Scantily clad women moving among the tables, taking drink orders. Some wore tank tops with the hems tied into a knot above the navel. Others wore bikini tops or lace bras. Tight cutoff jeans seemed to be standard.
Mortimer Tate had not had a woman in nine years. Something stirred in his pants, fluttered in his gut. He gawked openly.
Coffey told his story. He’d survived the worst times, helped hold the town together. It was a small town, people knew one another. They’d banded together, fended off marauders from without, despair from within. Coffey was mayor now. More important, he was half-owner of the Spring City Joey Armageddon’s. He might as well have been royalty.
“Anne,” Mortimer said. “Is she…do you know what happened to her?”
Coffey nodded slowly. “Of course. I’d forgotten. Naturally you’d want to know. Sorry, Mort. I really am.”
Oh, no. Mortimer’s heart froze. She’s dead. How? What happened?
“I’m truly sorry,” Coffey said again. “But I had to sell her.”
“No, no, no. It can’t be true. It can’t…” Mortimer blinked. “Did you say…sell her?”
“Hey, it wasn’t my idea,” Coffey said. “Believe me, I wanted to keep her. The customers loved her. She could really shake her ass in the cage.”
It was reflex. Mortimer shot out of his chair, knocked it over behind him. His fists came up. This son of a bitch was talking about his wife.
Mortimer froze when he felt the cold metal under his right ear. He turned slightly, saw the big man with the shotgun pushed up against him. Where did he come from? He felt something else sticking hard into his ribs on the left side. He unclenched his fists and held his hands up. “No problem here.”
“Let’s have a seat, sir. Nice and calm.” It was Emile, who held a small silver revolver against Mortimer’s ribs. “There’s a good gentleman.”
Mortimer eased down, and somebody slid his chair underneath him.
Emile looked at his boss, raised an eyebrow.
“I think we’re okay here,” Coffey said. “Mort, you’ll behave, right?”
Mortimer nodded, his teeth clenched. The gunmen withdrew. Bill eased his grip on one of the six-shooters. Mortimer noticed Coffey’s fist on the table next to his drink. It clutched a little nickel derringer. The saloon owner slowly tucked the pistol back into his belt.
“That was insensitive,” Coffey admitted. “I forgot you don’t know how things work now.”
Mortimer glared outrage. “Selling women as sex slaves? Is that how it is?”
“Don’t think of it that way. It’s like when the Red Sox trade an outfielder to the Yankees. The new location needed an experienced girl. Anne was happy, Mort. It was a promotion.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a liar.”
Coffey frowned, sighed. “I’m going to try to understand how you feel. I’m going to overlook that you’re rude.”
“Kiss my ass.”
Coffey sighed and stood. “Things have changed, Mort. Adjust.” The Christmas lights went wacky, and the music cranked a notch. “Looks like the show’s about to start,” Coffey said. “You boys enjoy. I have to make the rounds. Check with you later.”
The shark cages lowered from the ceiling, and the music boomed. “Raspberry Beret.” There were women in the shark cages. Dancing women.
Naked women.
They thrashed and shook and tossed their hair, an hourglass blonde with big tits in the close cage. Across the stage in the other cage a willowy, athletic redhead undulated and twisted. Joey Armageddon’s had filled with hooting, drunken men. It had become hot, a musty, boozy smell filling the place, mixing with musk and tobacco smoke. Mortimer’s head swam. Sensory overload. He fumed, but naked women demanded his attention. He reached for his glass of gin, found it empty. The Bombay had disappeared, replaced by another bottle of the lethal vodka.
Mortimer drank. The world blurred.
He heard Bill shouting at him; his voice seemed so far away. Mortimer squinted, looked at the cowboy. One of the waitresses had found her way into Bill’s lap. “What?”
“I said loan me some of them Armageddon dollars,” Bill shouted.
Mortimer went into his pockets, came out with a handful of coins and shoved them across the table. He reached for the vodka bottle, couldn’t quite grab it. His depth perception was in the toilet.
Mortimer felt himself floating, felt he was leaving his body, drifting amid the swirling colors of the Christmas tree lights. He could not make his eyes focus, could not hear specific sounds, the noise and music and conversation all boiling into a single, messy soup. But on some level his brain was working, reaching a new plateau of knowing and understanding and determination. He knew what he would do. He was having an epiphany, a spiritual awakening.
He glanced again at Bill, made his eyes focus. Bill had the waitress’s top down, one erect nipple in his mouth. The waitress’s hand reached below the table into Bill’s lap, pumped.
To hell with spiritual awakening, Mortimer thought. I want a hand job.
