After the effects of the coffee wore off, Brogan felt sleepy. He closed the book and walked over to the bed where he lay down and fell asleep until one p.m.
Lunchtime was more of the same. Brogan checked out every diner, restaurant, and café, eating lunch at a Mexican burrito joint at the top of the street. Though not bad, it wasn’t as good as La Cumbre back in Winter’s Edge. Two Jacks didn’t have nearly the same level of Latino influence as Winter’s Edge, Brogan had noticed. That was reflected in the food options too. There was the burrito place and a Mexican panedaria where he stopped each day to pick up a couple of pan dulces. That was about it. Other than that, the vibe of the town was pretty much white American.
In the afternoon he traipsed up and down the Drag again, walking in and out of the bars, clubs, and casinos, eyeballing anyone that even halfway resembled the men he was looking for, and catching several hard stares for his trouble. Many of the side street bars had opened by now and he checked them out too.
Late afternoon, the skies darkened. Soon after, a thundershower came down, quickly turning the streets to mud. Frustrated, Brogan returned to his hotel room and read his book some more, staying there until evening. Around seven p.m. he went out and hit the bars again. By ten, and on his fifth bourbon, Brogan returned to the Quiver and entered the saloon.
The bar was packed and a three-piece band was playing on a stage in the back lounge when he arrived; a piano player, trumpet player, and drummer knocking out a fast tempo-ed blues number, reminding Brogan it was Friday night. Loudspeakers had been set up to either side of the stage, and at the front was a microphone stand, but no sign of a singer.
He sat down at an empty table. Presently a waitress came over, the top three buttons of her blouse undone. She leaned over the table to give him a better view, something he’d become used to in the city by now.
“What can I get you, honey?”
“I’ll have a bourbon and coke.” Brogan looked across at a couple at the next table. The woman he recognized as one of the Quiver’s regular bar girls, the man, judging from his rough appearance, Brogan guessed was a local miner. They were eating with their fingers from a large plate laden with thick wedges of some type of fish that had been fried in breadcrumbs and served with french fries. It looked good.
“And a plate of whatever they’re having,” he added. While he mightn’t be having much luck with his search, it appeared he wasn’t going to starve or go thirsty in this town.
The waitress took his order and hurried off, coming back a couple of minutes later with his drink. He sat back and watched the band. They were good, playing a set of jazz and blues standards, some of which he knew. The black trumpeter lifted his instrument high into the air each time he blew the high notes, while the pale faced, bony-wristed white dude chopped down hard on the piano keys with long skinny fingers. The drummer held it all together with a rock steady beat. A window at the back of the lounge had been left open, and between songs the low buzz of the diesel generator running the house lights and PA system could be heard.
Brogan’s food arrived just as the singer appeared on stage, a plump black woman wearing a glittering blue sequined dress, so tight it looked like she had been lowered into it by crane.
The piano started up at a jaunty tempo, while the drummer neatly worked a pair of brushes on the main drum, keeping the downbeat steady on the bass and hitting the hi-hat on the off-beat. Then the fat lady started to sing, her voice low and husky, floating across the PA like mist over water. It was an old blues song and she sang it well, her voice laden with emotion.
Well I'm rollin' and I'm tumblin'
Cried the whole night long
Well I'm rollin' and I'm tumblin'
Cried the whole night long
When I woke up this morning
Couldn't tell right from wrong
Well if the river was whiskey
And I was a diving duck
Well if the river was whiskey
And I was a diving duck
Well I would dive to the bottom
Never would I come up
Brogan smiled as he chewed on his food. Fitting words, given the company he was keeping.
The food was as good as it looked. The thick chunks of fish, fresh and perfectly salted under the batter, came with a sweet tartar sauce into which he dipped both the wedges and fries. When he finished eating, he sat back in his chair and had just pushed his plate away when a set of fingertips trailed lightly across his back. A woman showing even more cleavage than his waitress slid into the chair opposite him.
“My, what’s a handsome fellow like you doing all on your owny-oh?” a familiar face asked, speaking in a low husky tone. “Haven’t you made any friends yet?”
“Marlee, fancy meeting you here. How have you been?”
“Ah, so you know my name?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
Marlee smiled. She touched her lip with a brightly-painted fingernail, a different but equally vibrant color to the other night. “I know…Harold told you. How naughty of him.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I pestered him until he gave it up. I just had to know.”
Marlee threw her head back and let out a peal of laughter. “Well seeing that I’m here now, how about you pester me instead? First, why don’t you tell me your name, stranger?”
“It’s Frank. Frank Brogan.”
The waitress arrived back with the fresh drink he’d ordered. She placed it on the table, then looked at him enquiringly.
Brogan gazed over at Marlee. “You’ll stay for one?”
“Sure,” Marlee said, in her distinct low purr. “You never know what it might lead to.”
“Well…in this town, I’d say you pretty much do.”
While the waitress cleared the plates, Brogan ordered a half bottle of bourbon, more coke and ice, and another glass.
“I haven’t seen you the last couple of nights,” he said after the waitress left. “Been anywhere special?”
