“It’s not about anything.” Mortimer struggled to his feet. “I’m sorry I barged in.”

“A strapping young buck like you. I know what you want from a woman.”

“Oh, shit.” He backed away, headed for the door.

The old woman ripped open the front of her dress, buttons flying. “Take me, you randy bastard. I’m bought and paid for.” Her breasts flopped into the open like deflated hot-water bottles.

Mortimer screamed and dashed for the door, made it outside and kept running.

“You goddamn pussy,” she called after him. “Come back here and deliver the sausage!”

Back in the Emperor’s Suite, Mortimer found Bill’s vodka bottle. Empty. He sniffed, and the fumes scorched the inside of his nose. “Hell.”

Bill walked in from the other room, tucking in his shirt. He looked alert and no longer smelled like a campfire after his shower. “Sorry, all gone.”

“I need a drink.”

“Sounds good. Let me get my boots on.”

Mortimer squinted at the empty vodka bottle. “You can handle it?”

“I never get sick,” Bill said. “Or hung over.”

“Come on, then.”

They went downstairs. Things had changed with evening. Half the scruffy men along the far wall now pedaled stationary bikes while the other half sat on them and leaned on the handlebars. All huffed breath. Sweaty. Christmas tree lights zigzagged the ceiling of the hall. It looked like a dystopia-themed high school prom. Music leaked tinnily from unseen stereo speakers.

“That sounds familiar,” Mortimer said. “What is that?”

“It’s Tony Orlando,” Bill said. “‘Knock Three Times.’”

Mortimer shook his head. “Jesus.”

“No, Tony Orlando.”

A bell went off, like a doorbell chime. The resting guys on the stationary bicycles started pedaling, and the half who’d been pedaling rested. The Christmas tree lights dimmed momentarily during the changeover, Tony Orlando’s voice stretching into slow motion, then picking up speed again.

Talk about a shitty day job, thought Mortimer.

A man appeared in front of them wearing the worst tuxedo in history, neon orange with a ruffled shirt. He sported a handlebar moustache, and his slicked-down hair was meticulously parted in the middle. It looked like he’d escaped from a psycho ward’s barbershop quartet.

“Gentlemen?”

“I want to get a drink,” Mortimer said.

He sniffed. “We’re switching over to our dinner shift. You’ll have to wait.”

Bill stuck a finger in his face. “Who the hell are you?”

“I am Emile, the maitre d’, and I’m sorry, but-”

“Show him the card.” Bill elbowed Mortimer.

Mortimer produced the Platinum card. “This?”

Emile’s eyes widened; the ends of his moustache twitched. “Sir!”

The maitre d’ turned abruptly, snapped his fingers. Burly men appeared from nowhere. They frantically prepared a table down near the stage, white tablecloth, a candle. Emile ushered them to the table. There was much bowing and hand wringing.

“I humbly and abjectly apologize most profusely,” Emile said. “I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Tate.”

“Forget it.”

“Of course, of course. You are obviously a most generous and forgiving-”

“He told you to forget it, friend,” Bill said. “Now rustle us up a bottle before I stomp your foppish ass.”

Emile’s smile strained at the edges. “Yes. Certainly.”

“Bring us some vodka and some clean glasses.”

Emile left, bowing and muttering under his breath.

“You don’t have to be so hard on the help,” Mortimer said.

“Hey, you’re an important guy now. You can’t let these peons piss on your boots.”

Mortimer blew out a ragged sigh. “I need that drink.”

Bill leaned forward on the table, lowered his voice. “You okay?”

“I went to my house.”

Bill nodded. “Let me guess. Your wife wasn’t there.”

“No.”

“It happens.”

“A toothless old lady wanted me to fuck her.”

“You need a drink.”

“Yes.”

Emile the neon maitre d’ returned with a bottle of vodka and two mismatched glasses. He poured as he bowed. He was obsequious as hell. “The waitresses have yet to come on duty, but it is my delight to bring your bottle myself so you don’t have to wait.”

Mortimer tossed back the vodka. It burned his throat. He tried to thank the maitre d’ but erupted into a coughing fit instead.

“Mort says thanks, now fuck off,” Bill told Emile.

Emile left the bottle on the table, rolled his eyes as he walked away.

“This tastes like kerosene,” Mortimer said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Did you ever drink kerosene before?”

Mortimer admitted he hadn’t.

“Then don’t talk crazy.” Bill tilted the bottle, filled up Mortimer’s glass again.

They both drank, winced, filled their glasses again.

“I don’t know where my wife is,” Mortimer said. “If she’s even alive.”

Bill nodded, slurped booze. “It’s tough to keep track of kinfolk in the new world.”

Kinfolk. Bill’s cowboy act got cornier the more he drank. Mortimer didn’t mind. He liked Bill. He liked drinking with someone again. If he let his eyes glaze over and listened to the music and forgot how toxic the vodka was, Mortimer could almost believe he was enjoying happy hour after work with coworkers from the insurance company, that he’d go home a little drunk, make love to his wife. Anne. Where was she?

He grabbed the bottle. Shook it. Empty. “Damn.”

Bill snapped his fingers. “Another bottle, you greasy bastard!”

Emile returned. A frown had replaced his strained smile. He wasn’t even pretending anymore. “What?”

Bill returned the frown. “Keep a civil tongue, you…you…”

“Varmint,” Mortimer suggested.

“Yeah! You motherfucking varmint asshole.”

“What do you want?” demanded Emile. His moustache had drooped. The maitre d’s haughty air had been completely defeated by the Platinum card. All he could do was endure.

“Booze!”

Emile slunk away, and Mortimer watched him go. He couldn’t summon any pity for the man. Mortimer was too wrapped up in his own thoughts, too enamored by the fuzzy Christmas tree lights, too light-headed from the vodka. What would he do now? How long could he sit here drinking poison before he was forced to determine what happened next? Mortimer Tate had not considered what his life would be at the bottom of the mountain.

Emile paused to talk to a skinny, dark-eyed man leaning in the doorway. Mortimer thought him familiar. Emile nodded at the newcomer, pointed toward Mortimer’s table. Had Buffalo Bill’s rude behavior caused trouble? Where the hell was that bottle? Mortimer still thought the skinny man looked somewhat familiar.

“Your wife might not even be alive,” Bill said.

Mortimer flinched at the statement. “What?”

“I remember getting lost in the food riots back then. It was rough. I found my way home, found my dad in the living room, blood all over the place. Somebody had smashed his head in with a pipe or something. The house had been ransacked. I waited and waited by his body for my mom to come home, you know? I never did find out what happened. Never.” Bill’s eyes were focused someplace far away, years into the past. “I thought later, you know, what if she’d come home and found Dad dead? What if she’d just left and saved herself and didn’t wait for me? I always thought-” Bill’s voice caught; he shook his head, cleared his throat. “Where’s that fucking bottle?”

Emile came back just in time, filled their glasses from the new bottle. Bill drank quickly, eyes down, face clouded with dark memories.

Mortimer could see Bill didn’t want to talk about it, but Mortimer couldn’t help himself. He peppered the cowboy with questions. How many had died? Was anything being done? What was this world they now lived in? Did people still vote? Was there still an America? The answers were all the same. Everything had changed.