Free Dog Soldiers by Robert Stone Page B

a western hang-up. They don ’ t have the Judeo-Christian thing. You know? ” Marge was going through her black plastic carry bag, checking the contents. It had been locked in Holy-o ’ s office with Rowena.
    “ Sure, ” she said. “ The Judeo-Christian thing. ”
    “ Right, ” Rowena said. “ Where sex is pejorative. ”
    “ I had a pack of cigarettes in here when I put this down, ” Marge said. “ I ’ m absolutely sure of it. ”
    “ Oh, shit, ” Rowena sa id and gave Marge back her ciga rettes.
    “ Ask, ” Marge said. “ Please. ”
    She took a comb from her bag and combed her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Although she was only thirty, her dark hair was already streaked with gray. It looked good, she thought.
    “ It may happen, ” she told Rowena, “ that you ’ re short of money and you ’ re in there with the stand money and you might be tempted. I advise you never, never to take any of it. Because if you do it even once these people will make you sorry you did. ”
    Rowena regarded Marge with bewilderment.
    “ Just because I borrowed a cigarette. ” She sighed. “ Peo ple are so uptight. It ’ s weird. ”
    “ Bear that in mind, ” Marge said.
    When they came out of the ladies ’ , they saw Holy-o and Stanley Projectionist going over the vacant rows of seats for lost articles. Stanley took the left side of the auditorium and Holy-o the right. Holy-o had opened his nightly pint of Christian Brothers brandy and was holding it by the neck between his thumb and forefinger as he patrolled the rotten carpet. He moved part of the way on his knees and the heels of his hands. His in spections were always very thor ough and he was clever about finding things; in the past week he had found two wallets with some money in them and a strange pair of black gloves. Stanley Projectionist was not nearly as good at finding things and Marge felt that he would really just as soon leave the whole room salvage to Holy-o. But Holy-o insisted. Marge had heard Stanley say that there was nothing on the floor after closing time except burned bottle caps and semen.
    “ How come he drinks? ” Rowena whispered as they watched Holy-o proceed along the carpet. “ I thought he was a stuffier. ”
    Marge shrugged. “ He ’ s an old-timer. They ’ re weird. ”
    There was nothing nice for Holy-o that night. He walked Stanley to the door and stood looking into the street with a worried expression. He was worried about the danger of Indian attack.
    For several weeks there had been a thing between Indians and Samoans in the cities around the Bay and Holy-o was afraid that the Indians would get him one night. He had stopped going by the Third Base Bar on the way to his hotel and instead waited until two Samoans who worked as janitors at the Examiner drove around to pick him up.
    While Holy-o waited for the other Samoans and Rowena waited for her boyfriend, Marge found herself waiting as well. They sat in the office under National Geograp hic pic tures of American Samoa and photographs of Holy-o in his Coast Guard uniform. On the wall over the door, Holy-o had hung a portrait shot of a cheerful red-headed woman with an Elvis Presley haircut — it was a photo of Miss Dowd, who had been the Odeon ’ s cashier until the previous year. Miss Dowd had been murdered in her cage by a demented mooch and her picture hel d a dreadful fascination for Ro wena.
    “ I wish I didn ’ t know about it, ” she told Marge and Holy-o.
    Holy-o closed his eyes. “ Don ’ t even think about it. ”
    But Rowena continued to squint up at Miss Dowd ’ s rosy features.
    “ Wow, ” she said, “ there are sure some creeps around. ”
    “ A hippie, ” Holy-o said grimly.
    “ C ’ mon, ” Marge said. “ Wasn ’ t it just a guy with long hair? ”
    “ It was a hippie, ” Holy-o said. “ I was there, I oughta know. She died in my arms. ”
    Holy-o ’ s arms were short but powerful, encased in shiny blue Dacron. Marge looked at