"If we were -- purely hypothetically, of course -- in the mood for an adult beverage, I happen to have heard of a speakeasy down on 7th Avenue. How would be feel about such a place, were it to exist?"
"I am feeling rather parched after that little mishap." Jimmy states as he pats himself down and looks for any unusual stings.
"Perhaps we can go over the details of our trip to the sanitarium somewhere away from that damned bee hive."
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Lawrence nods, rubbing a few spots on him affected by stings. "I wouldn't be opposed to that. And if Dr. Mayfield knows of an acceptable place to discuss our business, I say let's go."
"Seventh Avenue is the name of the joint. It's actually a kaffeeklatch wedged between two buildings on Garrison Street between Main and River. On the road to Innsmouth."
At this, Edward visibly shudders, though he doesn't quite know why.
"The barista is a friend to many a student, but also holds the key to a back room that is less, how shall we say, academic. Many of the dock workers along the Miskatonic come up there, and they don't suffer youthful indiscretions."
Edward wipes his sweaty brow, still burning from the sweltering heat. "Ah, and the cover charge is a bit steep, gentlemen. Fifty cents a person."
You arrive at the bistro, pay your 50 cents, and are shown into the back-room.
The place is hopping, with an interesting mix of university students and blue-collar workers.
You push your way to the bar.
Harried bar-keep " What can I get you gentlemen? "
An argument is brewing among some of the place's more inebriated patrons
further down the bar.
Drunk #1 : "The Russian will murder Frankel! It'll be over by the second round!"
Drunk #2 : "You don't know your onions! I've got two clams on the Russian!"
Barkeep : (To the fight-fans) "Keep it down!" (To you) "Come on bub, I ain't got all day."
Edward puzzles over the argument.
Some type of sporting festival? Second round? Boxing, maybe? Or is that a football term?
Edward is startled out of his daydream, and quickly orders mugs of beer for each of them before the bartender can get too testy.
Knowing a thing or two about fighting and boxing, Jimmy peers over the shoulders of the two denizens to catch wind of the fight.
Edward gives a courteous salute to him. "Sorry to stare, sir. You look like someone I once knew."
Edward pays for the drafts, hands them to his colleagues, then scans the crowded room for an empty table.
Lawrence takes his drink from Edward, then goes with the pair to an empty table. He takes a seat and sips from his beer before placing it on the table. First some small talk, perhaps? "So," he begins. "Any idea what those loudmouths are arguing about?" He tilts his head in the direction of the two shouting drunks.
Jimmy butts into the conversation between the drunkards... "Gentlemen, if I may interject on your wager... I do believe that Frankel is the better fighter of the two. I'd be willing to put something towards an amicable bet if you should let me."
"Whatever this sport gaming event is, I cannot help but to think of the Russian strongmen that Armitage's papers refer to. That seems to be too much of a coincidence for my taste."
Edward takes a long gulp of beer, half of which seems to spill onto his shirt-front. He sloppily wipes foam from his beard.
"But this sanitarium business has me doubly intrigued. Was Dr. Armitage himself a patient there at some point? Is that where he penned these oblique writings? And while ravings of a man in mental distress is the most sensible explanation, I have read too many ancient manuscripts of the prophets to discount some kind of prediction of the future."
Edward burps.
Sporting Man #1 (previously Drunk #1 ) : He studies you with a calculating gaze.
"Two bits then on Frankel?"
It's bit depressing to consider the march of inflation: this bet would be the equivalent of over seven dollars today.
"Hey Ollie, get over here, I've got another sucker on the line."
"Very well then! Two bits it is!" After placing the bet Jimmy gestures at the bar to order a drink to quench his propensity for a libation to forget the earlier bee mishap.
A man with bad teeth and ginger hair sidles up to Jimmy Knutson. He has a small note-book and a stubby pencil.
Ollie : "So I can put you down for two bits on Frankel then? And the name?"
"Better Frankel than some damnable Soviet Russian," Edward grumbles.
"Put me down for eight bits."
Edward hands a dollar to the bad-toothed man.
Ollie : "A true patriot you are sir!"
Grinning he scribbles down you name and bet in his little note-book.
"Indeed my good-man. Here's my bits.". Jimmy hands over his bits after Edward.
Seeing that there are not any more bets forth-coming, Ollie retires to a narrow corner of the bar.
You quickly come to appreciate the place's popularity: the beer is cold and very palatable.
Bar-keep : "You gents need another round?"
Lawrence looks down at his beer and finds it only about half gone. He shakes his head. "Soon, but not quite yet." He takes another drink, enjoying the atmosphere of the establishment. It's different from what he's used to, but not unpleasant.
