“Hard to say,” Lars admitted. “We’re trying to keep control of the region, but gangs still roam the city. Not so bad as a few years ago.”

The trail ducked into the woods and came out again in a small clearing. A large L-shaped house sat on a level outcropping and commanded a breathtaking view of the valley. Three levels, constructed of wood and native stone, a wraparound porch and a balcony above. It looked old but well kept.

“That’s Cravens House,” Lars said.

“Who’s Craven?”

“Made his money in cotton and iron before the Civil War. Or maybe after. I’m no historian.”

Lars parked the cart. James climbed out of the backseat, stretched and lit a cigar.

“Where’d he get that?”

“We get tobacco shipped from Virginia,” Lars explained. “Now I must ask you to go inside, sir.”

“In there?” Mortimer jerked a thumb at Cravens House.

“Those are my instructions, sir. James and I are to wait here.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

He entered the house, stood in the foyer and waited, but nobody immediately appeared to tell him what to do. On either side of the doorway were Civil War uniforms in glass cases. Part of some tourist display, Mortimer assumed. There was a Confederate officer’s uniform and one from the Union as well.

The house smelled like roses. A bench with coat pegs, polished wooden floors. Down the hall he saw some sort of sitting area, wide windows letting in the sunlight.

He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

He heard something move in one of the rooms down the hall, rustling papers, a chair sliding back, footsteps.

A head stuck out from one of the doorways. “Oh, you’re here already. That was fast. Tate, right?”

“Right. I hope I’m not…uh…catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all, not at all. I just assumed you might need some more time to pull yourself together. Never mind. Come in, come in.” He ushered Mortimer into the little office.

He was short but not significantly so, and Mortimer thought he might have been chubby before the Fall but was now sort of baggy skinned, although he had a bright complexion and seemed in very good health. Bald. Large blue eyes and full lips. Small ears. He motioned for Mortimer to have a seat.

The office was done in French country style, and Mortimer sat on the other side of a simple desk of white wood. The office was clean, well lit, and airy; a vase filled with fresh yellow flowers sat in the corner.

“How’s your head?” the man asked.

Mortimer’s hand automatically went to the back of his head. “Oh, uh, better, I guess.”

“Nasty business, but it’s turned out okay, I suppose.”

“Sure.”

“Can I get you anything?” the stranger asked. “It’s a bit early for a good stiff drink, but we have tea and coffee. Some water?”

Mortimer sat forward. “Listen, no offense, but who the hell are you?”

“Oh, my, but of course, we haven’t been introduced.” The man offered his hand. “I’m Joey Armageddon.”

Mortimer gulped as he took the hand. “Ah. Then, yes, I guess I’d better have some coffee.”

A matronly woman in a blue pantsuit brought the coffee. It was excellent and strong.

“Thank you,” Mortimer said. “This is wonderful.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Joey Armageddon looked apologetic. “Coffee is almost nonexistent in the continental United States. Nothing’s come up from South America for years, not through Florida anyway. I’ve ordered all coffee stores to my personal stash.”

“I’ll buy some from you,” Mortimer said.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Right.

“I understand you have cigars,” Mortimer said, changing the subject.

“Hand-rolled by Cubans.”

“You have Cuban cigars?”

“No,” Joey Armageddon said. “I have Cubans. Refugees. They hand-roll the tobacco we get from Virginia. You can get a box from the tobacconist near St. Elmo Station.”

“Mr. Armageddon, am I under arrest?”

“That’s what everyone thinks, but not really, no. Mr. Tate-may I call you Mortimer?”

“Please.”

“Mortimer, I think we’re in a position to help one another.”

“I can’t think what I can possibly do for you.” Mortimer had not imagined the seemingly simple man before him. He’d pictured a warlord on a throne of skulls with slave girls in dog collars. Not a polite gentleman in a modest, tasteful office. Still, this was Joey Armageddon. What favor could Mortimer Tate do for a man like that?

“You’d be surprised,” said Armageddon. “What is it you think I do here, Mortimer? Just run a fancy saloon? Humor me.”

“More than one saloon,” Mortimer said. “And more than just a saloon. A store. An eatery.” He scratched his chin, thought about it. “But more than that too. A rallying point. A place everyone knows.”

“Good,” said Armageddon. “Very good. You’re a thinking man. I like that.”

“Thanks. I went to college.”

“Stay with me while I elaborate. I hope you’ll see that we’re doing some important work here.”

Mortimer sipped more coffee, nodded.

Armageddon put a serious look on his face. “We are doing nothing less than rebuilding civilization. I know that sounds high and mighty, but it really is just that simple. In the dark ages, the Catholic Church was the single institution to stand against illiteracy and barbarism. One institution, preserving language and knowledge. Well, this is America, Mortimer, and there are too many different churches with too many different truths. It would have to be a different institution this time. It would have to be us.”

Naked ladies and hooch. Sure. Mortimer said nothing.

Armageddon chuckled. “I can read your mind. I know how it sounds, and I know what you’re thinking. But have a look at the big map, and I think I can convince you.”

Armageddon stood, pulled down the blind covering the window behind him. It turned out to be a map of the southeastern United States, pink flags stuck in different cities across the surface.

“Each of these flags is a Joey Armageddon’s Sassy A-Go-Go. Nashville, Louisville, Oxford, Wilmington, twenty-one locations in all. Not all are doing well. I can’t deny it. The lack of leadership in some of the franchises has set us back. You probably remember what it was like in Cleveland.”

“You know I’ve been through Cleveland?”

Armageddon nodded. “Shelby made it out. We’ve been keeping track of your progress, Mortimer, and we know your situation. Part of the reason we think you can help us. But more about that later.”

He turned back to the map. “You saw the village when you came in.”

“The village?”

“The collection of merchants clustered around the St. Elmo Incline station at the bottom of the hill,” Armageddon explained. “You outfitted yourself at the Joey’s store in Spring City. Up until a year ago, that was the model for all the clubs. But we started something here and also at the Joey’s in Wilmington. We turned the Joey’s store into a sort of brokerage, and instead of selling goods directly to the consumer, we’ve become wholesalers. An example: We bought several tons of cotton from a grower in Mississippi. We’ve been selling to tailors who have in turn opened clothing stores in the village. We paid the cotton grower in Armageddon dollars, most of which he spent to resupply himself down in the village, so the cash went right back into the local economy.”

He tapped Lookout Mountain on the map and traced an outward spiral with his finger. “What started as a single economic location-Joey Armageddon’s-has now widened into an economic zone. If similar zones expand around the other Joey’s locations, the ever-increasing circles will eventually meet and overlap. A working, growing civilized economy.

“In Europe during the Middle Ages, a single institution stood against ignorance and barbarism-the Roman Catholic Church, as I’ve already told you. In our time, we also have an institution that has come to our rescue: the franchise.”