“A BEER, PLEASE.” BERNHARDT put a five-dollar bill on the bar. “Do you have Heineken’s?”
“Sure do,” the bartender answered cheerfully. He was a small, quick-moving, middle-aged man with a face like a ferret and a thick head of brown hair that was almost certainly fake. Except for two men and a woman talking quietly at a nearby table, the barroom was deserted. The time was 3 P.M. The temperature in the street outside was almost exactly a hundred degrees.
Bernhardt waited for the bartender to make change, then asked, “How many places in town are there to stay?”
“Three,” the bartender answered promptly. “There’s the Casa Portola, just a hundred yards from here. It’s bigger than it looks, goes back from the street quite a ways. Then there’s Granger’s about a mile west. They’re pretty posh—” As he spoke, he looked Bernhardt over, obviously having concluded that Granger’s might be beyond his means. “Then there’s the Ram’s Head, about a mile south of town. That’s a nice place, clean, good management, kind of rustic. It’s got separate cabins.”
“How about restaurants?”
“You mean fancy restaurants? Or just plain eating restaurants? Because, see, there’s a real fancy restaurant north of town. Real fancy.” Once more, dubiously, he looked Bernhardt over. “You gotta wear a tie even during the summer, give you some idea.”
“How about the plain ones?”
“Two,” he answered promptly. “There’s ours—” He pointed to a door with The Circle spelled out in red neon script. “Then there’s The Crosswinds, out east of town, at the airport. We’re just open for dinners, though, both of us. If you’re looking for something to eat now, you’ll have to settle for pizza, across the street, between the liquor store and the grocery store.” As he spoke, one of the two men sitting at a nearby table got up, came to the bar, and held up three fingers. While he set out three bottles of beer and made change, the bartender continued: “After October fifteenth, though, it’s a different story. There’s a real good restaurant called Hopkins, in the mall. The mall’s across the street and down to the right—that fancy place, where the bank is, and those other shops.” Mischievously, he grinned. “We’re primed to say ‘shops,’ you see. Not ‘stores.’ Or, if we really want to play the chamber of commerce game, we say ‘boutiques.’ But Hopkins won’t be open until October fifteenth, like I said.”
“The reason I’m here,” Bernhardt said, “I’m looking for a friend. Her name is Betty Giles. We missed connections in Los Angeles, and Borrego Springs was her next stop. She’s in her middle thirties, dark hair, small, good-looking.” He swallowed some of the beer, smiled. “Ring a bell? I don’t think she’s been here more than a couple of days.”
“Doesn’t ring my bell,” the bartender said cheerfully. “If I was you, I’d just make the rounds of the motels. Wouldn’t take too long.”
“Thanks.” Bernhardt finished the beer, laid fifty cents aside, pocketed the difference. “I’m traveling on a budget. If I miss her, what motel should I stay at?”
“I’d stay at the Ram’s Head,” the bartender answered promptly. As he spoke, the mischievous grin returned. “I’d stay at the Ram’s Head, and I’d eat at The Circle—” He gestured again to the door leading to the restaurant. “And I’d drink here. Right here.”
“That sounds like good advice.” Bernhardt nodded, slid off the barstool, and walked to the door.
The Ram’s Head Motel office had windows on two sides, and Bernhardt was signing the register when he saw her. She was wearing a one-piece black bathing suit, and was walking across the lawn toward the swimming pool. She was barefooted, and had a white towel draped around her shoulders. Plainly, beneath the towel, her breasts were full and firm. Her buttocks and hips were solid, her legs and thighs generous. It was an exciting body—a peasant’s body, once or twice refined. She walked to a chaise, where she’d left a paperback book face down on the concrete apron of the pool. The pattern of her movements was contradictory, somehow both self-effacing and self-sufficient. As Bernhardt watched her, he remembered his first conversation with Julie Ralston, and his suggestion that Betty Giles might suffer from a negative self-image. The intellectual’s throwaway line might have been more accurate than he’d suspected, because most women with a body like Betty Giles’ would calculate that they had a decisive edge in the mating game, and would display their assets accordingly. They would arch their backs to display their breasts—not let their shoulders slump, as Betty Giles was doing. Most women would move their hips and buttocks more provocatively, more invitingly. If body language was the name of the game, Betty Giles had chosen to sit on the sidelines.
“I’ll give you cabin eight,” the manager was saying, handing him a key. “It’s close to the pool.”
“Good. Thanks.” He took the key, pocketed his wallet.
“If you want to stay longer than just the one night,” the manager said, “there’s no problem. No problem at all.”
“Thanks,” he answered. “I’ll remember that.”