said I scared away customers. I looked too intimidating. I wasn’t ladylike enough holding a forty-five automatic as big as a Frigidaire.”
“How’d you get back in?”
“Gene requested me. He liked the
Truck Stop
cover and he wanted one just like it for
Paradise Valley.”
“That’s Eugene Booth?” We were coming to it now.
The feral look returned. She took the cigarette out of her mouth, picked a shred of tobacco off her lower lip, and flicked it into the clay pot. “What’s your interest in Gene? Is he in trouble?”
“Just the opposite. I’m working for someone who wants to give him money.”
She managed to make a giggle sound like an arid chuckle. “Just because the catalogue hacks cut my head off doesn’t mean I never use it. I read some of the books I posed for; I still had hopes and I didn’t want to get myself tied up with pornography or commie propaganda. It was the fifties, remember. Decency still had a good reputation. Anyway, I read some of the books and in every one of them the detective claimed he wanted to give the guy he was looking for money. That was the magic word. It was a lie every time.”
“It usually is when I tell it. Not this time. A New York publisher wants to reprint
Paradise Valley.
The money’s good, but Booth gave it back without explaining why and pulled out of the trailer park. I’m supposed to find out where he went. If he still doesn’t want the money, that’s okay, but this is New York we’re talking about. They can’t understand why anyone would turn down hard cold cash. I’m supposed to ask.”
“Good luck, brother. Gene wouldn’t tell you his blood type if he was bleeding all over his shoes.”
“You must have done all the talking all those times he came over to visit you in your trailer.”
“Mobile home. Nobody wants to spend their golden years in a trailer.” She took one last drag that ate the cigarette up to its filter tip. “Got any more of those? One just wakes up my lungs. The second’s for nourishment and I need a third to put them back to sleep.”
“Enough of them could put them to sleep for good.” I gave her the pack. There were only a couple left.
“I heard that.” She lit one off the butt of the first and poked the butt out of sight in the potting soil like a plant stick. “That’s our government for you: Subsidize tobacco for two hundred years, then tell us it’s bad for us and we have to quit, but they don’t say how. I gave up coffee when they said it raised my blood pressure and drinking when they said it hurt my liver. Now they say coffee cures migraines and liquor unclogs the blood. If I smoke long enough they’ll tell me Camels cure rheumatism. Any chance you could steer some of that New York money my way? I’m thinking of writing my memoirs. You know I slept with Dali.”
“Really?”
“Well, he said he was Dali. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing painting Bulldog Drummond. Seriously, I could use some extra for smokes. My Social Security checks go direct to the cashier.”
“I got you from the new manager at the park for twenty. What will a carton get me?”
“Twenty’s as much as I got for a week of holding still in my unmentionables. Five of that went to the chiropractor. Bone-crackers aren’t so cheap anymore.”
I started to put a new fifty on the bureau. She told me to put it in the top drawer, what was she, a prostitute? I parked it on top of a stack of neatly folded blouses. She sure liked yellow.
“Gene got me into White Pine,” Fleta Skirrett said. “I had a real nice room at my niece’s, my own bath, but I couldn’t stand her husband. He was a TV pitchman, little bald twerp who kept waiting for L.A. to call. Never did anything around the house, Nancy even had to cut the grass when she came home from work. I stuck it out; no place else to go. Then I read in the paper where Gene was suing somebody and I remembered we used to get along okay when I was posing. The paper said he was
“How’d you get back in?”
“Gene requested me. He liked the
Truck Stop
cover and he wanted one just like it for
Paradise Valley.”
“That’s Eugene Booth?” We were coming to it now.
The feral look returned. She took the cigarette out of her mouth, picked a shred of tobacco off her lower lip, and flicked it into the clay pot. “What’s your interest in Gene? Is he in trouble?”
“Just the opposite. I’m working for someone who wants to give him money.”
She managed to make a giggle sound like an arid chuckle. “Just because the catalogue hacks cut my head off doesn’t mean I never use it. I read some of the books I posed for; I still had hopes and I didn’t want to get myself tied up with pornography or commie propaganda. It was the fifties, remember. Decency still had a good reputation. Anyway, I read some of the books and in every one of them the detective claimed he wanted to give the guy he was looking for money. That was the magic word. It was a lie every time.”
“It usually is when I tell it. Not this time. A New York publisher wants to reprint
Paradise Valley.
The money’s good, but Booth gave it back without explaining why and pulled out of the trailer park. I’m supposed to find out where he went. If he still doesn’t want the money, that’s okay, but this is New York we’re talking about. They can’t understand why anyone would turn down hard cold cash. I’m supposed to ask.”
“Good luck, brother. Gene wouldn’t tell you his blood type if he was bleeding all over his shoes.”
“You must have done all the talking all those times he came over to visit you in your trailer.”
“Mobile home. Nobody wants to spend their golden years in a trailer.” She took one last drag that ate the cigarette up to its filter tip. “Got any more of those? One just wakes up my lungs. The second’s for nourishment and I need a third to put them back to sleep.”
“Enough of them could put them to sleep for good.” I gave her the pack. There were only a couple left.
“I heard that.” She lit one off the butt of the first and poked the butt out of sight in the potting soil like a plant stick. “That’s our government for you: Subsidize tobacco for two hundred years, then tell us it’s bad for us and we have to quit, but they don’t say how. I gave up coffee when they said it raised my blood pressure and drinking when they said it hurt my liver. Now they say coffee cures migraines and liquor unclogs the blood. If I smoke long enough they’ll tell me Camels cure rheumatism. Any chance you could steer some of that New York money my way? I’m thinking of writing my memoirs. You know I slept with Dali.”
“Really?”
“Well, he said he was Dali. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing painting Bulldog Drummond. Seriously, I could use some extra for smokes. My Social Security checks go direct to the cashier.”
“I got you from the new manager at the park for twenty. What will a carton get me?”
“Twenty’s as much as I got for a week of holding still in my unmentionables. Five of that went to the chiropractor. Bone-crackers aren’t so cheap anymore.”
I started to put a new fifty on the bureau. She told me to put it in the top drawer, what was she, a prostitute? I parked it on top of a stack of neatly folded blouses. She sure liked yellow.
“Gene got me into White Pine,” Fleta Skirrett said. “I had a real nice room at my niece’s, my own bath, but I couldn’t stand her husband. He was a TV pitchman, little bald twerp who kept waiting for L.A. to call. Never did anything around the house, Nancy even had to cut the grass when she came home from work. I stuck it out; no place else to go. Then I read in the paper where Gene was suing somebody and I remembered we used to get along okay when I was posing. The paper said he was
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