‘Mommy.’”
“I’m looking for a real Doreen.”
“A real Doreen. Well, we do have us a real Doreen. Now, how would you like her dressed? Real Doreen does your basic pink teddy and garter thing, or a kind of Annie Oakley with just the gunbelt and boots, or she does a real prim schoolmarm and makes you talk to the tune of the hickory switch, but that’s another twenty.”
Neal pulled out his wallet and handed her three twenties and a ten.
“My, my,” Bobby said.
Neal shrugged.
Bobby shook her head and spoke into the intercom. “Doreen, we have us a bad little cowboy out here who needs to stay after school with the teacher.”
She turned back to Neal.
“She won’t be but a minute,” she said. “Would you like a drink while you wait? First one’s on the house.”
“Scotch?”
“You got it.”
She poured him a drink, then reached under the bar and handed him a key, a towel, and a bar of soap.
“Trailer 3. Do yourself a favor, cowboy, shower before, this time. The schoolmarm don’t like dirty little boys.”
An unshowered Neal was sitting on the purple bedspread when Doreen opened the door and strode in. True to her billing she was carrying a switch, wore a long print dress, and had her light brown hair put up in a severe bun. She looked to be in her late twenties. She was tall and thin. She flashed her blue eyes at him in a determined, if unconvincing, display of feigned anger.
“Stand up when I come in the room!” she ordered.
“You can save the act, Doreen. I just want to talk.”
She sat down on the bed beside him. “I’m not going to tell you the story of my life, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
At closer inspection, she was older than Neal had thought. Now he put her in her middle thirties and figured that she was developing this little specialty act to stretch out her working life by a couple of years.
“No,” Neal said. “I was hoping you could tell me something about my buddy Harley McCall.”
She leaned back and laughed.
“There is very little I couldn’t tell you about that son of a bitch,” she said. Her voice had turned hard and bitter. “But why should I?”
Neal knew right then that McCall had skipped out again.
“Why shouldn’t you, if he’s a son of a bitch?” he asked.
She looked him over.
“You’re no friend of Harley’s,” she said.
“Neither are you.”
“But that don’t make us friends.”
Neal got up from the bed and took his wallet from his pants pocket. He laid five hundred-dollar bills on the bed. “Maybe this does.”
Doreen looked at the money and gave a little snort. “After all,” she said, “I’m a whore. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, you’re pretty much right.”
She scooped the bills up and stuffed them into the dress pocket.
“Harley stayed here awhile with the little boy,” she said. “That’s probably why you’re looking for him, right?”
Neal didn’t answer.
“Right,” she said. “He got a job as a bouncer on the night shift. Bobby put him and the boy up in one of the trailers in back as part of the deal. Harley and me hooked up about the second day he was here, I guess. He’s a good-looking son of a buck. I even switched over to day hours so I could baby-sit Cody nights. Fixed his meals, watched TV with him, tucked him in. It was kind of nice. I guess I had thoughts about becoming a real-life family, but it didn’t last.”
“What happened?”
“We had a black guy come in from one of the bases out around Fallon. He picked me out of the roundup. Harley got wind of it and went nuts. Got mean drunk and said things.”
“What things?”
“You want a lot for your money.”
“It’s a lot of money,” Neal answered.
“Said he just couldn’t even think about putting his thing where a nigger had put his, called me a no-good whore. I imagine he’s right. This is no kind of work for a white woman. Anyway, he packed up his stuff, put Cody in the pickup, and
“I’m looking for a real Doreen.”
“A real Doreen. Well, we do have us a real Doreen. Now, how would you like her dressed? Real Doreen does your basic pink teddy and garter thing, or a kind of Annie Oakley with just the gunbelt and boots, or she does a real prim schoolmarm and makes you talk to the tune of the hickory switch, but that’s another twenty.”
Neal pulled out his wallet and handed her three twenties and a ten.
“My, my,” Bobby said.
Neal shrugged.
Bobby shook her head and spoke into the intercom. “Doreen, we have us a bad little cowboy out here who needs to stay after school with the teacher.”
She turned back to Neal.
“She won’t be but a minute,” she said. “Would you like a drink while you wait? First one’s on the house.”
“Scotch?”
“You got it.”
She poured him a drink, then reached under the bar and handed him a key, a towel, and a bar of soap.
“Trailer 3. Do yourself a favor, cowboy, shower before, this time. The schoolmarm don’t like dirty little boys.”
An unshowered Neal was sitting on the purple bedspread when Doreen opened the door and strode in. True to her billing she was carrying a switch, wore a long print dress, and had her light brown hair put up in a severe bun. She looked to be in her late twenties. She was tall and thin. She flashed her blue eyes at him in a determined, if unconvincing, display of feigned anger.
“Stand up when I come in the room!” she ordered.
“You can save the act, Doreen. I just want to talk.”
She sat down on the bed beside him. “I’m not going to tell you the story of my life, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
At closer inspection, she was older than Neal had thought. Now he put her in her middle thirties and figured that she was developing this little specialty act to stretch out her working life by a couple of years.
“No,” Neal said. “I was hoping you could tell me something about my buddy Harley McCall.”
She leaned back and laughed.
“There is very little I couldn’t tell you about that son of a bitch,” she said. Her voice had turned hard and bitter. “But why should I?”
Neal knew right then that McCall had skipped out again.
“Why shouldn’t you, if he’s a son of a bitch?” he asked.
She looked him over.
“You’re no friend of Harley’s,” she said.
“Neither are you.”
“But that don’t make us friends.”
Neal got up from the bed and took his wallet from his pants pocket. He laid five hundred-dollar bills on the bed. “Maybe this does.”
Doreen looked at the money and gave a little snort. “After all,” she said, “I’m a whore. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, you’re pretty much right.”
She scooped the bills up and stuffed them into the dress pocket.
“Harley stayed here awhile with the little boy,” she said. “That’s probably why you’re looking for him, right?”
Neal didn’t answer.
“Right,” she said. “He got a job as a bouncer on the night shift. Bobby put him and the boy up in one of the trailers in back as part of the deal. Harley and me hooked up about the second day he was here, I guess. He’s a good-looking son of a buck. I even switched over to day hours so I could baby-sit Cody nights. Fixed his meals, watched TV with him, tucked him in. It was kind of nice. I guess I had thoughts about becoming a real-life family, but it didn’t last.”
“What happened?”
“We had a black guy come in from one of the bases out around Fallon. He picked me out of the roundup. Harley got wind of it and went nuts. Got mean drunk and said things.”
“What things?”
“You want a lot for your money.”
“It’s a lot of money,” Neal answered.
“Said he just couldn’t even think about putting his thing where a nigger had put his, called me a no-good whore. I imagine he’s right. This is no kind of work for a white woman. Anyway, he packed up his stuff, put Cody in the pickup, and
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