Lucifer's Lottery Read Free Page B

But before Hudson could even dream up an answer she was already back in her seat.
    Indeed, Hudson did know what the place was all about—that’s why he was here. Prostitution that was not quite the bottom of the barrel. He could afford little more. His conscience squirmed amid his blooming sin. Obviously she’d struck out with the other men in the bar.
    Yeah, but the weathered ones know what to do
. . .
    “Another beer?” asked the barkeep. He was a ramshackle rube with a circular patch on his gas station shirt that read BARNEY .
    “Yes, please.”
    The keep leaned over, as if to relay a confidence. He had shaggy hair, and a pock on his cheek that looked like a bullet scar, and he was probably sixty. “Don’t worry, it’s all cool. I know you ain’t a cop.”
    “What?” Hudson questioned, dismayed.
    “I can tell at a glance, you ain’t got the look.” The keep grinned. “ ’N’fact, ya look more like a
priest
.”
    Terrific
, Hudson thought.
    “And you been sittin’ here a while, right?”
    “Yeah, an hour, hour and a half, I guess.”
    “I figure you must know what the Lounge is all about—” He jerked his eyes down toward the old blonde. “Like she done said.”
    Hudson’s chest felt tight. “I-uh-” One of several TVs showed a baseball game. “I’m just in to watch the game.”
    “Sure, sure,” the keep chuckled. He pulled out another bottle of beer and set it down next to five empties. Hudson paid for each beer one at a time, for in establishments such as this, tabs were never run.
    “I kinda look the other way, got no problem with what a gal feels she has to do for money—” Then the keep winked. “As long as there’s a cut for me. You wanna get some action in the bathroom, that’s cool. Just make sure you slide me a ten first, ya hear?”
    “Uh, uh-sure,” Hudson blabbered.
    “Ya been here a while now so I thought maybe ya didn’t know the deal.” The keep winked again. “But now ya do.”
    “Um, thanks for filling me in . . .”
    The keep leaned in closer to Hudson. “But as for Thelma over there—”
    “Who?”
    “The blonde.”
    Hudson glanced over, and suddenly found that the woman’s burgeoning bosom possibly nullified her beat looks. “What about her?”
    “She’s been around the block more times than the mailman, get it? Just some neighborly advice. She fucks like a champ but if you make any deals with
her
. . . wrap it—if ya catch my drift.”
    Hudson flinched when a toothy grin floated just to the right side of his face. It was Fu Manchu. “Wrap it? Shit, man. Thelma’s cooch is
toxic
. She’s got stuff up there that can melt a triple-Trojan like one’a them Listerine breath strips.” He elbowed Hudson. “You do
her?
Put a scuba foot on your pecker.” He and the barkeep broke out in laughter.
    Hudson couldn’t have been more uncomfortable. “Thanks, uh, thanks for the pointers, guys.”
    Hudson gazed up at the TV. Tampa Bay led New York six to nothing, but the sound was down. He glanced aside, pretending to be looking for someone. Two more women—younger but nearly as weathered as Thelma—sat apart at the far end, one brunette with a ludicrous mullet and a shirt that read DO ME TILL I PUKE . The other, a rusty redhead, wore a T-shirt that claimed NO GAG REFLEX .
Well, there they are
, Hudson thought.
So what am I doing? When am I going to make a move?
    But Hudson hadn’t noticed the other man—he must’ve just come in. Young but somehow despondent, a false smile that looked on the verge of shattering. He was in a wheelchair.
Those two prostitutes must know him
, Hudson figured, for they both stood stooped, talking to the young man. Their grins could be described as vulturine. The man shook his head; then Hudson overheard him say, “I can’t anymore.” Then the redhead said, “Pay us twenty each to try. We’ll give ya lots of time.” But the man in the chair shook his head and wheeled away.
    “Fuckin’ cripple,” the redhead whispered