He could edge around the courtyard under the colonnade, but that would expose him to anything that might be hidden in the deepening shadows or lurking in one of those rooms. The main entrance was directly across from the gate and in this case the better part of valor seemed to be a dash across the center of the court.
Place like this ought to have a lot more in it than a barracks, he thought as he looked around carefully for the last time. Then again, maybe not. A place like this would attract looters.
He was halfway across the courtyard when he had another thought. A place like this would have been guarded, too.
Then the ground opened up beneath him.
Jerry and Moira stepped out the door into a world Moira found completely unsettling. The sky was gray but the night was not foggy. She wrinkled her nose. The air stank—an odd pungent reek like nothing she had ever smelled before.
In front of them was a large flat area whose black surface was marked with white lines. Here and there curiously shaped and brightly painted metal boxes or sheds stood on the dark surface. Lights on tall metal poles cast an orangish-pink glare over the scene. In the background she heard a continuous whooshing roar.
All in all, it was an unsettling place, stranger than she had imagined. Yet Wiz had come from here so it must be all right.
“Okay,” Jerry told her, “the next question is where do we go to eat.”
“My Lord, could we get pizza?”
“Right. Pizza it is. Little Italy’s just around the corner. Come on, we’ll walk.” He set off toward the gate with Moira trailing behind.
The Little Italy was the sort of place that develops both regular clients and an idiosyncratic style over the years.
It was four o’clock on Saturday morning, but Mario, the owner, was behind the counter, baking loaves of bread to be used in the day’s sandwiches. Jerry knew that at seven Mario’s son would relieve him so the old man could go home and get a few hours sleep. Then he would be back for the lunch rush, take a nap in the afternoon and come back for the dinner crowd.
“Well, what do you want?” Jerry said as they came up to the counter. Mario stopped shaping loaves of dough and came up to wait on them.
“Pizza,” Moira told him.
“Yeah, but what do you want on your pizza? What toppings?”
“Toppings?”
“Those things listed on the board.”
Moira frowned. “Lord, I cannot read your language,” she confessed.
“Look in the bins then.” He pointed at the row of stainless steel containers lining the rear of the counter.
“What are you having?” she asked Jerry.
“I”ll have my usual. Sausage, ham, salami, pepperoni, hamburger and extra cheese. Medium, to eat here.”
Mario nodded and got to work, swabbing the dough with spicy red tomato sauce redolent with basil and oregano. Next he scooped up handfuls of coarsely grated cheese and sprinkled them lavishly over the pizza. He didn’t stop until the cheese hid nearly every trace of the sauce.
“Do you want the same thing?” Jerry asked.
“That is a great deal of meat,” Moira said dubiously as the old man piled on the toppings. “I think I would prefer something else.” She looked at Jerry. “I can have any of those I want?”
“Or any combination. If you come up with an unusual combination Mario names it after you.” He nodded toward the board. “Wiz had one up there for a while. Something with jalapeños and pepperoni.”
“I want Wiz’s pizza.”
Mario shook his head. “Don’t got no jalapeños.”
The hedge witch’s brow furrowed and she went back to frowning at the bins, absently brushing back her coppery hair as it fell forward.
“Made up your mind yet, lady?” Mario asked, setting Jerry’s pizza aside.
“What are those?” she asked, pointing to one of the bins.
“Anchovies,” Jerry told her. “Highly salted fillets of tiny fish.”
“I want some of those on mine,” Moira said, looking over the bins. “And onions. Lots of onions. Oh, and is that garlic? Can I have some of that as well?