old man. Anticipating a long evening, I told Park I was going out for some air.
At the Western Union desk I composed a telegram for Sally. I’d told her that Collins was coming down for a delicate medical procedure, that it was a secret, and that if anybody asked where I was she was to say Chicago.
“Is it one of those monkey gland deals?” she’d asked the morning we left. “Or is it goat glands?”
What the hell, it sounded plausible. “That’s right, Doc Brinkley’s coming back up from Mexico in secret to perform the operation. So you can see why he wants it kept quiet. Especially from Mrs. Collins. What would people think if they knew Everett Collins had the testicles of a goat?”
I saw Brinkley once on a gambling trip to Hot Springs before I got married. He hadn’t been indicted yet, I don’t think, and he strode down the sidewalk with the bearing of an archduke in miniature. His radio shows were a staple when I was a kid, promising rejuvenation and renewed virility through the miracle of interspecies ball exchanges. Not exchanges, really, since Doc Brinkley’s operating theatre of horrors offered the poor goats nothing in return for the gift of their gonads. It might be argued that the human recipients of said testes received nothing either, since the most a transplanted pair of billygoat balls would get you was a nasty infection, and the doctor’s death rates were high. The whole business reeked of charlatanism and the carnie sideshow and for years his program was by far the best thing on the radio.
I still listened to the Doc’s radio shows at night sometimes, beamed northward from old Mexico at wattages forbidden to American broadcasters, and sometimes felt tempted to send in a dollar for an autographed photograph of Jesus Christ or a novelty box of jumping beans. Border radio never made me despair for civilization the way “Lum and Abner” or “Baby Snooks” did.
Once I’d sent the telegram I wandered down the street and found a saloon called the Inside Straight. I’d been expecting hillbilly music, but inside a five-piece Negro orchestra was doing a pretty good take on “Pussy Willow,” and a decent looking gal greeted me as I walked in. At the bar I ordered a drink from a dapper bartender in a white tuxedo and took a look around the place. Expensive furniture and fixtures, and a mahogany backbar that looked like a survivor of the last century.
Standing there I fantasized that if I’d thought to bring my cash from the safety deposit box I might just take the company Olds and drive it down to Mexico myself for good, leaving everyone wondering whatever happened to good old Wayne instead of overseeing a drug fiend’s unwilling detoxification and plotting to destroy another man’s reputation or force him into retirement, a man who for all I knew was a decent, hardworking type who’d been careless about an exploitable peccadillo.
And then my bleak mood lifted of its own accord, as though I’d simply dwelt on it sufficiently to clear it out of my mind for a couple of days. I was in one of the most wide-open resorts in the country, surrounded by vice and shameless women. My expression must have changed because the bartender picked up on it and spoke.
“Here for the waters?” he asked in a Brooklyn accent thick as Durante’s. He looked like a boxer, or maybe just someone people decided to punch in the face once in a while.
“Not particularly,” I said.
“Hah. Didn’t think so.”
He didn’t press me for more, a sign of a good bartender. All my visits to Hot Springs in the past had been on a markedly lower budget than this one, and now that Collins was in the care of a medical professional I began thinking about recreational possibilities.
“Where does a guy go to find a gal around here?”
“Depends if he’s looking for a freebie or a paid piece of ass.”
“In a strange place I always prefer to go for the latter.”
“Smart man. Anything free around here is going to be very, very questionable. Where you staying?”
“The Arlington.”
“Class operation, but don’t ask for girls there, you’ll pay too much.” He wrote a number down on a matchbook. “Call this number and tell ’em Herb sent you.”
“Thanks, Herb. How’d you end up down here, anyway?”
“Cousin of mine had some business associates down here. Speaking of which, you like to gamble?”
“Once in a while. I hate to lose.” Having