who were all smiles and goodness when the sun was out but who changed when darkness came.
Some of the research he’d done at the precinct was related to the prostitutes in Cheyenne. Going on to some local forums, he had discovered that the best place to find them was a Motel 6 intersection in the heart of the city.
Up until the 1960s, prostitution had been legal in Cheyenne. The locals were long-haul truckers, ranchers, miners, and laborers, with few women residing there back then. The powers that be had decided the men needed their release, and prostitutes from all over had flooded the city only to find the population was, by and large, broke. Slowly, the prostitutes left, and eventually the practice was technically outlawed, though Baudin doubted the law was ever enforced.
Back in Los Angeles, he’d had a network of contacts. The three most valuable types were crime reporters, drug dealers, and prostitutes. The prostitutes were the best of the three. They were always on the streets with their ears to the ground, always knew what was going on in their neighborhoods.
The Motel 6 looked shabby and rundown. Up the street was a group of half a dozen women. A few were wearing little more than lingerie. He put his hands in his pockets and approached them.
“You lookin’ for company?” one of them said as he walked by.
He stopped and looked them over. Some were grizzled veterans with vacant eyes, and some were fresh out of the box, looking as though they’d just woken up in a dream but didn’t know they were dreaming. A girl in white clothing leaned against a lamppost, her long blond hair past her shoulders, her arms folded. A little gold purse dangled from her fingers.
Baudin brushed past the others and went to her. She watched him with blue eyes, a blue he could clearly see in the dim light of the street lamp.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
She stared at him a moment. “Whether we’re fuckin’ or drinkin’, it’ll cost you the same.”
He grinned. “There someplace close we can go?”
She hesitated before looking over at someone, a woman sitting in a car. “Down here.”
They strolled along the sidewalk to a bar with a neon sign out front. She didn’t speak a word to him until they were inside and sitting down.
The bar was barely lit, and the bang of pool balls echoed behind them. Baudin ordered two beers, and the bartender set them down over napkins. He took an ice-cold sip that made his teeth hurt.
“So you just looking for a party?” she asked.
He lit a cigarette, offered her one, and lit that as well. “No, not exactly. I’m a cop. I’m surprised you didn’t make me.”
“Everyone’s odd here, honey. That don’t mean nothin’.” She exhaled a puff of smoke through her nostrils. “I ain’t broke no laws.”
“Even if you had, that’s not what I’m interested in.”
“What you interested in, then?”
He inhaled the smoke softly, letting the tobacco flavor whirl around in his mouth. He’d been trying to quit for the better part of six months, but when he moved out here, he’d quietly started again and didn’t know why. “Information, from time to time.”
“What kind?”
“Nothin’ that’ll get you in trouble. There’ll be cases where I’ll need to know what’s being said on the street.”
“The street, huh?” she said with a grin. “You talk like you on a TV show. You don’t talk like no cop from around here. And I know all the cops around here. They my best customers.”
“I bet.” He took a long drink of beer then went back to his cigarette. “I’m from LA.”
“California?”
“Yeah.”
“I been tryin’ to get to California for a long time. Leave this place and just go somewhere where the sun don’t stop shinin’.”
“Whatever problems you got here, they’ll follow you there, too. Movin’ don’t solve ’em.”
“Then why’d you move?”
“This ain’t about me. You interested?”
“I don’t know. What
Some of the research he’d done at the precinct was related to the prostitutes in Cheyenne. Going on to some local forums, he had discovered that the best place to find them was a Motel 6 intersection in the heart of the city.
Up until the 1960s, prostitution had been legal in Cheyenne. The locals were long-haul truckers, ranchers, miners, and laborers, with few women residing there back then. The powers that be had decided the men needed their release, and prostitutes from all over had flooded the city only to find the population was, by and large, broke. Slowly, the prostitutes left, and eventually the practice was technically outlawed, though Baudin doubted the law was ever enforced.
Back in Los Angeles, he’d had a network of contacts. The three most valuable types were crime reporters, drug dealers, and prostitutes. The prostitutes were the best of the three. They were always on the streets with their ears to the ground, always knew what was going on in their neighborhoods.
The Motel 6 looked shabby and rundown. Up the street was a group of half a dozen women. A few were wearing little more than lingerie. He put his hands in his pockets and approached them.
“You lookin’ for company?” one of them said as he walked by.
He stopped and looked them over. Some were grizzled veterans with vacant eyes, and some were fresh out of the box, looking as though they’d just woken up in a dream but didn’t know they were dreaming. A girl in white clothing leaned against a lamppost, her long blond hair past her shoulders, her arms folded. A little gold purse dangled from her fingers.
Baudin brushed past the others and went to her. She watched him with blue eyes, a blue he could clearly see in the dim light of the street lamp.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
She stared at him a moment. “Whether we’re fuckin’ or drinkin’, it’ll cost you the same.”
He grinned. “There someplace close we can go?”
She hesitated before looking over at someone, a woman sitting in a car. “Down here.”
They strolled along the sidewalk to a bar with a neon sign out front. She didn’t speak a word to him until they were inside and sitting down.
The bar was barely lit, and the bang of pool balls echoed behind them. Baudin ordered two beers, and the bartender set them down over napkins. He took an ice-cold sip that made his teeth hurt.
“So you just looking for a party?” she asked.
He lit a cigarette, offered her one, and lit that as well. “No, not exactly. I’m a cop. I’m surprised you didn’t make me.”
“Everyone’s odd here, honey. That don’t mean nothin’.” She exhaled a puff of smoke through her nostrils. “I ain’t broke no laws.”
“Even if you had, that’s not what I’m interested in.”
“What you interested in, then?”
He inhaled the smoke softly, letting the tobacco flavor whirl around in his mouth. He’d been trying to quit for the better part of six months, but when he moved out here, he’d quietly started again and didn’t know why. “Information, from time to time.”
“What kind?”
“Nothin’ that’ll get you in trouble. There’ll be cases where I’ll need to know what’s being said on the street.”
“The street, huh?” she said with a grin. “You talk like you on a TV show. You don’t talk like no cop from around here. And I know all the cops around here. They my best customers.”
“I bet.” He took a long drink of beer then went back to his cigarette. “I’m from LA.”
“California?”
“Yeah.”
“I been tryin’ to get to California for a long time. Leave this place and just go somewhere where the sun don’t stop shinin’.”
“Whatever problems you got here, they’ll follow you there, too. Movin’ don’t solve ’em.”
“Then why’d you move?”
“This ain’t about me. You interested?”
“I don’t know. What
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