The Black Train (9 page)

Collier got up and walked to the front window; Jiff took uneven strides to the corner and entered a door under a neon sign.
Another bar,
Collier realized. The one
Jiff had mentioned earlier, where this man J.G. Sute frequented? But again Collier couldn’t imagine why he cared. Jiff was a hardworking and no doubt hard-drinking Southern rube; not the kind of guy to spend much time in a tourist spot like Cusher’s. Collier squinted through the glass. He thought he could barely make out the neon:
THE RAILROAD SPIKE
.

Dumbest name I ever heard for a bar
…He turned back for his bar stool, hoping Dominique would return.
I can’t wait to talk to her some more
…In Collier’s business, he met few women he could relate to professionally.
And she’s cute as hell
…But then he felt as though fate had just hit him in the face with a pie when he got back to his seat and found Lottie sitting in the stool Jiff had just vacated.

I thought she had to do laundry!

He put on his best face. “Hi, Lottie.”

She gave him a big smile and waved.

“Finished your work early, I see.”

She wagged her head up and down. She’d pinned her hair back and changed into a shocking tight evening dress that was diaphanous black.
Jesus,
Collier thought.
She looks like a slot queen on a casino boat.
Redneck housemaids needn’t dress like this, but there was Collier again, supporting the stereotype.
Why shouldn’t the poor girl go out to a bar?
He struggled not to shake his head when he noted her shoes: black high heels several sizes too large. Collier thought of an adolescent trying on her mother’s shoes, to feel grown up.

But despite her petite frame, the rest of her
was
grown up, and the howlingly inappropriate dress spotlighted her body. Immediately, he noticed an absence of pantie lines…

A lot of dichotomies here,
Collier pondered: Mrs. Butler, the equivalent of Raquel Welch’s physique circa 1980 topped by an old man’s head with a wig; Dominique, the beautiful European-trained brewmaster who only drinks
one beer a day because she’s a Christian; and now Lottie, a racehorse bod who couldn’t talk and had a face that…wasn’t the prettiest. But after all the quirks that had already befallen Collier today, what else could he expect?

Lottie crossed her legs in the tight gown, a foot rocking. Collier gritted his teeth after one glance at the athletic legs, and a spark came to his groin when he imagined them entwined about his back.
Oh, man
…Next, his eyes flicked to her top and noticed the pert, braless breasts free behind the shiny black fabric, nipples erect. Then a glance to her face…

Absurd, excited, half-crazy eyes and a warped grin.

“Uh, would you like to something to eat?”

Grinning, she shook her head no.

“How about a beer?”

She wagged her head yes.

Collier ordered her a lager from the first barmaid. He felt obliged to engage in conversation with Lottie but of course he couldn’t do that, could he?

Please, Dominique. Finish checking the wort and get back here.

“Oh, you just missed Jiff,” he thought to mention.

She nodded and slugged a quarter of the beer in one gulp. The glass looked huge in her little hand.

“Looks like he went down the street to another bar.”

She put her hand to her mouth as if laughing. Her other hand slapped her bare knee.

“I…don’t get it.” He thought back. “Oh, do you know this local historian? J.G. Sute?”

Now she belly-laughed—silently, of course—but this time slapped Collier’s knee.

“I still don’t get it. What, is Mr. Sute a funny man?”

Another silent belly-howl, and her hand slid halfway up his thigh and squeezed.

The pig in Collier didn’t really mind her hand there, but…
Not here!
Dominique would be back, and he didn’t
want her to witness this weirdo spectacle. Just as he contemplated a way to remove it, she slipped it higher, her thumb edging his crotch—

That’s it!

He plucked the hand off and put in her lap. But she was still silently laughing.

“Come on, Lottie. What’s so funny about this guy Sute? He’s, like, the town fool?”

Lottie slugged more beer while roving her hand in a circle.

“You’ll tell me later?”

More rapid nods.

Collier frowned. He knew it was his own flaw, though—his intent curiosity.
Why can’t I forget about all this bullshit and just finish my book? That’s what I’m here for, not gossip.

