“I wish you wouldn’t call yourself that,” Lenny said.
Mary Lou chuckled, then put her hand on Lenny’s cheek. “That’s just it, Lenny, I am a whore,” she said. “That’s all I’ve ever been, and that’s all I’ll ever be, until I’m too old to whore anymore. You need to know that, and you need to quit spending so much time with me and go find yourself a nice, churchgoing young woman.”
“You don’t need to be a whore,” Lenny said. He reached up to touch her swollen nose, and though his touch was very gentle, she winced under it. He pulled his hand away quickly. “Sorry.”
“You didn’t hurt me. I was just overreacting, is all.”
“If you worked for my ma, you wouldn’t have to worry about something like this happening ever again,” he said, lifting his hand to nearly, but not quite, touch her broken nose.
Mary Lou chuckled. “Lenny, you are very sweet. But don’t you know that if I worked in your ma’s restaurant, it would drive away customers? Nobody wants to eat in a place where a whore works.”
From one of the tables there was a loud burst of laughter, and looking toward the sound, Lenny and Mary Lou saw Billy Ray Quentin.
“I see Billy Ray is being his usual obnoxious self tonight,” Lenny said.
“I try and stay away from him now,” Mary Lou said. Unconsciously, she raised her hand to her face. “Since he did this to me, he doesn’t find me pretty anymore, so he hasn’t been bothering me.”
“You are beautiful, Mary Lou, with or without a busted nose,” Lenny said.
“And you are sweet,” Mary Lou replied. She laughed. “You are blind for saying I’m beautiful. But sweet nevertheless.”
At that very moment, no more than a mile outside of town, Pearlie was on his way back to the Sugarloaf. He had been following a railroad track for the last several miles. Now, as he rounded a curve in the tracks, the town appeared in front of him. He had not come by this route on his way south, so he had no idea what town this might be, but it was not unlike the many other towns he had visited during his prolonged odyssey. It was a scattered array of buildings that were barely distinguishable from the hills and clumps that rose from the prairie floor.
As he rode into the town, he took a look at the row of false-front buildings that lined the street. Only two of them showed any sign of ever having been painted. The rest were made of raw, ripsawed lumber that was left to dry and gray as it was weathered by the elements.
Pearlie had learned long ago that his first impressions could tell him a lot about a town, so he made a thorough perusal of the town as he rode in. He saw a freight wagon backed up to the loading dock at Quentin’s Warehouse. Two men were busy unloading the wagon, though they weren’t talking.
Someone was sweeping the front porch of Quentin’s Hardware Store, and though Pearlie looked over toward him, and even touched the brim of his silver-banded hat by way of greeting, the sweeper made no acknowledgment of him whatsoever.
Pearlie hadn’t bothered to check the sign that hung on the railroad depot as he came into town, so as he rode down the street he had no idea where he actually was, though he was fairly certain he was back in Colorado now.
Pearlie rode by Quentin’s General Store, Quentin’s Apothecary, Kathleen’s Kitchen—which was a restaurant and boardinghouse, then Quentin’s Hotel, until he reached the New York Saloon.
“Hmm, I wonder how this fella Quentin has missed buying the saloon?” Pearlie said to the horse. Over long, solitary rides, Pearlie often talked to his horse—doing so in order to hear a human voice, even if it was his own. And in his mind, talking to his horse was more acceptable than talking to himself.
Stopping in front of the saloon, Pearlie tied his horse off at the hitching rack. Hanging under the porch roof of the saloon was a carved and painted mug of beer. It squeaked slightly as it moved back and forth in the hot, dry wind. Green bottle flies buzzed around a horse apple that lay next to the steps.
Once inside, Pearlie saw a large nude painting behind the bar. Surprised to see such a thing, he stopped to admire it for a moment.
“She’s quite a looker, isn’t she?” the bartender asked.
“Indeed she is,” Pearlie agreed.
“They say she is the illegitimate daughter of the Czar of Russia. He won’t claim her, so she has to model for nude paintings in order to make a living.”
“Is that true?” Pearlie asked.
The bartender laughed. “Hell, I don’t know if it is true or not, but Mr. Gibson—he owns the place—has told us to tell that story to all our new customers. What will it be?”
“A beer,” Pearlie said.
“Mr. Evans, could we have another beer please?” a young woman called from the far end of the bar.
“Hold your horses, Mary Lou, till I take care of this fella,” the bartender answered.
“I’m in no hurry,” Pearlie said. “You can serve the young lady first.” He nodded toward her, noticing that her nose was swollen and her eyes black.
“What happened to her?”
“She got beat up by an angry customer,” Evans replied.
“I hope you have stopped him from coming in here anymore.”
“I wish I could say that I did stop him, but he still comes in here on a regular basis,” Evans said as he held two mugs under the spigot of the huge barrel of beer.
Evans served both the scarred young woman and the young man who was with her, then returned to Pearlie.
