“And how are you going to get one of those babes to open up?” asked Crowe, keeping Laurel’s arm twisted behind her back with his forefinger. “In the first place, they don’t carry their customers’ names around in their heads; they don’t have that kind of head. In the second place, they’re not going to go through their sales slips ― for you, that is. In the third place, what’s the matter with me?”
“I might have known.”
“All I have to do is flash my genuine Red Ryder sheriff’s badge, turn on the charm, and we’re in. Laurel, I’m type-casting.”
“Take off your clothes,” said Laurel bitterly, “and you’ll get more parts than you can handle.”
“Watch me ― fully dressed and lounging-like.”
He went into the shop confidently.
Laurel pretended to be interested in a handtooled, silver-studded saddle in the window.
Although the shop was crowded, one of the cowgirls spotted Crowe immediately and cantered up to him. Everything bouncing, Laurel observed, hoping one of the falsies would slip down. But it was well-anchored, and she could see him admiring it. So could the cowgirl.
They engaged in a dimpled conversation for fully two minutes. Then they moved over to the rear of the shop. He pushed his hat back on his head the way they did in the movies and leaned one elbow on the show-case. The rodeo Venus began to show him wallets, bending and sunfishing like a bronc. This went on for some time, the sheriffs man leaning farther and farther over the case until he was practically breathing down her sternum. Suddenly he straightened, looked around, put his hand in his pocket, and withdrew it cupped about something. The range-type siren dilated her eyes...
When Crowe strolled out of the shop he passed Laurel with a wink.