Free Practical Demonkeeping by Christopher Moore Page B

Midnight Seduction from an atomizer she kept by her ashtray. On occasion, when she had rendered herself wobbly by too many shots of Bushmill’s , she would shoot perfume directly into one of her hearing aids, causing a short circuit and making the act of ordering drinks a screaming ordeal. To avoid the problem, someone had once given her a pair of earrings fashioned from cardboard air fresheners shaped like Christmas trees, guaranteed to give Mavis that new car smell. But Mavis insisted that it was Midnight Seduction or nothing, so the earrings hung on the wall in a place of honor next to the plaque listing the winners of the annual Head of the Slug eight-ball tournament and chili cook-off, known locally as “The Slugfest.”
    Robert stood by the bar trying to get his eyes to adjust to the smoky darkness of the Slug.
    “What can I get for you, sweet cheeks?” Mavis asked, batting her false eyelashes behind pop-bottle-thick, rhinestone-rimmed glasses. They put Robert in mind of spiders trying to escape a jar.
    He fingered the ten-dollar bill in his pocket and climbed onto the bar stool. “A draft, please.”
    “Hair of the dog?”
    “Does it show?” Robert asked in earnest.
    “Not much. I was just going to ask you to close your eyes before you bled to death.” Mavis giggled like a coquettish gargoyle, then burst into a coughing fit. She drew a mug of beer and set it in front of Robert, taking his ten and replacing it with nine ones.
    Robert took a long pull from the beer as he turned on the stool and looked around the bar.
    Mavis kept the bar dimly lit except for the lights over the pool tables, and Robert’s eyes were still adjusting to the darkness. It occurred to him that he had never seen the floor of the saloon, which stuck to his shoes when he walked. Except for the occasional crunch underfoot identifying a piece of popcorn or a peanut shell, the floor of The Slug was a murky mystery. Whatever was down there should be left alone to evolve, white and eyeless, in peace. He promised himself to make it to the door before he passed out.
    He squinted into the lights over the pool tables. There was a heated eight-ball match going on at the back table. A half dozen locals had gathered at the end of the bar to watch. Society called them the hard-core unemployed; Mavis called them the daytime regulars. On the table Slick McCall was playing a dark young man Robert did not recognize. The man seemed familiar, though, and for some reason, Robert found that he did not like him.
    “Who’s the stranger?” Robert asked Mavis over his shoulder. Something about the young man’s aquiline good looks repelled Robert, like biting down on tin foil with a filling.
    “New meat for Slick,” Mavis said. “Came in about fifteen minutes ago and wanted to play for money. Shoots a pretty lame stick, if you ask me. Slick is keeping his cue behind the bar until the money gets big enough.”
    Robert watched the wiry Slick McCall move around the table, stopping to drill a solid ball into the side pocket with a bar cue. Slick left himself without a following shot. He stood and ran his fingers over his greased-back brown hair.
    He said, “Shit. Snookered myself.” Slick was on the hustle.
    The phone rang and Mavis picked it up. “Den of iniquity. Den mother speaking. No, he ain’t here. Just a minute.” She covered the mouthpiece and turned to Robert. “ You seen The Breeze?”
    “Who’s calling?”
    Into the phone, “Who’s calling?” Mavis listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece again. “It’s his landlord.”
    “He’s out of town,” Robert said. “He’ll be back soon.”
    Mavis conveyed the message and hung up. The phone rang again immediately.
    Mavis answered, “Garden of Eden. Snake speaking.” There was a pause. “What am I, his answering service?” Pause. “He’s out of town; he’ll be back soon. Why don’t you guys take a social risk and call him at home?” Pause. “Yeah, he’s here.” Mavis