Jaelene Shattle was fat and careworn, her forehead lined with strain, her fingers nervously plucking at lint on her sweater. He wondered how she could wear a sweater on such a hot day. As he stood on the front step waiting for her to ask him in he could see, out of the corner of his eye, the low, neat white buildings of the hog farm a quarter of a mile to the west. The smell was not noticeable, perhaps because the wind was out of the east.
“Yes,” she said, “we are next to the hog farm, and to tell you the truth, I don’t know what in the world we are goin a do. It’s not so bad now but when the wind changes and they turn on the fans it is very bad. My husband suffers from it a good deal. In the house we have nine special air conditioners and six air purifiers runnin all the time, so it’s not too awful, but outside, when the wind is right, your eyes just flame up and your throat hurts. That’s why I only ask fifty dollars a month for the apartment. Otherwise it would be two hunderd. So if you can stand the hog farm it’s a good deal. Do you have a tendency to asthma?”
“No,” said Bob, thinking he would give the place a try. If he couldn’t stand it, why, he’d move. “I’ll give it a try,” he said.
“About the phone, you just use it like it was your own and I’ll go over the bill with you when it comes in. It’s easier that way and saves you from havin to call GTE, maybe the mainest telephone company in Texas. You’ll sit for an hour, maybe two, listenin a fool messages and ugly music before they give you a live person. It’s easier this way.”
The apartment was sunny, spotless and pleasant; there was a large carpeted bedroom with cream-colored walls, its frilly-curtained window looking out on the hog farm, a large comfortable living room with a television set, an antique rolltop desk, a red sofa with blue pillows and a private bathroom with the fabled whirlpool. The windows were fitted with hail screens. With the air purifier humming he could not smell the hog farm and began to think of it as a minor inconvenience whose deleterious character was much exaggerated. If Tater bought some air purifiers and air conditioners he might not be troubled. He put aside Lieutenant Abert, spent a pleasant evening watching television, and, after a luxurious session in the whirlpool, climbed into the pink-sheeted bed and slept.
In the morning he telephoned Ribeye Cluke, enjoying the convenience of not driving to the Old Dog to use the pay phone.
“Sir, I’m in new living quarters. I have a telephone now.” And he gave the number. “I thought you would want to know that Evelyn Chine is bad hurt and in the hospital.”
“Hurt by what?”
“By a bullet. Bullets. She was caught in a motel bed with a married man. The man’s wife shot them both. The paper says she is in the medical center in Amarillo.”
“I see.” There was a long silence, then Mr. Cluke’s voice swelled to command-giving mode. “Bob, I want you to go see Evelyn Chine and talk with her doctor, get a full report on her condition. Call me later with that information. She was close to finalizing a big deal with a rancher down there. Fellow named Keister. You may have to take that deal over if she is not up to working for a while.”
“Mr. Cluke, you want me to go see her?”
“Certainly. And get flowers.”
“Flowers? That could take some time. There’s no flower shop here. It’s a café now.”
“The hospital, Bob. They have flower shops in hospitals.”
“O.K., I’ll do it. But I think you ought to know that Mr. Keister is dead. He’s the one she was in bed with.”
“I see. That’s certainly too bad. Perhaps the widow would be amenable to persuasion. You see if you can suss out the lay of the land. Bob, one other thing. Do you still want us to send down the Money Offer Person on Mr. Crouch’s property?”
“Yes sir, I do, but he’d better call me first to let me know when he’s coming. And not tomorrow because it’s quite a drive to and back from Amarillo.”
“It won’t be a ‘he,’ Bob. All our Money Offer Persons are women. It soothes the rancher to have a woman offer him money and makes him inclined to take a little less. Mrs. Betty Doak will come down later this week. She’ll call you.”
It was going to be a busy day if he had to drive to Amarillo, buy flowers, visit and assess the condition of Evelyn Chine, stop at Tater Crouch’s place and let him know the Money Offer Person was coming down, get in touch with Waldo Beautyrooms. He didn’t think he had to scout out how Tazzy Keister felt about selling the ranch to a hog outfit. She had made her opinion clear with her fusillade. And Jim Skin was probably a lost cause, though he would try to catch him later in the week. He called Waldo first.
