Critiques, criticism, and commentary eagerly solicited.  Send any of the 
above to:  echelbar@binc.net

VINTAGE RED
   A first season story.
    by Diane Echelbarger

New York, 1932. A speakeasy in Harlem.

The club is crowded, a mixture of blacks from the neighborhood and rich whites 
slumming in furs and evening dress.  Nick sits alone at a table next to the 
dance floor.  He's dressed in formal evening clothes, and his hair is slicked 
flat to his skull. ere's a bottle labeled 'Mineral Water' and an empty glass 
on the table in front of him, and a half-full glass in his hand.  He's 
watching the floor show, a black torch singer in a long, clinging red dress 
singing a sultry blues ballad.  He turns as some e lays a hand on his left 
shoulder.

"Nicky, darling," the woman purrs, "you're not drinking.  That's not polite."

She smiles and slides onto her chair. She's overdressed for this setting, in 
heavy gold silk and a set of emeralds that could easily buy the club, and 
probably the building it's in.

"I've never really cared for gin," he apologizes smoothly. "Let me pour you 
another?"  He tips three fingers into her glass.

"You're so kind, darling," she murmurs, and puts her hand over his before he 
can release the bottle.  "I don't know what I'd do without you."  She gazes 
soulfully into his eyes, and mimes a pouty kiss.

Nick smiles politely, and turns back to the torch singer.  He's getting tired 
of his companion's obvious come-ons.  From someone half her age, they would be 
amusing.  But she is over forty, and should have learned subtlety by now, if 
she had learned not ng else.

The song is just ending, and he applauds enthusiastically, as do the locals. 
His companion and the other well-dressed whites join in, languidly.

The band strikes up a jazz tune.  Various couples, mostly white, move onto the 
dance floor. Nick picks up his glass and turns it in his hands. His companion 
swallows thirstily from hers.  When she puts it down, it's nearly empty.  She 
throws several mea ngful looks at Nick, which he ignores

Finally, she puts her hand on his sleeve.  "Nicky, darling," she complains, 
"aren't you going to ask me to dance?  That *is* why everyone comes to this 
horrid little dive, you know.  For the dancing."

Nick sighs.  Never again, he promises himself, will he agree to act as escort 
to a strange woman for a night on the town.  She's obviously taken him for a 
professional gigolo, and is determined to get her money's worth out of him. If 
her brother-in-law asn't someone  Nick needed a favor from, he'd have dumped 
her an hour ago.

He says 'Of course, Clarissa," and steers her onto the dance floor.  She 
drapes herself over him, and he responds with obvious relief when another man 
cuts in a few minutes later.

He leaves the dance floor, and works his way to the back of the room, ending 
up behind a potted palm near the kitchen.  He leans against the wall and 
closes his eyes wearily.

A moment later, the entrance doors burst open, and someone yells "Raid!"   The 
lights go out as the cops pour in.

Nick ducks through the kitchen and out, up the stairs to the alley behind the 
building.  He dodges into a narrow side alley no wider than his shoulders and, 
after a quick glance around, flies up to the roof above.    It's a sultry, 
humid night.  Thick c uds mask the stars.

From the roof he watches the people streaming out of the basement nightclub 
for a moment, then walks to the front of the building, and crosses the street 
in a flying leap.  Finding no entrance there, he climbs the parapet to the 
next building and tries e roof door.  It's unlocked, and he makes his way down 
the grimy, unpainted stairs to street  level.  He lets himself out the back, 
into another alley, and tries several doors on the other side before he finds 
one that's been left open.  He makes his wa through this building to the front 
and gets his bearings.  He should be able to pick up a cab a few blocks north.

