American women in the Old West. Specifically in Jubilation, Arizona.
Hugh’s phone beeped and he pulled it from his pocket to check it. “Text message,” he announced, as he stood up and headed for the door, “from Lana the caterer. Elvis has left the building.” He turned to look back at Alison. “Thanks for letting me hide in here.”
“I think the next time Kent shows up, you should stay out there,” she told him. “Sing him a verse or two of ‘I Will Survive.’”
“Hey, hey,” Hugh said, as he opened up her trailer door. “That’s just it, though. I’m not sure I will, you know? Survive. Seeing him again …” He shook his head.
“If you want, I could probably get Trace’s thug, I mean, assistant Skippy to beat him up for you,” Alison called after him.
But he was gone.
And she was back to staring at A.J. Gallagher’s driver’s license.
She stood up, too. It was time to go find the man, and give him back his wallet.
But first, just to be thorough, she was going to photocopy the contents.
June 23, 1898
Dear Diary
,
A visitor. One with an enormously unfashionable hat
.
She didn’t question my vague explanation—I fell from my horse. Clumsy me
.
I could see the fading bruise around her own eye, and realized I have an ally
.
An ally. I write the word and it makes me laugh, makes my split lip burn. What good is it to be allied to a timid and frightened mouse? No, there are no allies for me here
.
I am alone in this hell
.
Even God has forsaken me
.
A.J. seemed to want to be alone for a bit, so I wandered the streets of Jubilation. Not much had changed in the town since I’d left in a hurry, all those years ago. And what
had
changed was being transformed by the movie crew back into what it had once been.
Within reason, of course.
Sure, there was a gas station now. And a Circle K convenience store. And a single-story motel, built with the misguidedand over-the-top architectural angles and colors popular in the 1950s which was, ironically, the
last
time a major motion picture had been made about Silas Quinn and me and the shootout at the Red Rock. In faded orange and turquoise, the neon sign out front of the place displayed the outline of the hat and face of a sneering cowboy with a cigarette in his mouth and the words OUTLAW INN in a loopy, electric cursive.
It was, of course, supposed to be me. It would have made me laugh, but the reminder that I used to smoke still bothered me tremendously.
As I walked on, I saw that the attack of the 1950s urban sprawl was confined, thank God, back behind Main Street. The Outlaw Inn was next to a rather grim-looking two-unit strip mall with a shop advertising “Palms Read,” which was next to an establishment where you could pawn your watch, cash your paycheck, and get tattooed and pierced all at the same time.
Combining that with an exorbitantly expensive half-sized box of Lorna Doones and the ice cold but metallic-tasting canned beer you could pick up at the Circle K, Jubilation truly had become an oasis of modern convenience.
That Circle K, as pricy as it was, was the only place in miles that sold groceries and/or food-like grocery substitutes, as A.J. called the chips and Cheetos he’d downed by the cubic ton as a child but now spurned.
The old general store, which back in the day had been owned by a real ornery sonuvabitch named Richard Eversfield, had sold a variety of supplies. But even though it was still standing, it was now a museum.
Or rather a fact-defying house of worship where tourists from Indianapolis and Des Moines could kneel at the altar of the god Silas Quinn.
Part of the Red Rock Saloon had been transformed into a museum, too, although the main room still served shots of whiskey and less-than-generous-sized glasses of beer.
A hand-lettered sign proclaimed that five dollars, paid to the bartender, would gain you admittance behind the curtainto the back room, which held THE ACTUAL BOOTS WORN BY THE VILLAIN KID
Hugh’s phone beeped and he pulled it from his pocket to check it. “Text message,” he announced, as he stood up and headed for the door, “from Lana the caterer. Elvis has left the building.” He turned to look back at Alison. “Thanks for letting me hide in here.”
“I think the next time Kent shows up, you should stay out there,” she told him. “Sing him a verse or two of ‘I Will Survive.’”
“Hey, hey,” Hugh said, as he opened up her trailer door. “That’s just it, though. I’m not sure I will, you know? Survive. Seeing him again …” He shook his head.
“If you want, I could probably get Trace’s thug, I mean, assistant Skippy to beat him up for you,” Alison called after him.
But he was gone.
And she was back to staring at A.J. Gallagher’s driver’s license.
She stood up, too. It was time to go find the man, and give him back his wallet.
But first, just to be thorough, she was going to photocopy the contents.
June 23, 1898
Dear Diary
,
A visitor. One with an enormously unfashionable hat
.
She didn’t question my vague explanation—I fell from my horse. Clumsy me
.
I could see the fading bruise around her own eye, and realized I have an ally
.
An ally. I write the word and it makes me laugh, makes my split lip burn. What good is it to be allied to a timid and frightened mouse? No, there are no allies for me here
.
I am alone in this hell
.
Even God has forsaken me
.
A.J. seemed to want to be alone for a bit, so I wandered the streets of Jubilation. Not much had changed in the town since I’d left in a hurry, all those years ago. And what
had
changed was being transformed by the movie crew back into what it had once been.
Within reason, of course.
Sure, there was a gas station now. And a Circle K convenience store. And a single-story motel, built with the misguidedand over-the-top architectural angles and colors popular in the 1950s which was, ironically, the
last
time a major motion picture had been made about Silas Quinn and me and the shootout at the Red Rock. In faded orange and turquoise, the neon sign out front of the place displayed the outline of the hat and face of a sneering cowboy with a cigarette in his mouth and the words OUTLAW INN in a loopy, electric cursive.
It was, of course, supposed to be me. It would have made me laugh, but the reminder that I used to smoke still bothered me tremendously.
As I walked on, I saw that the attack of the 1950s urban sprawl was confined, thank God, back behind Main Street. The Outlaw Inn was next to a rather grim-looking two-unit strip mall with a shop advertising “Palms Read,” which was next to an establishment where you could pawn your watch, cash your paycheck, and get tattooed and pierced all at the same time.
Combining that with an exorbitantly expensive half-sized box of Lorna Doones and the ice cold but metallic-tasting canned beer you could pick up at the Circle K, Jubilation truly had become an oasis of modern convenience.
That Circle K, as pricy as it was, was the only place in miles that sold groceries and/or food-like grocery substitutes, as A.J. called the chips and Cheetos he’d downed by the cubic ton as a child but now spurned.
The old general store, which back in the day had been owned by a real ornery sonuvabitch named Richard Eversfield, had sold a variety of supplies. But even though it was still standing, it was now a museum.
Or rather a fact-defying house of worship where tourists from Indianapolis and Des Moines could kneel at the altar of the god Silas Quinn.
Part of the Red Rock Saloon had been transformed into a museum, too, although the main room still served shots of whiskey and less-than-generous-sized glasses of beer.
A hand-lettered sign proclaimed that five dollars, paid to the bartender, would gain you admittance behind the curtainto the back room, which held THE ACTUAL BOOTS WORN BY THE VILLAIN KID
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