Chapter 15
“Evenin’, Miz Fulton.” Longarm tipped his Stetson to the, um, lady. He wasn’t sure, but underneath all the powder and gunk on her face he thought he could detect a flush of crimson embarrassment.
“Good evening, Mr. Long. Would you mind not calling me by my name, though? Not here. My working name is Dovie.”
“Dovie?” He smiled. And again thought he could see that hint of blush beneath all the war paint.
“You don’t have to make fun of me, Mr. Long. I don’t particularly want everyone to know who I am, those that don’t already. And anyway, the gents like names like Dovie and Frenchie and Lily LaTour. Those are really good names for whores.”
He sobered. “I’m sorry, Miz … I mean, Dovie. I’m not making fun. Truly, I ain’t.” He looked around. And smiled just a little. “Though I can’t see much in the way of gents in here for anybody to impress.” The room was crowded. But definitely not with gentlemen.
Angela Fulton, though, was not thinking in terms of light banter. Not at this moment. She touched his sleeve and there was something in her eyes—a sadness, a loneliness—that also touched his heart. “When you go back tonight
…”
“I won’t say nothing to Buddy.” His smile was gentle and sincere. “After all, there’s nothing to tell, is there?”
“No. Of course not.” She looked like she was on the brink of tears, and when she turned away from him her gait was slow and unhappy.
“Dovie.” He called her back before the thought was consciously formed in his mind.
“Yes?”
“I was thinkin’ … how much would it be for you to come with me?”
She lifted her chin and her expression firmed. The look in her eyes now was harder, colder. She was, he was sure, steeling herself against the hand fate had dealt. “A dollar, Mr. Long. Fifty cents for a stand-up in the alley or the dollar if you want the use of a bed. But don’t worry. I won’t insist that you take your boots off.”
He refused to let her subtle needling reach him. “That’d be for a quickie. What I had in mind was all night.”
“Normally I would charge five dollars for the full night, Mr. Long. But for you, considering that I already provided a bed we can use, I think ten dollars would be appropriate.”
Obviously she was thinking he wanted to take her back to her house and go at it with her son right there close enough to hear their bellies bump.
“Ten dollars would be fine,” Longarm said and, sweeping his hat off, bowed her toward the door.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Ten dollars you asked and ten dollars it shall be, ma’am.” He pulled his money out and handed her a gold eagle, the same approximate size of a silver dime but worth ten dollars. “That should cover it, right?”
She gave him a hateful look. But took the money.
Silently she led the way out into the cool night air. Longarm waited until they were outside where none of the saloon patrons could overhear, then said, “Shouldn’t you wash your face an’ get your own dress back before we go to the house, Miz Fulton?”
She glared at him. But considered. And finally nodded.
“I’ll wait for you here,” he suggested. “Join me on the corner when you’re ready, an’ I’ll walk you home.”
“Very well.” Without another look in his direction Angela Fulton disappeared into the mouth of the alley that ran between the saloon and its next-door neighbor.
Longarm idled over to the street corner where he’d said he would meet Buddy’s mother. He leaned against a lamppost and pulled out a cheroot, taking his time about trimming the twist and forming a damn-near- perfect coal for his smoke.
Men came and went along the beaten-earth path that served this part of Cargyle in the place of a normal board sidewalk. Longarm recognized none of them. That was hardly surprising since he’d never been here before. But then checking over a crowd for faces he’d seen on wanted posters was something that had become a firmly entrenched habit with him, and for that matter with every other good peace officer he’d ever known. It was something a man did practically without conscious thought.
Mrs. Fulton did not need long to change. Longarm hadn’t finished half his cigar before she emerged from the side of the saloon building and came into the circle of light thrown by the oil lamp Longarm was standing under. Her face was scrubbed clean now and the dress beneath her shawl was drab and shapeless. The painted chippy named Dovie had disappeared as completely as if she’d never existed, leaving plain and dowdy Angela Fulton behind.
“That looks better,” Longarm said, once again tipping his hat to her. “Shall we …”
His invitation was interrupted by a voice from the doorway of the saloon. “Dovie!”
Mrs. Fulton jumped as if she’d been slapped. Longarm turned to see who it was who’d spoken.
The man standing in the door frame was a burly fellow of middle age. He was balding on top, but balanced that with a handlebar mustache of monumental proportions. His arm and shoulder muscles bulged practically beyond the limits of mere clothing to contain, and he looked like he could lift full beer barrels and smash them open on his own noggin without ever raising a sweat. Longarm had seen him inside seated at a table off to one side of the busy room, but hadn’t paid particular attention to him then. After all, the man’s appearance didn’t match that of any known felon or suspect that Longarm was aware of.
