Bishop's Song (28 page)

A huge bar
constructed of timber and plywood resided at one end, mostly occupied stools lining its front. Behind the oversized structure, metal shelves held plastic milk containers, bottles and hundreds of mismatched glasses and mugs, the rainbow of colors making it obvious that the collection hadn’t originated from a single source. About a dozen bartenders hustled about – pouring, wiping and conversing with customers.

“Let’s circle around the outer edge and see if we can find my wife,” Grim
suggested over the loud rock ‘n roll music.

Bishop
swept the air with his hand, “After you, sir.”

Whoever had organized the
Circus obviously possessed extensive access to a wide range of resources, as well as significant management skills. The duo walked past stalls offering everything from open-spit chicken to packages of underwear and socks still wrapped in the factory cellophane.

Sex was obviously a big seller, no surprise given 90% of the customers were young soldiers deployed far away from home. Almost every
other booth advertised some form of physical gratification or service, the offerings running the gamut of sexual appetites.

One area, cordoned off with Tennessee Department of Transportation sawhorses, reminded Bishop of pictures he’d seen of WWII
USO dance clubs. One side was filled with anxious looking uniformed men, most of them sipping beverages and gazing across the dance floor at the available women. Between the gender-polarized groups, two dozen couples danced various jigs to the blaring music. If the tunes had included the melodic brass horns of Benny Goodman, rather than electric guitars, Bishop might have been convinced he’d traveled back in time.

As they circled the perimeter, it became clear that profit was a motivator for those who ran the Circus. Everything, including access to the
porta-potties, required credits. Hot steam baths were five credits, while a paper cup full of sliced pork required eight poker chips.

Concern over the bottom line was also evident in how commerce was allowed to proceed. Bishop was somewhat surprised at the morality enforced on the compound. While it was made clear that prostitution was a significant portion of the economy, the world’s oldest trade was secluded – kept out of the open.

As their tour continued, Bishop began to worry about Grim, the man’s thoughts obviously leaping to the worst-case scenario regarding the type of employment his wife and daughter might be engaged in. At one point they were solicited by a young lady to enter a sex show, the hawker promising both men they would see, “Things they had never imagined.”

“I can imag
ine a lot,” Bishop had joked, unaware that his ill-timed humor had run afoul with his partner.

Grim leaned close to Bishop, his whisper hard and mean, “She’s not much older than my daughter. I need to find my family – let’s pick up the pace.”

Grim had described his loved ones in some detail, giving a description as he and Bishop had driven into town. Each man scanned the numerous stalls, booths, and tables, searching for the contractor’s family. Bishop prayed they would find the women engaged in some innocent commerce – unsure of what Grim would do if that weren’t the case.

That prayer wasn’t entirely based on concern for his buddy. Armed security was everywhere, and it was clear they didn’t tolerate the slightest misbehavior. Before they had reached the halfway point of the circuit, the two rescuers had witnessed the harsh discipline enforced by the local guards.

A young specialist had evidently consumed a little too much alcohol, or perhaps was simply overwhelmed by the spectacle before him. Bishop watched the man paw at a waitress, trying to slide his hand up the girl’s skirt. She didn’t appreciate the effort, asking him nicely to “Get lost.”

Her rejection was ignored, the fellow persistent in his goal. After the second warning, Bishop saw the lady whisper to the bartender, who immediately turned to a nearby armed man of significant girth.

They came from three different directions. If the soldier hadn’t resisted, Bishop believed they would have simply escorted him out. He wasn’t that smart, or that sober. He resisted, the effort rewarded with a butt-stroke from an AR15 and two rabbit punches to the face.

In the span of a few seconds, the semi-conscious offender was being carried toward the exit, blood flowing from his nose and mouth. His now-unoccupied table was immediately wiped clean while another patron was shown to the still-warm seat.

If Grim finds his wife working the sex trade, there’s going to be trouble, Bishop realized. I’ve got to have his back, but I sure do hope he doesn’t get us killed by acting stupid.

T
hey were three quarters of the way around the perimeter when Grim pulled up quickly, stopping so fast Bishop almost ran into his friend. Taking Bishop’s arm, he extended a finger and pointed to a woman serving drinks at a table perched on the outer edge of the Big Top.

“
There’s Maggie! There’s my wife.”

Bishop stud
ied the waitress, noting that she appeared unharmed, relatively clean and didn’t seem to be suffering from malnutrition or any other noticeable ailments.

“Loo
ks like she’s waiting tables, dude. That’s got to be a big relief compared to what some of these women might be asked to do in order to earn their keep.”

Gr
im nodded, prodding Bishop to continue on their path, obviously hoping to spot his daughter at some point in the tour.

A few minutes later
, he again nudged Bishop and pointed this time to a younger woman busy washing dishes in a huge tub of water outside of what was the center tent’s kitchen. Grim’s expression and demeanor drastically improved, the stress and worry obviously dissipating into the cool night air.

He wasn’t the only one, Bishop feeling a sense of relief for both the women and his immediate future.

The rescuers entered the tent opposite where they had spotted Grim’s bride. Their logic for not directly approaching Maggie was simple; they didn’t know what was going on… how things worked locally. Her reaction might spark curiosity from a supervisor – might lead to extra scrutiny that could hinder any attempt to extract the two women.

Finding an empty corner table, well away f
rom the better-lit areas, the two men took a seat and waited until approached by a waitress who could’ve been serving drinks in any pre-collapse bar or club.

“Hi guys, I’m Mary
anne, and I will be your server this evening. What can I get you?”

