Surely nature must abhor stasis. There’s something in a man that makes him go and go and go, and maybe the direction wasn’t even important. He would find Anne, and it would be everything or it would be nothing, but it would be forward motion if nothing else.
Mortimer dozed.
He was nudged awake five minutes later by a freshly showered Buffalo Bill. “Come on and buy me a drink.”
XXIII
The Cleveland Joey’s lacked the party atmosphere and pure sexual energy of its sister establishment in Spring City. No girls dancing in cages. No smiling women working the crowd. But as a reasonably friendly neighborhood saloon it was passable. Men playing poker and drinking at various tables, an ancient toothless crone behind the bar, serving slow but eventual mugs of beer. The lighting was low but not too dark. The music was something by the Dixie Chicks. Mortimer recognized it because Anne had been a fan. Maybe she still was.
The old lady indicated they should take any open table, so they found one in a corner and sat. Shelby showed up ten seconds later, looking harried and put out.
“If you want a girl, I’d get on the waiting list now.”
Mortimer shook his head. “Just food.”
“And beer,” added Bill.
“There’s omelets and sausage. The eggs are fresh. I just got them.”
Mortimer smiled. Looked like he’d have a chance to try some of Bobby’s eggs after all. “Okay.”
“You got anything else?” Bill asked.
“No. I’m cooking myself. No chef.”
“He quit on you?”
“Hell if I know,” Shelby said. “He never showed. At least if I was running a circus the fucking clowns would turn up for work, right? Anyway, I thought I heard some shooting, so maybe he’s dead.”
Mortimer frowned. “Shooting?”
“Way out on the edge of town. Like an hour ago, and it’s been quiet since.”
Mortimer and Bill exchanged glances. Mortimer asked, “Should we expect trouble?”
Shelby shrugged. “Town militia will handle it. Anyway, a thousand Red Stripes could ride in on Harley Davidsons for all I care as long as they brought me a chef and ten guys for the bikes. You want the omelets or not?”
“We’ll take two plates,” Mortimer said.
“And beer,” Bill shouted after Shelby.
The old lady brought two mugs of the Dishwater Lager. They sipped. Mortimer realized he was comfortable. Warm. He’d been warm since coming here and figured maybe the church was old enough to have an oil-burning furnace. Maybe even coal-burning. He wondered if there was anyplace a nuclear power plant still functioned. That would be a lot of energy. A town could pretend nothing had happened with that kind of power, dishwashers and microwave ovens and televisions. Except there were no TV channels anymore. You could watch DVDs maybe.
“This sure don’t compare to the Joey’s in Spring City,” Bill said.
“Nope.”
“You want me to go put our names on the waiting list?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
The omelets arrived with long, thick links of sausage. Mortimer tasted the eggs. Fresh and good. The sausage was heavily spiced, perhaps to cover the taste of the meat itself. He remembered pigs and cows were scarce.
“What do you think this is?” Mortimer stuffed another big chunk of sausage in his mouth.
Bill shrugged. “If we’re lucky, squirrel or raccoon or something. Best not to ask.”
They ate. They drank. It was pleasant and quiet. They didn’t ask.
Barely audible over the sad notes of a Kelly Clarkson song, the distant pop pop pop of small-arms fire froze everyone in the saloon. Mouths stopped chewing. Patrons held beer mugs halfway to lips. Everyone waited and listened. The seconds crept by, and everyone was about to breathe again when they heard another burst of fire. Maybe a little closer. Maybe a little farther away. It was hard to tell.
A tall man pushed away from a table across the room. He sighed and stood. He was thin; his face had deep lines and thin lips. He wore a state trooper’s hat and a Georgia Tech sweatshirt, and had an automatic pistol on his belt. “Keep on with what you’re doing, everyone. I’ll take a look.” He left through the front door.
“Who was that?” Bill asked.
An old man leaned over from the next table. “Officer in the town militia.”
“Trouble?”
The old guy snorted. “Hell, there’s always trouble. The world is sewn together with it.”
