Stanton was a ghost town, as in an actual ghost town, built especially for tourists who were on day trips out of Vegas. Technically, it had existed for centuries, but there had only really been a well and an inn, which, rumour had it, had been a whorehouse that catered to the long-distance traveller on a budget. Do any two words in the English language form a worse combo than “budget whorehouse”? They’d knocked it all down and replaced it with brand-new, rustic and family-friendly history, complete with ghost stories and specially shipped-in tumbleweeds. Apparently, real tumbleweeds don’t look enough like tumbleweeds.
The venture had been a success and attracted tourists in big numbers on their day trips. While the Rusty Spur was a long way down from his Manhattan days, Jack hadn’t minded it. It was the only bar job he’d ever had where you could close up at 7pm and go home. No tour out of Vegas was going to keep people away past peak slots-feeding and show time.
Then, another company had created a new ghost town closer to Vegas. Stanton was still trying to compete, but Mardenville had holograms and all kinds of nonsense like that. It made their creaky doors and funhouse mirrors look outdated. And so Stanton the fake ghost town was soon well on its way to becoming a real one. The novelty hat shop had closed last week, and Mildred, who ran the tours, was letting staff go.
The Rusty Spur was hanging in there only because it offered truckers an all-you-could-eat buffet of heart-stopping grease, which had probably helped kill more people than gunfights or disease ever did. By rights, the place should be haunted by fat dudes expiring on toilets. Still, between that, the sheriff’s department up the road and the occasional tour, the place kept ticking along. Just.
Jack found himself staring into the ice-bucket. Damn. Life was too long for purpose. He looked up at the sight of a large man riding into town on horseback.
Riding was too kind a word for it. The guy was hanging on to the horse’s neck inelegantly as it trotted down Main Street. Jack didn’t recognise him, but he recognised the horse.
“Shittin’ Nora!” hollered the man as the horse deposited him in front of the Rusty Spur.
Jack sighed.
Too damn long for purpose.
Bunny lay on the ground. Everything hurt too much for him to consider moving. Luckily, the place didn’t seem that busy, so the chances of him getting run over appeared to be minimal. At least, not unless his own horse turned around and came back to trample him. Bunny wouldn’t put it past the foul-tempered beast. They had not got on well at all.
He stayed there, feeling thoroughly sorry for himself, until he heard a throat being cleared.
“Afternoon, sir,” a voice said.
Bunny looked up to see a man of about fifty, wearing a rather hangdog expression, looking down at him.
“Howerya. I’m having a hell of a day. My car blew out all four of its tyres up the road there.”
“Did it?” said the man. “Fancy that. I’m Jack. Welcome to the Rusty Spur.”
“’Twasn’t good. Middle of the desert and no bloody phone signal either. I mean, how can there be no feckin’ mobile phone signal?”
“Yeah. The cell tower keeps getting blown up,” said the man.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“By who?”
“Best guess – the same little old lady who found you and was nice enough to sell you her spare horse.”
Bunny looked long and hard at the man. “You have got to be shitting me – she must’ve been eighty if she was a day!”
“She’s been pulling this scam since she was fifty. Why stop when it works so well?”
“But … Well, that is truly diabolical.”
“Yeah,” said the man. “Her grandsons will have stripped down your car for parts by now.”
“I can’t believe I fell for that.”
“Hey, if it didn’t work, she wouldn’t have been doing it since the last century.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Bunny, “she’s not getting her horse back.”
“What horse would that be?”
Bunny looked down the street, which was a remarkably equine-free zone. “A man could really take against this place.”
“There’ll be some cops in here later on. You can report this heinous crime to them.”
“And they’ll get my car back?”
“Almost certainly not, but they enjoy hearing about old Marge’s shenanigans. If you’d like to come in, your first beer is on the house.”
Bunny stood up slowly, cataloguing his various aches and pains as he did so. “That’s very decent of you.”
“Not really. Marge has a tab for this very purpose. She’s good like that.”
Bunny shook his head. “Unbelievable. And I’ll tell you what, my arse is red-raw. I’ve never ridden a horse before.”
“Really?” said Jack. “I would never have guessed.”
Bunny dusted off the backside of his jeans. “Now’s a splendid time to wound my pride – I won’t feel it over the pain in my bollocks. Why would anyone get on a horse more than once?”
Jack shrugged. “Occasionally they make an ill-fated attempt to go back and find Marge, but I don’t recommend it.”
“I meant in general. It looks so much easier when jockeys do it. They must store their nuts behind their ears.”
“Interesting theory,” said Jack. “So, Cork?”
Bunny looked at him in surprise. “That’s right. How’d you get that?”
Jack shrugged. “I was a bartender in New York. You don’t do that gig for long without getting to know your Irish accents. Don’t suppose you know a man called Tommy Byrne?”
“’Tis a big country. We don’t all know each other, despite what you … Wait, does he have one leg?”
“That’s him.”
“I do. Not seen him for thirty years.”
“You’re not likely to either. He died in a bar I was working in.”
Bunny stopped and looked at the man. “Well, you’re just full of good news today, aren’t you?”
Ten minutes later, Bunny was sitting at the bar,
