Free Strange Trades by Paul di Filippo

Scottish Ale, imported from Glasgow. This must have cost a fortune. He would wring Erlkonig’s neck.
    The crowd was thickening now, as full night descended and the party began to really take off. The lines were several deep at the several kegs. Someone stuck a box of donuts under Honeyman’s nose.
    Beatbox. “Have one, Rory. I made them myself.”
    Honeyman took a donut, bit. “Taco flavored?”
    “It was only an experiment. But the owner—he ain’t no experiment’ man.”
    Honeyman was sorry Beatbox had lost his job, but in a way was also selfishly glad. Perhaps now, he faintly hoped, Nerfball would have to return to taking sandwiches in trade.
    Munching his taco donut, more out of habit than desire, Honeyman idly watched a drug deal being consummated in the shadows. The seller proffered a Ziploc; the buyer handed over … a napkin?
    No, impossible, things were too far out of control.…
    Sounds of tuning up wafted over from the musicians assembled onstage. “Who’s playing tonight?”
    “The Millionaires.”
    “Don’t know ’em.”
    “They’re just a pickup band. Local guys. Some from the Broadcasters, though.”
    The opening to Pink Floyd’s “Money” rang out: sampled cash-register noises. The singer came in: “Money, it’s a drag.…”
    Honeyman sampled his beer. Beatbox had left to circulate with his Mexicanized crullers. Honeyman threw the remainder of his donut surreptitiously down underfoot. Courtesy only extended so far. Drawing another cup of dark ale, he went in search of Erlkonig.
    The pavilion was filling up with dancers. Honeyman traveled along its balustraded perimeter, as alert as anyone who had just polished off eighteen ounces of Glaswegian beer could be, for a glimpse of Erlkonig. But the man was nowhere in sight. Netsuke neither.
    Beyond the stone rampart the land fell vertically away, straight down some fifty feet to Sinatra Drive. Just beyond the busy highway lapped the Hudson. Across its width loomed the fabulous gemmed cliffs of Manhattan, remote as the mirage of some Arabian seraglio.
    A woman Honeyman did not recognize was leaning on her forearms on the stone railing, looking out toward the distant city. A thick mane of brown hair tumbled over her shoulders. She wore a halter top. Her bare coltish legs were displayed attractively by a short skirt. She was shod with leather sandals.
    Moved by a powerful attraction, Honeyman fell into the same pose beside her. The band was playing an old fifties tune, once covered by the J. Geils Band: “First I Look at the Purse.” There was an odor of coffee in the air.
    Honeyman was tongue-tied, an unusual occurrence. The woman did not look at him. He wetted his dry throat with a sip of beer. Said at last, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
    The woman turned toward him. Her face was not young, but it was beautiful. Honeyman was surprised to see she was roughly his own age. She wore prescription glasses with a cord hanging down from the stems like reins.
    “Oh, I guess so. But I don’t know anyone here. I just moved to Hoboken from Chelsea. My building went condo.”
    The woman’s lack of connection to the Beer Nuts or anyone in their crowd only increased her attractiveness to Honeyman. “My name’s Rory.”
    “Addie.”
    They shook hands. Hers was slim and warm. Honeyman felt his own to be a big sweaty paw.
    “That’s an unusual name,” said Honeyman.
    “I was just going to say the same thing about yours. Mine’s short for Atalanta. Atalanta Swinburne.”
    “Mine’s not short for anything.”
    She went back to gazing at the river. Honeyman could think of nothing else to say. Desperate, he blurted out: “Honeyman.”
    “Please?”
    “My last name’s Honeyman.”
    “Do you own—”
    “The sandwich shop on Washington? Yup, that’s me.”
    “I’ve been meaning to try you.”
    Honeyman gulped. “Oh, please, come on in.…”
    “I will.”
    Honeyman timed the silence at thirty seconds. It seemed much longer.
    “The water