A block and a half later, it suddenly begins to rain.  Nick ducks into the 
nearest doorway without bothering to check what it belongs to, and finds 
himself in a storefront mission of some sort.  Dim lighting, long tables with 
benches, and the all-too-fa liar soup line along the back wall.  He checks 
quickly.  No crosses in sight.  The plate-glass window      has a paper sign 
propped in it, unreadable from this side.  The room is empty, except for an 
old man, smelling of cheap gin, asleep in a corner, a  a figure with a mop, 
silhouetted against the brighter light from the kitchen.

Nick lets the door swing shut, and the bells on it jangle.  The figure puts 
down the mop and comes towards him.

"May I help you?" A woman, young, by her voice. "I'm afraid we're out of  soup 
at the moment, but..."  She stops as Nick steps forward and the light from the 
streetlamp falls on his clothes.  "You're not here for the soup."

"No, I just wanted to get in out of the rain.  I don't suppose you could call 
me a cab?"

She shakes her head.  "Luxuries like phones are way beyond our resources, but 
you're welcome to wait here until it stops, Mr.--?"

"Grayson, Nick Grayson."

She nods.  "And I'm Caroline Manning."

"I appreciate the offer, but doesn't that," he indicates the bucket,  "mean 
you're closing up shop for the night?"

She shakes her head.  "No, just cleaning up a bit between rushes.  We're open 
all night."

"An all night soup kitchen?" he asks, amused.

" Only one in the city," she assures him.

"Are you here all by yourself?" he asks.  "I'd think you'd be nervous, a woman 
alone in this part of town at night."

She smiles.  "I can take care of myself, Mr. Grayson."  She goes back to the 
bucket, rings out the mop, and continues cleaning.  Nick moves to the end of 
one of the benches and starts to sit down.  His foot strikes a small object 
that clatters metallica y down the room.  Caroline sets down her mop and picks 
it up.

She carries it to the light shining from the pass-through, and Nick comes over 
and looks at it with her.  It's a large tobacco tin, square, and much 
battered.  Caroline turns it over, examining it.

"Someone must have left it here during the last rush," she says.  "No name on 
the outside, I suppose we'll have to open it up."  She does so.  "Nice 
handkerchief, rather worn."  She lifts it out.  It unfolds, and a rosary slips 
out and falls over her wr t.

She screams and jerks her suddenly smoking arm free, cradling it against her 
chest.  Then she raises glowing yellow eyes to meet Nick's.  "You didn't--"

"Don't bother," he interrupts her, "it doesn't work on your own kind."   He 
smiles a pointed smile. "Something like that could scare off your clientele, 
though.

"Yes," she replies, as her eyes fade to blue again, "it could."  She draws in 
a slow breath, then tilts her head and considers him a moment.  "I could use a 
drink.  Care to join me?"

"Uh..." he nods at the old man in the corner.  "You mean...?"

She chuckles.  "No, strictly not allowed.  Bad for business."

"Then..?"

"I know a man who works in a hospital. One of his jobs is disposing of blood 
that's been in storage too long."  She smiles.  "Seemed a shame to let it go 
to waste."

"Lead on."

They go into the kitchen, and she pulls a red-filled milk bottle from the ice 
box and picks up two coarse ceramic mugs from the rack by the sink.  As she 
pours into the mugs, Nick asks, "Won't your helpers wonder why you're storing 
blood in the icebox?"

She shakes her head and puts the bottle back. "No one's due in to help until 
five.  I don't plan on there being any left by then. If there is, I'll just 
take it with me to my room in the basement."  She smiles and hands him a cup.  
"Here's mud in your e ."

They clink cups, and drink.   Caroline lowers her cup, and wipes two red 
trickles off her chin.  Smiles.

The bells on the shop door jangle...

..and turned into the shrill sound of his telephone.  It rang again.  Nick 
groaned, sat up, and reached for the bottle on the floor next to the couch.

"Yeah, Nick Knight.  I'm either in bed or incommunicado, so if you want to 
leave your name and number, go ahead."

