‘Aren’t there any men?’

‘I hope to fuck not.’

Someone pushed a drink into his hand and Brant, already with one, clinked glasses, said:

‘Bottoms up.’

Roberts took a large swig, felt the liquid near burn his throat, said to Brant:

‘Christ, what the hell is that?’

Brant had already finished his, was looking for a refill, peered into the glass, seemed to give it serious consideration, said:

‘I’d guess tequila, what? You wanted the whole deal? Salt and lime?’

Roberts put the glass aside, said:

‘No, a beer would have been nice.’

Brant was gone and a woman approached, said:

‘Are you Brant’s boss?’

Before he could reply, she laughed, said:

‘Dumb question, right? As if anybody was his boss.’

Roberts couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was wearing one of those flimsy sheath dresses that barely covered anything. Large breasts were almost touching him, she had on killer heels and the whole outfit screamed SEX! She gave him a radiant smile, asked:

‘You want to go in the bedroom?’

Brant reappeared, a barrel over his shoulder. He carefully put it down and said:

‘Now, you’ve got beer. Stell, a glass for over here.’

Stell, who was wearing even less clothes than the one Roberts was leering at, brought a glass, bent down, got the barrel going and poured a half-pint with expertise. She handed it to Roberts and gave him what could only be called a come-on smile. Roberts grabbed Brant’s arm, pulled him over to a corner, said:

‘What the hell is going on? Some of these women look like hookers.’

Brant’s eyes were already glazed and he seemed confused by the question, said:

‘What do you mean?’

Roberts drained his glass, thought it was hot as hell in there, said: