Free Hot Springs by Stephen Hunter Page B

and shutting it, and shifted his weight, trying to keep his mind off of it. He wasn’t used to wearing a tie all day, either, and it was getting on his nerves, but he wasn’t about to loosen his, even in this heat, until D. A. did the same. He was thinking about a nice hot shower back in his cabin at the Best Tourist Court.
    Suddenly someone stood before him, and he cursed himself for his lack of awareness. It was the woman. Her hair was red, and pinned up under a yellow beret. She stood on white, strapped heels in a yellow traveling suit cut right at the knee that showed off more leg than was healthy for anybody. She was staring at him intently, her eyes dark.
    “Say, handsome,” she said, “did you use your last match to light that butt or would you have one or two others left in the box?”
    Nothing shy about this one. And, she smelled great too. Her accent was sugar-dipped, like a fritter hot on a cool Southern morning, and he placed it as either from Georgia or Alabama.
    “I might have another one here, ma’am,” he said. “Let me just dig through my gear and see.”
    He stood, pulled the matchbox out from his inside pocket. He deftly opened it, took out a match, and struck it and cupped. He had large hands that protected the fragile flame from any gust of breeze. She came close, cupping his hands in hers, and drew his flame to her Chesterfield.
    “There you go,” he said.
    “Thanks, I needed that.” She stood back, inhaled deeply, then exhaled a zephyr of smoke.
    “Do I know you?” he asked. “Ain’t you in the pictures?”
    “Been in a couple, doll,” she replied. “But you had to look quick. It’s a crappy business unless you know big guys and I just happen to know the wrong big guys. The big guys I know scare the hell out of everybody else. You wouldn’t know any big guys, would you, handsome?”
    “No ma’am,” said Earl, smiling. “I know a couple of generals, that’s all.”
    “Oh, a soldier boy. I thought you might be a cop.”
    “I used to be a Marine.”
    “Bet you killed a tubful of Japs.”
    “Well, ma’am, you just never could tell. It was so fast and smoky.”
    “My chump boyfriend stayed in L. A. running a sports wire. He’s a real hero, the louse. He drags me all the way to this craphole town to meet picture people and they’re all small potatoes. It took me ten years to get out of towns like this, and here I am, back again.”
    “You from Georgia, ma’am?”
    “Alabama. Bessemer, the steel town. If you haven’t been there, you ain’t missed much, sugar. I—”
    Earl had the peripheral impression of flailing, of something hot and wild suddenly swarming upon him, animal like, so fast it was stunning.
    “What the fuck is going on?”
    It was Bugsy Siegel, his nostrils flaring, his eyes livid with rage. Two flecks of gray gunk congealed in the corners of his mouth. His body radiated pure aggression and his eyes were nasty little pinpricks.
    He grabbed the woman, roughly, by the elbow and gave her a powerful yank. The strength of it snapped her neck. He squeezed her arm hard until his knuckles were white.
    “What the fuck is this all about, Virginia?” he demanded.
    “Christ, Ben, I just got a light from this poor guy,” she said as she pulled her arm free.
    “Sir,” said Earl, “there wasn’t nothing going on here.”
    “Shut up, cowboy. When I talk to you, that’s when you talk to me.” He turned back to Virginia. “You fucking slut, I ought to smack you in the face. Get to the train. Go on, get your goddamn ass out of here!” He gave her a shove toward the train, and turned after her.
    But then he thought better of it, and turned back to Earl. His hot eyes looked Earl up and down.
    Earl gazed back.
    “What are you looking at, bumpkin?”
    “I ain’t looking at nothing, sir.”
    “You fucking dog, I ought to beat the shit out of you right here. I ought to smash you into the pavement, you little nobody. You nothing. You piece of fucking crap.” His