The closest bar turned out to be a student dive and he almost turned around, loathing students, when he caught the eye of a dark haired maiden. Maybe one drink, he thought. The music was loud and terrible, mixing as it did with a half dozen pinball machines at the back of the bar. The drink was so weak that he ordered another shot put in with no little contempt. He went for broke with a long, somber, heartfelt stare. She sure was pretty as a speckled pup. She fell to the bait and left her group of sallow youth.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Does a cat got an ass? You’re lovely.” He tried to bite off the inappropriate question but it was too late. She seemed amused, looking him up and down and baring white teeth with a smile.

“My name is Aurora. I’m a Chippewa Indian.”

“I’m Johnny. I’m just a white guy.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” She sat on the stool next to him and swiveled daffily.

“I’m not making fun of you. Believe me, I know your plight better than most.” She was a prime piece and he didn’t want to blow it. His brain strained wildly for information about Indians. At Diana’s insistence he had hastily read Cheyenne Autumn. The only other book was Oliver La Farge’s Laughing Boy; but that was years back.

“Let’s not talk about my people. Let’s talk about us.” She ran a finger suggestively between his own.

“Right. We’re all high and dry. Why dwell on the past?” Off the Indian hook. He stared as she raised a knee, draped by a light summer skirt, against the bar. The skirt slipped down and there, plain as day, was a thigh that rumbled his wiener.

“You’re not like these others. They know nothing.” She gestured at the students.

“I guess I’ve been around.”

“This place is too noisy to talk. Are you a rich white man? On the reservation none of us are rich. It is very cold in the winter.”

“You might say I’m well heeled.” He hadn’t expected this pro shot—probably short on rent. Rabun owed him one for hazard duty.

On the way out he thought he heard her murmur something to the effect that “May your dick grow as big as your heart” but knew this sort of irony was improbable up in the sticks. Unfortunately, on the way back to the motel she insisted on stopping for a takeout pizza, with everything. Pizza was perhaps his least favorite food, he thought, hoping it wasn’t a bad omen. Rather than stand there in the nasty smelling glare of the parlor he slipped next door for a six-pack and pile of magazines.