“Oh, I’ve been a little busy, that’s all,” the pretty little hustler said, smiling at him coyly. “So, how long will you be staying in Two Jacks?”
“A couple more days, most likely.”
“What brings you here, exactly. You a gambling man?”
Brogan shook his head. “Nope. Never had much luck gambling.”
“Who does? Though everyone tells me losing is all part of the fun.” Marlee sighed. “Guess I just don’t have any luck meeting winners.”
“Eventually the house always wins. That’s what they say.”
“In this town, I’d say that too,” Marlee answered dryly.
The waitress arrived back with their drinks. Brogan drained his glass, then poured them both a generous shot from the bottle, adding ice and a splash of coke. The two sat back and listened to the music some more. The blues lady had started on a new song, an up-tempo crowd pleaser, Shake Your Moneymaker. The gal sure knew how to pick her songs.
“How long have you been in Two Jacks?” Brogan asked Marlee when the song ended.
“A couple of years now. Keep meaning to leave, just never quite managed to pack my bags yet.” She looked across at him. “I couldn’t tell you why, so don’t bother asking. Got no Plan B, I suppose.”
“Guess not. You must have gotten friendly with all the regulars by now, right?”
Marlee eyed him coolly, then took a sip from her drink. “Sure, I know most of their faces. Why?”
There was a question Brogan was probing at, but he’d put it the wrong way. He realized he was quite drunk now. Inside his mouth, his tongue felt thick, and he was unable to stop his voice from slurring as he spoke.
“Just wondering about the different people that come here, that’s all…it’s my first time,” he added weakly.
Marlee gave a shrug of her delicate shoulders. “People come and go. Some of them come back for more. Don’t really know what else to tell you.”
Brogan changed the topic, and they talked some more over the music.
The usual stuff; where they were when the war broke out, how they survived it, and what brought them to the Outzone.
Brogan lied about his recent past, though not the soldiering part, and presumed that Marlee had done likewise. She told him that when the bombings on US soil first began, she had been a legal secretary in Delaware. Somehow he couldn’t quite picture her, primly dressed, behind an office desk at some law firm. Who knew? Maybe it was true. Years of war had brought out the rawness in everyone. People had changed, one way or another.
After some time the band stopped for their first break of the evening. To a smatter of applause the singer bowed and stepped off the stage, heading toward a side door on the right, followed by the trio of musicians. As she passed a table, a man drunkenly reached out and raised his hand up high, theatrically slapping her on the rear. In the process, he knocked over a bottle of whiskey and the glasses in front of him, and a ripple of laughter went around the room.
Brogan turned to Marlee. She stared back at him with an expectant air, the trace of a smile on her lips. A well-practiced look, he was sure. Amid a clutter of swirling thoughts, a cogent one suddenly came to Brogan. Something that actually made sense.
“Seeing as the fat lady’s finished singing for the moment, how about we take the conversation upstairs?” he said. “Maybe you could sing to me in my room.”
Marlee smiled. “I’d like that. I can sing all night if you want.”
Brogan looked around the room and caught the waitress’s eye. A few minutes later he paid the bill, then followed Marlee through the maze of tables and over to the side door the band had passed through earlier.
It led into a small anteroom. In one corner, the band members sat around a table drinking beers and smoking. They glanced up briefly when they entered. Marlee strode across the room to the far end, where there was another door. She opened it and beckoned for Brogan to follow her inside.
It led into a poorly lit passageway. Peering down it, Brogan could see it wasn’t part of the building’s original design. It appeared to have been attached to the exterior back wall as an afterthought. A couple of feet above his head was a sloping tin roof, and as he stepped inside, a gust of wind blew through the rafters and swept through his hair.
So this is what the Working Ladies Union of Two Jacks pushed for, Brogan thought drunkenly to himself, remembering Harold’s comment from the other night.
The floor of the passageway looked like it hadn’t been swept in months, and at one point Brogan kicked a discarded bottle, sending it spinning noisily along the ground in front of him.
“Easy there, stud,” Marlee murmured.
After twenty yards they passed a windowless door to their left that Brogan guessed must lead out into a yard. A short time later they reached another corridor, where to his left he recognized the door leading out to the parking lot, the one he had come in by when he first arrived. They turned right and a short time later arrived at the back of the hotel lobby.
Closing the door behind him, Brogan saw Harold sitting on a tall stool by the side of the desk, talking to the bald clerk, whose name Brogan still didn’t know. The old porter winked at him as he and Marlee walked wordlessly by and headed for the stairs.
Up on the second floor, Brogan led Marlee to his room, then bolted the door behind him. When he turned around, she had already switched on the lamp.
Brogan took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door, then walked over to her. Marlee raised a hand to his chest when he reached her.
“Before we go any further, there’s something we need to discuss.”
He looked at her questioningly. Marlee rubbed her thumb and finger together.
“Oh, yeah. That.” In his drunkenness, Brogan had already forgotten the exact nature of their engagement.
“Now?” he asked.
“’Fraid so, honey. No money down, no panties down. That’s just how it goes,” she said, looking at him sweetly.
