’s alter-ego Megan Lindholm (AP too)Lewis Carroll’s Hunting of the Snark (AP too, clearly the Snark was a Boojum for me!)And I feel silly for forgetting them.More:Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky (from Kathryn Maree)The Mars Trilogy by Kim Stanley Robinson (also KM)Enid Blyton’s Faraway Tree and Wishing Chair (Didi Bingham)Steven Erikson’s Malazan Book of the Fallen (Lyle Hamer)Jack Vance.Thomas PynchonConnie WillisKaren J. FowlerFrederick PohlHaruki Murakami (seriously, how did I miss this?)Kobo AbeRobert SheckleyKurt VonnegutJohn VarleyGaius Petronius ArbiterLucius Apuleius MadaurensisAndrzej Sapkowski’s Witcher SagaDan Simmons’ Hyperion seriesTheodore Sturgeon (I can’t believe I forgot him when I love “Some of your blood”!)Poul AndersonElizabeth MoonKatherine Kerr’s Deverry cycleThomas Burnett SwannLev Grossman’s MagiciansLian Hearn’s Tales of the Otori. Across the Nightingale Floor is lovely in particular and I’m not sure why I forgot it.Cordwainer SmithJohn Myers MyersEdward E. Smith aka Doc Smith’s Lensman series

What are some of the most disturbing short stories you have come across?

This is my personal favorite, and is relatively obscure. My mother first told me a summary of the story but couldn’t remember what the story was called and many years later I was able to find it online. The beauty of the story is in the building vague unease and implied ending. Enjoy. Link: Stanley Ellin - Specialty of the House—————————————————————————————————————Specialty of the Houseby Stanley Ellin—————————————————————————————————————'And this,' said Laffler, 'is Sbirro's.' Costain saw a square brownstone facade identical with the others that extended from either side into the clammy darkness of the deserted street. From the barred windows of the basement at his feet, a glimmer of light showed behind heavy curtains.'Lord,' he observed, 'it's a dismal hole, isn't it?''I beg you to understand,' said Laffler stiffly, 'that Sbirro's is the restaurant without pretensions. Besieged by these ghastly, neurotic times, it has refused to compromise. It is perhaps the last important establishment in this city lit by gas jets. Here you will find the same honest furnishings, the same magnificent Sheffield service, and possibly, in a far corner, the very same spider webs that were remarked by the patrons of a half centuty ago!''A doubtful recommendation,' said Costain, 'and hardly sanitary.''When you enter,' Laffler continued, 'you leave the insanity of this year, this day, and this hour, and you find yourself for a brief span restored in spirit, not by opulence, but by dignity, which is the lost quality of our time.'Costain laughed uncomfortably. 'You make it sound more like a cathedral than a restaurant,' he said.In the pale reflection of the street lamp overhead, Laffler peered at his companion's face. 'I wonder,' he said abruptly, 'whether I have not made a mistake in extending this invitation to you.'Costain was hurt. Despite an impressive title and 1arge salary, he was no more than a clerk to this pompous little man, but he was impelled to make some display of his feelings. 'If you wish,' he said coldly, 'I can make other plans for my evening with no trouble.'With his large, cowlike eyes turned up to Costain, the mist drifting into the ruddy, full moon of his face, Laffler seemed strangely ill at ease. Then 'No, no,' he said at last, 'absolutely not. It's important that you dine at Sbirro's with me.' He grasped Costain's arm firmly and led the way to the wrought-iron gate of the basement. 'You see, you're the sole person in my office who seems to know anything at all about good food. And on my part, knowing about Sbirro's but not having some appreciative friend to share it is like having a unique piece of art locked in a room where no one else can enjoy it.'Costain was considerably mollified by this. 'I understand there are a great many people who relish that situation.''I'm not one of that kind!' Laffler said sharply. 'And having the secret of Sbirro's locked in myself for years has finally become unendurable.' He fumbled at the side of the gate and from within could be heard the small, discordant jangle of an ancient pull-bell. An interior door opened with a groan, and Costain found himself peering into a dark face whose only discernible feature was a row of gleaming teeth.'Sair?' said the face.'Mr Laffler and a guest.''Sair,' the face said again, this time in what was clearly an invitation. It moved aside and Costain stumbled down a single step behind his host. The door and gate creaked behind him, and he stood blinking in a small foyer. It took him a moment to realize that the figure he now stared at was his own reflection in a gigantic pier glass that extended from floor to ceiling. 'Atmosphere,' he said under his breath and chuckled as he followed his guide to a seat.He faced Laffler across a small table for two and peered curiously around the dining room. It was no size at all, but the half-dozen guttering gas jets which provided the only illumination threw such a deceptive light that the walls flickered and faded into uncertain distance.There were no more than eight or ten tables about, arranged to insure the maximum privacy. All were occupied, and the few waiters serving them moved with quiet efficiency. In the air were a soft clash and scrape of cutlery and a soothing murmur of talk. Costain nodded appreciatively.Laffler breathed an audible sigh of gratification. 