"My Pa named me after some stupid fortune teller."

Brita Seifert Ramon moped around the rest of the day. The girl did her best to make him talk, engage, but he would not. He was growing disgusted with her by the minute as she seemed completely unconcerned regarding the death of her partner and lover and constantly paraded around in her sheer outfit, legs bare up to mid-thigh. She was appealing and repulsive at the same time, and Ramon wondered how he was to function around this Teutonic Amazon for the remainder of their little odyssey south.

She finally sat down beside him as he cooked trout he’d pulled from the river.

“What’s your name?”

“Ramon.” He looked her over and admired the fine downy golden hair covering her bronzed thighs.

“And yours?”

“Lola.”

“That’s not a name.”

“Sure it is.” She shrugged. “My name.”

“No, it is a nickname. What’s your real name?”

“Promise not to laugh.”

“No.”

“Then I won’t tell you.” She folded her arms and pouted unconvincingly.

“Go on, tell me.” He looked her over again and went back to the trout. “I probably won’t laugh.”

“Promise not to.” She looked and sounded like a child saying that.

“What if it’s funny? I’ll have to laugh then.”

“Hilola.” She looked out of the corner of her eye, through a thick lock of golden hair and he suddenly wanted to bed her right then and there.

“Well, that’s not funny at all. It’s very pretty. Unusual, but pretty.” He looked up at her, Hee-lol-la. Is that right?”

 She nodded her head in the affirmative and was pleased, as most men butchered her name, and that’s mostly why she went by Lola. “I’ve never even heard of such a name.”

She bent her leg at the knee and examined the ball of her foot, exposing herself for Ramon and all the world to see. He looked away and back at the trout in the frying pan.

“What kind of name is that?”

She lost interest in her foot and looked at Ramon and shrugged. “How the hell should I know? My Pa named me after some stupid fortune teller. She read his palm or his cards or some such bullshit and said he’d hit it big. The day I was born he found a five hundred dollar chunk of gold. When he came home and learned that I was born he said he hit it big for sure, and named me after the gypsy.”

“What happened then?”

“Don’t know. Ma said someone cut his throat for the rock of gold. I never knew him. Never even saw him.” She stretched her back, more as an exhibition than to work the kinks out. “Never even seen a picture of him.” Allingham: Desperate Ride.