Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse - Gischler Victor (читать книги полностью .txt) 📗

Emile bent to speak softly into Mortimer’s ear. “Professor Coffey wonders if he could join you for a drink.”

Mortimer lifted an eyebrow. “Who?”

“The owner, sir.”

“Uh…okay.”

The name, the face. So damn familiar.

The lanky man came over and sat in between Bill and Mortimer. “Hello, Mort. I thought it was you.”

Recognition snapped into focus. “Pete Coffey!”

Bill raised an eyebrow.

“This is Pete Coffey,” Mortimer said. “We were on the baseball team in high school together.”

Bill nodded. “How do.”

“Last I heard you were an English professor at Georgetown.”

Coffey shrugged. “I taught classics. Georgetown is radioactive rubble now. I was home for my mother’s funeral, or I’d have bought it with the rest of my department.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Mortimer said. “Your mother, I mean.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’re the owner of this place?”

A smile flickered across the professor’s face. “Half owner. Joey Armageddon owns half of all the places. Some local guy-in this case, me-owns the other half.”

“Where’s the government?” Mortimer blurted.

“Once in a while we get something on the short-wave,” Coffey said. “Some air force general in Colorado Springs claims to represent the government. Then other times we hear about some low-level cabinet secretary holed up in Omaha saying she’s constitutionally in charge.” A shrug. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Mortimer poured vodka, shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“You’re drinking that?” Coffey asked.

“It’s-hic-good,” Bill said.

“No, it’s not,” Coffey said. “It’s a shortcut to the Hershey squirts. Like washing out your bowels with battery acid.” He waved at Emile, and the maitre d’ was at Coffey’s elbow in an instant. “Bring the Bombay from the safe in my office. And the lime juice. Silas knows the combination.”

Bill gaped. “You got limes? Where’d you get limes?”

“Nobody has limes,” Coffey said. “We got six little cans of lime juice in trade last month, and I’ve hoarded them for myself. The Bombay too.”

“I miss oranges.” Bill sounded wistful. “Any citrus.”

“Nothing comes up from Florida,” Coffey said. “Not for a year now.”

Emile arrived with a half-full bottle of Bombay Sapphire, a can of lime juice and a bucket of ice cubes. Coffey mixed the drinks, poured the gin like he was handling nitroglycerin, careful not to spill a drop. He made sure not to pour Bill or Mortimer any more than he poured for himself. At last, they drank.

Contented sighs. All three men closed their eyes, let the booze ease down.

“Damn, that’s a hell of a lot better than the vodka, all right,” Bill said. “I don’t feel like I’m going to die at all.”

They sat quietly. The gin demanded respect, so they sipped, didn’t talk. Mortimer glanced around; more patrons had crowded into Joey Armageddon’s. The song playing now was “Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead” by Warren Zevon. Above the stage, men lowered what looked like shark cages on steel cables. The Christmas tree lights began to blink. Mortimer noticed something else. Something important.

Women.

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.