a couple of nights ago.” Her smile widens. “That personal enough for you?”
He makes her write down her address, tells her he needs to see the handkerchief. When she asks him if she should wash it, he tells her no, that won’t be necessary. He thanks her for her time, and is about to grab his wife and get the hell out of there when Starla says softly, almost reluctantly, “Wait.”
She sits up in her chair again, popping the wad of gum back into her mouth, shaking her head, kind of. “Dana’ll kill me if she knows I told you.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m not the only one knows she was with Cummings that night.”
“I need a name,” Jay says, inching back into his seat.
“There’s a bouncer out at Gilley’s who sometimes sets up dates for girls like me and Dana. When those roughnecks come in off the oil fields or the rigs out in the Gulf, first place they go when they get a dollar is to Gilley’s. And the ones that ain’t married or got girlfriends or whatnot need a little company, you know? Girls like me and Dana can make a lot of money out that way.”
“The bouncer is a pimp ?” Jay asks.
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“What’s his name?”
“Clyde.”
Jay pulls out his pen. “Clyde who?”
“I don’t know.” Starla shrugs. “Clyde.”
Jay writes down the name and underlines it.
“He gets kind of funny about us bringing in our own dates, you know,” Starla says. “He don’t much like us working on our own. Dana told me Clyde threw her and Cummings out of Gilley’s the night they had the car accident. If he wasn’t getting paid, he didn’t want her on his turf.”
“So the bouncer saw them together?”
“Oh, yeah.” Starla nods. “And Dana said he was some kind of pissed.”
“I don’t understand... if this Clyde guy corroborates her story, why wouldn’t she want me to know about it?”
“Oh, Dana don’t want him having his hand nowhere near a lawsuit. This is her deal, through and through. She’s probably afraid Clyde’ll try and take a cut. I mean, she’s already paying you, what, twenty, thirty percent, right?”
“Right,” Jay says, rolling his eyes at being compared to a pimp.
Outside in the parking lot, Bernie asks, “How’d I do?”
The Big Dipper sign is flashing over her head, next to an ani mated neon painted lady who’s opening and closing her legs, on beat, every three seconds.
“You were perfect,” he says.
She eases her way into the Buick, balancing one hand on the car’s frame.
“You washed the car,” she says, noticing for the first time.
“This morning.” He shrugs coolly. No big thing.
He closes the car door and walks around to the other side.
There’s a late-model Ford LTD on Jay’s side, black and long. Jay is careful not to scratch it with his door. Inside the Buick, Bernie asks him to turn up the air-conditioning. He makes some halfhearted complaint about gas prices—$1.37 at the Exxon on OST—but turns up the AC full blast anyway. “What was that one about anyway?” Bernie asks. She’s picking at a tear in the beige seat cover.
Jay looks through the windshield, watching as I-45 slows to a crawl. The rusted pickup truck in front of him has a native houstonian bumper sticker pasted across the back window of its cab. The driver is propped up on twenty-inch wheels, smok ing a cigarette out the window, looking at the tangle of taillights spread out before him. The traffic problem in the city has only gotten worse in the last year or two, as the city’s population reaches nearly three million. And still the people keep coming, hundreds by the week, from all over the country, spreading out into new housing developments that pop up like mushrooms in this humid city. They come with dollar signs in their eyes and too many episodes of Dallas ringing in their heads. They come chasing oil.
The guy in the truck honks his horn twice. But the traffic doesn’t move.
“That girl back there? What was that all
He makes her write down her address, tells her he needs to see the handkerchief. When she asks him if she should wash it, he tells her no, that won’t be necessary. He thanks her for her time, and is about to grab his wife and get the hell out of there when Starla says softly, almost reluctantly, “Wait.”
She sits up in her chair again, popping the wad of gum back into her mouth, shaking her head, kind of. “Dana’ll kill me if she knows I told you.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m not the only one knows she was with Cummings that night.”
“I need a name,” Jay says, inching back into his seat.
“There’s a bouncer out at Gilley’s who sometimes sets up dates for girls like me and Dana. When those roughnecks come in off the oil fields or the rigs out in the Gulf, first place they go when they get a dollar is to Gilley’s. And the ones that ain’t married or got girlfriends or whatnot need a little company, you know? Girls like me and Dana can make a lot of money out that way.”
“The bouncer is a pimp ?” Jay asks.
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“What’s his name?”
“Clyde.”
Jay pulls out his pen. “Clyde who?”
“I don’t know.” Starla shrugs. “Clyde.”
Jay writes down the name and underlines it.
“He gets kind of funny about us bringing in our own dates, you know,” Starla says. “He don’t much like us working on our own. Dana told me Clyde threw her and Cummings out of Gilley’s the night they had the car accident. If he wasn’t getting paid, he didn’t want her on his turf.”
“So the bouncer saw them together?”
“Oh, yeah.” Starla nods. “And Dana said he was some kind of pissed.”
“I don’t understand... if this Clyde guy corroborates her story, why wouldn’t she want me to know about it?”
“Oh, Dana don’t want him having his hand nowhere near a lawsuit. This is her deal, through and through. She’s probably afraid Clyde’ll try and take a cut. I mean, she’s already paying you, what, twenty, thirty percent, right?”
“Right,” Jay says, rolling his eyes at being compared to a pimp.
Outside in the parking lot, Bernie asks, “How’d I do?”
The Big Dipper sign is flashing over her head, next to an ani mated neon painted lady who’s opening and closing her legs, on beat, every three seconds.
“You were perfect,” he says.
She eases her way into the Buick, balancing one hand on the car’s frame.
“You washed the car,” she says, noticing for the first time.
“This morning.” He shrugs coolly. No big thing.
He closes the car door and walks around to the other side.
There’s a late-model Ford LTD on Jay’s side, black and long. Jay is careful not to scratch it with his door. Inside the Buick, Bernie asks him to turn up the air-conditioning. He makes some halfhearted complaint about gas prices—$1.37 at the Exxon on OST—but turns up the AC full blast anyway. “What was that one about anyway?” Bernie asks. She’s picking at a tear in the beige seat cover.
Jay looks through the windshield, watching as I-45 slows to a crawl. The rusted pickup truck in front of him has a native houstonian bumper sticker pasted across the back window of its cab. The driver is propped up on twenty-inch wheels, smok ing a cigarette out the window, looking at the tangle of taillights spread out before him. The traffic problem in the city has only gotten worse in the last year or two, as the city’s population reaches nearly three million. And still the people keep coming, hundreds by the week, from all over the country, spreading out into new housing developments that pop up like mushrooms in this humid city. They come with dollar signs in their eyes and too many episodes of Dallas ringing in their heads. They come chasing oil.
The guy in the truck honks his horn twice. But the traffic doesn’t move.
“That girl back there? What was that all