XII
In his dream, Mortimer smelled coffee.
His eyes flicked open. He rolled over, heaved, launched a stream of acidic puke over the side of the queen-size bed. He lay back, sank into the pillow. Where was he? He tried to focus. Gnomes with miniature sledgehammers were trying to pound his eyes out of their sockets from the inside. He felt like unholy shit. Perhaps if he puked again…
He rolled over. Puked again.
The smell of puke made him puke a third time.
Beyond the sour smell of vomit, Mortimer could have sworn he still smelled coffee. Wishful thinking. A nice dream.
Bill burst into his room, holding a ceramic mug. “Wake up, sunshine. Time to-Jesus H. Christ, what happened in here?” He went immediately to a window and opened it wide. The cold wash of air took some of the stench away, felt good on Mortimer’s slick face.
Mortimer summoned the energy to say, “Go away. I’m dying.”
“If you die, you’ll miss the train.” Bill shoved the coffee mug at him. “Drink this. You paid enough for it.”
Mortimer struggled, grunted, sat up in bed. “What are you talking about?”
“When you bought all that stuff last night. You got some coffee too. Three hundred bucks a pound.” Bill shook his head, laughed. “I guess there ain’t no more bean boats coming up from Colombia.”
Three hundred dollars a pound for coffee? Bill had said he’d bought some things. Mortimer had been so very drunk…had spent so much…had Bill said…? “What train?”
“It was your idea. When Mr. Coffey came back and said he knew where your wife-”
“Anne! You know where my wife is?”
“Hell, you really don’t remember, do you?”
“God damn it, Bill!”
“Mr. Coffey said he felt bad so he asked some questions and found out your wife went to Chattanooga, to the main Joey Armageddon’s there. She’s going to be head girl or something.”
“Christ.”
“So you said you were going to get her and bought a bunch of supplies, ammunition and food, and you booked us passage on the Muscle Express.”
“The muscle what?”
“The train.”
Mortimer looked around the room. He remembered a blur of women, half expected to see one in his bed. “Did I have any company last night?”
“Well, you could have,” Bill said. “When they all found out you were the richest guy in the place, you became right popular. But you drank so much. I don’t think you could’ve gotten Mr. Willie to work.”
Damn.
Bill lifted the mug again. “This is getting cold. You want it or not?”
“Hell yes.” Mortimer took the mug. “I paid for it.”
His sipped the coffee. Mortimer’s eyes slowly widened. Every molecule in his body came alive. His bones hummed with electricity, the caffeine flowing the pathways of his body, a latent memory in his veins moaning ecstasy, seeming to say,
Bill looked alarmed. “You okay, man? What is it?”
Fat tears rolled down Mortimer’s cheeks. “Could you leave the room please, Bill? I’d like a moment alone with the coffee.”
Once upon a time it had been a whistle stop, an insignificant knot in the great tangle of the American railway. Now, like a thriving port in the endless deserts of the old west, the Spring City train station writhed with activity, a score of stout men loading crates of trade goods (including three hundred gallon-jugs of Freddy’s Stain Your Tongue Purple Merlot). The very few passengers who could afford the fare disembarked, looking sore-limbed and happy as hell to be off the train.
The only two people who could afford the fare south were Mortimer and Bill. They stood in the snow next to their gear, hands in pockets, stomping to keep their feet warm. Mortimer swayed in the biting wind, only the caffeine in his veins keeping him upright. His finger stump ached with the cold.
Silas Jones found them, puffing and red faced. He’d run all the way to the station. “I thought I might miss you before the train left, sir. Thank goodness I caught you.”
Mortimer belched, and it tasted like death. “What is it?”
Jones presented him with a sheet of paper marked up in pencil. A row of numbers swam before Mortimer’s eyes. He looked away. Reading the numbers made him nauseous. “Just give me the gist of it.”
“Your final bill,” Jones said, handing Mortimer a pen. “If you’ll just sign at the bottom, we’ll deduct it from your account.”