'I knew you would share my enthusiasm,' he said. 'Have you noticed, by the way, that there are no women present?'Costain raised inquiring eyebrows.'Sbirro,' said Laffler, 'does not encourage members of the fair sex to enter the premises. And, I can tell you, his method is decidedly effective. I had the experience of seeing a woman get a taste of it not long ago. She sat at a table for not less than an hour waiting for service which was never forthcoming.''Didn't she make a scene?''She did.' Laffler smiled at the recollection. 'She succeeded in annoying the customers, embarrassing her partner, and nothing more.''And what about Mr Sbirro?''He did not make an appearance. Whether he directed affairs from behind the scenes, or was not even present during the episode, I don't know. Whichever it was, he won a complete victory. The woman never reappeared nor, for that matter, did the witless gentleman who by bringing her was really the cause of the entire contretemps.''A fair warning to all present,' laughed Costain.A waiter now appeared at the table. The chocolate dark skin, the thin, beautifully molded nose and lips, the large liquid eyes, heavily lashed, and the silver white hair so heavy and silken that it lay on the skull like a cap, all marked him definitely as an East Indian of some sort, Costain decided. The man arranged the stiff table linen, filled two tumblers from a huge, cut-glass pitcher, and set them in their proper places.'Tell me,' Laffler said eagerly, 'is the special being served this evening?'The waiter smiled regretfully and showed teeth as spectacular as those of the majordomo. 'I am so sorry, sair. There is no special this evening.'Laffler's face fell into lines of heavy disappointment. 'After waiting so long. It's been a month already, and I hoped to show my friend here. ..''You understand the difficulties, sair.''Of course, of course.' Laffler looked at Costain sadly and shrugged. 'You see, I had in mind to introduce you to the greatest treat that Sbirro's offers, but unfortunately it isn't on the menu this evening.'The waiter said, 'Do you wish to be served now, sair?' and Laffler nodded. To Costain's surprise the waiter made his way off without waiting for any instructions.'Have you ordered in advance?' he asked.'Ah,' said Laffier, 'I really should have explained. Sbirro's offers no choice whatsoever. You will eat the same meal as everyone else in this room. Tomorrow evening you would eat an entirely different meal, but again without designating a single preference.''Very unusual,' said Costain, 'and certainly unsatisfactory at times. What if one doesn't have a taste for the particular dish set before him?''On that score,' said Laffler solemnly, 'you need have no fears. I give you my word that no matter how exacting your tastes, you will relish every mouthful you eat in Sbirro's.'Costain looked doubtful, and Laffler smiled. 'And consider the subtle advantages of the system,' he said. 'When you pick up the menu of a popular restaurant, you find yourself confronted with innumerable choices. You are forced to weigh, to evaluate, to make uneasy decisions which you may instantly regret. The effect of all this is a tension which, however slight, must make for discomfort.'And consider the mechanics of the process. Instead of a hurly-burly of sweating cooks rushing about a kitchen in a frenzy to prepare a hundred varying items, we have a chef who stands serenely alone, bringing all his talents to bear on one task, with all assurance of a complete triumph!''Then you have seen the kitchen?''Unfortunately, no,' said Laffler sadly. 'The picture I offer is hypothetical, made of conversational fragments I have pieced together over the years. I must admit, though, that my desire to see the functioning of the kitchen here comes very close to being my sole obsession nowadays.''But have you mentioned this to Sbirro?''A dozen times. He shrugs the suggestion away.''Isn't that a rather curious foible on his part?''No, no,' Laffler said hastily, 'a master artist is never under the compulsion of petty courtesies. Still,' he sighed, 'I have never given up hope.'The waiter now reappeared bearing two soup bowls which he set in place with mathematical exactitude and a small tureen from which he slowly ladled a measure of clear, thin broth. Costain dipped his spoon into the broth and tasted it with some curiosity. It was delicately flavored, bland to the verge of tastelessness. Costain frowned, tentatively reached for the salt and pepper cellars, and discovered there were none on the table. He looked up, saw Laffler's eyes on him, and although unwilling to compromise with his own tastes, he hesitated to act as a damper on Laffler's enthusiasm. Therefore he smiled and indicated the broth.'Excellent,' he said.Laffler returned his smile. 'You do not find it excellent at all,' he said coolly. 'You find it flat and badly in need of condiments. I know this,' he continued as Costain's eyebrows shot upward, 'because it was my own reaction many years ago, and because like yourself I found myself reaching for salt and pepper after the first mouthful. I also learned with surprise that condiments are not available in Sbirro's.'Costain was shocked. 