"What rules?"
"No dope. No hard booze. No fighting with each other. No unattached broads. Any women come here, the man that brought them is responsible for them. You fight with one of us, you fight with all of us."
"You gave them pride," I said.
He studied me again. This time, his gaze was no less reptilian, but it wasn't predatory.
"Yeah," he whispered, "you might say so."
"Probably got some for yourself," I said.
He stared out over the desert flats below us, for a time. The heat shimmered up over the town.
"You might be a smart fella." he said after a time.
"I might be," I said.
He looked closely at his fingertips as he rubbed them together. The temperature was ferociously hot. I knew I was sweating. But the sweat evaporated almost instantly in the dry air.
"I come in here," The Preacher said, "these people were lying around here like zoo animals." he said. "Farting, fucking, fighting over the women. Dope, booze. They ran out of money they'd boost something in town, or beg. Nobody cleaned the barracks. Nobody washed themselves. The place stunk."
I nodded.
"You know Buckman?" I said.
"I knew him."
"Know his wife?"
"Enough," The Preacher said.
"You got any thought who shot him?"
"You're like a fucking dog with a fucking bone," The Preacher said. "Maybe she shot him."
"Mrs. Buckman?"
"Could be."
"Got any reason to think so?"
The Preacher laughed his dry, ugly laugh. "Cherchez la fucking femme," he said. "Ain't that right?"
Him too.
"Sometimes."
"More than sometimes," The Preacher said. "Broads are trouble."
"I take it you're not a feminist," I said.
"A what?"
"Never mind."
The feral ferocity came back into his look.
"You fucking with me again?" he said.
"Only a little," I said.
"You take some bad chances, Boston."
"Keeps me young," I said.
The Preacher cackled. It was a startling sound.
"Well you go ahead and find out who killed old Stevie Buckman," The Preacher said. "And good luck with it… long as you stay out of our way."
"Do what I can," I said.
Chapter 8
BACK AT THE Jack Rabbit Inn I went to the bar. I liked air-conditioned bars on hot afternoons, when there weren't many people there and it was quiet and sort of dim. They had Coors on draught. I ordered some and it arrived in a chilled glass. Perfect. When I had drunk half of it, I turned and rested my elbows on the bar and looked around the room. The walls were paneled in bleached oak. There were some Georgia O'Keeffe prints. Behind the bar was a mirror, with the booze stacked in front of it, backlit so it looked enticing. Above the mirror was a large painting of a nude woman with a red silk scarf over her pelvis. I finished the beer and ordered another one. The doors to the bar were bat-winged. Posted on the wall to either side were an assortment of fake wanted posters.
The whole look made me want to wear my gun low in a tooled holster. Except the gun was real.
"No one should drink alone," someone said, and Bebe Taylor slid her good-looking butt onto a barstool next to me.
"So I'm volunteering," she said.
"Tough dirty work," I said.
"But someone has to do it," Bebe said. "I drink gimlets."
I gestured the bartender down and ordered for her.
"Why aren't you out selling a house?" I said.
"I came down here to see you," she said.
The gimlet arrived, and she picked it up and held it toward the light.
"I think one reason I like these is that they look so nice," she said.
"Any reason's a good one," I said, just to be saying something. "Why did you want to see me?"
"Your nose has been broken," she said.
"Thank you for noticing," I said.
"I like a man whose nose has been broken," she said.
"That's why I had it done."
"And," she said, "I like men who are silly."
"Well, little lady, you've got the right hombre."
She smiled. Each of us drank.
"You know, you're something of a hunk," Bebe said.
A middle-aged couple in shorts and tank tops came in and sat at the end of the bar and ordered vodka and tonics, and something called Alamo burgers.
"What the hell is an Alamo burger?" I said to Bebe.
"A cheeseburger with a chili pepper on it."
"Let the good times roll," I said.
"You're a big one, aren't you," Bebe said.
"Just the right size for my clothes," I said.
Bebe leaned back a little and looked me over as if she might buy me.
"You're not fat at all," she said. "How'd you get so big?"
"Practice," I said.
She reached over and squeezed my bicep.
"Oooo," she said.
"Oo?"
"You must be very strong."
We drank again, which took care of Bebe's gimlet. I nodded to the bartender and he brought her another one.
"Are you in town alone?" she said.
"Yes."
"Is that because you are alone?"
"You mean do I have a person?"
"Yes."
"I do." I said.
"What's her name?"
"Susan," I said.
"You married?"
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly? What does that mean?"
"It means not exactly," I said.
Bebe tasted her new gimlet. Quite a lot of it.
"Leaves you room to maneuver," she said.
I saw no reason to explain Susan and me to Bebe, so I nodded.
"She pretty?"
"No," I said. "She's beautiful."
"Well aren't you gallant?" She put the stress on the last syllable.
"I'm accurate." I stressed the last syllable, too.
"Is she as beautiful and sweet as Lou Buckman?" Bebe said.
"Do I hear irony in your voice?" I said.
"Of course not," Bebe said.
She finished her second gimlet in another big swallow. I nodded at the bartender.
"Lou is very beautiful… and very sweet."
She looked at her empty glass and looked up at the bartender. She saw that he was putting the finishing touches on her next gimlet, and looked relieved.
"As sweet as you?" I said.
Bebe grinned. She was already a little sloshed.
"Almost," she said.
The bartender put her third gimlet on a napkin in front of her. She picked it up promptly and drank some.
"And how sweet are you?" I said.
"Maybe you'll find out," she said.
"Okay, so how sweet is Lou?"
Bebe giggled.
"Maybe you'll find that out, too. You wouldn't be the first."
"I thought she was blissful in her marriage," I said.
"Sometimes."
Bebe had a little gimlet.
"Tell me about it," I said.
She looked at my half glass of beer.
"You're not staying up with me," she said.
"I started before you," I said.
"You don't like to get drunk?" she said.
"I find it hampers me when I do."
She giggled.
"Wouldn't want you hampered," she said and bumped her knee against mine.
I tried to look seductive.
"Tell me about Lou and Steve."
"Them," she said.
I nodded encouragingly.
"Well I know at least two men she had flings with. I assume they weren't the only two."
"I'll be damned," I said. "Who were they?"
Bebe slugged in some gimlet.
"The men she had flings with," I said. Spenser, you old gossip.
"Well Mark, for one, and dear old Dean-o for another."
"Mark Ratliff?"
"Un-huh."
"And the cop?"
"Dean Walker," she said.
"And how do you know this?" I said.
Bebe smiled as serenely as she could, being fairly well bagged.
"Men like to kiss and tell," she said. She might have said, "kissh."
"These guys just stopped by the office one day and told?" I said.
"Not exactly," she said.
"Am I to gather that you were flinging a little yourself?" I said.
She giggled and drank.
"I like to kissh and tell, myself."
"Don't we all?" I said.