The rest followed the choice, with Dean adding apple butter to the order.
“For dessert,” he explained.
“What there to drink?” Jak asked, feeling his muscles loosen from the waves of heat coming from the fireplace.
“Water, sassafras tea, hot or coldyour choice. Cook has something he calls coffee, but nobody else agrees.”
“I said to drink,” the teenager repeated.
She laughed. “Beer and ‘shine at the bar, if you got more ammo or something else to trade. We don’t take big-ville jack here.”
“Why not?”
Lil shrugged as if the question were unanswerable.
“Any place we can wash before our repast, dear lady?” Doc asked politely.
The waitress looked at the oldster with newfound respect. “To the right of the bar, there’s a tub and some towels. Lav is out back behind the woodpile. I’ll get the food.” Lil walked away, her shapely hips moving in the age-old rhythm of dodging tables and the fumbling hands of drunks. She disappeared into the rear of the building and returned a few ticks later to start wiping down the bar counter.
“We go in pairs,” Ryan directed, surreptitiously easing off the safety on his rifle. “One person stands guard while the other washes. Nobody goes anywhere alone.”
“You feel it, too,” Krysty said, glancing around. “They seem kind of tense here about strangers.”
“Maybe lots of coldhearts in the area,” Mildred speculated, placing both hands on the tabletop. “After the Freedom Mall fell, there must have been sec men who survived and went looking for work.”
“Mebbe that’s the problem with Front Royal,” J.B. suggested, passing the physician a grenade under the table. She took the ferruled sphere and tucked it into her medical bag, still draped across her shoulders.
“No sense guessing,” Ryan said, rising from the table with blaster in hand. “We’ll find out soon enough. I’ll hit the wash first. Krysty?”
“Right with you, lover,” the woman replied, and they headed into the back room. A score of eyes watched them leave.
“Going for drink. Right back.” Jak stood and brushed the wild tangle of snowy hair off his face.
As he walked to the bar, a few of the patrons chuckled as the albino passed, so Jak brushed back his jacket to expose the .357 Colt Python riding in his belt. The laughter died, and the men turned their attention to the food and drink on their tables. A group started dealing cards, while another took out a harmonica.
There were no stools at the bar, so Jak rested an arm on the counter and laid down a handful of spare cartridges. The oddball-sized rounds fit none of the weapons of the companions and so were good only for trading.
“Whew, quite a pile there, Whitey. What’ll it be?”
“Two fingers ‘shine,” the teenager replied. “Nothing ground level, either. Old and copper or forget.”
“Wouldn’t sell dirt ‘shine to a mutie,” the barmaid scoffed, her hands busy below the counter. “It’s all clean brew.”
He winked. “Taste will tell.”
Murmurs sounded from the dining tables, and Jak assumed it was just the card players arguing over a deal.
Placing a ceramic mug on the bar, the raven-haired beauty retrieved a clay jug from one of the shelves on the wall. Working the wooden stopper loose, she hoisted the big container on a shoulder and poured two jiggers into the cracked IBM logo mug.
Visually inspecting the brew, Jak took a sniff, then sipped and nodded in satisfaction. “Good stuff, no priming.”
She was impressed. The outlander didn’t have the look of a boozehound, but he sure knew his ‘shine. The woman leaned an elbow on the counter, their arms almost touching. “What’s the handle?”
“Jak Lauren.”
“Lily DuQuesne. ‘Tiger’ to my friends.”
Strange, he could have sworn she said Lil out on the floor.
“We friends,” he said, nudging her arm.
“I’ll bet we could be, at that. You work ‘shine?”
“Yeah,” he said, taking another sip. “Down bayou ran own.”
“A man of few words, I see.”
He nodded.
“I like that.” Lily smiled, looking him deep in the eyes. Damnedest thing, they were as red as the dawn. She felt the urge to caress his cheek and stayed her hand by force of will.