Nor was he here to revel in all this lust. He tried to glance around inadvertently, but anytime his eyes fell on an attractive woman, his crotch tingled. It got to the point that he forced himself not to look anywhere. He pretended to peruse the cased uniforms on display but even this he couldn’t do without catching a glimpse of someone. Eventually he pointed to a case of Confederate double-breasted frock coats. “Lots of uniforms here,” he said, if only to not sit in silence.

Lottie tapped him on the shoulder, looked right at him, and mouthed
I love you!

Somebody please shoot me,
Collier thought. He struggled for
anything
to deflect his unease. “So, uh, are you, uh, sure you don’t want something to eat?”

You!
she mouthed and grinned.

He pretended not to understand.
I’m dying here.
His next errant glance fell on her foot in the too-big shoe, which she was still anxiously rocking.

Even her
ankle
was attractive. Even the
vein
up the top of her foot seemed erotic.

I need help! I need a counselor!

Relief emptied on him when Dominique reappeared behind the bar. She’d removed her brewer’s apron, sporting full B-cups and a trim, curvy figure with wide hips and a flat stomach. The plain attire—jeans and a white cardigan—only augmented her unique, radiant cuteness. She seemed to repress a smile when she saw who was sitting next to Collier. “Hi, there, Lottie.”

Lottie waved energetically, and gulped her beer.

“How’s the wort?” Collier asked.

“Yeasting nicely. It’s for the next batch of Maibock.”

“I’ll have to try that after I’ve notated the lager well enough.” He watched her washing barley dust off her hands in the triple sinks behind the bar.
She’s just…absolutely…adorable…

Lottie’s hand opened on his thigh and pressed down. Collier almost flinched until he saw that she was just pushing off his leg to get off her stool.
She’s faced!
“Here, let me help you.” He stood and got her to her feet. She grinned up cockeyed at him; the top of her head came to his nipple. She mouthed something and made hand gestures, then turned and clopped away in the big shoes.

“I guess she wants to leave now.”

“I think she just wants to go to the bathroom,” Dominique said.

Collier watched the tight buttocks clench with each drunken step. “My God, I hope she doesn’t fall,” he muttered. “Maybe I should help her.”

“Probably not the best idea,” Dominique replied. Now she was polishing some slim
altbier
glasses. “She’d pull you
into
the bathroom with her. She’s a card, all right, but I guess you’re realizing that.”

“You have no idea.” He retook his stool and sighed.

“The poor girl’s so messed up. And you shouldn’t have given her a beer; she can’t even hold one.”

Collier saw that Lottie’s big pint glass stood empty.

“She’ll be a handful getting back to Mrs. Butler’s place, just so you know in advance.”

He nodded grimly. “I’ll get her out of here. Hopefully she won’t pass out in the ladies’ room.”

Dominique laughed. “That’s happened a few times. She’s actually a very nice girl and handles her problems well…
except
when she drinks. You’ll see.”

Collier caught the attractive brewer grinning.
Oh, boy.
With no apron now to cover her upper chest, Collier’s eyes were rioting to stare.
Don’t stare!
He almost bit down on his lower lip.
And don’t drink any more. You’re drunk!
The need to make a good impression overwhelmed him, but now he knew that if he even talked too much, he might slur his words.

“Care for one more?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had a few too many already,” he admitted. “If I had one more, I’d make an idiot of myself in front of you. I wish I had your moderation.”

“You should’ve seen
me
in my younger days.” Another interesting remark.
I’ll bet she was an animal.
As for the “younger days” comment—
How old can she be? She can’t be much more than thirty.
When she polished the next glass, he noticed that all of her fingers lacked rings.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

“I’d really like to talk to you some more,” Collier braved, “but I’ve got to get back to the hotel. Do you work tomorrow?”

“All day till seven. And I’d really like to talk to you some more, too, Mr. Collier.”

“Oh, no, call me Justin.”
She gets off tomorrow at seven. Ask her out, you pussy!
that other voice challenged. But even in his heavyweight-lager buzz, he knew that would be the wrong move.

“Here’s your check, Justin.” She had his bill in her hand.

Collier fumbled for his credit card, then exclaimed, “No!”

She ripped it up. “But this one’s on the house.”

“Dominique, please, that’s not necessary.” Collier got the same treatment in a lot of pubs, mostly from owners wanting mention on his show.