“Hello, Mr. Beautyrooms. I was sorry to hear about your mother. I was in Denver over the weekend and just got back. Yes. Well, I spoke to my superiors and while they have doubts about the panhandle as a locus for luxury homes—Then why did they send me down here? Actually they sent me to scout for hog farm sites—” He held the receiver away from his ear as Waldo Beautyrooms’ outraged screeches punctuated the miles between Houston and Woolybucket. He tried to explain the situation.
“But Mr. Ragsdale from the Tokyo office was there and he’s going to present the idea to the company president, Mr. Goliath, and get back to me. And the minute I hear from him—” But Waldo Beautyrooms had hung up.
Next, because it was on the way, he pulled into Tater Crouch’s driveway, climbed up the porch steps and knocked. The housekeeper did not answer and finally he turned the knob and sidled in, calling, “Mr. Crouch? You home?” knowing he was, for the truck stood in the yard. Still, he was startled when the old man appeared in a nightgown, his hair scattered thinly about his pallid dome.
“Well,” he said. “She’s gone into town for groceries. Come in.”
“Just stopped for a minute, Mr. Crouch, to let you know that they are sending someone down to make you an offer. Later this week. You know, I’m not at LaVon’s now. I’m over here, staying at the Shattles’ place. It’s right next to the hog farm. LaVon’s son, Coolbroth, moved into the Busted Star bunkhouse while I was gone.”
“That hog farm stink will make you sick. Jerky Shattle’s got terrible lung problems from it. I expect it’ll kill him. Their little grandson can’t even visit. He gets to havin convulsions when he smells that smell. They are suin the hog farm, you know. I don’t guess you’ll last there long.”
“They’ve got all these air conditioners and air filters and such. Inside it’s not bad. Course I only spent one night there.”
“Last night was nothin. You wait, you’ll smell it. That’s the place you ought a buy. It’s ruined.”
“Anyway, I’ll be back with the Money Offer Person. It’s a lady, Mrs. Doak.”
“What happened to that other one, the liar? I heard Tazzy Keister shot her up.”
“I’m going over to Amarillo right now to visit her. They’ve got her at the medical center there.”
Tater Crouch made a face and told Bob he’d be waiting for him.
Bob stopped at the Old Dog for an early lunch.
“Well, well, look who’s here,” said Cy. “Didn’t think you was comin back. I got beef ragout today, sides a baked beans, tossed salad, pickled walnuts, rolls and apple pan dowdy for dessert. Help yourself.”
Bob heaped his plate, sat in the booth where he had last seen Evelyn Chine and Francis Scott Keister.
“Suppose you heard about the goins-on—Freda Beautyrooms, and Francis Scott Keister and that girl that was here last week, and the sheriff’s little problem.”
“I didn’t hear about the sheriff.”
“Tazzy Keister busted both his arms resistin arrest. He was pushin her towards his car, didn’t have cuffs on her, her bein a woman and all, and she gets his left arm and cranks it up behind his back. They said you could hear the bone snap across the street. Then she lets go a high kick—wearin her work shoes with the steel toe caps—and gets the other one. She started a run for it but one a the deputies, Haish Smith, tackled her and he sure enough put on some cuffs, but not before she give him a taste a her knee
where it hurts the most. Can’t really blame Francis Scott Keister for wantin more gentle female companionship. Sheriff, with them broke arms, he’s had a get somebody drive him around, one a the dispatchers, and for all I know, help him with more personal affairs like passin water. Quite the time Tazzy give him. She’s strong, you know, workin on the ranch all her life. A lot a panhandle women is as strong as the men.”
“Maybe that’s the third bad thing. LaVon says bad stuff comes in threes.”
“She’s right,” said Cy. “But I don’t think busted arms can stand up to death and killin. There’ll be another passin.”
The restaurant was still empty.
“Everybody gone to Brown Paper Pete’s hanging?” said Bob. “It’s kind of quiet here today.”
