It was a steamy, smoke-filled night at Hernando's, and I and the other two guys had been dancing to the music on the small stage for twenty minutes. I was already down to the ten-gallon hat, the pinto pony vest, the cowboy boots, and the low-slung belt and six-gun holsters with the even lower slung eight-inch gun swinging in between and nothing else on when I felt the hand on the ankle of one of my boots. The dude clinging to my boot looked cooler than a cucumber despite the heat and the indoor smog and even though he was wearing a suit—a finely tailored Brooks Brothers navy blue pinstripe silk suit that was cut close to his well-cut body. He looked like money all over. His pale blue dress shirt was as finely and closely cut to the perfect curves and bulges of his body as his suit was, and the gold studs in his shirt cuffs and his Rolex watch sparkled in beams from the strobing lights overhead.
Ten years ago when Dave was 25, he was a lodger in her house in Bedford. They had an affair and when her husband found out, she had to leave and go live with Dave in London. There were a few raised eyebrows and nobody had seen a wedding, but more about the age difference, as Dorothy was 40 at the time.