'Not even salt!' he exclaimed.'Not even salt. The very fact that you require it for your soup stands as evidence that your taste is unduly jaded. I am confident that you will now make the same discovery that I did: by the time you have nearly finished your soup, your desire for salt will be nonexistent.'Laffler was right; before Costain had reached the bottom of his plate, he was relishing the nuances of the broth with steadily increasing delight. Laffler thrust aside his own empty bowl and rested his elbows on the table. 'Do you agree with me now?''To my surprise,' said Costain, 'I do.'As the waiter busied himself clearing the table, Laffler lowered his voice significantly. 'You will find,' he said, 'that the absence of condiments is but one of several noteworthy characteristics which mark Sbirro's. I may as well prepare you for these. For example, no alcoholic beverages of any sort are served here, nor for that matter any beverage except clear, cold water, the first and only drink necessary for a human being.''Outside of mother's milk,' suggested Costain dryly.'I can answer that in like vein by pointing out that the average patron of Sbirro's has passed that primal stage of his development.'Costain laughed. 'Granted,' he said.'Very well. There is also a ban on the use of tobacco in any form.''But, good heavens,' said Costain, 'doesn't that make Sbirro's more a teetotaler's retreat than a gourmet's sanctuary?''I fear,' said Laffler solemnly, 'that you confuse the words, gourmet and gourmand. The gourmand, through glutting himself, requires a wider and wider latitude of experience to stir his surfeited senses, but the very nature of the gourmet is simpliciry. The ancient Greek in his coarse chiton savoring the ripe olive; the Japanese in his bare room contemplating the curves of a single flower stem - these are the true gourmets.''But an occasional drop of brandy or pipeful of tobacco,' said Costain dubiously, 'are hardly overindulgence.''By alternating stimulant and narcotic,' said Laffler, 'you seesaw the delicate balance of your taste so violently that it loses its most precious quality: the appreciation of fine food. During my years as a patron of Sbirro's, I have proved this to my satisfaction.''May I ask,' said Costain, 'why you regard the ban on these things as having such deep esthetic motives? What about such mundane reasons as the high cost of a liquor license, or the possibility that patrons would object to the smell of tobacco in such confined quarters?'Laffler shook his head violently. 'If and when you meet Sbirro,' he said, 'you will understand at once that he is not the man to make decisions on a mundane basis. As a matter of fact, it was Sbirro himself who first made me cognizant of what you call "esthetic" motives.''An amazing man,' said Costain as the waiter prepared to serve the entree.Laffler's next words were not spoken until he had savored and swallowed a large pottion of meat. 'I hesitate to use superlatives,' he said, 'but to my way of thinking, Sbirro represents man at the apex of his civilization!'Costain cocked an eyebrow and applied himself to his roast which rested in a pool of stiff gravy ungarnished by green or vegetable. The thin steam rising from it carried to his nostrils a subtle, tantalizing odor which made his mouth water. He chewed a piece as slowly and thoughtfully as if he were analyzing the intricacies of a Mozart symphony. The range of taste he discovered was really extraordinary, from the pungent nip of the crisp outer edge to the peculiarly flat, yet soul-satisfying ooze of blood which the pressure of his jaws forced from the half-raw interior.Upon swallowing he found himself ferociously hungry for another piece, and then another, and it was only with an effort that he prevented himself from wolfing down all his share of the meat and gravy without waiting to get the full voluptuous satisfaction from each mouthful. When he had scraped his platter clean, he realized that both he and Laffler had completed the entire course without exchanging a single word. He commented on this, and Laffler said, 'Can you see any need for words in the presence of such food?'Costain looked around at the shabby, dimly lit room, the quiet diners, with a new perception. 'No,' he said humbly, 'I cannot. For any doubts I had I apologize unreservedly. In all your praise of Sbirro's there was not a single word of exaggeration.''Ah,' said Laffler delightedly. 'And that is only part of the story. You heard me mention the special which unfortunately was not on the menu tonight. What you have just eaten is as nothing when compared to the absolute delights of that special!''Good Lord!' cried Costain. 'What is it? Nightingale's tongues? Filet of unicorn?''Neither,' said Laffler. 'It is lamb.''Lamb?'Laffler remained lost in thought for a minute. 'If,' he said at last, 'I were to give you in my own unstinted words my opinion of this dish, you would judge me completely insane. That is how deeply the mere thought of it affects me. It is neither the fatty chop, nor the too solid leg; it is, instead, a select portion of the rarest sheep in existence and is named after the species - lamb Amirstan.'Costain knit his brow. 