Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,12
music of a live band filtering out from one of the bars.
It was a strange, exotic place, like stepping back in time to the Old West. They passed the newspaper office where Mark Twain had worked, and a place that offered ghost tours on the weekends. Just looking around at the old buildings, the leaning balconies, hearing the lonely whispering of wind through the streets made Dean think you wouldn’t have to look very hard to find ghosts in this place.
The Aces and Eights Saloon appeared on their right, a large, white wooden building. A weather-worn sign swung and creaked in the wind, depicting hands holding a set of playing cards.
“This is it,” Bobby said. A few tough characters hung out in front smoking, and Dean nodded to them as he passed through the saloon doors.
Inside music played on a jukebox, a country western tune Dean didn’t recognize. It was an old place, nineteenth century, with a large wooden bar with brass railings along the bottom to rest your boots on. A haze of smoke filled the room, drifting around the ceiling by Victorian shaded lamps. A scuffed-up piano stood in one corner, the keys yellowed and the ivory missing altogether in places. Old paintings hung on the walls, desert landscapes and one of a saloon girl fanning her face. Three leather-faced cowboys played cards at a beat-up wooden table in one corner. The only thing missing was brass spittoons next to the bar stools.
At the bar, a line of beer drinkers looked over their shoulders with disinterest at the three men who entered.
“What’ll it be, boys?” asked the bartender, a tall woman with so many tattoos on her arms that Dean couldn’t see any bare skin.
“Beers all around,” Bobby said, “and a whisky.” He looked at the shelf above the bar, its bottles glowing in the fading sun. “Make that two.”
They took three empty stools at the far end of the bar. Through the floor-to-ceiling window, Dean watched the sun paint the desert mountains gold. It was a beautiful spot.
The bartender slung a towel over her left shoulder and poured the drinks, eyeing Dean and the others surreptitiously. Dean caught the guy next to him sneaking a glance, too. He wondered how many people in there were hunters, and how many tourists. The bartender slid a lager to him and he took a sip, spinning on his stool to check the place out.
Apart from the poker players in one corner, two other tables were filled. Two leather-clad, tattooed men sat with a woman wearing a black leather vest and fringed chaps over her blue jeans. Their tanned and reddened faces were wrinkled and leathery from years of riding motorcycles in the hot sun. Their long hair was braided tight against their heads, and one of the men wore a black bandana with skulls. Dean wondered if they were out for a weekend motorcycle ride or if they were hunters.
The other table held two men who talked in hushed tones. A blond man in green fatigues and a black T-shirt leaned closer to his wiry companion, whispering something. The wiry man’s face formed an expression of disgust. He cringed, showing brilliant white teeth against the dark cocoa of his skin, and held up a placating hand to get the other man to stop talking. The blond slapped his own leg hard, and busted out with an outlandish laugh that filled the whole bar. The poker players looked up, annoyed, then went back to their game.
“That can’t be true!” the dark man protested.
“Swear to God, Jason.” Fatigues held up his hand as if he were a Boy Scout. “Swear to God!”
Jason leaned forward. “I swear you make up the craziest b.s., Gerald. I’ve been out to their trailer. There’s no way they’re keeping something like that there.”
Gerald nodded. “And every day they bring it fresh milk.”
“Now I know you’re bullshitting me.”
Gerald laughed again, but Jason nodded in Dean’s direction. He had realized Dean was eavesdropping, and in a not so subtle way. Dean grinned, nodded, and held up his glass at them.
Gerald scowled. “Who are you, Mr. Rogers, my friendly neighbor?”
Dean’s smile vanished and he put the glass down. “Just being friendly. You have a loud laugh. Hard not to notice.”
This earned him an indignant stare from Gerald.
Dean spun back toward the bar.
Bobby eyed him. “Making friends already?”
“Apparently.”
“Just try not to get in a fight before we figure out which of these people are hunters,” Sam urged him.