by James Axler
"Had no idea you boys would like looking at the girls," Kirkland said, waving to a young waitress wearing only cutoff jeans, "or I'd have extended an invitation." She came over at once and put a fresh glass in front of the doctor. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Water," Jak replied.
"What have you got?" Dean asked.
"Homemade ale and an assortment of wines. There's a watermelon flavor that turned out exceptionally well. If I might be bold enough, I'd recommend that."
"Sure," Dean said.
Kirkland nodded to the waitress, and she walked away. "I don't see your father here."
"Not father," Jak said. He jerked a thumb at Dean. "His father. My friend."
"I see. And would your father approve of your being here, lad?" Kirkland asked Dean.
"I've seen naked women before," Dean replied. "And I've drank."
"Your father seems to be quite liberal in his views," Kirkland replied. "Here in Hazard, we take a more conservative view. Children are kept away from such things as this."
"Mebbe," Dean said. "But I learned how to kill a man before I had any real interest in girls." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I guess I'm not like most of the kids you got in this ville."
Jak grinned only slightly, feeling the scars on his bone white face tighten. But it wasn't an expression he knew Kirkland would recognize. He felt a little prideful at Dean's reply; it was something a man would have said to draw the line and gather some respect from another man on the verge of stepping over that line. And the albino could hear Ryan Cawdor's tone in Dean's voice.
He glanced back and saw that the three men had stationed themselves along the free-standing bar. All of them wore weapons that looked like they'd seen a lot of use. Two of them, Jak noticed, had tattoos on their faces, identifying them as probable members of Liberty's gang. It felt comforting to know who the hunters were.
"Mebbe you'd like to do more than look at the girls," Kirkland offered. "All of these ladies are willing to be more—companionable—for the right price."
"No," Dean said. "Looking's fine. I figure buying it only puts me mebbe a step ahead of selling it. And I don't sell myself. My dad taught me that."
"Your father sounds like a smart man." Kirkland leaned back in his chair as the piano number ended. The dancer picked up the clothing she'd discarded during her performance, moving back toward the curtained area of the stage, her hips undulating and sending the onlookers into a faked frenzy of lust.
A man jumped onto the runway and dropped his pants, doing a jiggling dance and yelling at her. Before he could yank his pants back up, a woman ran from behind the curtains with a wet mop in her hands.
Jak appreciated the economy of motion the woman used in bringing the mop across to connect with the man on the stage. The wet mass of strands slammed into the guy's head and released a flood of water that drenched some of the men seated close around the runway.
"Goddamn it, Suzie," one of the men yelled in protest. "Sykes was just having a little fun. Letting off a little steam."
The comment drew a chorus of laughter from the onlookers. But the closer ones grabbed their drinks and headed back from the runway. Sykes, tripped by his pants and propelled by the wet mop, hit the runway hard. The woman was a loose scarecrow of beauty. Her bra and panties fit her, but the hard planes of her breasts, stomach and thighs showed a lot of hard usage.
"So let him cool off! Stupe fucker's not gonna put a show on while he's on my stage," Suzie shouted in righteous indignation. "I got working girls here who got to feed their families. They're gonna get some respect if I have to beat it into you bastard sons of bitches myself." She brought the mop over her shoulder again, putting all of her weight into it.
The mop handle cracked against the back of Sykes's head. His face bounced off the runway floor, then blood pooled under him. He gave up trying to pull his pants up and worked on just sliding off the runway. His hand slid across the pool of blood as he crabbed his way toward escape, and his face thudded against the wooden platform again.
The laughter this time was at Sykes's expense. A couple men grabbed him by the legs and dragged him from the runway. Nearly unconscious, the man dropped to the floor. The onlookers ignored him and set to cleaning their tables and chairs.
"Okay, Suzie," one of the men said. "Stage's all yours again. Let's get the show back on the road."
