Bertha Cool turned in the seat. “This desert air certainly makes you feel good.”
The man next to me said with a little bow, “It certainly makes you look good. You’re the picture of health.”
“My war paint,” Bertha said.
“That sparkle in your eyes didn’t come from a drugstore, and if you have any make-up on, it’s simply gilding the lily. Persons who have your smooth, fine skin texture don’t need make-up.”
It had been a long time since Bertha had heard anything like that. I looked for her to tell him off. Instead she tried a smile. It melted into a simper as she turned around to face the windshield.
At the Sal Sagev Hotel, Bertha Cool inscribed her scrawl on the register. The man said, “That’s interesting. I’m to meet the representative of a man by the name of Cool.”
Bertha looked at him. “You’re Whitewater?” she asked suddenly.
“Whitewell,” I amended.
He stared in surprise. “But — but — I—” He turned to me. “Are you Lam?”
I nodded.