Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Thatcher was about to take off his fedora, when Bill said, “Leave it on. Bad manners, I know, but the brim shades your eyes. Nobody can tell where you’re looking.”

Following Bill’s example, Thatcher left his hat on. Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, made even foggier by tobacco and grease smoke, he surveyed the place, trying not to noticeably move his head.

The bar ran almost the full length of the back wall, but behind it, the shelves were stocked with bottled soft drinks only. A gramophone in the corner emitted scratchy, tinny music. Only a few of the tables were occupied.

Thatcher remarked on the small crowd. “Doesn’t match the number of vehicles outside.”

“And you say you’re no detective.”

A steep staircase was attached to the far wall. Thatcher noticed a hulking figure leaning against the bannister halfway up, smoking a cigarette, and staring at him through the haze.

Bill said, “I see you’ve captured Gert’s attention.”

“That’s Gert, the madam?”

“What did you expect? A red velvet dress and hourglass figure?” Lowering his voice, Bill added, “Careful how you answer. Here comes her other half.”

The man approaching their table had the proportions of a praying mantis and the lips of a lizard. They formed a tight seam between his beak of a nose and pointed chin. A smile would have looked out of place on such a face, but, in any case, he didn’t fashion one.

“Sheriff. Been a while.”

“Hello, Lefty. How’re things?”

He jutted his chin toward Thatcher. “Who’s he?”

“Meet Thatcher Hutton. He’s new to town.”

“Hutton. You’re the one what shot the snake.”

“He’s a horse trainer,” Bill said amiably.

“Horse trainer.” He said it like he’d been told that Thatcher performed a high-wire act in the circus. “Well, welcome to Lefty’s.”

Thatcher didn’t say anything, just gave a bob of his head.

Bill placed their order for two hamburgers and cold Coca-Colas.

“Comin’ up.”

Thatcher watched Lefty’s progress back across the room. Midway, he was intercepted by his wife. They had a brief exchange, then Lefty continued on toward the grill behind the bar while Gert made her way toward their table. Through the soles of his boots, Thatcher could feel the vibration of her heavy tread.

Unlike her husband, who looked like he could be snapped in two as easily as a toothpick, Thatcher didn’t think Gert could be knocked over with a tank like those he’d seen on the battlefront.

When she reached them, she sized him up. “Thatcher, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Never knew nobody with that name. Who’re your people?”

“You wouldn’t know them.”

“Try me.”

He gave her a one-sided smile that didn’t show teeth. “I wouldn’t know them.”

Still appraising him, she took a drag of her cigarette, then leaned over and ground it out in the ashtray in the center of their table. She blew a plume of smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

Turning her attention to Bill, she said, “What are you doing here?”

Bill, who’d checked his watch again, pocketed it. “Hello to you, too, Gert. I’m here for a hamburger. Also to ask after the girl.”

“Which?”

“You know which, Gert.”

She huffed a gust of stinky breath. “That Wally Johnson. Jug-eared little bastard ruint her face, her arm’s healing all crooked, and she cain’t see out one eye.”

“Is she still here?”

She hitched a thumb over her shoulder. Thatcher and Bill looked in the direction she’d indicated. A young woman with her arm in a sling was flipping meat patties on the grill while Lefty was uncapping Coke bottles.

Gert was saying, “Her name’s Corrine. Out of the goodness of my heart I’m keeping her on even though she ain’t much use to me upstairs no more. But some men if they’re that hard up ain’t all that particular about looks.” She gave Thatcher a sly glance. “You interested? You can have half an hour at a cut rate.”

Bill said, “Gert, if you openly solicit, I’ll slam down your operation upstairs.” He spoke in a low voice that thrummed with warning.

Her eyes, set in folds of ruddy fat, narrowed to slits. “Lessen you forgot, you and me have a deal, sheriff.”

“Only as long as we both keep up the pretense that this isn’t a low-rent whorehouse.”

“Beg your pardon. It ain’t low-rent.”

“All I’m saying is, don’t forget the terms of our deal, or I’ll forget we have a deal. I’ll close you down, and you’d lose a shitload, what with all the roughnecks racing down here from Ranger every Saturday night.” He looked over at Thatcher. “They’ve struck oil up there.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“Despite the distance they have to drive, the oil field workers have been a boon to Gert’s business.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

Bill snickered. “The hell you don’t. They’re a wild bunch, those boys. I hear you’ve got them lining up in the hall and making them bid on who goes next. That’s begging for trouble.” Then, after a beat, he said in a steely undertone, “Keep things under control, Gert, or our deal is off.”