"No one touches one of my girls," Suzie told them. "Less they pay for the privilege. Next man gets himself a load on and figures his thundering little dinky is so great he's got to show it, he's gonna go home with it floating in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey." She wiped the floor clean, then stalked back to the curtained area. "Tickle them ivories, Amadeus."
The piano player tossed her a salute that turned into a single finger when her back was turned. Then he grabbed the half-empty bottle from the top of the piano and took a deep draft. Finished with the bottle, he set it back on top and lit up a fresh cigarette. He cracked his knuckles, then began a raucous tune.
Another girl came from behind the curtains. This one wore a green Mohawk that had to have been eight inches tall. A brief, loose loincloth covered her sex and her behind, but gave fleeting glimpses of both as she strutted and shimmied. Mirror sunglasses covered her eyes, and she used her arms to keep her breasts hidden for a time.
"So what are you boys doing out tonight?" Kirkland asked. "Besides bar crawling?"
"Used living out in open," Jak said. "Hard get used being in four walls."
"I can well imagine." Kirkland nodded and sipped his drink.
Jak drank his water, finding it had a metallic taste, but no odor and no aftertaste. It didn't matter, because he wasn't stupe enough to drink a quantity that would hurt him. He watched Dean sample his wine, noticing the way the boy tried to hide his grimace.
The girl with the tall green Mohawk dropped her loincloth and swivel-hipped around the stage. The audience roared its appreciation. A small, genuine smile played across the woman's cold features.
"New talent," Kirkland said. "She still enjoys what she does. That attitude is what sets her apart from the other women, and it's what makes the other women hate her."
Even Jak, as interested as he was in finding out the information Ryan had sent him for, was hypnotized for a time by the woman's unleashed sexuality.
Kirkland leaned a little closer. "Konikka's a lot more expensive than the other women," he said. "But I can still make it happen. She still owes me from her last abortion. She tried to do it herself with a coat hanger and ended up nearly killing herself. I had to do a lot of repairs, still nearly lost her."
"Why do that for us?" Jak asked.
"Because I want some more of that anesthetic," Kirkland said. "If I can't cut the deal with the others of your group, mebbe I can cut it with you."
Jak regarded him with a cold look. "I'll think about it."
Kirkland's face froze for just a moment, and Jak sensed the doctor was struggling internally to maintain control. "You drive a hard bargain. Tell you what, I'll give Konikka to you and your young friend for the evening and give you even more to think about."
"I pass," Jak answered.
The doctor nodded slowly, then looked back at Dean. "What about you, boy?"
"No."
Kirkland heaved a loud sigh, then laughed as if in disbelief. But the effort was strained and didn't come off as natural. "You boys really don't know what you're passing up."
"Mebbe," Jak said. "But walking in today, got different impression of ville. White wash buildings. Church. Figured something like this wouldn't exist."
"Every ville has its dark underbelly," Kirkland replied. "Hell, after sky dark most of what was left was dark underbelly. You expect good people to survive something like that, come clawing back from radiated lands and near Stone Age conditions?" The doctor laughed and belched. "I'll tell you what doesn't fit here is that white wash look. Those people are delusional if they think a pedestrian society can exist anywhere right now.
"
"Must think so."
"Only because I allow them to believe in that delusion. I keep Hazard well stocked in weak people, make no mistake about that. But they serve my purpose. And I don't give a damn about any of them." Kirkland laughed. "But you try and get one of them on the street to believe that. I allow them to raise their families here. Protect the weak ones from stickies. And they labor in my ville, stocking my larder and providing me with amusement."
Jak kept his face immobile, proud of the way Dean did the same. The companions had seen some hard times, dealt with some harsh barons, but Kirkland promised to be one of the most inherently evil.
"I'll talk to you boys tomorrow," the doctor said as he stood. He glanced toward the curtained stage, then waved. Konikka came out a moment later, sashaying across the runway with less enthusiasm than she'd carried before. The mood in the room darkened immediately as the men stared after her with greedy lust.
