drove the bright spring day in near total silence, the kid sleepy and still pouting from Gload having stuck a gun in his ear and the cold and quiet atmosphere suited the old man.
In Roundup they stopped to eat and the kid, revitalized at the prospect of food, flirted with the waitress. She was a girl of nineteen or twenty and White stared after her stout bare legs as she walked away.
He said, “How’d you like to have those clamped around yer ass?” Gload looked up from his paper briefly and looked back. “She’d about buck you off and that’s no shit,” the kid said.
When the girl came back with their platters, Sid looked up at her. Above her left breast was a tag with the name Jessy laboriously printed in childish block letters.
“Jessy,” Sid said. “Hey, now, what’s the name of the other one?” The girl set the plates down and looked over her shoulder.
“I’m the only one on today,” she said. She smiled down at him, a pretty girl twenty pounds overweight with gaps in her teeth and sorrel hair in a knot atop her head, the seams and buttons on her uniform restraining burgeoning excesses of soft flesh at hip and bosom.
Sid shook his head. “No, the other one.” He pointed at her tag, at her breast. She shook her head in confusion. “Hell, your other tittie,” he said. “This here one’s named Jessy, I can see that, but you ain’t named the other one.”
Gload looked up at the girl briefly and then at White. “Shut your mouth,” he said. He spun his plate of eggs and ham around in front of him on the newspaper and began eating and those were the last words spoken between them until they reached Rapid City three and a half hours later.
The building was weathered board and bat, proclaiming in great red letters on its façade: “Old West Trading Post.” The duckboards leading to saloon doors lay in a piebald shade beneath an archway of woven antlers. A marquee atop an iron pole of rudely welded four-inch pipe rose from within a ring of whitewashed stones, bearing skyward its message: “Coldest Beer in the west, postcards, IndiaN beAdwork, friendly. Clean rooms afFordable. Genuine antiquEs of the OLd West.”
Gload pointed wordlessly and Sid nosed the big car up to a hitching rail. He swung the door open and said, “Stay in the car.”
“We’re partners on this deal,” Sid said.
Gload, standing outside the car, leaned his head down to speak into the open door.
“Stay in the fucking car.”
In ten minutes he came back. White sat brooding with his boots propped on the car’s dash, his arms crossed at his chest.
Gload said, “Get your feet off of there. We’ll meet the man tonight, eight o’clock. Drive around to the side over here.” He fumbled with the plastic key fob. “One oh one.” He glared at the swinging doors and at the name in foot-high gold letters above them. “Colonel,” he said. He spat onto the gravel between his feet. “What’s he a fucking colonel of?”
“I don’t know.”
“Colonel of bullshit, maybe.”
“What’d he say?”
Gload went to the passenger side door and got in. “One oh one,” he said. He pointed with the key. “Over there.”
“Don’t I even get my own room?”
“Once we take care of business you can get you a room and stay a month for all I give a shit,” Gload said. “Until then we stay together.” He looked over at him. “Partner.”
Full dark at that early hour afforded them cover to unload from the car’s trunk the boxes of plates and cups and saucers, glasses, glazed and painted bowls and all manner of dishware, the uses for which Gload could only guess. He had no more interest in them than in stones or books or the workings of a car’s engine. He was in many ways as simple as a child, though without a child’s curiosity. In the efficiency of his work he took pride though not necessarily pleasure, any more than would a man running sawlogs through a mill or for his prescribed hours soldering senseless components
In Roundup they stopped to eat and the kid, revitalized at the prospect of food, flirted with the waitress. She was a girl of nineteen or twenty and White stared after her stout bare legs as she walked away.
He said, “How’d you like to have those clamped around yer ass?” Gload looked up from his paper briefly and looked back. “She’d about buck you off and that’s no shit,” the kid said.
When the girl came back with their platters, Sid looked up at her. Above her left breast was a tag with the name Jessy laboriously printed in childish block letters.
“Jessy,” Sid said. “Hey, now, what’s the name of the other one?” The girl set the plates down and looked over her shoulder.
“I’m the only one on today,” she said. She smiled down at him, a pretty girl twenty pounds overweight with gaps in her teeth and sorrel hair in a knot atop her head, the seams and buttons on her uniform restraining burgeoning excesses of soft flesh at hip and bosom.
Sid shook his head. “No, the other one.” He pointed at her tag, at her breast. She shook her head in confusion. “Hell, your other tittie,” he said. “This here one’s named Jessy, I can see that, but you ain’t named the other one.”
Gload looked up at the girl briefly and then at White. “Shut your mouth,” he said. He spun his plate of eggs and ham around in front of him on the newspaper and began eating and those were the last words spoken between them until they reached Rapid City three and a half hours later.
The building was weathered board and bat, proclaiming in great red letters on its façade: “Old West Trading Post.” The duckboards leading to saloon doors lay in a piebald shade beneath an archway of woven antlers. A marquee atop an iron pole of rudely welded four-inch pipe rose from within a ring of whitewashed stones, bearing skyward its message: “Coldest Beer in the west, postcards, IndiaN beAdwork, friendly. Clean rooms afFordable. Genuine antiquEs of the OLd West.”
Gload pointed wordlessly and Sid nosed the big car up to a hitching rail. He swung the door open and said, “Stay in the car.”
“We’re partners on this deal,” Sid said.
Gload, standing outside the car, leaned his head down to speak into the open door.
“Stay in the fucking car.”
In ten minutes he came back. White sat brooding with his boots propped on the car’s dash, his arms crossed at his chest.
Gload said, “Get your feet off of there. We’ll meet the man tonight, eight o’clock. Drive around to the side over here.” He fumbled with the plastic key fob. “One oh one.” He glared at the swinging doors and at the name in foot-high gold letters above them. “Colonel,” he said. He spat onto the gravel between his feet. “What’s he a fucking colonel of?”
“I don’t know.”
“Colonel of bullshit, maybe.”
“What’d he say?”
Gload went to the passenger side door and got in. “One oh one,” he said. He pointed with the key. “Over there.”
“Don’t I even get my own room?”
“Once we take care of business you can get you a room and stay a month for all I give a shit,” Gload said. “Until then we stay together.” He looked over at him. “Partner.”
Full dark at that early hour afforded them cover to unload from the car’s trunk the boxes of plates and cups and saucers, glasses, glazed and painted bowls and all manner of dishware, the uses for which Gload could only guess. He had no more interest in them than in stones or books or the workings of a car’s engine. He was in many ways as simple as a child, though without a child’s curiosity. In the efficiency of his work he took pride though not necessarily pleasure, any more than would a man running sawlogs through a mill or for his prescribed hours soldering senseless components
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