'Amirstan?''A fragment of desolation almost lost on the border which separates Afghanistan and Russia. From chance remarks dropped by Sbirro, I gather it is no more than a plateau which grazes the pitiful remnants of a flock of superb sheep. Sbirro, through some means or other, obtained rights to the traffic in this flock and is, therefore, the sole restaurateur ever to have lamb Amirstan on his bill of fare. I can tell you that the appearance of this dish is a rare occurrence indeed, and luck is the only guide in determining for the clientele the exact date when it will be served.''But surely,' said Costain, 'Sbirro could provide some advance knowledge of this event.''The objection to that is simply stated,' said Laffler. 'There exists in this city a huge number of professional gluttons. Should advance information slip out, it is quite likely that they will, out of curiosity, become familiar with the dish and thenceforth supplant the regular patrons at these tables.''But you don't mean to say,' objected Costain, 'that these few people present are the only ones in the entire city, or for that matter, in the whole wide world, who know of the existence of Sbirro's!''Vety nearly. There may be one or two regular patrons who, for some reason, are not present at the moment.''That's incredible.''It is done,' said Laffler, the slightest shade of menace in his voice, 'by every patron making it his solemn obligation to keep the secret. By accepting my invitation this evening you automatically assume that obligation. I hope you can be trusted with it.'Costain flushed. 'My position in your employ should vouch for me. I only question the wisdom of a policy which keeps such magnificent food away from so many who would enjoy it.''Do you know the inevitable result of the policy you favor?' asked Laffler bitterly. 'An influx of idiots who would nightly complain that they are never served roast duck with chocolate sauce. Is that picture tolerable to you?''No,' admitted Costain, 'I am forced to agree with you.'Laffler leaned back in his chair wearily and passed his hand over his eyes in an uncertain gesture. 'I am a solitary man,' he said quietly, 'and not by choice alone. It may sound strange to you, it may border on eccentricity, but I feel to my depths that this restaurant, this warm haven in a coldly insane world, is both family and friend to me.'And Costain, who to this moment had never viewed his companion as other than tyrannical employer or officious host, now felt an overwhelming pity twist inside his comfortably expanded stomach.By the end of two weeks the invitations to join Laffler at Sbirro's had become something of a ritual. Every day, at a few minutes after five, Costain would step out into the office corridor and lock his cubicle behind him; he would drape his overcoat neatly over his left arm, and peer into the glass of the door to make sure his Homburg was set at the proper angle. At one time he would have followed this by lighting a cigarette, but under Laffler's prodding he had decided to give abstinence a fair trial. Then he would start down the corridor, and Laffler would fall in step at his elbow, clearing his throat. 'Ah, Costain. No plans for this evening, I hope.''No,' Costain would say, 'I'm footloose and fancy-free,' or 'At your service,' or something equally inane. He wondered at times whether it would not be more tactful to vary the ritual with an occasional refusal, but the glow with which Laffler received his answer, and the rough friendliness of Laffler's grip on his arm, forestalled him.Among the treacherous crags of the business world, reflected Costain, what better way to secure your footing than friendship with one's employer. Already, a secretary close to the workings of the inner office had commented publicly on Laffler's highly favorable opinion of Costain. That was all to the good.And the food! The incomparable food at Sbirro's! For the first time in his life, Costain, ordinarily a lean and bony man, noted with gratification that he was certainly gaining weight; within two weeks his bones had disappeared under a layer of sleek, firm flesh, and here and there were even signs of incipient plumpness. It struck Costain one night, while surveying himself in his bath, that the rotund Laffler, himself, might have been a spare and bony man before discovering Sbirro's.So there was obviously everything to be gained and nothing to be lost by accepting Laffler's invitations. Perhaps after testing the heralded wonders of lamb Amirstan and meeting Sbirro, who thus far had not made an appearance, a refusal or two might be in order. But cenainly not until then.That evening, two weeks to a day after his first visit to Sbirro's, Costain had both desires fulfilled: he dined on lamb Amirstan, and he met Sbirro. Both exceeded all his expectations.When the waiter leaned over their table immediately after seating them and gravely announced: 'Tonight is special, sair,' Costain was shocked to find his heart pounding with expectation. On the table before him he saw Laffler's hands trembling violently. But it isn't natural, he thought suddenly. Two full grown men, presumably intelligent and in the full possession of their senses, as jumpy as a pair of cats waiting to have their meat flung at them!'This is it!' Laffler's voice startled him so that he almost leaped from his seat. 'The culinary triumph of all times! And faced by it you are embarrassed by the very emotions it distills.''How did you know that?' Costain asked faintly.'How? Because a decade ago I underwent your embarrassment. Add to that your air of revulsion and it's easy to see how affronted you are by the knowledge that man has not yet forgotten how to slaver over his meat.''And these others,' whispered Costain, 'do they all feel the same thing?''Judge for yourself.'Costain looked furtively around at the nearby tables. 'You are right,' he finally said. 'At any rate, there's comfoft in numbers.'Laffler inclined his head slightly to the side. 'One of the numbers,' he remarked, 'appears to be in for a disappointment.'Costain followed the gesture. At the table indicated a gray-haired man sat conspicuously alone, and Costain frowned at the empty chair opposite him.'Why, yes,' he recalled, 'that very stout, bald man, isn't it? I believe it's the first dinner he's missed here in two weeks.''The entire decade more likely,' said Laffler sympathetically. 'Rain or shine, crisis or calamity, I don't think he's missed an evening at Sbirro's since the first time I dined here. Imagine his expression when he's told that, on his very first defection, lamb Amirstan was the plat de jour.'Costain looked at the empty chair again with a dim discomfort. 'His very first?' he murmured.'Mr Laffler! And friend! I am so pleased. So very, very pleased. No, do not stand; I will have a place made.' Miraculously a seat appeared under the figure standing there at the table. 'The lamb Amirstan will be an unqualified success, hurr? I myself have been stewing in the miserable kitchen all the day, prodding the foolish chef to do everything just so. The just so is the important part, hurr? But I see your friend does not know me. An introduction, perhaps?'The words ran in a smooth, fluid eddy. They rippled, they purred, they hypnotized Costain so that he could do no more than stare. The mouth that uncoiled this sinuous monologue was alarmingly wide, with thin mobile lips that curled and twisted with every syllable. There was a flat nose with a straggling line of hair under it; wide-set eyes, almost oriental in appearance, that glittered in the unsteady flare of gaslight; and the long, sleek hair that swept back from high on the unwrinkled forehead - hair so pale that it might have been bleached of all color. An amazing face surely, and the sight of it tortured Costain with the conviction that it was somehow familiar. His brain twitched and prodded but could not stir up any solid recollection.Laffler's voice jerked Costain out of his study. 'Mr Sbirro. Mr Costain, a good friend and associate.' Costain rose and shook the proffered hand. It was warm and dry, flint-hard against his palm.'I am so very pleased, Mr Costain. So very, very pleased,' purred the voice. 'You like my little establishment, hurr? You have a great treat in store, I assure you.'Laffler chuckled. 'Oh, Costain's been dining here regularly for two weeks,' he said. 'He's by way of becoming a great admirer of yours, Sbirro.'The eyes were turned on Costain. 'A very great compliment. You compliment me with your presence and I return same with my food, hurr? But the lamb Amirstan is far superior to anything of your past experience, I assure you. All the trouble of obtaining it, all the difficulty of preparation, is truly merited.'Costain strove to put aside the exasperating problem of that face. 'I have wondered,' he said, 'why with all these difficulties you mention, you even bother to present lamb Amirstan to the public. Surely your other dishes are excellent enough to uphold your reputation.'Sbirro smiled so broadly that his face became perfectly round. 'Perhaps it is a matter of the psychology, hurr? Someone discovers a wonder and must share it with others. He must fill his cup to the brim, perhaps, by observing the so evident pleasure of those who explore it with him. Or,' he shrugged, 'perhaps it is just a matter of good business.''Then in the light of all this,' Costain persisted, 'and considering all the conventions you have imposed on your customers, why do you open the restaurant to the public instead of operating it as a private club?'The eyes abruptly glinted into Costain's, then turned away. 'So perspicacious, hurr? Then I will tell you. Because there is more privacy in a public eating place than in the most exclusive club in existence! Here no one inquires of your affairs; no one desires to know the intimacies of your life. Here the business is eating. We are not curious about names and addresses or the reasons for the coming and going of our guests. We welcome you when you are here; we have no regrets when you are here no longer. That is the answer, hurr?'Costain was startled by this vehemence. 'I had no intention of prying,' he stammered.Sbirro ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips. 'No, no,' he reassured, 'you are not prying. Do not let me give you that impression. On the contrary, I invite your questions.''Oh, come, Costain,' said Laffler. 