Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

XXXII

Lars escorted them via golf cart through a VIP side entrance. He’d had the foresight to reserve them a table down front, less than ten feet from the stage. Mortimer couldn’t help the dopey grin on his face.

The place was marvelous.

It was set up like a big, indoor band shell, the room opening wider and taller as it went from the stage back to the front entrance. The stage jutted out in a semicircle, edged with small tables, another identical row of tables behind Mortimer. Above that another tier of tables and behind that the club proper with scattered tables, bars along each wall and sequined women in miniskirts hovering from table to table, delivering drinks and flirting with patrons.

Smash Mouth blasted from the sound system, segued into a brassy big-band instrumental with a new pop flavor.

Above, girls in bikinis hung from trapezes, waving and blowing kisses. Once in a while, a spotlight would land on one of the girls, who would then spin around or perform some other minor trapeze trick, prompting enthusiastic applause.

Mortimer’s grin wilted as he thought of Anne. Had she performed on the trapeze? Who were these women? Wives and sisters and daughters. Mortimer didn’t want to think about it. Thinking about it would ruin it.

A stunning, thin brunette with aquiline features handed Bill and Mortimer a drinks menu.

“I don’t see any of that Freddy’s crap,” Bill said.

“Good.” Mortimer pointed to the Jack Daniel’s on the menu. “It’s only six dollars a bottle. Do you think that’s a misprint?”

“Must be fake stuff they’re just calling Jack Daniel’s,” Bill said. “I’m game if you are.”

They ordered a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and the waitress said she’d return with food menus.

Bill looked at Mortimer for a long second, then said, “You haven’t mentioned your wife.”

“She’ll keep.” Mortimer smiled. “I had an epiphany.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that, but you’re not puking so much.”

Mortimer cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

“When we first met,” Bill said. “Seemed like you were puking all the time.”

“Give me a break.”

The waitress arrived with a bottle of Jack and two tumblers. They declined ice, and she poured three fingers of Jack into each glass.

“Are you ready to order?”

“It says steaks on the menu,” Mortimer said.

The waitress nodded.

Mortimer asked, “Real steak? Not rat steak or steak made from couch cushions or Soylent Green or something? Steaks from actual cows?”

“Rib eyes.”

“Two steaks, potatoes and whatever vegetable is most fresh,” Mortimer said.

She wrote it down and went away.

“Real steaks.” Bill whistled. “Do I want to know how much that’s going to cost? An arm and a leg, I bet.”

“Two arms and three legs,” Mortimer said. “But I don’t care.”

They drank. Their eyes got big and they looked at the glasses and at the bottle.

“Is it just me,” Bill said, “or is this Jack Daniel’s fucking fantastic?”

“It’s not just you. Do you think it’s real?”

Bill shook his head. “It’s too damn cheap. Maybe we’re just used to that Freddy’s stuff.”

They both laughed.

“I don’t know.” Mortimer grinned. “That Dishwater Lager grows on you.”

“One time I had something called Freddy’s Dung-Brown Tequila.” Bill made a gagging face. “It seriously tasted like ass. I mean it. Sweaty ass.”

They both drank the Jack Daniel’s again. It was just as good the second time.

Mortimer felt pleasantly warm. It started in his belly and spread through his limbs, lightened his head. He looked up, smiled at one of the trapeze girls. He tapped his foot to a song called “I Touch Myself” and tried to remember the group.

The waitress dropped by for a visit, put a soft hand on Mortimer’s shoulder. “The chef will put your steaks on the grill soon. Everything okay here?”

Mortimer said, “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Anne Tate. I’m told she works here.”

A light came on in the waitress’s eyes. “Oh, yeah. I think I know her.” A slight frown. “But it’s been a while since I’ve seen her. They employ so many people here. I can ask.”

“I’d appreciate that. I’m sort of…an old friend.”

“No problem.”

“Hey!” Bill held up his tumbler, swirled the amber liquid. “What is this stuff?”

The waitress looked at him like maybe it was a trick question. “Jack Daniel’s.”

“I know. I mean who makes it? It practically tastes like the real thing.”

“It is the real thing,” she said. “The distillery never closed. You can read about it here.” She turned the bottle around so the back label faced Bill.

“I’ll be damned,” Bill said. “They still make the stuff.” He squinted at the label’s small print.

“Read it,” Mortimer said.