She also smoked a skinny cigar that didn’t smell too terrific, but made her feel like an executive, I guess, so what the hell.
I was glad she seemed to believe me, because if she did, chances were Ruthy did, too. And all of this was more for Ruthy’s benefit than anybody else’s, as she would surely report this conversation to Lu, hopefully confirming me as a real person actually out looking for work, maybe making me a little less suspicious.
It also gave me an excuse to be here, at the Candle Lite, my real reason being to check up on Ruthy; but to do that properly I needed to get rid of her and talk to the boss lady in private. And I could see no way of doing that.
But then Christine Price did me a favor.
“Ruthy,” she said, “I believe your friend Jack, here, and I are going to talk some hard business. And I think we’d best be left alone for that, if you don’t mind.”
“I got some sets to paint,” Ruthy said cheerfully, leaning over and patting me on the upper thigh, and got up and left.
And her boss came around the desk and sat on top of it, crossing her legs, showing a knee and a couple of calves. She didn’t have bad legs for an ugly woman.
“What kind of experience have you had?” she asked.
“I had a nice childhood.”
She smiled coquettishly. “I mean as a salesman.”
“I was a salesman for five years. A little longer than that actually. Before that I was in Vietnam.”
“You must be about thirty.”
“About.”
“What did you sell? How many firms did you work for?”
“Just one firm. Ladies underwear.”
She liked that.
She said, “You look like somebody who wouldn’t have much trouble getting in a woman’s pants.”
So that was her game. She wanted to be a man, wanted to play the employer role, but she wanted it all the way: she wanted to sleep with her secretary like any good boss.
“Actually I don’t look that hot in women’s pants,” I said. “I don’t have the build for it.”
She gave me that toothy smile again and said, “Can I offer some friendly advice? It’s free.”
This was starting to sound familiar. “Price is right,” I shrugged.
“Ruthy.”
“What about her?”
“Be a little careful of her.”
“Just a little?”
“Maybe a lot. She says you met Frank Tree last night. That you play cards and may do some dealing for him.”
“That’s right. I prefer a selling job, though. That’s why I’m here.”
“Ruthy’s been thick with him, lately. How much do you know about him?”
“Frank Tree? Nothing.”
“He’s got some connections.”
“Is that why I should be careful of Ruthy?”
“No. Not really. She’s got some connections herself.”
Something happened in her face, then; something turned it blank.
But only for a moment, after which she uncrossed her legs and lowered them to the floor and leaned her butt against the desk and folded her arms. The intense, businesslike look was back on her face.
“I like your idea,” she said. “I think I could use you.”
I’ll bet.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said.
“Let me sleep on it Get back to me tomorrow, or sometime later this week and we’ll talk it all out. Here. Here’s my card, with my personal number.”
She gave me a business card and I put it away.
“I’m sure we’ll work something out,” she said.
“Fine.”
There was an awkward silence and I realized, suddenly, I’d been dismissed.
“Well,” I said. “Thanks for the advice.”
She went behind the desk and smiled flatly and looked down at its smooth empty surface, as if there were invisible papers that needed straightening.
I left, wondering what exactly had unnerved her. Made her cut short both business interview and seduction attempt. I hadn’t said enough myself to cause that. It had to be something she said. Something she let slip…
In the lobby, on my way out, I saw Martha on the way to the ladies’ john.
I blew her a kiss.
“What was that for?” she said, with a silly grin.
“That’ s for being the only female in this goddamn place that doesn’t think of me as a mere sex object.”
She said get outa here and I did.
29
I was sitting in the same booth as that first night, in the Roy Rogers room upstairs at the Red Barn Club. It was just after six, and I’d again ordered the ribs and wondered idly if they’d be better than mediocre this time.
Lu had to be at work by six, and I hadn’t got back to the apartment till five, so there’d been no time to eat at home. She didn’t mind, as she claimed to be on a diet anyway (though there was no fat on her that I could see, at least none that I wanted her to be rid of), and she was downstairs working, presently, while I was upstairs eating.
I’d spent the afternoon further checking out the dope scene in Des Moines. I’d wandered the East Side some more, had risked my ass in a black pool hall in a section that came as close to being a ghetto as anything in the city and bordered the Drake campus area, where I tried some of the college hangouts. Finally I went to West Des Moines, a suburb whose downtown was dominated by antique shops and other oddball places of business, where hippie types were highly visible but not high. It was the same everywhere. Nothing to be had. Not a pill to pop, not a token toke. Oh, there was undoubtedly a small supply, accessible only to ingrained members of the local under- ground community. But the D.O.P.E. crackdown was real. Frank Tree really was something of a social reformer. It was enough to rekindle my beliefs in the basic goodness of America. Or make me want to throw up. One of the two.
When I was finished with the salad, a gimlet arrived, a practical joke sent up by my lady bartender, who had made it extra strong knowing I liked my gimlets just the opposite. I drank it anyway, and the ribs came and I started in on them and they were just as mediocre as the other time.
Mediocre or not, I ate all the food they put in front of me (Tree was picking up the tab, after all) and, as she cleared the table, had a peek down my characteristically busty Barn waitress’s blouse for dessert. Then I tried to open the shutters on the window next to me, before remembering too late they were permanently closed. I stood and parted the ruffled curtains above the shutters and looked out at the parking lot. It was too early for there to be many cars. One of the perhaps twenty that were out, there was a familiar-looking Chevelle.
I sat back down and thought about that, wondering if the Chevelle’s driver was downstairs right now, a guy with a nose recently remodeled by a garbage can lid.
I went down to find out.
Only a few of the green baise-covered cardtables were in use this early in the evening. A blackjack table, and the five-card stud table. Most of the action was at the bar, people getting a little oiled before getting down to it.
The guy I was looking for wasn’t in the room. But a probable friend of his was.
The sullen little cocksucker in glasses was sitting alone at the table where he nightly dealt draw, shuffling his cards.
I went over and sat down next to him.
“How’s it going?” I said.
His eyes flicked up at me, then returned to watching his hands work the cards.
“It’s going,” he said.