She looked up suddenly, and saw him in the mirror. Well, what she saw shouldn’t hurt her. He was still young, built like a lightweight boxer, with a good blond head on top of a straight neck. Morrie smiled at her. He could do pretty well with a smile. Her smile was very faint and hesitant, and she lowered her head.
Her name was Myrna. He had heard her called that.
Morrie got up, paid his check and walked out. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the main stem and found it good. Gambling palaces flashed their invitations all up and down, both sides. He was new here in Las Vegas but he liked it. He liked the brisk fall air pushing in from the Nevada plains beyond, but best he liked the bright pulsing life of the place, the light, the clink of western coins, the tenseness of the play.
In a little while the girl came out.
Morrie touched his hat and said: “Nice evening. Going home?”
“Yes,” said the girl.
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“Thank you,” she said in a small voice. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d rather go alone.”
“O. K.” Morrie grinned. “You don’t think I’m fresh?”
“I don’t think so.”
Morrie watched her and admired the way she walked. She was small and erect and moved easily. She turned down Third Street and Morrie walked that way, too. Those trees, planted all along the Las Vegas streets, except for the main stem, darkened them and made following her easy. She walked past the courthouse, three or four blocks, and then turned along a boardwalk. The walk ran by the side of a house fronting the street to a smaller house at the back of it. A door opened and stood open for a moment. By the light behind, Morrie could see that it was a young man who let her in.
Morrie was at the Diamond Grill at ten o’clock the next morning, for breakfast. Myrna was on duty. He liked to watch her, liked to hear her voice.
Yet there was a line between them. He had been aware of that line with a few other girls, but more than ever with Myrna. It wasn’t that he didn’t have confidence in himself, but with some girls, like with Myrna, he felt there was a shadowy line between him and them — shadowy, but real as steel.
It was a feeling that if he stepped across to the girl’s side of the line, it might not go well with her.
Not that he wanted to hurt her, not at all. But maybe it was the way he had lived: always gambling, on one side of the table or the other, ever since he could remember. Chicago, Philly, New York, New Orleans, Kansas City. It was the first time he had ever got as far west as Las Vegas, but there was gambling here, too.
He had thought, vaguely, of doing other things.
Morrie was through with his breakfast. He went out, walked up the main stem and turned into Third Street. He came to the walk that led back to the little house and followed it to the door. He knocked on the door.
The young man opened the door. Morrie looked him over quickly. He was fairly tall but very frail. He had dark curly hair and it was rumpled. The guy isn’t well, Morrie thought, and besides there’s something on his mind.
Morrie said: “Myrna sent me. She said she was worried about you, thought you weren’t feeling so good this morning and for me to drop in for a few minutes. I saw her just now down at the cafe.” Morrie stuck out his hand. “I’m Morrie Random.”
The young fellow seemed puzzled at first. Then he said: “Well, thanks. Come in.”
Morrie went in and looked around. The place was small, three rooms, and furnished barely. It was home-like, though. There were a few letters and postcards on the sideboard; Morrie glanced at them and saw some were addressed to Myrna Pierce and some to Ralph Patton.
Morrie turned to the young fellow, who had sat down, and said: “Well, Myrna said, ‘If you aren’t doing anything this morning,’ she said, ‘why not drop around and see Ralph. I’d like you to meet him anyway.’ ”
The young fellow, still nervous, but polite, said: “Well, I appreciate it. I don’t think my sister has mentioned you. She’s been working there only three days. And we don’t know anybody around here.”
Morrie nodded. “I’m a stranger myself in these parts. Have you been staying here long?”
“Only a week.”
Morrie grinned. “Five weeks more to go, huh?”
“That’s right.”
So one of them, either Myrna or Ralph, was here for a divorce, living out the six-weeks residence required before filing. He guessed it was Myrna.
Ralph said: “How about some coffee?”
“Sure,” said Morrie.
They went into the tiny kitchen. Ralph put the coffee pot on the gas. While he was doing that, Morrie’s eyes traveled. He saw a couple of green paper napkins, crumpled down in the trash bucket.
Those napkins came from the Diamond Grill. Morrie guessed one napkin had held a sandwich and the other a piece of cake. A sandwich and a piece of cake for Ralph.
They sat and drank coffee. Morrie began to find out things. It’s easy to draw some people out, Morrie very well knew, especially when they are hard pressed.
Ralph talked without knowing it. Mostly about his sister, Myrna.
Myrna was twenty-one, a year younger than Ralph. She had been married at sixteen to a man much older than herself. It turned out pretty bad. The man had a job in the city hall, out there on the Coast, and he was a good fellow with the gang but a tyrant at home. Myrna had stood it three years and then she had left him.
That had been hard to do. The man threatened all sorts of things if she left him, but she finally did. Then he threatened all sorts of things if she divorced him. “If you go through with it, I’ll kill you! I’ll kill your brother! I’ll kill myself!” That was the way he talked. That was the kind of a heel he was. Morrie understood; he had met guys like that.
Maybe he’d carry out his threats and maybe he wouldn’t. Myrna had no way of knowing, so it made it hard. She had decided to work and save her money and then go to Las Vegas, and get a quiet Nevada divorce. It would be much easier that way. She had saved seven hundred dollars. That was to pay for her living and legal expenses and something more to take her and Ralph back to the Coast.
Morrie didn’t ask what she was doing working in a cafe and toting home food in napkins if she had seven hundred dollars. But he noticed that when Ralph touched on that subject he was pretty nervous.
“Trouble is,” Ralph said, “I’m no help.” He thumped his puny chest. “No good. Can’t hold down a job.”
“You do any kind of work?” asked Morrie.
“Some, but I never made much at it. I like to think I’m an artist. I’ve sold a few paintings, that’s all. It’s all right if you’re darn good and manage to get recognition. If you’re one in a thousand, you do all right — otherwise it’s slow starvation.”
“I guess it’s a tough racket,” Morrie said. “It’s great stuff, though. You got anything here of yours?”
“Not much.” Talking about art seemed to quiet Ralph a little. “Like to see it?”
“Sure.”
They went into a bedroom. An easel was set up close to the window. A curtain was hung across a corner and Ralph drew it aside. Half a dozen paintings were tacked on boards. Most of them were landscapes. Morrie noticed one peaceful-looking scene showing cows in a field. There was one nude and Morrie felt a little embarrassed. The face was turned away but he had a feeling that Myrna had posed for it.
Morrie said: “I don’t know much about art, but they look swell to me. Say, I might be able to sell one of them for you.”
Ralph brightened perceptibly. “Do you really think so?”
“Maybe. To a pal of mine. How much would you want?”
“Well, I know I can’t expect much,” Ralph said dubiously. “If I got twenty dollars for the best of them I’d be lucky. You think you could get that much for me?”