Scotch on the Rocks

Chapter 4: Highland Fling

Winston-Winslow. Monday, May 21, 2007.

When Crowley teleported into Win-Win's pub, Cheekbones and Scarlet ... correction, Sparkle Plenty were already present. Crowley was still getting used to the new nickname. He'd initially given Sara the nickname of Scarlet for obvious reasons, but Cheekbones suggested he replace it with something more fitting of her personality. He claimed that since her specialty was antique jewelry, she'd especially appreciate it.

As a rule, Crowley preferred to select his own nicknames, but Cheekbones had a point. Crowley had already dubbed Burke Dick Tracy. Jones was Flattop. Berrigan was Breathless.

What stopped him short was why Cheekbones gave him the tip.

Hagen snorted. "Isn't it obvious? This was an exchange of favors, bro. We were damn helpful to the Mouseketeers. Neal wants to reciprocate. Besides, he and I are chums, comrades cut from the same cloth. It's only natural he'd want to help us out."

Cut from the same cloth? Is that a slur? Back when Crowley was Fergus MacLeod and still human, he was a tailor in Scotland.

"You know it's not," Hagen chided. "A tailor's a very respectable profession even if it can't compare with being an artist."

"Thank you for making time in your schedule for us," Cheekbones said, gesturing for him to take a seat. Crowley quickly extricated himself from the gutter Hagen's comment had shoved him into.

He already liked the vibe. The bottle of Glencraig, with three cut-glass shot glasses circling it, beckoned to him enticingly.

"Anything for you and Sparkle," Crowley said gallantly, delighted at how Sara's eyes lit up. He knew he could trust Cheekbones.

"Is that what you've decided to call me?" she asked.

He nodded. "Now that I know you better, it's much more appropriate."

"We should christen it with Scotch," she declared.

"Excellent suggestion." He poured himself and Cheekbones a shot. "How would you like your drink, Sparkle?"

"Neat, of course, and I want you to know that pleasant as this is, we're conducting a business meeting."

"About Scotch?" Crowley joked hopefully.

"In a way," Cheekbones said, surprising him. "We have a lead on a forged Renoir in Edinburgh. Does Hagen know of any Scottish clients for stolen masterpieces?"

His inner consultation with Hagen didn't take long. "Sorry, but there's a reason Scotland's much better known for its whisky than its art. Hagen's not aware of any purchasers. Frankly, I'm surprised anyone bothered with a forgery in Edinburgh. It couldn't have been very lucrative."

"That is a bit of a puzzle," Cheekbones agreed.

"Will you travel to Edinburgh?" Crowley asked. No need to hurry off. The bottle was nearly full.

Sara nodded. "Since I've never been to Scotland, we're tacking on a little vacation time. I'm eager to learn more about my mother's relatives, the MacLeods. With your appreciation of Scotch, I wondered if you'd spent much time there."

"Hagen's family is from Wiltshire." Crowley drained his glass and stood up. Time to take off. This conversation was veering into dangerous territory. "You'll find the distilleries much more enjoyable than the museums."

With a snap of his fingers, he teleported back to his suite over the Blue Crescent Jazz Club in New Orleans.

"Why are you so nervous about Neal and Sara being in Scotland?" Hagen asked.