The two discussed business briefly, then Brogan reached for his wallet. He took out three crisp five dollar bills and handed them to her. Fifteen dollars was five times the price of the room. Perhaps he could have bargained better, but the time to do that would have been down in the bar.
Marlee quickly inspected the notes, then put them in the back pocket of her jeans. Taking her jacket off, she walked over to the desk in the corner and hung it over the back of the chair. Without any further ado, she sat down and pulled off her boots, followed by her jeans, folding them neatly and placing them on the chair.
There was plenty for Brogan to admire as she walked across to the bed and slid under the covers, her slender legs leading up to a beautifully proportioned ass that wiggled deliciously under her panties.
Brogan stripped down to his t-shirt and shorts, and got in beside her. Marlee snuggled up to him and he pulled her in closer. Sliding a hand under her blouse, he ran it up over the curve of her hip, feeling the firm, soft skin under his touch, then reached up behind her back and unclipped her bra. He cupped his hand over a large, firm breast, a rush of desire flooding his body. Then he dropped both hands down under her panties and kneaded her smooth, round buttocks, a moment later pulling the panties down over her hips.
Marlee grabbed his shorts with both hands and deftly tugged them down. Rolling over, suddenly she was on top of him. Reaching down, she grabbed him and guided him between her legs.
“Should we really be…doing…this…” Brogan’s voice trailed off as he entered her, “…bareback?”
Marlee leaned over and bit his ear. “Don’t worry, honey. I don’t do it this way very often,” she whispered. “Only when I want to have a little fun too.”
Brogan didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Either way, it was too late. He lay on his back staring up at her. Marlee’s thighs flexed as she arched her back, moving her hips in a strong undulating motion. Brogan reached both arms around her as Marlee jerked forward and pressed her palms into his chest, and they got into a lockstep rhythm. The corner of her mouth curled up into a cruel, sensuous grimace, then nothing became more important to either of them than the carnality of the moment.
After months of abstinence, the encounter didn’t last as long as Brogan would have liked. Soon he crested a wave, too tempting, too irresistible to control, and moments later came plunging down the far side, months of accumulated tension dissolving deep within him.
As he exhaled, he could feel small hard knots in the muscles of his chest open up that hadn’t relaxed in a long while. Moments later, without being able to help himself, the soporific mixture of liquor and sex sent him drifting off into a warm, fuzzy sleep.
When he woke again, the light was off and Marlee was no longer beside him. Over near the window, he could make out a shadowy figure. He leaned across the bed and found the light switch.
Marlee sat at the chair by the desk, zipping up the side of one of the heeled ankle boots she had worn that evening.
She smiled. “I didn’t want to wake you, honey. You looked so peaceful.”
Woozily, Brogan scanned the room quickly and checked nothing had been disturbed. “You’re leaving already? I thought you were going to sing to me all night.”
“Maybe next time, sweetie. I’d better run. It’s early still.”
Meaning there is still time for her to find another john downstairs before the evening is done, Brogan thought, furious with himself for falling asleep. It would make what he intended to do next more awkward.
He managed to locate his shorts under the blankets and groggily got out of the bed. “Hold on, don’t go yet. There’s something I need to run by you.”
Marlee looked at him impatiently. “What is it?” There was a cold edge to her voice. For the first time that evening, the mask had slipped.
Brogan walked across to the closet and pulled out his pack. He dragged it to the side of the bed and reached for the zipper.
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Marlee asked, sidling over to the door.
�
�Wait! There’s something in this for you,” he called out to her. He needed to say something to keep her in the room.
Grudgingly, she came back over and stood by the bed. If there was anyone in Two Jacks who might know where the three perps were, it would be Marlee.
From a hidden compartment at the back of the pack, Brogan pulled out a photograph; the ringleader, the one with the twisted smile. Before leaving Metro, he’d had it blown up and cropped so it no longer looked like it had been taken high above in the skies by a drone.
He handed it to Marlee. “You ever see this guy around?”
She took the photo, examining it carefully. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at him sharply. “What are you doing messing with a guy like this?”
“So you know him?”
“Maybe. You mentioned there was something in it for me?”
Brogan drew in his breath. He felt a rush of excitement, and the room no longer felt cold. “You help me find him, I’ll make it worth your while,” he said, trying to keep both his gaze and voice steady.
Marlee stared back at him. “What do you want with him, I said?”
“Just a guy I met a couple of months back. He told me to look him up if I was ever up this way. I haven’t seen him around, and I’ve checked out most of the town.”
Marlee gave him a look. She didn’t believe a word of his story. “He’s a hunter and trapper. Of all sorts of prey. He comes and goes. Don’t worry, he’ll be back. He lives here.”
A sense of anticipation coursed through Brogan’s veins. John Cole had brought him to the right place after all. Now all he needed to do was to be patient. “What’s his name?”
The hooker looked at him sharply again. “You’re looking for a guy and you don’t even know his name?”
Brogan cursed his drunkenness. “I’ve forgotten it. Guess I’ve just met too many people on my travels.”
The hooker looked at him slyly. “Because that’s half the chase right there, if I give you that.”
Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) Page 20