“A room?” Francine, a somewhat blousy, smallish woman in her mid-forties, looked the big man in front of her up and down, and apparently liked what she saw. She smiled, the thick make-up on her face threatening to crack. “Sure, we can do you that. You wanting company too?”

“No. Just the room.” Jayne looked around at the whores in various states of undress, some already plying customers with alcohol, others sitting around waiting for business.

“You sly? ‘Cause there’s a coupla boys I know wouldn’t mind showing you a trick or –“

“Not sly. Got me a woman of my own.” He shifted the bag on his shoulder slightly.

“She with you?”

“Nope.”

“Then she won’t know.” Francine patted his arm.

“She’d know. And much as your girls look good and clean, I don’t do that kinda thing no more.”

She laughed. “No more? Figured as much. You used to though, didn’t you?”

He grinned at her. “I did. Kept more’n one in business, all the coin I used to spend. And I’d’a used your place if’n I’d known it was here. But right now I just need somewhere to put my stuff that ain't gonna get robbed, and a bed to fall into when I can’t stay awake no longer.”

“Then you can have number 15, on the top floor. Got a good lock on the door, and the bed ain't been beaten into submission too often.”

“Sounds shiny.”

“So what’s your name?”

“Cobb. Jayne Cobb.”

“Interesting. There a story behind it?”

“If there is, I don’t know it.”

She held out a hand, and the young man behind the counter put a key into her fingers. “Well, if you’d care to make one up you can join me for a drink later.”

“Miss Francine, that’d be my pleasure.” He grinned wider – even if he wasn't partaking of the pretties on display, didn’t mean he couldn’t be friendly. He hefted his bag of weaponry a little higher, and the sweet smell of gunoil filtered out.

The whorehouse Madam noticed and her eyes narrowed a little. “By the by, you here on business?”

“Could say that.”

“Mind if I ask what kind?” She tapped the key