It was an old model, squat and ugly, like some thick-skinned prehistoric animal, but one which, if you could ever slit open its belly, would spew forth three quarters of a million clams.
In spite of the heat, White was whistling a happy tune when he walked back outside to work on the rig.
4
Frank’s Place may have been as cool as any, Womack thought — but that wasn’t very cool.
It was a combination bar and cafe like a dozen Womack had stopped at along Route 77 in Arizona. The shades had been drawn in a vain attempt to keep out the heat. The only light was from imitation candles, made even more feeble by cheap cardboard shades, on the bar and in the booths along one side. Womack sat in a booth. The seats were covered with imitation leather, decorated with livestock brands, like the old West.
A thin-faced guy in a white apron sat on one of the bar stools reading a newspaper. He was slightly built, about forty-five, with protruding shoulder blades.
The only other person in the place was a girl. Womack couldn’t help thinking that she didn’t belong there. That is, she looked like she should have been at the bar in some swanky New York hotel, instead of in this hick-town greasy-spoon.
She was sitting at the far end of the bar, wearing an obviously expensive cocktail dress, absently twirling a frosted glass. The glass was fully nine inches tall. It contained a smoky, pink-colored liquid. Her dress was green, with thin, rhine-stone-covered halter straps that looked as if they might snap under the strain. She wore expensive shoes, separated from the dress by what looked like yards of sexily-curved legs.
The skinny guy with the apron came over and stood disinterestedly while Womack glanced at the menu.
“Soup. And a beer.”
“What kind of beer?”
“Any kind. Hamm’s.”
“Chicken or split pea?”
“Chicken. And some crackers.”
He took a pad from his pocket and wrote on it. “Chicken. You want the Southern fried steak or raviolli?”
“Just the soup.”
Tight Face looked at him disgustedly. “You want dessert?”
“No.”
Womack grabbed a handful of sugar cubes and stuffed them into his pocket. The way his money was holding out, the sugar might be his only other meal between Valerie and El Centro. If he ever made El Centro. He wondered how serious the trouble with his rig was...
He lit a cigarette and looked at the girl. She had swung around on the stool and was gazing at him openly, elbow on the bar, cheek resting in the palm of her hand. Like the dress, and the fancy beehive hairdo, she looked expensive. Too expensive. He’d never been able to afford dames like that. With a faint smile he realized that he hadn’t even been able to afford Emma — and she had come pretty cheap. Emma. He wondered how long the little bitch had been playing around while he was on the road...
The girl got off the stool and crossed the room to the juke box. It was still light out, but she obviously had been drinking for most of the afternoon. She handled her body provocatively, like a stripper on a stage, accentuating the rising full breasts and narrow waist and rounded hips. She selected an Ella Fitzgerald record and went back to the bar. While she listened, she continued to look at Womack. It made him uncomfortable. Before the record was over she took her glass and slid into the seat opposite him.
She fumbled in her purse for a cigarette, put one in her mouth, and looked expectantly at him. He lit it.
“That stool wasn’t very comfortable,” she said softly. “Do you mind?”
“No.” He answered guardedly. He had forgotten how stupid this sort of thing could be.
“Car trouble?”
“Not exactly.”
“Truck trouble, then.”
“How’d you guess?”
“Why else would anyone stop in Valerie?”
Womack glanced around, thankful for the diversion. “So this is Valerie.”
“Uh-huh. Practically all of it... unless you like Western movies.” She closed her eyes, opened them, let them roam flirtatiously over his face. The look triggered a powerful response from somewhere deep down inside of him...
Christ, he thought. She oozes sex like a toothpaste tube. Those eyes, that hair, those breasts...
“On your way to L.A.?” she asked.
“El Centro.”
“In a hurry to get across the desert, I’ll bet.”
“Uh-huh.” His soup and beer arrived. He broke open the crackers and sat slurping the soup, thankful for something to do. He was beginning to feel kind of foolish.
“That’s too bad,” she said pointedly. She reached over and tugged absently at the curled white hairs on the back of his hand. “If you were going to be around for awhile I could show you the town. What there is of it.”
Womack looked at her. He felt the response again...
She smiled, gave him a searching look with slanted, green-tinted eyes. She reminded him somehow of Emma, except that she had nearly-black hair, while Emma was a blonde. But the figure was the same, full and ripe-breasted, yet softly female.
He said, “Maybe next time.”
“You mean next time your truck breaks down.” She laughed over her drink. Somehow she managed to make even holding a glass look sexy. She was obviously a fun-loving girl with fun-loving ideas stuck in a no-fun town.
Womack looked at his soup. He had to force himself to eat. Under different circumstances a beautiful bundle like this would have had him dusting off a pitch. But, even though this one seemed willing, there was nothing in it for him. Not with the way things were — with a few dollars in cash and a hand full of sugar cubes between him and El Centro.
Womack drank the top off his beer.
She lifted her own glass and said, “What’ll we drink to?”
“Anything you say.”
“Okay.” She beamed. “I’ll drink to you and you drink to me. Okay?”
“Sure.” He took another swallow of his beer.
She put down her glass.
“You act like you’ve got a wife in El Centro.”
“You could call it that—” Emma was no wife, no wife at all. Not anymore. He didn’t even know whether she was in El Centro or not.
“Is she pretty?”
“I guess she’s okay.” He began chasing a chunk of chicken. It was lousy soup.
“Prettier than me?”
Her voice was so low that Womack didn’t understand the words. But there was something in her tone that made him lift his gaze from the soup. He looked at her.
She was leaning forward, elbows on the table, offering him an unimpeded look down the front of her dress. It was worth the look. He had known that it would be.
“Well,” she said lazily. The alchohol had made her voice husky. “Is she?”
5
Womack found himself thinking bleakly of Emma. How stupid could a guy be? There were other dames — like the one sitting opposite him. There had been other dames. But not this time. Not with his truck on the blink and only a few bucks in his pocket. He said, “Listen. You’re a beautiful girl. You don’t have to prove that to me.”
“I was beginning to wonder—”
“Under different circumstances you’d have me falling all over my feet, but under different circumstances you wouldn’t even know I was alive, all of which goes to prove something.”
“What”
“That Valerie probably is even duller than it looks.” He drank some of his beer. He felt suddenly relieved — and disappointed. “What you need, kid, is a change of scenery. Buy a ticket on a bus. Go somewhere — anywhere — it doesn’t make any difference. Go where the bright lights are. Win a beauty contest and get in the movies—”