Cy grimaced sourly. “It’s that ladies’ place with all them damn desserts. Their regular menu is just sandwiches and soup, but they make a hell of a lot of fancy desserts and it looks like that’s what cowboys and rig workers want. I had a drop pineapple I got so many complaints except from Jim Skin. Told him he could go to the supermarket and buy hisself a case a canned pineapple but that don’t appeal to him. Them Christian ladies, the old whores, they got pies, they got cream puffs, they put out chocolate eclairs and coffee cake. I wouldn’t a thought ranch hands would have such a grasp on confectionery items but Ernie Chambers come in and told me if I didn’t start makin crème brûlée he was takin his business over there. ‘What about pork roast?’ I says. ‘I seen you eat six big slices roast pork and gravy. You won’t get that over there. You on a diet for canned tomata soup and egg salad sandwich?’ Course he couldn’t answer me, all shamefaced and full a Peach Surprise. Jesus Christ, I just as soon put a funnel in my mouth and run against the wind.”
“Don’t you think the novelty will wear off?”
“Maybe. No pineapple today!” he bellowed at the front door and Bob turned to see Jim Skin.
“That’s O.K.,” Jim Skin said. “I kind a had enough pineapple. I kind a got a cravin for meat. What a you got?” He noticed Bob Dollar too late to retreat.
“Like a beef stew. It’s pretty good.” Cy turned to Bob again. “Anyway, I’m thinkin about stayin open at supper time, catch the supper crowd. If there is one. Won’t know until I try. There’s not a place open for supper for fifty miles. Course maybe there’s not no one wants supper away from home for fifty miles.”
Jim Skin got a plate and filled it, stacked four rolls atop the food, looked around the empty room and finally came over to Bob’s table. Unease exuded from him like the odor of some bitter aftershave lotion.
“How are you, Bob?” he said cautiously. “I heard you left this country.”
“Not yet. Had to go up to Denver and report to the head office. You given any more thought to talking with Ace Crouch about selling your place?”
“Hell, Bob, I been meanin a get in touch with you on that. And like I said, I thought you’d left the country. Ace don’t want a sell just now.”
“I see,” said Bob, mopping up his gravy with a roll, swallowing the last of his coffee and rising. “Got to go. See you, Cy,” he called and left Jim Skin abruptly, intending his rude departure to sting, to give the message that he knew Jim Skin was a conniving liar flirting with a gas outfit.
The medical center parking lot at Amarillo was nearly full and Bob had to settle for a space in the most remote corner where the wind had swept in an assortment of candy wrappers and leaves. An empty oil can rolled restlessly.
At the receptionist’s desk a glass vase of dusty silk flowers with frayed edges obscured a full view of a woman with breasts the size of deflated basketballs.
“Evelyn Chine? Up in ICU. Only family members permitted. Are you a relative?”
“Yes,” Bob lied. “I’m her brother.” And then, of course, he began to believe it.
“Uh-huh. Your mother and father are up there now with her.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Chine?”
“Who else?”
“Well, I’m her stepbrother. From Mrs. Chine’s first marriage. I’ll wait until they come down. I don’t want to interrupt.”
The woman looked at him, curiosity and suspicion mingled in her face.
“Are you a newspaper reporter?” she asked suddenly.
“No! Good Lord, no. Have they been here?”
“You bet!” said the woman. “Don’t look now but those people over by the window are all reporters. You’d think nobody in Texas ever got shot before, the way they are carryin on. The Chines should be down pretty soon. There’s a ten-minute limit on visits to ICU patients.”
Bob walked over to the tiny florist’s shop and bought a single yellow rose and a Mylar balloon stamped with the face of a cartoon cat. As he came out of the shop he glanced toward the reporters—half a dozen middle-aged people slouched in chairs, paring their nails or talking on cell phones. He recognized Babe Vanderslice, the Woolybucket Banner’s crack newswoman, and hoped she didn’t recognize him. But then, what if she did? He could be there for any reason, though the rose and balloon marked him as a visitor to a patient.
The elevator doors opened and a short couple came out, the man with a cliff of hair like Conway Twitty’s, their expressions stolid and glum. The big-breasted receptionist caught Bob’s eye and nodded.