*Beep*

"Nick?  Nick, I know you're there, pick up the phone."  Nat's voice.  She 
didn't sound worried, or scared, so Nick ignored it.  He tilted back the 
bottle and took a long swig.  It tasted good.

"Dammit, Nick, I *know* you're there, sunset isn't for another hour.  Pick up 
the phone!"

Nick levered himself off the couch, wiped the red trickle off his chin with 
his sleeve, and reached for the phone.

"Yeah, Nat, what's up?"

"This is your night off, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yeah," he admitted, cautiously. "But I'm on call.  Why?"

"You don't have anything planned, do you?" she asked.

"Uh, not really..."

"Good.  Pick me up in two hours.  I've arranged a little therapy for  you."

"*This* is your idea of therapy?"  Nick asked.

They were standing in a large hall, surrounded by clumps of people. Everyone 
was carrying identical plates and wineglasses, issued as they entered. A 
banner over the door proclaimed "International Small Vintners and Victuallers 
Association".  The room was lined with folding tables, and the tables were 
covered with bottles of wine and trays of sausage, cheese, jams... the variety 
was endless.  Over each table was a banner announcing which Small Vintner or 
Victualler had provided what food.  Additional supplies were being circulated 
by people wearing everything from the traditional red-vested waiter's uniform, 
preferred by the wine servers, through plaid shirts and blue jeans, to a 
shapely young woman wearing a *very* brief red-devil costume and handing out 
samples of hot salsa.

Natalie winced as the girl strolled by, and drank the last of the rose' in her 
glass.  "*Relax*. You're supposed to be getting used to being around people."  
She gestured to the red wine he's been holding since they arrived. "Drink. 
It's *supposed* to be a tasting party. You're not tasting."  She sat her glass 
on the plate in her left hand and popped a cracker spread with Deep Woods 
Willie's Venison Pate' into her mouth.

Nick scowled, sipped from his glass, and forced himself to swallow. "Good.  
Now eat something."  She picked up her glass again and offered her plate.  "Go 
on," she insisted, as he scowled at the assortment she had collected, "eat.  
It's good for you," she added significantly.

A large, doily covered tray appeared at Nick's elbow.  "I think you'll find 
this more to your taste."

They both turned to look at the young woman who had spoken.  She looked to be 
in her early twenties, was dressed conservatively, and had one of those faces 
that always remind you of someone. "Go ahead," she told him with a grin.  
"You'll like it.  I promise."

Nick hesitated only a moment before picking up one of the dark-brown squares 
by its colored toothpick and popping it into his mouth.

"What is it?" Nat asked, taking one in her turn.  Nick seemed to be tolerating 
it. In fact, he was-- smiling?

"Blutwurst," the girl said blandly.

"What's that?"  Natalie asked, chewing.  Odd flavor.

Nick took another, waited until Nat was beginning to swallow, and said "Blood 
sausage."

Nat choked.  Nick popped the second cube into his mouth and grinned as he 
passed her his glass.

She coughed, gulped the wine, and gasped. "Bl- blood sausage?"

"Pork blood," the server said, deadpan.  "It's one of our specialties. Go 
ahead," she told Nick, who was eyeing the tray eagerly, "have another. Have 
several."  He grinned at her and put a handful on his previously unused plate.

"Thanks."

"Thank you.  Not many people seem to appreciate blutwurst anymore,' she 
grinned impishly.

"Always a favorite with me," he assured her sincerely.

"All the same," Nat interrupted hastily, "you don't want to overdo it, Nick. 
Have a cracker or something."  She handed back his wine glass, now empty.

"Even better," the server suggested helpfully, "why don't you come over  to 
our table?  We've got a nice assortment of sausage and smoke-cured  hams. And 
I think you'll really appreciate our wines."  She tilted her head and smiled 
at Nick.  "We have some very unusual vintages."

"Nick, I don't think--" This was not happening.  It couldn't be happening. She 
was misinterpreting it.  It was a public tasting party, for God's sake.

