Every head turned to look. All of them were sober, clean-shaven and dressed as if they were attending a social function. I realized right away there was no way I’d sell my cargo here. And even worse, I had little faith of getting a stiff drink here either. There didn’t appear to be a drop of alcohol out in the open.
I should have turned and walked out those same double swinging doors, but a middle-aged, pencil-thin woman stormed over. She came up to my shoulders, with a pitted, natural face and frazzled hair that made it obvious she wasn’t the local entertainment. She wore a flowery dress that covered every inch of her flat-chested body, and another quick glance around the room confirmed she was the only woman here.
Maybe she actually was the entertainment.
Her eyes were full of pity, as she smiled weakly. “Name’s Marjorie. How can we help you, stranger?”
“I think I’m in the wrong place.” I turned for the exit, but felt a small hand grip my upper arm with extraordinary strength. Circulation to my shooting hand felt like it was completely cut off.
And of course, as always, if you like what you see, pick up a copy of all of my other short story collections.
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