It seemed that it had been a long, long time since Charles Moreland had had a woman. He was hungry, but his lameness handicapped his chances of being able to overtake a lone woman and "have his way" with her.
This did not deter his wishing, nor his frequenting a place known locally as "The Club," but registered with the authorities as "Adam's Eden." In this place almost anything, save lack of funds, murder and overt rape were permitted, almost encouraged. The proprietor did not mind that his place of business enjoyed a dismal repute, nor that the low-brows of many surrounding locales made it their home away from home. As long as money flowed from the other side of the bar into his cash drawer, all was well.
On the particular evening which began Charles' renaissance, the place was fairly quiet. There were no screaming arguments, few sloppy drunks and very few druggies in evidence. No weapons were visible. "Adam," for so the proprietor wished to be known, although all his clientele well knew that was not his name, actually came from behind the bar to sit with Charles as the latter nursed his tall drink and mused on his sorrows.
"Chuck?" a name by which Charles hated to addressed, "What seems to be the matter, ol' man?" Another term which Charles abhorred.
Charles raised bloodshot eyes to the man, if such he could be called.
"Adam, I am distraught. There is no cure for my trouble in these distilled waters, not even in your scintillating conversation. Ah, but were you a bit more charming, a mite more appealing to the eye, Adam, old sod, I might appreciate you to a fair degree. In short, sod that you are, you are not a pretty woman."
"Oh? How do you know, Chuck?"
"Adam, the thought that comes to mind is...would be, I should say, were it remotely possible that you are of the sex...I cannot say 'fair,' for such an adjective to describe what I have ever been able to see of you, old sod, in the poor excuse for illumination with which you flood the place, would be a most grievous misuse of the language which we occasionally speak.... In short, old master of the house, I should be more than surprised, I would be shocked, d'you hear me, shocked!"
"Now, look, Chuck, there's no need to come on like that. Yes, I keep the lights low, more for the clients than for myself, you know."
The proprietor's voice changed subtly, and something about the very presence made Charles look more closely at this shadow...within which he began to perceive a face and the upper part of a female...yes, female...attractively nude...torso!
"Chuck, trade is slow, the help can take care of the bar. Shall we take a little stroll?" went on the apparition in more dulcet tones. Charles felt a stronginclination to go along with this ploy, whatever it might be, if only to satisfy his growing curiosity.
"My dear old sod...lady, if such can possibly be true, against all probability...I shall accompany you to my doom...but first, stay! I shall require but another of this distilled pig-swill which you purvey disguised under the much sullied name of gin, ere I set forth on this perilous venture."
"Do you want to come, or not, Chuck?" The words were harsh, the tone not, rather sweet in fact.
"Ah, sweet lips that summon me to...what I know not, but I come, I come with the bated breath of pleasures unknown yet anticipated, ere this night be o'er."
"Sweets, cut the bull-crap and let's go...if you have the nerve...po-et!" That was an epithet in Adams' vocabulary as Charles well knew, delivered in the same low, contralto tones..
"Aye, I come. Barmaid, once more fill the flowing bowl, that I may go to my...pleasure more happily."
"Oh, I think you'll be happy...before the night's over, Charles. Come."
Charles, tall drink in hand with ice chunks clinking against the silver sides of the vessel,—Charles had not been far off the mark with his "flowing bowl"—followed after the somewhat shorter, indistinct form of "Adam" through a doorway that Charles had never before seen, and ascended some stairs in almost total darkness to what felt like a half-story above the bar. Charles, by no means drunk or even bereft of his senses by the alleged alcohol he had earlier consumed, took another sip of the drink and looked about as best he could. There was where he now stood a dimness, not exactly light, but less dark than the stairway.
To his quickly suppressed shock—he
had