'Don't let Sbirro intimidate you. I've known him for years and I guarantee that his bark is worse than his bite. Before you know it, he'll be showing you all the privileges of the house - outside of inviting you to visit his precious kitchen, of course.''Ah,' smiled Sbirro, 'for that, Mr Costain may have to wait a little while. For everything else I am at his beck and call.'Laffler slapped his hand jovially on the table. 'What did I tell you!' he said. 'Now let's have the truth, Sbirro. Has anyone, outside of your staff, ever stepped into the sanctum sanctorum?'Sbirro looked up. 'You see on the wall above you,' he said earnestly, 'the portrait of one to whom I did the honor. A very dear friend and a patron of most long standing, he is evidence that my kitchen is not inviolate.'Costain studied the picture and started with recognition. 'Why,' he said excitedly, 'that's the famous writer - you know the one, Laffler - he used to do such wonderful short stories and cynical bits and then suddenly took himself off and disappeared in Mexico!''Of course!' cried Laffler, 'and to think I've been sitting under his portrait for years without even realizing it!' He turned to Sbirro. 'A dear friend, you say? His disappearance must have been a blow to you.'Sbirro's face lengthened. 'It was, it was, I assure you. But think of it this way, gentlemen: he was probably greater in his death than in his life, hurr? A most tragic man, he often told me that his only happy hours were spent here at this very table. Pathetic, is it not? And to think the only favor I could ever show him was to let him witness the mysteries of my kitchen, which is, when all is said and done, no more than a plain, ordinary kitchen.''You seem very certain of his death,' commented Costain. 'After all, no evidence has ever turned up to substantiate it.'Sbirro contemplated the picture. 'None at all,' he said softly. 'Remarkable, hurr?'With the arrival of the entree Sbirro leaped to his feet and set about serving them himself. With his eyes alight he lifted the casserole from the tray and sniffed at the fragrance from within with sensual relish. Then, taking great care not to lose a single drop of gravy, he filled two platters with chunks of dripping meat. As if exhausted by this task, he sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'to your good appetite.'Costain chewed his first mouthful with great deliberation and swallowed it. Then he looked at the empty tines of his fork with glazed eyes.'Good God!' he breathed.'It is good, hurr? Better than you imagined?'Costain shook his head dazedly. 'It is as impossible,' he said slowly, 'for the uninitiated to conceive the delights of lamb Amirstan as for mortal man to look into his own soul.''Perhaps--' Sbirro thrust his head so close that Costain could feel the warm, fetid breath tickle his nostrils - 'perhaps you have just had a glimpse into your soul, hurr?'Costain tried to draw back slightly without giving offence. 'Perhaps.' He laughed. 'And a gratifying picture it made: all fang and claw. But without intending any disrespect, I should hardly like to build my church on lamb en casserole.'Sbirro rose and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. 'So perspicacious,' he said. 'Sometimes when you have nothing to do, nothing, perhaps, but sit for a very little while in a dark room and think of this world - what it is and what it is going to be - then you must turn your thoughts a little to the significance of the Lamb in religion. It will be so interesting. And now -' he bowed deeply to both men - 'I have held you long enough from your dinner. I was most happy,' he said, nodding to Costain, 'and I am sure we will meet again.' The teeth gleamed, the eyes glittered, and Sbirro was gone down the aisle of tables.Costain twisted around to stare after the retreating figure. 'Have I offended him in some way?' he asked.Laffler looked up from his plate. 'Offended him? He loves that kind of talk. Lamb Amirstan is a ritual with him; get him started and he'll be back at you a dozen times worse than a priest making a conversion.'Costain turned to his meal with the face still hovering before him. 'Interesting man,' he reflected. 'Very.'It took him a month to discover the tantalizing familiarity of that face, and when he did, he laughed aloud in his bed. Why, of course! Sbirro might have sat as the model for the Cheshire cat in Alice! He passed this thought on to Laffler the very next evening as they pushed their way down the street to the restaurant against a chill, blustering wind. Laffler only looked blank.'You may be right,' he said, 'but I'm not a fit judge. It's a far cry back to the days when I read the book. A far cry, indeed.'As if taking up his words, a piercing howl came ringing down the street and stopped both men short in their tracks. 'Someone's in trouble there,' said Laffler. 'Look!'Not far from the entrance to Sbirro's two figures could be seen struggling in the near darkness. They swayed back and forth and suddenly tumbled into a writhing heap on the sidewalk. The piteous howl went up again, and Laffler, despite his girth, ran toward it at a fair speed with Costain tagging cautiously behind.Stretched out full-length on the pavement was a slender figure with the dusky complexion and white hair of one of Sbirro's servitors. His fingers were futilely plucking at the huge hands which encircled his throat, and his knees pushed weakly up at the gigantic bulk of a man who brutally bore down with his full weight.Laffler came up panting. 