Page 49 of Back in the Saddle

The back section was replete with a dizzying variety of bongs on display, but it was so dark back there, it seemed like a cavern, and I couldn’t imagine how anyone could see the bongs. More, I fancied it’d be the perfect place to stab someone since nobody would see you do it, and the victim might not be discovered for weeks.

The front space was only slightly more illuminated. It had a glass cabinet filled with one-hitters, rolling papers, vapes, vape cartridges and vape liquid. Behind it there was a long display on the wall of disposable vaping devices and a cornucopia of tobacco products from cigarettes and cigars to chew.

There were also racks and racks of pornographic magazines and DVDs.

There was a guy standing in the deep shadows at the back staring at the bongs, his face blank, his upper body swaying, stating plainly he’d already overly imbibed.

There was also a couple at the cash register: the very petite, waif-like girl flicking at some cheap keychains exhibited on a stand, the equally short, waif-like guy with her paying for something.

Their size told me they were around thirteen, when they were not.

Their faces and affects told me they were addicted to meth.

The clerk was female, probably in her early twenties, but with an expression on her face that was of a much older person. One who survived the Depression, the Dust Bowl, three wars and various other military skirmishes, a bankruptcy or two, and around four cheating husbands.

She was new. I’d never seen her when I’d been there.

Then again, Smokes & Such had a massive turnover as far as I could tell.

My chicks huddled around me about five feet in from the door, like we’d just entered a haunted house and they’d nonverbally elected me the leader to get them through unscathed.

“How did you know this place existed?” Raye whispered.

At this juncture, I had to add a caveat to an earlier assertion.

I didn’t read.

But I read porn comic books.

“I read porn comics,” I told them.

Harlow reared back.

Luna smirked.

Raye’s eyes bugged out.

The door opened, the bell ringing, and all of them jumped, but not me.

They did this before we watched a woman who had to be in her mid-seventies strut in like she owned the joint.

She was wearing white skinny jeans on her stick-like legs, and a supple, beautifully constructed caffe latte leather jacket over a smooth white shell.

At her neck, ears, fingers and wrists were what I’d approximate as tens of thousands of dollars in gold and diamonds.

Her hair was a perfection of blonde swooped into a dramatic updo.

She wore fancy, gold-rimmed sunglasses like Tito, meaning even if it was night.

Her clinically-filled lips were perfectly lined and swiped with a nude combo that looked made for her.

And her face was Botoxed to the max, and so tan, I wished I had a leaflet on the causes of melanoma to hand to her.

Last, she was carrying a handbag I knew cost over seven thousand dollars.

It appeared Scottsdale Mama was out for her smokes before a martini-soaked evening with her girls.

With varying awestruck expressions on our faces, our heads moved with her as she clickity-clacked on her gold high heels to the cash register.

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