The old man pulled his hand out from under the counter and turned slowly to a rickety library ladder attached at the top to a railing that ran parallel to the ceiling. Sliding it slowly into position, he managed to lift one leg up to the bottom rung, where he rested as if waiting for the strength to continue.

Gus checked his watch, then checked it again. Time was flying past. Morton wasn’t going to wait forever.

“Can I help you with that?” Gus said, if only to keep himself from screaming at the old man to hurry the hell up.

“Don’t need no help,” the shopkeeper said. “Not from a punk like you.”

Was that a deliberate provocation? Once again Gus wished he knew more about the old man’s role in his task. If he was in on it, if he was reporting back to Morton, it wouldn’t sound good that Gus was willing to take this kind of insult from him. Cayenne wouldn’t have. He’d have shaken the rickety ladder until the rungs broke free and the geezer fell to his death. But if he wasn’t, if he was just naturally unpleasant, then all that mattered to Gus was getting the bottle and getting out.

“Sure this is the one you want?”

Gus looked up to see that somehow the old man had reached the top of the ladder and grabbed one of the dusty bottles with the hand that wasn’t clutching the guide rail.

Gus’s first instinct was to thank him, then point out that he was close to the proper bottle. But now he was seized by the suspicion that this was some kind of test, and that he wouldn’t pass it with a demonstration of graciousness. “You blind, deaf, or just stupid?” he snarled. “I said the Glen Graggenlogan, not whatever swill you’re trying to pawn off on me.”

If the shopkeeper was unused to this level of rudeness, he didn’t show it. He thrust the dusty bottle back into its place on the shelf, nearly sending the entire row crashing down onto the floor, then extended his arm as far as it would go, his fingers barely brushing the bottle Gus had demanded.