“That is a long time for a man to go without seeing new faces.”
“We don’t get many visitors.” Ellison sipped his tea. “I’ve been told you’re from across the water, but not one of the European countries.”
“True.” Doc found the tea strong, dark and good. The biscuits, as best he remembered them, were a little dry. “I’m from a dark, dark place once called the United States of America, but now appropriately named Deathlands.”
“Tell me about it.”
And Doc did, spinning out the stories, glancing frequently at the racks of toys on the shelves around them, enjoying the quaintness of the shop and the manners of the little man sharing the tea and countertop with him. Only every now and then did the guilt visit him about the predicament Mildred was in. Ryan would rescue her, though, if it was possiblewithout his help, should it come to that.
Then he brought the conversation back around to London, the original city. “I had friends in England,” he said, “before the nukestorm blew into the world and caused the Lantic to drink down the cities.”
Ellison raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been to Great Britain before?”
“A long time ago,” Doc said. “So many things have changed during those years.” He let the man go on thinking that he had been a small child when it happened. “I was wondering if there was anyone who had archives available to them regarding who might have lived in London after the disaster. Perhaps even before then.”
Scratching his stubbled chin, Ellison said, “There’s a man. A privateer who sails the coastal waters. He’s called Long Johnson by friend and foe alike, though that’s not his name.”
“Is he playing on the sobriquet of Long John Silver?” Doc asked.
“No.” Ellison held his hands apart almost two feet in front of him. “Man’s reputed to have a shank on him this big.”
“By the Three Kennedys!”
Ellison dropped his hands and nodded. “And a rough cobber with it, too, I’ve heard tell. Sometimes, they say, it doesn’t matter to him whether it’s a rooster or a hen he’s a-mounting.”
“Sounds positively Neanderthal,” Doc commented.
“On the one side, sure. But on the other, Long Johnson is a man of letters. Educated in one of the European schools and from a baron’s brood. Found him a life on the sea and a thirst for robbery. He does some business here in New London because we’re the biggest thorpe around. He and Blackjack Gehrig are close.”
“I have met Mr. Gehrig.” Doc sipped his tea, waiting.
“Man also collects books,” Ellison said. “Every kind of book imaginable. Long as it’s paper and in one of the four languages he speaks. He has regular stops up north, where Old London used to be, and regular agreements with the mariners who swim along the bottom and bring up whatever they can that might still be salvageable.”
Doc nodded. “Mayhap he has some files, or old telephone books that could contain the information I’m looking for.”
“He’d be the only man I could think of to send you to,” Ellison said. “But you’d be taking your own life in your hands when you talked with him. He’s not an easy man to talk to, and totally crazy.”
“Where would I find him?” Doc asked.
“Luck is with you,” Ellison replied, “though whether good or ill, I can’t say. But the pirate is in town.”
Though he knew it was a long shot, Doc felt himself grow more excited. “Do you know where?”
Ellison glanced up at the cuckoo clock over the Mickey Mouse display behind the counter. It was a little after two in the afternoon. “The Globe opened up for a matinee at one-thirty. Knowing the captain, he’ll be there since he’s in New London. It’s the only place where he can fulfill both his natures.”
Doc wondered at the grimace that twisted the man’s face as he made the pronouncement. “Could I beg directions from you?”
Ellison was silent for a moment. “Long Johnson will have a murderous crew with him. If he should decide not to take a liking to you, you’d not be surprised to find yourself suddenly the butt of his ill humor.”