Jak figured it was a good thing the girl's eyes were covered by the mirror lenses, because he didn't think she'd be able to hide the reluctance in her gaze that she tried so hard to hide from her moves. The girl linked her arm in the doctor's.
Kirkland looked at Jak. "If you should decide to change your mind on my offer, let me know."
The albino teen watched the man leave the room, noticing how the other men gave him a wide berth. The three men at the bar averted their faces, but Kirkland noticed them anyway. He didn't stop or acknowledge them, though.
"He's gone," Dean said after the man left, "and I'm glad to be rid of him. I'm beginning to think the worst thing we could've done was come here."
"For him or us," Jak agreed. "Remains be seen how hand takes shape. Let's go." He left his drink on the table and walked into a narrow hallway where he figured the washroom was. He stepped over Sykes's unconscious body. Even without looking, he knew the three men were following him and Dean.
He walked through the door on the left, led by the stench of urine and the soured stink of sweat. The washroom was uncommonly small, decorated with pinups from skin magazines Jak had seen before. There were pictures on the walls that looked like the women in them were trying to turn themselves inside out. He'd never cared for that kind of thing, and couldn't understand how other men could. His own rutting urges were triggered by different things.
The men in the washroom gave them notice, but ignored them for the most part.
Looking at the back wall, Jak spotted the small window above the piss trough. He didn't pause, not knowing if the three men following them would figure on taking them when the chance presented itself to hem them in.
He stepped up on the trough, making a couple of the men nearest him on either side shy away. He ignored them, grabbing the window latch and unlocking it. He shoved the window open with a creak. The night air rushed in, still carrying the scent of the ville, but lots cleaner than the interior of the washroom.
Jak hoisted himself up and climbed through the window. It let out into an alley filled with grass and weeds growing up between chunks of cracked pavement. He pulled himself through, then reached back for Dean.
The younger boy slithered through all on his own, joining Jak a heartbeat later.
"Hey, they're getting away!"
Looking back into the lantern-lit room, Jak saw the three tattooed men rush to the window. They almost got into a fight with the other men. One of them unlimbered his side arm.
Jak tapped Dean's shoulder and they stepped into the darkness, out of the line of fire.
"Guess they're pretty serious about finding us," Dean said.
Jak nodded. "Probably got Kirkland's blessing. Mebbe heard left inn by ourselves, thought those coldhearts could take and question us. Then blame them we get chilled."
"Nobody would have believed that."
Jak nodded. "Yeah. But Kirkland not know that." He listened to the men yelling behind them, realizing it had to have been the others in the washroom, not the men trying to track them. "Hurry." He led Dean into the shadows. It would be better if they didn't have to kill anybody.
At least, not where the bodies would be left out in the open.
Chapter Seven
Hand lettering made the small sign look elegant. J.B. stood outside the building looking up at it after pulling the bell cord: Tinker Phillips and Sons Gun Repair and Gun Sales Straight and True Guaranteed.
Wheelgun and .45 semiautomatic images framed the announcement. Rifle images bridged the distance along the sides of the sign.
The building was compact, consisting of a single story and running back about four times in length what it was in width. White paint looked well kept, and small panes of frosted glass covered the windows and the door openings. Even in the low lantern light coming from the street, the Armorer could see the shadows of iron bars just on the other side of the glass.
The door opened softly, not drawing back much. Close-cropped blond hair hung over a pair of sky blue eyes that regarded J.B. in frank disapproval. For a moment the Armorer thought he was looking at a young man, then he saw the face had a maturity to it in spite of the fact there was no beard growth.
"Can I help you?" the girl asked. Her tone was cold, and there was no friendliness in her at all.
"Name's J. B. Dix." He tipped his fedora. Then replaced it. "I saw your sign. Noticed some light against the glass from inside. Thought mebbe you hadn't entirely shut down the business for the day." He felt an itch over his chest, like the ones he got when somebody laid gun sights over him. Riding with the Trader, traveling with Ryan, he'd learned to put great faith in such feelings. He shifted a little, taking up a stance that would make his torso less of a target.
