There seemed an endless array.
Sullivan throttled back. “Remember that warning about the kind of boys drink and eat in Country Row, Ryan,” he said. “Take it serious.”
Ryan nodded. “Always take warnings serious.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
They parked the wags outside a roofless garage a couple of blocks from the Country Row Country Museums, Exhibition and Concert Hall.
Mike Sullivan called everyone together, checking where they were spending the night. A few had opted for one of the cheap flophouse hotels called the Hat Armadillo, but most were going to sleep in the cabs of the rigs.
Ryan and the others agreed that they’d stay close to the wags. It was a little after seven-thirty, with the light fading fast into a mild, velvety evening.
Sullivan passed by, spruced up, in polished crimson Western boots with silver scorpions embroidered across the toes. “Want to come along with me and some of the boys? Least we can do is watch your backs for you.”
Ryan glanced around at the small circle of friends. “Reckon we might stay here awhile, then go take in the exhibition. Something different to do. After that?” He shrugged. “See which way the dice roll.”
The farmer nodded, turning as a highly polished and chromed 4×4 pulled into the parking lot, squealing to a halt by where the sawed-off stumps of the pumps still rusted. A couple of young blond men, in cutoff jeans and hand-printed T-shirts, jumped out. Both of them sported big Browning automatics on their hips, with bandoliers of ammo crossed over their muscular chests.
They looked over at the group, their attention immediately driving in on first Mildred, then Jak. It looked as if they were about to say something out loud, then they noticed the armory carried by the outlanders and contented themselves with a muttered comment and a snigger, turning their backs and striding away together.
“That’s what we’re talking about,” Sullivan said quietly. “Keep close and keep watchful. You need to head anywhere on the run, come back here. There’ll be some of the boys here on watch all night.”
“Thanks. We’ll do that.”
Ryan watched the sturdy figure stalk away toward the bright lights of Country Row.
“YOU GOT THE JACK, then y’all come back. Your pockets are high, then walk on by. Best show of its kind in all of Deathlands. Nothing like it nowhere.”
“Anywhere,” Krysty whispered under her breath. “Gaia! Why can’t people bother to speak properly?”
“We going in?” Mildred asked eagerly.
“Sure. It’s what we came for.” Ryan grinned. “Triple-red all the way.”
“We head for the wags if there’s trouble,” J.B. said. “Gather there.”
Ryan nodded. “Sure. And try and keep the blasters holstered. Fists and boots if it’s controllable.”
THE EXHIBITION WAS ALMOST deserted, its rooms and passages ringing to overamplified country music, songs riding over each other, Dolly drowning out Tammy, and George blaring across a crackling Carter Family album.
Ryan couldn’t believe just how cheap and tawdry the whole place was. The glass cases that held some of the costumes were fly stained and dusty, several of them with hairline cracks disfiguring the faded labels.
A stout woman in a short cowgirl skirt and high-heeled boots was sitting on a chair in the first room, flicking through a pile of brittle old mags. She looked up as they entered, switching on a welcoming lip-sticked smile that was as real as everything else in the place.
Her voice was a flat, dull monotone. “Hi, y’all, country fans and a big howdy-doodee Country Row welcome. If you like, I can be your guide and show you the wonders and tell you the tales and play you the”
“No, thanks,” Krysty said. “Prefer to just look around on our own.”
“Please yourself.” The smile vanished like dew off a dawn meadow. The woman picked up the mag and carried on reading as though she’d never spoken to them.
They walked through, mostly in silence.
“Fake,” Mildred said, looking at the car with an ill-dressed wax dummy stumped in the back seat. “Wrong model. Wrong color. I’ve seen pictures of the original. And that dummy looks like it weighs more than Hank ever did.”
Jak was peering at a large display of the shirts of Conway Twitty, shaking his head. “If all his, how come lots different sizes?” he asked.