'Stop this!' he shouted. 'What's going on here?'The pleading eyes almost bulging from their sockets turned toward Laffler. 'Help, sair. This man - drunk --''Drunk am I, ya dirty --' Costain saw now that the man was a sailor in a badly soiled uniform. The air around him reeked with the stench of liquor. 'Pick me pocket and then call me drunk, will ya!' He dug his fingers in harder, and his victim groaned.Laffler seized the sailor's shoulder. 'Let go of him, do you hear! Let go of him at once!' he cried, and the next instant was sent careening into Costain, who staggered back under the force of the blow.The attack on his own person sent Laffler into immediate and berserk action. Without a sound he leaped at the sailor, striking and kicking furiously at the unprotected face and flanks. Stunned at first, the man came to his feet with a rush and turned on Laffler. For a moment they stood locked together, and then as Costain joined the attack, all three went sprawling to the ground. Slowly Laffler and Costain got to their feet and looked down at the body before them.'He's either out cold from liquor,' said Costain, 'or he struck his head going down. In any case, it's a job for the police.''No, no, sair!' The waiter crawled weakly to his feet, and stood swaying. 'No police, sair. Mr Sbirro do not want such. You understand, sair.' He caught hold of Costain with a pleading hand, and Costain looked at Laffler.'Of course not,' said Laffler. 'We won't have to bother with the police. They'll pick him up soon enough, the murderous sot. But what in the world started all this?''That man, sair. He make most erratic way while walking, and with no meaning I push against him. Then he attack me, accusing me to rob him.''As I thought.' Laffler pushed the waiter gently along. 'Now go in and get yourself attended to.'The man seemed ready to burst into tears. 'To you, sair, I owe my life. If there is anything I can do --'Laffler turned into the areaway that led to Sbirro's door. 'No, no, it was nothing. You go along, and if Sbirro has any questions send him to me. I'll straighten it out.''My life, sair,' were the last words they heard as the inner door closed behind them.'There you are, Costain,' said Laffler, as a few minutes later he drew his chair under the table, 'civilized man in all his glory. Reeking with alcohol, strangling to death some miserable innocent who came too close.'Costain made an effort to gloss over the nerve-shattering memory of the episode. 'It's the neurotic cat that takes to alcohol,' he said. 'Surely there's a reason for that sailor's condition.''Reason? Of course there is. Plain atavistic savagery!' Laffler swept his arm in an all-embracing gesture. 'Why do we all sit here at our meat? Not only to appease physical demands, but because our atavistic selves cry for release. Think back, Costain. Do you remember that I once described Sbirro as the epitome of civilization? Can you now see why? A brilliant man, he fully understands the nature of human beings. But unlike lesser men he bends all his efforts to the satisfaction of our innate nature without resultant harm to some innocent bystander.''When I think back on the wonders of lamb Amirstan,' said Costain, 'I quite understand what you're driving at. And, by the way, isn't it nearly due to appear on the bill of fare? It must have been over a month ago that it was last served.'The waiter, filling the tumblers, hesitated. 'I am so sorry, sair. No special this evening.''There's your answer,' Laffler grunted, 'and probably just my luck to miss out on it altogether the next time.'Costain stared at him. 'Oh, come, that's impossible.''No, blast it.' Laffler drank off half his water at a gulp and the waiter immediately refilled the glass. 'I'm off to South America for a surprise tour of inspection. One month, two months, Lord knows how long.''Are things that bad down there?''They could be better.' Laffler suddenly grinned. 'Mustn't forget it takes very mundane dollars and cents to pay the tariff at Sbirro's.''I haven't heard a word of this around the office.''Wouldn't be a surprise tour if you had. Nobody knows about this except myself - and now you. I want to walk in on them completely unexpected. Find out what flimflammery they're up to down there. As far as the office is concerned, I'm off on a jaunt somewhere. Maybe recuperating in some sanatorium from my hard work. Anyhow, the business will be in good hands. Yours, among them.''Mine?' said Costain, surprised.'When you go in tomorrow you'll find yourself in receipt of a promotion, even if I'm not there to hand it to you personally. Mind you, it has nothing to do with our friendship either; you've done fine work, and I'm immensely grateful for it.'Costain reddened under the praise. 'You don't expect to be in tomorrow. Then you're leaving tonight?'Laffler nodded. 'I've been trying to wangle some reservations. If they come through, well, this will be in the nature of a farewell celebration.''You know,' said Costain slowly, 'I devoutly hope that your reservations don't come through. I believe our dinners here have come to mean more to me than I ever dared imagine.'The waiter's voice broke in. 