He told his lie again at the nurses’ station and was told that his “parents” had just left.
“You can stay only a few minutes, now,” said a handsome, black-haired young nurse who looked like a flapper from the twenties. She had dimples, which pleased Bob.
Evelyn Chine, crowned with a bandage turban, lay unconscious in the hospital bed, her face horribly swollen, both eyes black, crusted blood in one ear. A huge battery of machines and devices counted her heartbeats, her respirations, measured her blood gases, charted her brain waves. For the first time he realized she had been shot in the head. A terrific feeling rolled over him. He had only seen Evelyn Chine as a competitor, but now, as she lay helpless and wounded, he imagined himself saving her from her own reckless nature that had got her onto this thin ledge of life. No longer did he think of himself as Evelyn Chine’s half brother. Now he was her lover, her fiancé and, his imagination tumbling like the colored balls in a bingo cage, her honeymoon husband. He saw himself bound to Evelyn Chine, saw himself swearing an oath never to leave her, pushing her wheelchair, draping a cashmere shawl over her tiny shoulders. But then these images shifted and he saw himself trying to mount her flaccid body, moving the helpless arms and legs into exotic and shameful positions. He put the rose on the table beside her bed and wrote on the white card that dangled from the neck of the vase “All my love, Bob,” kissed her swollen, fevered cheek and went out to the nurses’ station.
“What are her chances?” he asked the flapper-nurse.
“That’s her doctor—Dr. Brun,” the nurse said, nodding at a tough-looking woman with a squashed nose, the white coat identifying her as a repairer of broken bodies. “You’ll have to talk to her. Oh, Dr. Brun—here’s Evelyn’s brother wants a talk with you.”
The doctor advanced on Bob, seized his hand and palped it sympathetically. Her breath puffed out in a miasmic stench and she looked at Bob with hard greenish eyes like unripe berries.
“I’m Evelyn’s husband,” he said, imagining Evelyn’s father pushing her wheelchair down the aisle, the bride’s head lolling. “How is she doing?”
“I just explained everthang to her parents. They didn’t say she was merried.”
“They don’t know,” said Bob simply. “It was a secret marriage.”
“Ah—you know the circumstances a her anjuries?”
“Yes. Evelyn often goes to motels with married men. It’s a problem we’re working on. She’s in a twelve-step program for it. She’s been shot before by jealous wives, but never in the head. Usually they miss. We have a lot of hope she will get over this with love and attention.”
The doctor took a deep breath as if to freshen her lungs with an infusion of oxygen.
 
; “Are y’all a reporter?” she said.
“No,” said Bob. “I’m in real estate.”
“Oh yeah? Well, she sustained a very serious anjury. The bullet disintegrated and scattered fragments in part a her brain? It is safer leave them fragments in situ than try and remove em. What we are concerned with now is swellin a the brain. The hard bony skull got no room for expansion, and, if the swellin is profound, we may have to tike out a section a her skull.”
“Oh yuck,” said Bob, earning a freezing glance.
“It is a temporary removal. When the swellin subsides we replace the bone.”
“Is she going to be all right?” asked Bob, playing the fool.
“Only tom will tell, Mr. Chan,” said the doctor, rolling her eyes and pressing the retractable button of her click pen. “But as she’s got this serious anjury you’d do well a prepare yourself for the worse, though we always hope for the best. It’s in God’s hand and all we can do is say our priors.”
31
MRS. BETTY DOAK
Jaelene Shattle twisted her hands and creased her forehead.
“Oh, Mr. Dollar, some women have been calling you all afternoon. A Mrs. Betty Doak phoned twice and said to tell you she would meet you tomorrow noon at the Old Dog for lunch. You know, it’s funny but I think I know her. I think she was Betty Cream. I think she went to the Wink school same as I did. My dad was in the oil boom down in Wink years ago. We just kept a-movin around. A year in Wink, a year in Midland, a year in Amarilla. And the other woman said she would call back this evening. She didn’t leave her name. Did you notice how bad the smell is today?”