"Why not?"  Nick captured her arm, and followed the girl through the crowd. 
"Like you said, this is a tasting party."  He grinned wickedly at her.  "Let's 
taste."

They stopped before a table where trays of sausage and ham were flanked by a 
dozen bottles of red and white wine.  Nat looked up at the sign.

The background was black.  Silk-screened in white, a stylized moon in the 
upper right hand corner sent rays streaming across to fall on the figure of a 
woman in a flowing gown.  She was raising a goblet toward it in salute.  The 
lettering read:  _Moonlight Gourmet Comestibles.  For the truly Exotic 
Appetite._

"Nick," Nat said, "this isn't a good idea."

"Relax," the young woman said from behind her table.  "Here, give me your 
glass."  Natalie hesitated, and Nick took it from her and handed it over. 
"Good.  First, we rinse the last wine." The woman-- Cara, according to her 
name tag-- poured in a splash from a pitcher of water, swirled it twice, and 
dumped it into a bucket on the end of the table.   "Then, we give you a sample 
of ours."  She cocked her head and looked at Nat.  Nat opened her mouth to say 
she didn't want any, thanks very much, but Cara spoke first. "I think," she 
said appraisingly, "you'd probably prefer one of our white wines. A fume' 
blanc, perhaps?"

"White," the coroner assured her fervently, "would be perfect."  Damn Nick, he 
was *enjoying* this.

Cara poured an inch of white wine from a bottle half-way down the right side 
of the table, and handed it across.  Nick offered his glass silently, but with 
a wicked gleam in his eye.  The girl took it, rinsed, and poured an inch from 
the furthest bottle on the left.  The label said 'Harvest Red 1991'.  It 
*looked* like a very dark, heavy red wine, Nat told herself firmly.

Nick took the glass back, raised it to his lips, and gulped.  And choked.  His 
expression was priceless.  Natalie relaxed.  Thank God, she *had* been wrong.  
Too much time around Nick could warp your perceptions.

"Too strong for you, Nick?" she asked, trying not to grin as Cara passed him a 
napkin.

Nick coughed. "N- no, not at all."  He smiled, rather stiffly, at Cara.  "I'm 
used to, ah, less developed vintages."  He sipped, cautiously.  "It's quite 
good," he added insincerely.

Cara smiled, and reached under the table.  She brought out another glass, and 
a bottle labeled 'Special Reserve'.  The liquid she poured from it was dark 
red, and heavy.  She half-filled her glass before placing the bottle on the 
table.  "It's a good 'vin ordinaire'," she said, sipping.  "Not exceptional, 
you understand.  Just good."  She sipped again.

"Do you supply Janette at The Raven?" Nick asked.  "I think I've seen that 
label on her wine board."  He nodded at the Special Reserve.

The woman shook her head.  "No, Janette goes in for more exotic vintages than 
those I supply.  We're strictly a pork and grape operation.  Speaking of 
which," she added, turning to Natalie, "try that ham on the end.  We use cider 
in the curing solution, and smoke it with applewood.  I think you'll find the 
results interesting."

Nat picked up a ham stick and bit into it.  "Delicious," she said, chewing 
slowly.  "Very unusual.  You should try a piece, Nick."

"I think I'll stick with the sausage," he replied, and had another piece.

"So you're a habitui of The Raven," Cara said easily.  "I go there myself, 
sometimes, when I'm in Toronto."  She paused, sipped.  "Is that where I've 
seen you before?"

"I was asking myself the same question," Nick said, and took a small sip of 
his wine.  "I don't think so, though.  I think it was--  New York?"

"I haven't been in New York in years," she replied, "but it's quite possible."

"You ran a soup kitchen, didn't you?  Just outside Harlem."

"My good deeds have found me out," she smiled.  "That was in my idealistic 
phase.  Nowadays, I'm content to run *and* mind my own business.  What are you 
doing with yourself?  It's Nick, isn't it?"

