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Authors: Rudolph Wurlitzer
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like Wes Hardin when he’s down.”
“It seems as good a time as any,” Evelyn said, wondering if she meant it.
“You’re Canadian?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I suppose you married him to get out of town. Hell, I don’t blame you. I know what Canada is like. I broke a foot up in Calgary in a car stunt.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“See it through anyway. Who cares where anyone is from or what it was like? I’m part French and Moroccan and it’s never done a damn thing for me.”
His face was flushed from the booze and confessions of mixed blood, and Evelyn found him violently handsome. He sat there pouting, his lower lip feminine and full, his eyes staring past her, focused on some inner turbulence. She knew she was getting sloppy, but it was as if she had to run her own parallel course to Wesley’s, to step across her own boundaries while he was breaking up his.
“In some secret way I know you more than I know Wes,” she lied.
“Because we’re both breeds?”
“Because neither of us makes plans and Wes has to have a plan or he’ll die.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s so shaky. He’s run out of plans.”
“Maybe.”
“He has more fear than we do. You can smell it on him.”
“You have fear and I can smell it on you.”
He looked at her with great care. “What am I afraid of?”
“Of me, for one thing,” she said softly, smiling at him.
He didn’t answer. Behind him, the woman in the Japanese housecoat changed channels.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he said finally. “I’m afraid of Wes.”
“Maybe it’s time you broke that one.”
She stood up, dizzy from the booze and the smoke and the dull knowledge that she had gone too far with him.
“I’m going for a ride,” she said. “I love my husband.”
“I don’t know about love,” he said, wanting to hurt her.
She leaned on the table looking down at him and then abruptly left.
He stood up as though drugged and followed her out the door where she stumbled over a twisted pile of bailing wire.
Reaching out to steady her, his hand brushed across her breast. She gasped, leaning against him, and it was then that he knew just what it was she wanted done with her.
They walked silently across the field and down the back end of the street, past the false plywood fronts of the town. Suddenly she was unable to go on. Shouts and trumpet blast washed over them from the saloon and then receded. They were standing next to the jail in the shadows of an overhead balcony. She let him pull her to him, his mouth finding hers in a surprisingly gentle and tentative kiss and then she abruptly turned and walked into the jail.
The ground floor was full of lighting equipment and she picked her way through piles of cables and generators and up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor, his footsteps following behind. Moonlight fell through a barred window outlining a sheriff’s office with a rolltop desk and a rifle case. Two cells, their doors open, occupied the rear. She went directly into one of the cells, bare except for a single cot.
“I’ve led you to jail,” she said, turning to him.
“As long as you don’t leave me here.” His hands unbuckled his pants.
“But I am going to leave you here,” she said, taking off her clothes.
“Shut up,” he said, reaching for her ass.
IN THE saloon, a drunken and confused Pancho Villa sat on a chair elevated by two aluminum camera cases, giving it the temporary stature of a throne. Beneath him drifted a bored and mostly stoned crowd of whores, actors, and mariachi players held together by the prevailing rumor that Wesley Hardin was in the process of flipping out and that they might be witnesses to a legendary event sure to be reported in Rolling Stone , Time , and Cahiers du Cinéma . This rumor was further reinforced by the appearance of the female star, who showed up full of righteous abuse about Wesley’s deliberately sabotaging her career. In an unnaturally loud voice
“It seems as good a time as any,” Evelyn said, wondering if she meant it.
“You’re Canadian?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I suppose you married him to get out of town. Hell, I don’t blame you. I know what Canada is like. I broke a foot up in Calgary in a car stunt.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“See it through anyway. Who cares where anyone is from or what it was like? I’m part French and Moroccan and it’s never done a damn thing for me.”
His face was flushed from the booze and confessions of mixed blood, and Evelyn found him violently handsome. He sat there pouting, his lower lip feminine and full, his eyes staring past her, focused on some inner turbulence. She knew she was getting sloppy, but it was as if she had to run her own parallel course to Wesley’s, to step across her own boundaries while he was breaking up his.
“In some secret way I know you more than I know Wes,” she lied.
“Because we’re both breeds?”
“Because neither of us makes plans and Wes has to have a plan or he’ll die.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s so shaky. He’s run out of plans.”
“Maybe.”
“He has more fear than we do. You can smell it on him.”
“You have fear and I can smell it on you.”
He looked at her with great care. “What am I afraid of?”
“Of me, for one thing,” she said softly, smiling at him.
He didn’t answer. Behind him, the woman in the Japanese housecoat changed channels.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he said finally. “I’m afraid of Wes.”
“Maybe it’s time you broke that one.”
She stood up, dizzy from the booze and the smoke and the dull knowledge that she had gone too far with him.
“I’m going for a ride,” she said. “I love my husband.”
“I don’t know about love,” he said, wanting to hurt her.
She leaned on the table looking down at him and then abruptly left.
He stood up as though drugged and followed her out the door where she stumbled over a twisted pile of bailing wire.
Reaching out to steady her, his hand brushed across her breast. She gasped, leaning against him, and it was then that he knew just what it was she wanted done with her.
They walked silently across the field and down the back end of the street, past the false plywood fronts of the town. Suddenly she was unable to go on. Shouts and trumpet blast washed over them from the saloon and then receded. They were standing next to the jail in the shadows of an overhead balcony. She let him pull her to him, his mouth finding hers in a surprisingly gentle and tentative kiss and then she abruptly turned and walked into the jail.
The ground floor was full of lighting equipment and she picked her way through piles of cables and generators and up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor, his footsteps following behind. Moonlight fell through a barred window outlining a sheriff’s office with a rolltop desk and a rifle case. Two cells, their doors open, occupied the rear. She went directly into one of the cells, bare except for a single cot.
“I’ve led you to jail,” she said, turning to him.
“As long as you don’t leave me here.” His hands unbuckled his pants.
“But I am going to leave you here,” she said, taking off her clothes.
“Shut up,” he said, reaching for her ass.
IN THE saloon, a drunken and confused Pancho Villa sat on a chair elevated by two aluminum camera cases, giving it the temporary stature of a throne. Beneath him drifted a bored and mostly stoned crowd of whores, actors, and mariachi players held together by the prevailing rumor that Wesley Hardin was in the process of flipping out and that they might be witnesses to a legendary event sure to be reported in Rolling Stone , Time , and Cahiers du Cinéma . This rumor was further reinforced by the appearance of the female star, who showed up full of righteous abuse about Wesley’s deliberately sabotaging her career. In an unnaturally loud voice
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