Necessity by Brian Garfield

but there’s a generation out there all the way up into their twenties who think the American myth has something to do with automobiles. They’ve never heard of Wild Bill Hickok or Wyatt Earp or Cochise.”
    A man’s voice startles her from behind her shoulder. “Doyle, there’s a bloody story in that.”
    It’s the customer in the khaki suit. He has a book in his hand. “This any good?”
    Doyle Stevens takes it in his hand. “The Journal of Lieutenant Thomas W. Sweeny. Westernlore.” It brings out of him a reminiscent smile. “An absolute delight. Sweeny founded Fort Yuma, you know. Remarkable stories about the Indians down there. They had paddlewheel steamboats on the Colorado River in his day, did you know that?”
    She remembers her brief stroll. “You could hardly float a toothpick on it now.”
    The customer sizes her up. “That’s the bloody dam builders. You know a hundred and fifty years ago before it got overgrazed and before they bottomed out the bloody water table with too many deep wells, a good part of what’s now the Arizona desert used to be grassland. Green and lush.”
    â€œIt’s a shame,” she says with a polite little smile, wishing he would go away.
    Doyle Stevens says, “Mrs. Hartman—Graeme Goldsmith.”
    She shakes his hand. His eyes smile at her with more intimacy than she likes. He’s odd looking, especially up close where his astonishingly pale blue eyes take effect. It’s been too long since he’s been to the barber; he has a thatch of brown hair just starting to go thin at the front and she thinks she detects a pasty hint under the camouflaging tan: likely he drinks more than he ought to.
    â€œThat’s G-r-a-e-m-e,” he says. “Nobody can spell it. My mother fancied the bloody name.”
    Time has faded the accent but he is distinctly Australian.
    Doyle Stevens, about to burst, says, “Looks as though Mrs. Hartman’s going to be our new business partner.”
    â€œThat so?”
    She says, “If Mrs. Stevens approves.”
    â€œWell well. Good-oh. We’ll have to give it a proper write-up in the Trib. ”
    An alarm jangles through her.
    Doyle Stevens says, “Graeme’s a reporter on the Valley Tribune. ”
    â€œNot to mention I’m a stringer for the UPI newswire,” Goldsmith says quickly.
    She hatches a smile and hopes it is properly gentle. “I’d rather you didn’t print anything about this. It’s sort of a silent partnership.”
    â€œAny particular reason.”
    â€œI don’t want publicity. A woman living alone—you know how it is. It’s the same reason I have my phone unlisted.”
    â€œOkay, Mrs. Hartman. I can buy that.” But she has seen it when he latched onto the statement that she lives alone.
    Doyle Stevens says, “You want to pay for that book or were you just going to walk out with it?”
    Graeme Goldsmith still has his blue eyes fixed on her face. “How much?”
    She tries to keep her glance friendly when it intersects with the Australian’s but after he pays for the book she is glad to see the back of him.
    A reporter, she thinks. That’s just what I need.

18 Every day she visits the mailbox of the dummy apartment in hope there’ll be something to collect.
    By July 25 nothing has appeared except junk mail and Dorothy Holder’s Social Security card: it comes from the forwarding service in Las Vegas.
    Taking a break from her on-the-job training in the retail bookselling business and from the flying lessons that take up a good part of every third afternoon she drives to Carson City where she applies for a Nevada driver’s license in the name of Dorothy (NMI) Holder.
    In these towns you don’t go into the good restaurants and eat alone; some of them won’t seat you at all and the others assume you’re looking for a pickup. You eat