The Girls He Adored

64

“Good morning?” Alvin Ralphs wasn't quite sure what to make of the big bald fella with the bandaged head who had just shambled into Alvin's Big Hat Big Man Western Wear shop in Dallas wearing a rumpled plaid sport coat over a shoulder holster, wrinkled Sansabelt slacks, and shapeless Hush Puppies. It was enough to make a haberdasher weep.

“Good morning.” Pender wasn't quite sure what to make of Alvin Ralphs either. Alvin stood five-seven, if you counted the two-inch heels on his boots and the five-inch crown on his Stetson, his western-cut suit was powder blue, with embroidered yokes fore and aft, and with his bright eyes and fallen jowls, he looked (thought Pender) like the love child of Little Jimmy Dickens (“Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight?”) and Droopy Dog, from the old Warner Brothers cartoons.

“What can I do for you?” His diction was precise, his tone lilting-no Texas twang to speak of.

“I need a hat.”

“I can see that.”

“And I figured as long as I was in Dallas…”

“Say no more.” Ralphs held up his right thumb, sighted in on Pender's head like a painter checking perspective. “Eight and a quarter?”

“Bingo.”

The bright little eyes narrowed. Ralphs sighted in with his thumb again, then rubbed his jowls. When the pronouncement came, it was with the finality of a papal bull: “J. B. Stetson El Patron, Silver Belly White.”

He disappeared into the back of the store, returned with a box, positioned Pender before a triple mirror, climbed up onto a step-stool, and with a ceremonious air carefully lowered the El Patron onto Pender's head, making sure it cleared the bandages.

“I ask you, sir: Does Alvin Ralphs know his hats?”

“He does, indeed,” said Pender, admiring his reflection-or at least the hat's reflection. “I kinda look like shit from the brim down, though, huh?”

“Let's just say from the neck down, sir.”

“I was once told I was the worst-dressed agent in the history of the FBI.”

“One can only hope,” replied Alvin Ralphs.