two mugs with foamy, bright yellow liquid and set the mugs in front of Bill and Mortimer.
“You got any rooms?” Bill asked.
“Five coins a night.”
Bill frowned. “That’s pretty steep. It’ll clean me out.”
“That’s with electricity and plumbing. You’ll think you’re at the fucking Marriott.”
“Let me think about it.”
Spider-face shrugged and went about his business.
Bill lifted his mug. “Cheers.”
Mortimer tasted the Freddy’s Piss Yellow. It tasted more or less like beer. Beer somebody had used to wash his balls. But after his third sip, Mortimer felt his headache ease a little. Hair of the dog.
“Can I see one of those coins?”
“Sure.”
Mortimer turned one of the coins over in his hands; it was heavy, maybe lead or nickel with a shiny silver coating, smaller than a silver dollar but bigger than a fifty-cent piece. Primitive stamping. It had ONE ARMAGEDDON DOLLAR on one side, a picture of a mushroom cloud on the other.
“What the hell is this?”
“Armageddon dollar,” Bill said.
“Yes, the words
“They’re used as currency at all Joey Armageddon locations.”
“The place has its own money? How many locations are there?”
Bill shrugged. “If I were you, I’d exchange that sled of trade goods for Armageddon dollars right away.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“For one thing, carrying a bag of coins is easier than pulling that damn sled everyplace. Which, by the way, is getting kind of old.”
“What if I want to shop somewhere other than Joey Armageddon’s?”
Bill chuckled, sipped beer. “There isn’t anyplace else.”
Mortimer asked Spider-face where he could trade his goods for money. The bartender pointed through a door.
“Be right back,” Mortimer told Bill.
Mortimer went to the sled, made sure no one was looking, then took one of the Johnnie Walker bottles from beneath the tarp and carried it back inside, went through the door the barman had indicated.
A small man sat behind a wire-mesh cage, a little window in front of him, like a bank teller. Sitting on a stool in a corner was a three-hundred-pound black man in army fatigues and a purple fez. He looked grim and dangerous. The M16 machine gun in his arms didn’t help him look any friendlier.
The white-haired man behind the cage wore a thick pair of glasses, a pencil behind his ear. He regarded Mortimer with little interest. “Yes?”
Mortimer cleared his throat. “I’m here to trade.”
The white-haired man yawned. “Buying or selling?”
Mortimer put the Johnnie Walker on the counter. “Selling.”
The man’s eyes slowly widened. “Is that real?”
“Yes.”
“We had someone in here before.” A warning tone in the man’s voice. “He drilled the top and filled the empty bottle with home mash. After we beat him, the mayor sentenced him to a month on the bicycles. I’ll ask you again. Is it real?”
“It’s real,” Mortimer said. “As are the other thirty-five bottles out on my sled.”
“Thirty-five?” The man trembled. “Mister, if you’re telling the truth, you just became the richest man in town.”
“I have other things too.” Mortimer listed the items.
Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead as he copied the list into a little notebook with his pencil. “Can I get your name?”
“Mortimer Tate.”
“I’m Silas Jones, Mr. Tate. And may I say you are a most welcome and valuable customer here at Joey Armageddon’s.”
The tally came to seven thousand Armageddon dollars, and Mortimer took the Emperor’s Suite on the second floor of the brick building attached to the armory. Two rooms, a double bed in each. A bathroom.
Mortimer Tate took his first crap on a working toilet in nine years.