"That's right, Nick Knight.  I'm a cop with Toronto homicide.  I work the 
night shift."

"Not on duty, I hope?" she turned to Nat.  "Are you his partner?"

"No," Natalie said, and picked up another ham stick. "I'm the coroner."

"Coroner?  Dear me, this does begin to sound serious."  She smiled teasingly 
at Nick.  "Are you on duty?  Or did you just drop in for a quick bite?"

Natalie winced.

"Strictly social," Nick replied, smiling.  "This is Natalie Lambert, by the 
way. Nat, meet Caroline, uh--  Sorry, I seem to have forgotten your last 
name."

"Waverlie, Caroline Waverlie.  Call me Cara.  Hi."

"Nice to meet you," Natalie said warily, "but, Nick, we really shouldn't be 
monopolizing Cara's time like this.  And we've barely skimmed the surface of 
the offerings here tonight.  We should be moving on."

"Well, OK, Nat, fine with me."  Nick swallowed the last of his Harvest Red. 
"Nice meeting you again, Cara."

"You, too.  Oh, Nick?  Before you go, would you like to try a little of our 
Special Reserve?  I don't keep it on the table because we make so little of 
it. Also, it absolutely has to be kept chilled, and it really is an acquired 
taste." She smiled at Nick.  "So few people have the palate to appreciate it.  
Don't you agree?"

"Completely," he said, rinsing his glass and handing it to her.  "Much better 
kept for those of us who can enjoy it."

"My opinion exactly," Cara said, as she poured him a half-glass.  "I'd value 
your opinion of it."  She stowed the bottle under the tablecloth and handed 
the glass back.

Nick raised it.  "To your very good health."  He sipped, rolled it on his 
tongue, swallowed. "Very pleasant.  Slightly sweet, full bodied, but not 
heavy.  A clean, pure flavor, with no unpleasant aftertaste."  He smiled.  "I 
like it."

Natalie had always prided herself on her lack of squeamishness, but enough was 
enough.  She swallowed, and grabbed Nick's arm.  "I think," she said 
carefully, "it's time we were moving on, Nick."

"Try the smoked salmon, two tables down," Cara suggested.  "It'll compliment 
the fume' blanc marvelously."  She smiled, and sipped from her glass again.

"Great."  Natalie tugged Nick's arm.  "Let's go."

"Perhaps," Cara suggested smoothly as they turned away, "you'd like to add 
your name to our mailing list first, Nick?  Our supply of Special Reserve is 
rather limited, but for an old friend..."

"That's not a good idea, Nick," Nat said stiffly.  "You're trying to cut down, 
remember?"

Nick smiled at her, then shrugged to the woman behind the table.  "Sorry, 
Cara.  No sale."

"Just as well," she smiled back at him.  "I have more customers than I can 
handle, now.  See you at The Raven, Nick."

"I'll look forward to it, Cara."

They walked away.  As Nick raised his glass to his lips, Natalie asked, "Nick, 
is that--"

"Pig, yeah," he said succinctly.  "Probably the same stuff she uses in the 
blutwurst.  Clever idea, don't you think?"

"Right.  Nick, the whole purpose of this evening was to get you into the habit 
of eating real food, not Special Reserve," Natalie reminded him wryly.

"Well, what do you want me to do, Nat?"  he asked reasonably. "I couldn't 
refuse without being rude, and I can't very well dump this in one of the 
buckets.  Someone'd be sure to notice."  He sipped again and smacked his lips.  
"Besides, it's really good stuff.  Better than anything I've got at home."

"Nick, anybody ever tell you you were hopeless?"  she asked, laughing.

"Myself, Nat.  All the time."  He put his arm around her shoulder.  "C'mon, I 
saw someone handing out french fries by the door.  Let's go get  some, before 
they run out of catsup."

Natalie laughed, and they walked across the room together, arm in arm.

(FINIS)