Windemere shrugged. "You have a better idea? We can't zap him, and I certainly don't intend to cower in the house until he gets bored and goes away. If we talk to him, at least we know what he wants and if there's any chance of negotiating."
Gibson didn't like the sound of the word "negotiating." He could all too easily see himself as the subject of the negotiations.
"Hold up there a minute."
Windemere quickly turned. "Don't worry. We won't be giving you away to him unless we absolutely have to."
Smith still looked less than overjoyed by the idea. "Are you sure you can handle this?"
Windemere nodded. "I think so. It's my turf, after all."
Gibson stood up very straight. "I'm going with you."
Windemere and Smith responded in unison. "Don't be ridiculous. "
"I'm going."
Windemere was busily shaking his head. "Your being there is just the kind of distraction that Slide could use to pull something."
"I don't want to argue about it."
Smith fixed him with a look that should have left freezer burn. "We're not arguing. You're not going out there."
It may have been the look that snapped it or it may have been the tone of her voice. Gibson wasn't sure which. All he knew was that he was suddenly as mad as hell. He jabbed a ringer at Smith.
"Listen, lady, we had the start of this discussion last night. I'm getting mighty tired of being told what to do and being expected to obey without question. I don't do that sort of thing. I spent a lifetime not doing that sort of thing and I'm not about to start now. I'm extremely grateful for you pulling me out of the shit in Jersey, but nobody appointed you either my babysitter or the custodian of my life. If they did, they were acting well outside their authority. I'm a grown man and I make my own decisions, and here's the one for today. I intend to have myself a very large Scotch-" He glanced at Windemere and made a slight bow. "-if I may-" He returned his attention to Smith, "-and then I'm going to walk out of the front door and find out what this Yancey Slide wants with me."
Windemere laughed. He went to the sideboard and started pouring from a decanter of amber fluid.
Christobelle's voice came from the depths of the leather armchair. "You'll need a raincoat. It's raining out and you don't have Yancey Slide's power to mysteriously remain dry."
Windemere handed Gibson what had to be a triple Scotch.
"She's right, you know. You came in with what you have on, dressed for autumn in New York. This is London and it's damp and chilly. Besides, you'd attract attention walking round soaking wet in a lightweight suit." He turned to Christobelle. "Joe and I are roughly the same size, why don't you have a look in my wardrobe for something suitable?"
Christobelle stood up. "Whatever you say, boss."
She left the room. Smith, meanwhile, seemed to be in the grip of high, controlled fury. "I still think this is a very bad idea."
Gibson was halfway through his Scotch. "Your protest is noted. If things fuck up, you'll have the satisfaction of having told me so."
"Maybe we should leave you altogether."
Gibson could have sworn that, in her own icy way, Smith was pouting. "That's for you to decide."
Smith shook her head angrily. "Unfortunately, I can't just dump you. I made an agreement."
"Then there's nothing to discuss. All you have to realize is that protecting me is not the same thing as holding me prisoner."
Christobelle returned with a black Italian trenchcoat over her arm. She held it out to Gibson. "Try this. It ought to be appropriate for the occasion."
"Aren't you worried that I'm going outside to get myself killed or worse?"
"I'm sure you'll do whatever you have a mind to."
There was still not the slightest intimacy or warmth. Gibson downed the rest of his Scotch and slipped into the coat. Christobelle looked him over and nodded.
"Yeah, that'll do. Turn your collar up in the back like a hood."
Windemere took Gibson's empty glass. "Take care of that coat, I'm quite fond of it."
Gibson pulled a wry face. "I'll try not to get blood on it."
Smith looked from one to the other of them. "How many of us are going?"
Windemere glanced quickly at Gibson and then faced Smith.
"I thought just Joe and I. We don't know how much Slide knows. It hardly seems like a good idea to give him the gift-wrapped chance to look you three over. We are hoping this isn't going to be a confrontation."
Smith nodded curtly, "We'll be watching from the window."
O'Neal stepped forward. "You want me to come with you?"
Windemere nodded. "Now, that might be a good idea, a bit of terrestrial bulk." He looked from O'Neal to Gibson. "Okay, so it's the three of us. Shall we go, gentlemen?"
As Windemere was putting on his own raincoat, he suddenly grinned at Gibson. "You seem to be getting the measure of our streamheat friends."
"I just don't like to be treated like that. I never cottoned to be nursemaided."
"Just don't underestimate them." He placed a dark-brown fedora with a wide black band on his head and tilted it at an angle."By the by, I don't think this is a very good idea, either."
Gibson started for the front door. "Then you'll be able to say You told me so, too."
Windemere followed him and O'Neal brought up the rear. Outside on the pavement, they waited for a break in the traffic. Even in a neighborhood that had its fair share of odd sights, the three of them must have presented a fairly bizarre spectacle. O'Neal looked like a terrorist; Windemere, in his fedora and Burberry, had turned into Sam Spade; and, for himself, Gibson had the distinct impression that the black coat made him look like an Italian pimp circa 1972. And they were all off to see the eighteen-thousand-year-old demon dressed like a refugee from the Civil War. Good-bye cruel sanity.
When Ladbroke Grove was clear, they walked straight across the road, straight toward the figure leaning against the big black Hudson. Yancey Slide didn't move. They were only halfway across the street when Windemere called out to him.
"Mr. Slide. My name is Gideon Windemere, and I own that house behind us. I was wondering why you were showing such an interest in it?"
Yancey Slide didn't move. It was only when they were right up to him that he finally pushed back his wide-brimmed hat and Gibson saw his face for the first time. Wherever and however Yancey Slide had acquired his human form, he'd gone for dramatic impact. It had clearly been modeled on Clint Eastwood, except it was a Clint who had engaged in such a wealth of prolonged and elaborate depravity, both ancient and modern, that it hardly bore thinking about. There had been no attempt to disguise the eyes. They just weren't human. The narrow, ice-blue slits were like looking into the heart of some deep frozen hell.
"Gideon Windemere. I've heard of you. And Joe Gibson. You know, I saw you perform once? And the third gentleman I think I might know by sight. Didn't we once go kneecapping up the Falls Road? Or was that someone else, Paddy? I'm damned if I know. All you boyos look alike to me."
Slide's voice was little more than a ruined whisper, a dangerous reptilian rasp that sounded as though he might really be eighteen thousand years old. Gibson turned and looked at O'Neal. He seemed seriously taken aback. This surprised Gibson. He wouldn't have thought that the implacable Irishman had it in his repertoire of responses.
Windemere quickly tried to cover the disarray of the moment. "Perhaps we should all step onto the pavement."
It was a practical suggestion. They were standing on the off side of the Hudson with black London taxicabs hurtling past just inches from their backs.
And, with that, they were on the pavement.
With no movement or even a sense of discontinuity and in less than the blink of an eye, they were standing in another place some ten or twelve feet away. Slide was still leaning on the car in exactly the same thumbs-in-his-belt gunslinger posture, except he was now leaning on the other side of the car. His smile was a fraction less faint.