Three Wines for Moldylocks: the Second

The Count followed the swaying figure in front of him through the lightly falling snow of the Canal District.  Progress was distinctly slow.  Every twenty steps or so, the swaying figure would skitter to a halt, his ginger head lolling back and forth from the left to the right, like a half-filled water balloon attempting calisthenics.   

“Are you quite sure you know where we’re going, sir?” the Count asked from behind, in a stage whisper, gloved hands cupping his mouth.

Rufus the drunk spun on one worn down heel, attempting to make eye contact with the Count, which was difficult, since both of his eyes moved rather independently.  “Uh toljer dad uh noo’f shuh day dad godda boddelluf wine luck yuh wannid. Shuh, jesh fulla lon wif me in shucher mouf, kay?” he belched wetly, then rubbed his sleeve over his lips.

The Count made a face.  “I caught perhaps ten percent of that.  Do you actually speak English?”

Rufus belched again, then winked down an alley.  “Dish wuh.” he said, nodding heavily.

“Alright.” said the Count, pulling up the collar of this fur coat, looking around before heading into the dark alley.  I say old man, came a pleasant voice inside the Count’s head. Are you quite in your right mind? Heading down dark alleys with drunken escorts?  Do you wish to have your skull caved in for you?

“Not at all.” he mumbled to himself as he followed Rufus down the alley.  “That would be quite painful.  But this is an alley in a fancy neighborhood, accompanied by one who couldn’t successfully fight his way out of a rotten peach.  I am not worried.”

You don’t think ruffians hide in the alleys of the affluent here in New Babbage?  came the same pleasant voice again.  Where the only force opposing crime and vice is the Militia?  The same Militia which allowed you to join?

The Count cocked a thick kinky black eyebrow.  “Hrm, you make a rather stunningly good point, my friend.  I shall keep a vigilant eye out.  I am, after all, the Blue Blood Avenger.”

The voice made no reply to that.

“Huhh, ova here!” called out Rufus from farther down the alley.

“Keep your voice down, you perpetually plastered pinhead!” the Count stage whispered, sneaking up behind the swaying fellow.  He looked up at the building they were behind.  “Where have you brought me to, Mr Bladderstick?”

Rufus stood, moving slowly from side to side, as if some invisible tide pulled him to and fro.  “Shawer dame d’otter day tagina boddeluf wine inder here… jush clummina winder”

“Just climb in the window.” the Count sarcastically responded.  “Just climb in the window… don’t you think I’ve climbed into quite enough windows of late?  I shall gain a rather unsavory reputation if I am not very careful.”

“Yuh wanna boddeluf der wine ur nut?”

The Count sighed.  “You promise it was a good bottle?  Not some cheap vinegar rot-gut?”

Rufus looked slightly offended.  “I know my wine.” he said, clear as day.

The Count blinked.  “I see.  Well, I imagine you do.  Alright.  Give me a boost?” he asked, looking up at the nearby window.  Rufus interlocked his fingers, then hunched over braced himself for the Count’s foot.The Count slipped his foot into the human hand saddle, then heaved himself up toward the windowsill.  

He pulled, grimacing, at the sill to no avail.  “It is quite locked tight.” he said down to Rufus, who was shaking slightly from the exertion.  

“Brage id.” Rufus grunted.

“I am not breaking the window!  That would be unseemly.  An open window is practically an invitation to enter, but breaking a window… bad form, sir.”

“Lesh dishgush don here, huh?”

The Count looked down.  “Oh, yes, sorry old chap.” he said, then jumped off the shaking ginger man, down to the slushy ground of the alley.  Rufus seemed relieved.

“I shall have to try another way.” the Count mused.

A pleasant voice inside his mind said: weren’t you once rather renowned for your powers of disguise, distraction, and obfuscation?  

The Count blinked.  “Why yes, now that you mention it, I rather was.”  He looked at Rufus, from head to toe.  “Say, my friend, swap some clothing with me temporarily.  There’s a mug of foggy dew in it for you, gratis.”

Rufus’ eyes narrowed shrewdly.  “Five mugs.”

“You drive a rather hard bargain, Mr Bladderstick.  How about one mug?”

“Sold.”  Rufus pulled off his coat and handed it to the Count.  A waft of stale wine fluttered through the chilled air.  The Count looked at the ratty coat with trepidation.  A voice in his mind said: It is only for a few minutes.

The Count took the coat, and slipped out of his fur.  He switched his helmet for the beat up hat Rufus perpetually wore, then messed up his facial hair.  

A few moments later a young maid opened the front door of the house, eyeing up the rough looking gentleman standing on the front step.  “Cringle residence, how might I help you?” she asked.

“Heard ya got a pigeon crammed in yer flue.” he growled.

“I have a… what?” she asked, appalled.  

“Pigeon stuck in yer chimney flue, s’what I heard.  Emergency sounded like.  Nobody like the smell of cooked pigeon, ya know.”  He winked.

“Er…” she hesitated.  “The Mr and Mrs are not at home at the moment… I’m not sure I should…”

“Righto.  On my way, then, you explain the smell when they get home from the opera or dance hall or wherever the rich kick up their heels.”  He turned to go.

“No!” she called.  “Wait.  Yes, come in, can it be done quickly?”

“Sure thing, missy.” he winked.  Stepping inside the house, he looked around.  “I will, er, need some items.  To extract the bird.”

She nodded once.  “I see, ok, yes.  What do you require?”

The Count thought for a moment.  “Some cooking oil, a pair of long industrial tongs, rubber gloves, and a bassinet.”

The eyebrows on the maid sprang up.  “My word, I had no idea such a procedure would be so complicated.”

“If it weren’t, anyone would do it, miss.  That’s why I am a professional.”  he nodded, then added: “Now step to it, time is money.”

The maid nodded quickly and ran off to fetch the items in question.  The Count bobbed his head into the doorways on the main floor, and discovered a doorway leading down.  One sniff showed that this area housed a rather impressive wine cellar.  He tip-toed down into the darkness, lighting a match as he went down.

The wine cellar was opulent and extensive in its choice of wine.  The Count turned on one heel, pulling out bottles hither and wither, reading labels and gasping with shock at the vintages.  

Pulling a bottle from its slot, he read the label: Chateau Lafite Rothschild, 1778.

 “Great Cleopatra’s Needle!” he cried.  “Jackpot!”

The Count bounded up the stairs, and just as he was crossing the threshold, the young maid trotted down the steps from upstairs.  “Sir sir!  I had to ask about the tongs you require… I… where are you off to?”

“Ah, I have some equipment in my cart, I shall be back in two shakes of a ham’s tail!” he called out, then trotted out into the snow.  

He found Rufus snoring gently in a nearby snowbank.

“Two down.” he said out loud, as he looked over the sleeping drunk, deciding that he would burn that fur coat.