Sweeter Than Wine by L. Neil Smith

Author:L. Neil Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Microsoft
Published: 2011-07-13T04:00:00+00:00

16: COUNCIL OF WAR

“Hypocrisy, the lie, is the true sister of evil, intolerance,

and cruelty.”—Raisa Gorbachev

New Prospect, it says here in this Japanese tourist brochure, has more restaurants, per capita, than any other city in the world. Why this should be so (I’ve never figured it out, myself), the brochure declines to vouchsafe. It’s not why I moved here, but it’s a reason I stay.

Among those restaurants, we’re fortunate to have several good barbecue places and a couple of great ones. The oldest of these is Brother Lem’s. Brother Lem is an oldtime Baptist preacher, and if he’s as good at that as he is at barbecue, this whole damn town is going to heaven.

Surica and I were sitting in the kitchen again, freshly showered and in my case shaved, brewing up iced tea and making sure there was plenty of beer in the refrigerator. Fiddlestring’s ears perked up when noise at the back door told us both that we had guests. Since it was still rainy and dark, I didn’t have to duck and flinch as I let them in.

Before he was quite in the door, Quinn said, “I think we got the right thing, here, for the kind of day it is.” He was carrying a big box of foil-covered containers, with styrofoam corners poking up here and there. I could have told from across the yard where it had come from.

Quyen followed him with a big old-fashioned leather briefcase. They took their jackets off and hung them up on pegs by the door to dry. She reached down and scratched the cat between the ears as he purred.

As we entered the kitchen, I could see that Surica had caught the wonderful scent and that she liked it. I hadn’t asked her how long she’d been in the States, or whether she’d ever had barbecue before. Somehow, it hadn’t come up. I have a theory that vampires might be especially fond of the stuff (basing my conclusions on a field of one) because it reminds them of...well, of something else deep red and sweet.

“Surica Fieraru,” I stood beside her. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, had her hair pulled back into a ponytail, and looked just swell. “These are my friends Tran Thi Thu-Quyen (we call her ‘Quyen’) and Quinlan Kowalski (we call him ‘Quinn’, too). I know that sounds confusing, but don’t worry, it’ll only get more confusing as you go along.”

Everybody chuckled politely. The cat turned and left the room.

“They know what I am,” I added. “They figured it out all by themselves.”

Handshakes were offered and accepted. “Quinn and Quyen are freelance scientific consultants. Usually I’m the one who asks them questions. I gather from Quinn that that’s going to be different today.”

“Lunch before questions,” Quinn insisted, pouring himself a glass of tea from a carafe on the counter. He took containers from the box and set them out. “Pulled pork, ribs, chicken, brisket, sausage,” he said as he did so, adding, “Hushpuppies, beans, cole slaw, and dill pickles.

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