Dirty Work | Page 2

in her saddle, she hollers 'rape' and
some guy goes to the slammer for nothing. Nothing you and I haven't
ever done, anyway."
"So is this one of those cases?"
"It's a little fishy. The girl is at UT, blonde, good family, the guy is the
wrong color for Mom and Dad. Maybe she wanted a little rough fun
and then got cold feet. The point is, the guy gets a fair trial, no matter
what he did." He took a form out of the file. "I'll get you a xerox of this.
All I want is for you to follow this broad around for a couple of days,
just kind of check her out."
"How do you mean?"
"Just get an idea of what kind of person she is. Is she some little ice
princess, like she wants the DA to believe? Or is she showing her
panties to anybody with a wallet and a dick?"
"Geez, Dennis, I really don't know..."

"There's nothing to it. This is absolutely standard procedure in a case
like this. She knows she's going to have people watching her, it's just
part of the legal bullshit game." When I didn't say anything he said,
"It's ten bucks an hour, time-and-a-half if you go over forty hours a
week, which I don't see this doing. We pay you cash, you're responsible
for your own taxes and like that, and if you forget to declare it, that's
your lookout. Hint hint. If this works out we can probably find some
other things for you."
Here's the carrot, was what he was saying, and here's the stick. Good
money, tax free, if you do it. Turn this case down because it sounds a
little hinky and you're back on the street.
"What's this woman's name?"
"Some horrible yuppie name..." He looked at the file. "Lane, that's it.
Lane Rochelle. Isn't that a hoot?"
I didn't like the way her name made me feel. Like I was standing
outside the window of one of those big Highland Park mansions back
in Dallas, wearing last week's clothes, watching guys in tuxedos and
women in strapless dresses eat little sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
I blamed her for it. "I don't know anything about this kind of work," I
said. "I mean, if she sees me I'm liable to scare her off. I don't exactly
blend into a crowd."
"Let her see you. It's not a problem."
I still wasn't sure. "When would you want me to start?"
He slapped me on the shoulder as he came around the desk. "There you
go," he said. He walked out of the office and I heard the hum of his big
new copy machine.
*
So I drove over to campus in my good corduroy jacket and my frayed
cuffs and my black knit tie. I parked my pickup in the Dobie garage and

walked down 21st Street to the Perry Casteneda Library, where Lane
Rochelle works. The piece of paper Dennis gave me shows her address
and her job history and her criminal record (NONE). Also a xerox of a
photo of her from the society page of the Statesman.
She's older than Dennis let on, twenty-eight, she's working on her
master's degree in History. She's paying her own way with her job at
the library, not living off her rich parents back in Virginia, which
makes me like her more too. The photo doesn't tell me much. Blonde
hair, nice smile, wears her clothes the way Dennis wears his.
I went past the security guard and the turnstiles and looked around. I
mean, I don't spend a lot of time in libraries. The place is big and
there's this smell of old paper that makes me a little sick to my stomach.
The Circulation desk is off to my left and across from it there are some
shelves with new books and a yellow naugahyde couch. I found a book
that looked interesting, a true-crime thing about this guy that kept a
woman in a box. I sat down and every so often looked up and finally I
caught sight of Lane moving around behind the counter.
She's not an ice princess, and she's not some kind of sexpot either. She's
just a real person, maybe a little prettier than most. Right then she
looked like somebody that didn't get a lot of sleep the night before and
is having a tough day. The second time she caught me looking at her I
saw it hit home--some big guy lurking around her job. I hated to see the
look on her face, which was mostly fear.
A little before eleven o'clock she came out a door to one side of the
counter with her purse and a bookbag. I let