”Any luck?”
Malcolm grimaced. “Nope. Time Tours is getting nasty about sharing business with freelancers.”
Kit made a mental note to “lean” a little on Granville Baxter. There was enough money to be made for everyone. Malcolm’s freelance business didn’t hurt Time Tours’ profits in the slightest. “Tell you what. I’d like to hire you.”
Malcolm just stared. “You? For Pete’s sake, why?”
Kit laughed. “Let’s wet our throats someplace and talk business.-
”Well, sure,” Malcolm agreed readily. “Anytime you want to pick up the tab, Kit, you just holler.”
The Prince Albert Pub was the handiest place to sit down and cool their thirst. The interior was a good bit cleaner than most genuine Victorian-era pubs, the prices were moderate for La-La Land, and the place was virtually empty in the post-lunch-hour vacuum. They found a table near the front windows and sat down.
”Have you eaten yet?” Kit asked, glancing at the menu. “I worked through lunch.” Then he grinned sheepishly. “You’re a good excuse. I’m playing hooky from paperwork day.”
”Oh, ho,” Malcolm chuckled; picking up his own menu. “Better not let Big Brother find out.”
Kit grimaced. “Paperwork sucks,” he said eloquently; half quoting Margo. “Hmm …I haven’t had kippers in years.
”Never could abide them.”
”A Victorian time guide and a born Brit and you can’t abide kippers? What’s the world coming to?”
”A better sense of what’s edible, hopefully.”
Kit laughed. “Then for God’s sake, don’t order lunch in medieval Edo.”
Malcolm shuddered. “Once was enough to convince me, thank you. I’ll stick to steak and kidneys, any day of the week.”