"You're one of those people Kirkland put out the word on. The outlanders."
"Yeah." J.B. felt a little uncomfortable staring into the girl's blue eyes. He wished Mildred had come with him instead of staying at the hotel. But she'd been excited about the prospect of a hot bath. J.B. could never understand that. Cleanliness was next to godliness. Even the Trader used to say that every now and then. But the first thing the Armorer held to was being well armed. "I could come back mebbe tomorrow if this isn't a good time."
The girl shook her head. "Wouldn't want a friend of Kirkland's to run the risk of doing without something we could provide." But her eyes said she was lying. "Tell me what you want, and I'll see that you get it if we got it. I'll pass it through the drop box to you." A long box built into the side of the fortified wall pushed out partially, revealing the empty depths inside.
"Let him in," a man's gruff voice commanded from somewhere inside the building.
"Don't know that would be a good idea," the girl protested quietly, her eyes never leaving J.B.'s.
"Anna, you heard what I said."
"Yes, sir." She shifted her attention to the locks holding the door closed.
"Appreciate it." J.B. waited for her to finish unlocking all the latches and chains. He turned to the deputy standing in the shadows on the other side of the street. "You want to come in, too?"
"Naw. Be fine out here. If you go into Tinker's, there's only one way out of there. I'll be here waiting for you."
"Could be a while."
"If I get lonely, I'll talk to myself."
The door opened. The girl stood in front of J.B., wearing tight jeans and a blouse that was tucked into her waistband. The slim, curvy build left no doubts as to her sex.
"You got more of a vision problem than those glasses lead a person to expect?" the girl asked. "Or mebbe I should whistle up your dog, 'cause he sure as hell isn't doing his job."
J.B. looked into the pale blue eyes. "Sign says 'and sons.' Reckon you caught me by surprise."
"I can handle a pistol or long blaster about as good as any in these parts. And that sign's right. I'm Tinker's daughter-in-law. I help out here at the store. You got an idea of what you want? Or are you just going to wish and dream?"
"Kirkland said there'd be a line of credit," J.B. replied. "Figure on spending some of that if I
can."
"There is, and you can. But you come in hungry, it'll spend right fast. Kirkland don't tap into us as much as he does some in this ville."
"I know what I need." J.B. reached into his shirt pocket and took out one of the shotgun's flechette rounds. "Seen anything like that?"
The girl took the shell between her fingers and turned it carefully to catch the weak light streaming down from the street lanterns. "Twelve gauge?"
"Yeah."
"Special load?"
"Flechettes."
She nodded. "Heard of them, but I never saw a shell like this." She handed it back to the Armorer. "Fraid we can't help you."
"Anna," the older man's voice roared, "you let that man on in here. Right now."
"Yes, sir, Daddy." When Anna stepped back from the doorway, she took a step to the side, keeping her gun hand clear. She fisted the double-action .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda in the holster on her hip. "But, Mr. Dix, remember to keep any sudden moves to yourself."
J.B. touched his hat. "I'll surely keep that in mind." He stepped into the darkened room, blinking rapidly in an effort to bring his night vision up to speed. Rather than looking directly at objects, he depended on a peripheral view, because that part of sight always adjusted first.
The forward room of the building was small and bare. Gun ports cut into the wall on the other side looked like yawning demons' mouths even in the shadows trapped inside the room. Hard metal gleamed inside.
J.B. raised his hands, making sure to keep them away from his body. "If this is going to make everybody this tense, mebbe we can do this another day."
"If I don't like what I see," the man stated, "I reckon we won't see you again tomorrow. Neither will anybody else."
"Then hurry up and make up your mind," J.B. told him, "'cause I've got to scratch my nose something fierce and I don't want to get shot for my trouble. Can't imagine anything worse than getting a belly full of double-aught buckshot and dying kind of slow while your nose is itching the whole time."
Anna stood at the side, clear of any field of fire. "You want to move away from that door? I got to lock up."
