“You buy that?” Wolfson said.
“When I can,” I said.
“What do you mean, ‘When I can’?”
“Sometimes this kinda work,” I said, “you don’t have time to consult your employer.”
“So you use your own judgment.”
“I do,” I said.
Wolfson fixed me with his one-and-a-half-eyed stare.
“You do, and it’s the wrong judgment, and you’ll be out of a job,” he said.
“I’d surely miss these biscuits,” I said.
10.
Maybe Wolfson was right.
It was a Thursday night, raining hard outside, when two wet whores from Polly Patterson’s house came into the Blackfoot and sat down at a table near my end of the bar. Wolfson didn’t allow any whores but his own in the saloon, so after a minute I took my shotgun, barrels toward the floor, and went and sat down with them.
“Sorry, ladies,” I said. “Unaffiliated whores ain’t allowed in this establishment.”
“You’re Everett,” one of them said.
I nodded. It was hard to guess age in a whore, but this one looked to be in her forties, and kind of fat. The other girl was younger but no slimmer.
“We heard about you,” the older whore said.
I nodded again.
“All good things, I’m sure,” I said. “But unaffiliated whores are still not allowed in the Blackfoot.”
“We got trouble, Everett,” she said. “We need to stay here.”
“What kind of trouble?” I said.
Four men in hats and slickers came into the saloon. They stood inside the door, looking around. A couple of them took off their hats and shook the rain off them. Then all four looked at us. I nodded my head at them.
“That kind?” I said.
“Oh, Jesus,” the younger whore said.
“The one in front,” the older whore said. “With the beard, he paid for one hour with me and Roxanne. We gave him everything he paid for, and when he was through, his friends came in and used us and nobody paid nothing.”