“And, don’t worry, I’m not trying to bribe you for a good review. It’s just nice to have you here.”

“Well, thanks very much. But I’m pretty sure that I want to put your lager in my book, if you don’t mind signing a release form.”

“Oh, of course I don’t mind, but wait until you get your secondary impression first.”

What an overtly ethical thing to say. She smiled at him again—a reserved yet confident expression. The cross at her bosom shined like her teeth. “Actually, it
was
a bribe for something.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A picture, for our wall.” She pointed to several autographed snapshots: some sports figures, a horror author he’d never heard of, a soap opera star, and, yes, Bill Clinton.

“I’d be happy to pose for a picture, just not tonight, please. Tomorrow, when I’m sober.”

“You got a deal, Mr.—Justin.” Dominique glanced aside. “Here comes your charge.”

Lottie limped back between some tables, the perennial nut-job grin on her face. She’d lost one of the overlarge high heels.
What a nightmare,
Collier thought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

Collier rushed to Lottie and turned her toward the door. “This way, Lottie.”

She objected, pointing behind.

“No, no more beer for you. Jesus, Lottie, your mother’s going to think
I
got you drunk.” He shouldered her out the door, an arm braced about her waist. She clipclopped along on one foot bare and one shoed. She appeared to be giggling in silence. Crossing the street was so cumbersome, Collier stopped, pulled off the remain
ing shoe, and threw it in the bushes. “They’re too big for you anyway. Lottie, you only had
one beer!
How can you be this drunk?”

Her finger roved through his hair; then she tried to put the other hand down his shirt.

“No, no, none of that! We’re going home!”

In the parking lot he heard from a distance, “Hey, there’s that Prince of Beer guy with that drunk girl!”

Shit!
He fumbled at the passenger door.

“Let’s go ask him for an autograph!” a woman’s voice shrilled.

“Get in!” He dropped Lottie in the car like a couple of grocery bags, then huffed around, assed into the driver’s seat, and sped off. He thunked over a curb—
Idiot!
—then realized he hadn’t put his lights on. He thunked over another curb, then almost hit a corner mailbox searching for the headlights knob.
This fuckin’ car!
Finally he snapped them on and veered onto Penelope Street.

Thank God it’s not far
…He could see the Gast House all alight at the top of the hill.
Nice and slow,
he thought, settling down.
Just another quarter mile—

Suddenly Collier couldn’t see. His heart shouted in his chest when the wheel slipped, and he felt the vehicle go off the hardtop.

Fwap! Fwap! Fwap! Fwap!

He was mowing down bushes on the roadside. All he could see now were Lottie’s bare breasts in his face. She’d dropped her shoulder straps and was trying to straddle him in the driver’s seat—

“Lottie, for shit’s sake!”

One of her hands clamped his crotch and squeezed.

“You’re going to get us killed!” He shoved her back, and—

Thud!

She slid across the dash and fell into the passengerside foot well, flat on her back. Then—

No movement.

Collier had managed to stop the car a yard short of the largest oak tree in the front court. He backed up slowly, then realized this:

That’s the tree Harwood Gast hanged himself from…

He pulled his eyes off the sprawling tree, then idled to the parking lot.

No lights lit the half-filled lot; only moonlight traced into the car. Collier let his heart settle down again. In the moonlight, he found both of Lottie’s bare feet in his lap…

He put his hands on them, paused, then moved them off.

She wasn’t moving.
Christ, with my luck she broke her neck when she fell!
He leaned down and felt her throat.
Thank God.
There was a steady pulse.

Feeling weird, he looked closer at her, then gulped when he realized that one bare breast was exposed, its nipple dark and pointed like a Hershey’s Kiss.
Man…

The toned legs seemed radiant in the moonlight. Then he looked at her face: serene and peaceful.

The silly ditz is out cold.

Then…

Would it be, like, sexual misconduct if I…

He couldn’t believe what he’d considered.
I wanted to feel her breast…An UNCONSCIOUS girl’s breast…

He didn’t think about it, or at least tried not to, but then that other voice—the alter ego, the
id
—seemed to whisper,
Go ahead. What’s the big deal?