'Do you wish to be served now, sair?' and they both started.'Of course, of course,' said Laffler sharply, 'I didn't realize you were waiting.''What bothers me,' he told Costain as the waiter turned away, 'is the thought of the lamb Amirstan I'm bound to miss. To tell you the truth, I've already put off my departure a week, hoping to hit a lucky night, and now I simply can't delay any more. I do hope that when you're sitting over your share of lamb Amirstan, you'll think of me with suitable regrets.'Costain laughed. 'I will indeed,' he said as he turned to his dinner.Hardly had he cleared the plate when a waiter silently reached for it. It was not their usual waiter, he observed; it was none other than the victim of the assault.'Well,' Costain said, 'how do you feel now? Still under the weather?'The waiter paid no attention to him. Instead, with the air of a man under great strain, he turned to Laffler. 'Sair,' he whispered. 'My life. I owe it to you. I can repay you!'Laffler looked up in amazement, then shook his head firmly. 'No,' he said. 'I want nothing from you, understand? You have repaid me sufficently with your thanks. Now get on with your work and let's hear no more about it.'The waiter did not stir an inch, but his voice rose slightly. 'By the body and blood of your God, sair, I will help you even if you do not want! Do not go into the kitchen, sair. I trade you my life for yours, sair, when I speak this. Tonight or any night of your life, do not go into the kitchen at Sbirro's!'Laffler sat back, completely dumbfounded. 'Not go into the kitchen? Why shouldn't I go into the kitchen if Mr Sbirro ever took it into his head to invite me there? What's all this about?'A hard hand was laid on Costain's back, and another gripped the waiter's arm. The waiter remained frozen to the spot, his lips compressed, his eyes downcast.'What is all what about, gentlemen?' purred the voice. 'So opportune an arrival. In time as ever, I see, to answer all the questions, hurr?'Laffler breathed a sigh of relief. 'Ah, Sbirro, thank heaven you're here. This man is saying something about my not going into your kitchen. Do you know what he means?'The teeth showed in a broad grin. 'But of course. This good man was giving you advice in all amiability. It so happens that my too emotional chef heard some rumor that I might have a guest into his precious kitchen, and he flew into a fearful rage. Such a rage, gentlemen! He even threatened to give notice on the spot, and you can understand what that would mean to Sbirro's, hurr? Fortunately, I succeeded in showing him what a signal honor it is to have an esteemed patron and true connoisseur observe him at his work firsthand, and now he is quite amenable. Quite, hurr?'He released the waiter's arm. 'You are at the wrong table,' he said softly. 'See that it does not happen again.'The waiter slipped off without daring to raise his eyes and Sbirro drew a chair to the table. He seated himself and brushed his hand lightly over his hair. 'Now I am afraid that the cat is out of the bag, hurr? This invitation to you, Mr Laffler, was to be a surprise; but the surprise is gone, and all that is left is the invitation.'Laffler mopped beads of perspiration from his forehead. 'Are you serious?' he said huskily. 'Do you mean that we are really to witness the preparation of your food tonight?'Sbirro drew a sharp fingernail along the tablecloth, leaving a thin, straight line printed in the linen. 'Ah,' he said, 'I am faced with a dilemma of great proportions.' He studied the line soberly. 'You, Mr Laffler, have been my guest for ten long years. But our friend here --'Costain raised his hand in protest. 'I understand perfectly. This invitation is solely to Mr Laffler, and naturally my presence is embarrassing. As it happens, I have an early engagement for this evening and must be on my way anyhow. So you see there's no dilemma at all, really.''No,' said Laffler, 'absolutely not. That wouldn't be fair at all. We've been sharing this until now, Costain, and I won't enjoy the experience half as much if you're not along. Surely Sbirro can make his conditions flexible, this one occasion.'They both looked at Sbirro who shrugged his shoulders regretfully.Costain rose abruptly. 'I'm not going to sit here, Laffler, and spoil your great adventure. And then, too,' he bantered, 'think of that ferocious chef waiting to get his cleaver on you. I prefer not to be at the scene. I'll just say goodbye,' he went on, to cover Laffler's guilty silence, 'and leave you to Sbirro. I'm sure he'll take pains to give you a good show.' He held out his hand and Laffler squeezed it painfully hard.'You're being very decent, Costain,' he said. 'I hope you'll continue to dine here until we meet again. It shouldn't be too long.'Sbirro made way for Costain to pass. 'I will expect you,' he said. 'Au 'voir.'Costain stopped briefly in the dim foyer to adjust his scarf and fix his Homburg at the proper angle. When he turned away from the mirror, satisfied at last, he saw with a final glance that Laffler and Sbirro were already at the kitchen door, Sbirro holding the door invitingly wide with one hand, while the other rested, almost tenderly, on Laffler's meaty shoulders.THE END

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