The Westerner : "Excuse me, so sorry," a man at a nearby table apologizes, an unmistakable western drawl coloring his speech, as he tries to unfold a Massachusetts state road-map, at the crowded table, without upsetting anyone's drinks.
"Can anyone tell me how far it from here to Dunwich?"
Edward hunches over the map and dons his out-dated spectacles.
"We are here, my good fellow,"Edward says, "and if you follow the Aylesbury Pike, which runs along the Miskatonic River, you make about 20 miles to the turnoff to Concord, and then another 20-25 miles from there to Dunwich."
Edward raises his eyeglasses. "Does that sound about right to you, gentlemen? he asks his fellow Arkamhamians.
Why would anyone want to go to such a dreadful place, Edward wonders.
As usual, he also wonders whether he spoke his thoughts out loud, a habit he is trying to break.
The 'westerner' makes some notations on his map.
Westerner : "Much obliged."
Several of the place's patrons, scowling, shift themselves a little further down the bar, clearly disturbed by the mention of Dunwich.
Lawrence happens to look down, and sees a wasp twitching by his feet: apparently the poisoned insect had somehow got caught in his clothing,
before finally dropping off onto the floor here within this backroom speak-easy.
Lawrence starts to answer, but stops himself when he notices a wasp on the floor at his feet. "Please tell me I didn't bring more of them with me," he mutters, frantically patting himself down.
Satisfied that he hasn't become a walking beehive, he looks back up. "Yes, that sounds correct." Lawrence takes a sip from his beer, looking over the rim of the glass at the Westerner. "Dare I ask what would compel you to go to that wretched place?"
The Westerner : Looking up from his map. "Ohhh, it is for some research I'm doing. Have you ever heard of the 'The Devil's Hop Yard' there?"
Nils writes the directions to Dunwich down in his notebook, excuses himself, and goes up to the bar and orders a beer to relax his nerves from being so close to a significant discovery, "Excuse me, can I get a stout? Or whatever beer you have that is not weak." He then goes back to the table and continues his discussion with them. "I am Nils, professor of Nordic Cultures"
Nils: Your request for a 'stout' gets you a wry glance, but he pours a glass of a passable pilsner for you.
I look at the lighter beer, slightly disappointed, but take it, pay for it, and go back to the table. Once I get there I ask, "what do you all know about Dunwich?"
Ronny steps into Seventh Avenue looking every bit the part of the "spoiled heir" and scans the room looking for his companions.
Once he sees them he heads straight for them, "Apologies once more gentlemen, if I'm to play the fop I've to look the part so I ran home for the right look. I'll have a dop of a pint barkeep!" He motions to the barman.
"I miss anything interesting?"
"Dunwich? Dastardly place, you ask me. On one side is swamps and marsh. Backwater from the river. The other side is rocky and hilly, with dangerously steep bluffs. That side is heavily wooded, too, and I wouldn't be caught dead out there at night. My grandfather used to tell me the place was settled by accident, or perhaps from someone losing a bet. Who knows.
"But I do know this. The people and the houses have a lot in common: They're both rundown and best avoided."
Edward is starting to remember why he loves his cozy office with its yellowing manuscripts. Some places in Massachusetts make his stomach burn.
The crowd is thinning out, as the many working-men head for home and dinner.
Ronnie Blacksmith, the very image of a fashionable 'Man About Town'; draws some puzzled stares from the place's remaining patrons.
Nils turns towards Ronny Blacksmith, "Good afternoon, I was just getting some information about a promising local area called Dunwich. It seems that there might be a collection of standing stones called the 'Devil's Hop Yard' that I might be interested in seeing.", he looks back at the group still sitting and adds nodding, "I have heard of some of the stories about the place and it does not seem to be for the weak of constitution. You all look to have had some interesting experiences recently, might I ask what?" He then takes a gulp of the straw-colored liquid in his glass expectantly
Ronny ignores the strange looks, he is used to it by now. Most people do not live the life of leisure that he does and he has long stopped apologizing for it.
He nods to Nils, "I am afraid I am not familiar with the area not having grown up here but it seems Doctor Mayfield has the knowledge you seek.
The sense I get Doctor is that much of what we will be doing is traveling to see places and people who are best avoided".
He turns back to Nils, "I am Hieronymus Blakesmith but you can call me Ronny. You are?"
"First and only time I've seen a copy of The Bible that frightened me. Dunwich." Edward says this to no one in particular, practically mumbling.
Nils extends his hand to Ronnie, "I am Dr. Nils Svensson, but just 'Nils' will do, pleased to meet you."
.
Nils, slurring a bit, "foreknowledge of the end of the world? This could be linked to the Ragnarok mythology, which sounds much more promising than the standing stones. Might I join you?"
"Can you join us? Why, the more the merrier Nils! You are a learned man and our group could always use another learned man!"