INSIDE, THE CLATTER OF STEEL MUGS COMPETED WITH the roar of voices raised in laughter and anger. The air was thick with cigar and wood smoke. Did pirates smoke cigars? Didn’t look authentic, but obviously someone had decided it was, and that was good enough for them. A themed afterlife town should never be mistaken for a historical reconstruction. It’s a theme-park version, like Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride…before they sanitized it for the age of political correctness.

As we stepped inside, all conversation near the door stopped. The silence rolled across the room until every mouth had closed, every eye turned to check out the new arrivals. They went first to the male half of the party, and the testosterone wafted up thicker than the cigar smoke. In a dive like this, when a new man walks through the door no one wonders what kind of conversationalist he’d make or sizes him up as a potential poker dupe. No one even wonders whether they could con him into buying a few rounds of grog. Instead, the thought going through every man’s mind is “Hmm, wonder if I could take him in a fight.” And, as most turned away without so much as a second once-over, the overwhelming decision was “yes.” This wasn’t a contender—good size, good structure, but too old, too soft, and, my God, look at those hands—is that a manicure? Only the smallest and oldest of the men let their gazes linger, but even those soon recognized a Wall Street wimp, no matter what costume he chose to cloak himself in.

Attention went next to the living, breathing piece of potential pirate booty. A few looked away after the briefest glance. They liked their women smaller, cuddlier, blonder. But most kept looking, a few perking up enough to slide off their stools.

“That yer wench?” barked a big man, spattering rum in his thick black beard as he spoke.

“Uh, er—” Kristof glanced at me, checking to see how much trouble this would get him into later, then responded with a gruff “Aye” and steered me toward the dark end of the bar.

“Bit tall, ain’t she?” the man called after us.

“Not for me.”

A tall, rangy blond with a red bandanna slid off his stool and dropped into Kristof’s path. “Not for me, either.”

Kris led me around him. As we passed, the man glided behind me and grabbed my ass. Didn’t pinch and duck out of the way. Just grabbed with both hands and held on, chortling. I slowly looked over my shoulder, meeting the man’s grin with a baleful stare.

“Uh-uh,” Kris whispered by my ear. “Can’t break character. Allow me. Please.”

Kristof turned his best stare on the idiot. “Please remove your hands.”

The guy just gave a big “make me” snigger.

“And apologize,” Kris said.

A roar of guffaws rose from the audience.