“Road dust clung to them in a gritty film. A shower would be so nice, a sleep. This was their third trip to Hot Springs from Texas in as many days, with the bitterness of a bad scene with Becker and the sad scene with Frenchy Short yesterday. And today was a high killer. Above, the sun beat down, a big hole in the sky, turning the sky leaden and the leaves heavy and lisdess. No wind puffed, no mercy, as if they’d brought some godforsaken Texas weather with them. Dressed in farmer’s overalls with... beaten-up fedoras pulled low over their eyes and .45s tucked well out of sight, they sat on the front porch of the Public Bathhouse, that is, the pauper’s bathhouse, at least in the shade. Other poor people—genuine poor people—lounged about them, too sick to look anything other than sick, come co Hot Springs for the waters of life, finding only the waters of— well, of water. The Public was the least imposing of the structures on Bathhouse Row, but it looked across the wide boulevard of Central Avenue at the Ohio Club.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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