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door directly in front of Honeyman. In point of fact, there were three doors. The first was twelve feet high and ten across, actually a double door of two leaves. Made of thick planks once painted green, but now peeling to reveal bare splintery wood, the two halves of this door were secured with a chain and an enormous, rusting padlock that appeared at least fifty years old. Inset in this door was a more conventional-sized one, with an old-fashioned latch. It was this one Honeyman considered entering. At the foot of the person-sized door was the third, a pet door. (Honeyman might have employed this entrance, had he wished. Others often had.) This upper-hinged small entrance bore a legend in a lovely calligraphic hand which Honeyman recognized as that of Suki Netsuke. It read: the cardinal.
    The lintel of the largest door was a huge piece of Jersey limestone, mortared into the brick wall on either side. Carved into the soft stone was the legend:
     
    1838 OLD VAULT BREWERY 1938
     
    The later date was executed in stark Futura, the earlier in wasp-waisted Baskerville.
    Honeyman, a few feet from the triple portal, listened. There was no noise from inside. This could be either a good or bad sign. It paid to remember that some of the most insane schemes of the Beer Nuts had been hatched in relative quiet. Thunder and lightning and apparitions on the Capitoline Hill did not attend the birth of every Caesar. On the other hand, everyone could be innocently sleeping. There was simply no way to tell.
    Tossing caution to the cafe au fish-scented winds, Honeyman stepped forward and opened the middle-sized door, which swung inward. He stuck his head and shoulders into the dark. “Yo, folks. It’s me, Rory. Is anyone home? Earl? Hilario?”
    There was no answer. Honeyman, his eyes sensitized to outdoor light-levels, could see nothing in the midnight interior. Sighing, he stepped fully inside and shut the door.
    Vast hulking shapes loomed about him. Brew kettles, pipes, mash vats—all the original equipment of the long-defunct brewery remained, covered by decades of dust.
    Honeyman took a few tentative steps forward, hands outstretched. People moved around frequently here, changing their nesting locations according to complex social interactions. Honeyman hadn’t visited the Beer Nuts in months, and had no idea in what spot Nerfball might be hibernating now.
    Shuffling along in the musty dark, Honeyman cursed softly. All he wanted was to reclaim his employee and start making sandwiches. Instead, he was forced to play Blindman’s Bluff. Growing angrier and more impatient, he unwisely picked up his pace.
    Suddenly his foot caught the edge of something soft, body or mattress. Unprepared, he lost his balance and felt himself going down.
    Honeyman landed heavily atop a lumpy something. A man grunted, a woman screamed. Make that “someone.” Two someones.
    Feeling that discretion required him to remain still, lest he unintentionally exacerbate the situation, Honeyman did not move. A match scratched on its gritty strip, a candle flared.
    Honeyman discovered that he was lying crosswise atop Earl Erlkonig and Suki Netsuke, who were, in turn, reclining upon a stained, bare mattress. The situation would have been less embarrassing had the pair not been mostly unclothed, and had Netsuke not been Honeyman’s ex-lover.
    “Hi, Rory,” said Netsuke coyly. Her half-Japanese features were as appealing to Honeyman as ever. Her skin was the color of pumpkin pie, her nipples the brown found at the pie’s edges. Propped up on one elbow, she reached modestly for an article of clothing, found nothing to hand, and shrugged off her nudity.
    “Hey, molecule,” said Erlkonig, “nice of you to drop by.” He extended a queerly colored hand, and Honeyman shook it.
    Earl Erlkonig was a young Black man who also happened to be an albino. His hair was a thatch of short kinky platinum wires. His complexion was the color of weak tea attenuated by lots of cream.