world went crazy?

He knocked on the door. It felt strange, even after all this time, to knock before he entered his own home. He pushed the door open and entered.

The living room was nearly barren, a sofa with stuffing oozing out of the cushions and a beanbag. He stood there trying to remember the good times with Anne, long nights in front of a cozy fire. Mortimer’s eyes grew misty as the past formed a picture in his mind.

The old screaming woman with the frying pan in her hand broke the spell.

“Whoa!” Mortimer flinched, backed away.

She was wild eyed, gray hair exploding in all directions. She rushed at Mortimer, the frying pan swinging savagely. Mortimer threw up his arms, tried to duck away. A glancing blow on the tip of his elbow shot hot pain up his arm.

“Lady, please. Jesus!” Mortimer attempted flight, tripped backward over the beanbag.

The old lady loomed over him, mouth a feral, toothless grimace, ragged dress billowing around her like the tattered cape of some obsolete superhero. “My house. The place was empty, so I puts my mark on the door. Them’s the rules.” She lifted the pan over her head for a killer blow.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He reached into his pocket, came out with a handful of coins and tossed them at the old woman’s feet. “Here, take them.”

She stepped back, blinked at the glittering coins on the floor. “Are those…?” She knelt, picked one up and held it in the light. “It is. Armageddon dollars!” She scooped them into her trembling hands. “Thank you. Oh, my God. Thank you.”

Her head came up suddenly and she met Mortimer’s gaze, one eye half-milky with cataracts. “Wait a minute. I know what this is about.”

“It’s not about anything.” Mortimer struggled to his feet. “I’m sorry I barged in.”

“A strapping young buck like you. I know what you want from a woman.”

“Oh, shit.” He backed away, headed for the door.

The old woman ripped open the front of her dress, buttons flying. “Take me, you randy bastard. I’m bought and paid for.” Her breasts flopped into the open like deflated hot-water bottles.

Mortimer screamed and dashed for the door, made it outside and kept running.

“You goddamn pussy,” she called after him. “Come back here and deliver the sausage!”

XI

Back in the Emperor’s Suite, Mortimer found Bill’s vodka bottle. Empty. He sniffed, and the fumes scorched the inside of his nose. “Hell.”

Bill walked in from the other room, tucking in his shirt. He looked alert and no longer smelled like a campfire after his shower. “Sorry, all gone.”

“I need a drink.”

“Sounds good. Let me get my boots on.”

Mortimer squinted at the empty vodka bottle. “You can handle it?”

“I never get sick,” Bill said. “Or hung over.”

“Come on, then.”

They went downstairs. Things had changed with evening. Half the scruffy men along the far wall now pedaled stationary bikes while the other half sat on them and leaned on the handlebars. All huffed breath. Sweaty. Christmas tree lights zigzagged the ceiling of the hall. It looked like a dystopia-themed high school prom. Music leaked tinnily from unseen stereo speakers.

“That sounds familiar,” Mortimer said. “What is that?”

“It’s Tony Orlando,” Bill said. “‘Knock Three Times.’”

Mortimer shook his head. “Jesus.”

“No, Tony Orlando.”

A bell went off, like a doorbell chime. The resting guys on the stationary bicycles started pedaling, and the half who’d been pedaling rested. The Christmas tree lights dimmed momentarily during the changeover, Tony Orlando’s voice stretching into slow motion, then picking up speed again.

Talk about a shitty day job, thought Mortimer.

A man appeared in front of them wearing the worst tuxedo in history, neon orange with a ruffled shirt. He sported a handlebar moustache, and his slicked-down hair was meticulously parted in the middle. It looked like he’d escaped from a psycho ward’s barbershop quartet.

“Gentlemen?”

“I want to get a drink,” Mortimer said.

He sniffed. “We’re switching over to our dinner shift. You’ll have to wait.”

Bill stuck a finger in his face. “Who the hell are you?”

Вы читаете Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse
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