HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

Donald leaned forward, hands clasped before him on the
table, and smiled. “Ah, Jamison, my friend. Forever the faithful
watch dog. You’ve certainly saved me from considerable . . .
embarrassment in the past. I’m afraid I’ve been preoccupied
since Peters’ death. I’ll get on it right away.”
4hree more bits of unpleasantness and the final branches
of the Tree would be his, Donald thought, as he
made his way across East 55th Street to the Friar’s
Club, in his hand his favourite cherry-finished walking stick
with its concealed sword. There were no real men’s clubs left,
but this was as close to the old-style haunts as they got—gothic
building with leaded, stained glass windows, burnished
woods, brass fittings, fine upholstery. The walls veritably reverberated
with the voices of old greats, living and deceased—
Milton Berle, George Burns, Groucho Marx—ageless performers,
timeless performances.
All around the bar, people—mostly men—indulged themselves
and drank only the best: twenty-five-year-old single
malts, thirty-year-old tawny ports, and the occasional Louis
XIII cognac, all out of lead crystal. Even the smells spoke of
another era—the spirits, smoke from fine pipe tobaccos,
Dunhill cigarettes, and illicitly gotten Cuban cigars. It made
Donald long for those bits of the old days. He realized he’d
been away too long.
He found them there at the bar, three old chums from the
vaudeville circuit. Between them, they had owned his canes for
nearly seventy-five years. The gathered lives thrummed, made
Donald’s ears ring. Slowly, he coached himself. He had planned
this last bit of his task for too long to hurry things now and
misstep in the final turn.
“Mort, how are you?”
The man Donald addressed looked up, very spry for what
must have been his ninety or more years. Donald had lost
count. “You’re late, boy. We don’t see him for twenty years and
he’s late. Just like his grandfather, isn’t he?” Mort gestured with
his cane to his friends. The head was of an Egyptian design
with wings, enameled brass. Donald reached out and stroked it,
felt a spark. It was set. Mort retracted it with a grunt.
“Aw, be quiet,” the man next to Mort said. “Bad luck to
speak ill of the dead.” He lifted the head of his cane to an old
stogie and flicked the edge. A small flame sprang forth and lit
the abomination till the smoke wreathed his head, then went
out. Ernie hacked miserably.
“Must you, Ernie?” Donald coughed, pushed the cane
aside.
Mort scolded, “You know the doc told you to quit.”
“You’d deny an old hoofer this simple pleasure?” Ernie
shrugged.
Donald gave up. It would all be over, soon. He tried to stay
calm, despite the sudden closeness of the room. He didn’t like
pushing things along one bit, but Jamison’s jitters hadn’t left
him much choice. He no longer felt as if he could allow the
magic to run its natural course over the owners. The canes had
absorbed their years. Now it was time to cut the connection
and reclaim them.
“And what about you, Will? Chess, perhaps? Grandfather
always enjoyed his games with you,” Donald said to the quiet
man among them.
With a wink, Will rose and ascended the spiral staircase,
the other three men behind him. His cane made a solid clomp,
clomp with each step. Once upstairs, they filled the small-butsumptuous
private room with their presences and closed the
heavy wooden door behind them.
Donald and Will faced each other across a chess table set
with onyx pieces. Ernie and Mort sat beside them, close, to better
view the opening moves. It did not take long for Donald to
reveal a Dragon Defense, his favourite. A fire burned in the
small hearth between two window seats on the opposite wall.
He made his move.
Will muttered something about “typical Summers’
defense” under his breath. Donald changed the subject.
“I trust that the flask in your walking stick remains unbroken,
because I have a little surprise for you, my friend.”
Will smiled, “No damage to this baby. Not while it’s in my
hands.”
“Well, this is a special brew and particularly potent, so
don’t touch it till you get home and are safely in bed,” Donald
said and produced a gentleman’s hip flask—embossed silver,
with his initials, carried in a silky, soft, cordovan leather pouch.
Will unscrewed the head of his cane and withdrew a vial-sized
glass flask which he uncorked to receive Donald’s delicacy,
then carefully replaced it.
Mort commented, “Your grandfather’s flask, if I’m not
mistaken, eh?”
“And Grandfather’s recipe, as well,” Donald replied. His
words were met with a trio of conspiratorial nods.
“Best damned hooch in the county, it was,” piped Ernie.
He took another draw on his cigar.
They played for several hours. Donald was ruthless and
held his liquor a sight better than his deteriorating compatriots
were able to manage. Their cantankerous chess banter soon
H .P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R | 9