Bishop responded, “
We’re new around here. What do you have?”

“We have beer
, and it’s almost cold. We also have moonshine whiskey, but I would advise you to take it easy on the hard stuff. This latest batch made some of the troops ill.”

Images of Pete’s homemade brew and bathtub gin
passed through Bishop’s mind, the seemingly endless need for alcoholic beverages no different now than before society fell apart. He wondered for just a moment if it’d always been that way. Biblical references to wine, the Romans’ famous trade routes established for trading such indulgences, and other examples littered history where the taste for alcohol had shaped local politics and the habits of men.

“I’ll take
a cold beer,” Bishop replied, Grim ordering the same. A few minutes later, Maryanne returned, carrying two mismatched tumblers that would’ve been an embarrassment for any reasonable tavern just over a year ago.

Bishop estimated each beer was between eight and
ten ounces, the small portions made more insulting by Maryanne’s demand for a significant amount of their chips. Some quick math allowed Bishop to determine that each of their beers had cost the equivalent of 10 rounds of ammunition. Not a good value from his estimation.

His consumer report
took a nosedive over the weak, watered down brew. “It’s no wonder we haven’t seen more trouble around here,” he commented to Grim. “I bet there’s not enough alcohol in this beer to get a buzz, even after a dozen mugs.”

Grim ignored the complaint, handing the waitress a few chips, including a tip.
Before she could hustle off, he stopped her and asked, “Maryanne, do you have a moment? Like my here friend said, we’re new here, and I’m really curious how all this works. We’ve not seen anything like this before… at least not since things went to hell.”

Unlike
pre–collapse servers, Maryanne’s expression indicated she was in no mood to stand around and shoot the shit. Grim’s tip helped ease the tension only a little.

“I don’t know
a whole lot,” she responded, obviously wanting to move on and serve other customers, and perhaps collect more tips.

Grim was persistent.
“I’m sorry, but I have some family that lives close by, and I was wondering if this is a good place to work.”

The girl glanced right and left, check
ing to see if any of the establishment’s other employees were within earshot. She then hunched over the table and pretended to be wiping up a nonexistent spill. In a hushed voice, she answered, “They lie to you when you first come to work here. We barely make enough to buy our food and rent a space in one of the campers. Unless you’re willing to sell your body, no one makes enough to buy their way out.” She stood back up and added, “But I guess it beats starving to death.” And then she was gone.

Watching the girl
scamper away, Grim mused, “I thought as much.”

From their vantage Bishop and Gr
im could not make eye contact with Maggie. Trying to fit in, they slowly sipped the lukewarm beer, neither man thinking it was worthy of bottling, neither knowing exactly what to do next.

After observing their surroundings for a while,
Grim’s attention was drawn to a far corner of the huge tent. Indicating the area with a nod of his head, “That must be the VIP section over there. Check out all the muscle concentrated around those curtains. That’s more protection than the Secret Service gives the president.”

Gracefully,
Bishop diverted his gaze where indicated, and had to agree with the assessment. Partially bordered by the end of the bar, a wall of drapes completed what was clearly meant to be an isolated, special oasis. He counted at least six very serious looking men, all equipped with carbines, all of their heads pivoting right and left as if scouring for threats. Their size and body language indicated a higher level of skill than the other private security. They concentrated their efforts in the same small area and were not mobile like the rest of the security personnel.

The
party lights generated just enough glow to make out ambiguous shapes of other patrons sitting at the secluded tables. He was just about to comment when Grim pushed his chair back and stood.

“I’m going to casually saunter over that way and see what’s going on.
My curiosity is peaked.”

And with that, the operator picked up his beer and slowly began meandering towards the exclusive section of the saloon. As Bishop watched, he had to hand it to Gr
im. Had he not known otherwise, he would’ve assumed that the operator was casually moseying around, perhaps seeking friends or colleagues. It took Grim almost 15 minutes to manage the scouting expedition, his progress constantly interrupted by clusters of soldiers, waitresses hustling beverages, and the packed compression of tables and chairs hindering the way. When he finally returned to his seat, Grim was smiling with confidence. “I think I know the guy who is running this show,” he announced. “It’s been a few years, but I think I recognized him from a stint at Fort Benning. His name is Major Beckworth.”

“No sh
it?”

Gr
im nodded, “I always thought that guy bent the rules a little too much. He worked behind the green door in Intelligence, and was always involved one spooky op or another.”

As if on cue, the security guards surrounding the
retreat suddenly became alert, three of the armed men moving toward the nearest exit of the facility. Their action was immediately followed by a stocky, medium-height man with a shaved head appearing between the parted curtains. Closely tailed by an exceptionally beautiful woman and another guy with thick glasses who appeared to be some sort of clerk. The ex-major followed, making for the exit with a curt, military-esque stride. Before Bishop could comment, Grim was moving to intercept his old acquaintance.

Deciding he didn’t want to be left out of the loop, Bishop stood to follow
, having to hustle in order to match his colleague’s pace.

“
Major Beckworth! Major Beckworth!” Grim yelled.

The man paused, almost ignoring the hail,
but then glanced over to catch Grim approaching through the maze of tables and humanity. Two of the security guards immediately moved to intercept, their carbines raised slightly higher than normal, their weight shifting forward to the balls of their feet.

Eventually, the
major smiled, recognizing Grim with a slight tilt of his head. “It’s okay boys, I know him. Let him through.”

After
the exchange of a handshake, Grim and the head honcho sized each other up. Bishop, anxious to join the party and wanting to support his friend, was stopped cold by the security guys.