Hey, Cowgirl, Need a Ride?

by Baxter Black

  A waiter dressed in a Hilo Hattie shirt brought in a tray of treats. There were pineapples, mangos, mandarin oranges, sushi— abalone, shrimp, octopus, and squid—even a dish of purple poi.

  T.A. had never seen poi. Ponce saw her scrutinizing it. He picked up the bowl and held it out to her. She looked at him quizzically. He nodded for her to try it. She extracted a chip from the tray and collected a sticky thumb-size glob on her Tostito.

  Poi is an acquired taste, like Vegemite or lutefisk. There is no way to prepare oneself properly for that first bite. It’s like licking your fingers after applying deodorant cream.

  T.A. didn’t see any way to just take a nibble, so she opened wide and crunched the whole thing. Her shock at its taste was overwhelmingly unexpected. It was as if she’d bitten into a gallbladder, or sprayed her tongue with Easy-Off! Her immediate reaction was to expel the offending substance without delay!

  Ponce was positioned—maybe poised would be an appropriate pun—approximately two feet from her, face to face, across the table. Even with his catlike reflexes, he was unable to save himself. Think of a 12-gauge, full-choke, 3-inch Magnum load, fired at point-blank range. The poi was expelled so fast it vaporized into BB-size globules, which splattered Ponce’s expectant uplifted countenance.

  T.A. was horrified! She stared wide-eyed at the frozen face of Ponce de Crayon, waiting for him to explode. He simply stared at her. She watched the purple poi coalesce and begin to slide down his cheeks, carrying miniature icebergs of Tostito chips in its glacial progress. A drop formed on the end of his nose. It looked like his face was melting.

  Without direction from her brain, her mouth began to lift into a grin. She squeezed her lips together to hold them in a straight line, but her eyebrows began to raise. Then suddenly, in a rush, she broke into a huge guffaw, an explosion of mirth that filled the air between them with a microscopic mist of purple pinpoint poilets.

  She pushed herself back from the table, unable to quit laughing. Twice she gained control, then looked at Ponce and broke up again. Finally, weak, wheezing, eyes watering, nose running, and body depleted, she sat back.

  “Sorry,” she said, and breathed a deep sigh.

  Ponce wiped his face with a linen napkin and glared at her. “It is obvious that you do not take me seriously,” he said. “For a moment I entertained the thought that you vere lady enough to come to my party.” He now spoke in his best KGB accent. “I even vondered vat someone like you could have in common vit dat bellicose oaf vat you are married to. I realize now that you two belonk together. You are an uncouth barmaid fitting his style.”

  A spontaneous wave of fury rose up inside her. “I’ve seen bouncers with more class than you,” she said, her malamute eyes burning into his good one. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t see through your cheap con from the beginning.”

  He reached across the table to grab her but she avoided his hand. He straightened his shoulders, stood up, and said in a low growl, “You haf just dug your own grave.”

  52

  DECEMBER 12: T.A. AND THE TIGER

  Ponce called for Valter, who’d been waiting outside the door. “Please escort Mrs. Pantaker to the practice cage in the arena.”

  Valter led the hobbled T.A. down a series of halls into a two-story room the size of a basketball gym. At one end of the arena was a steel cage the size of a two-car garage.

  Ponce arrived a few minutes later. His hair looked freshly combed. He’d washed the poi out of his ears and was wearing a tight sleeveless body shirt that revealed his rippling muscles. He was carrying a twelve-foot whip.

  “Welcome to my office,” said the spider to the fly.

  T.A. shivered.

  Ponce went to the cage, opened the door, and stepped in. “Bring her here, Herr Valter,” he said in his Prussian best.

  Valter shoved T.A. into the cage with Ponce. There were three large stools. The top of the cage rose sixteen feet above the sawdust floor. Ponce gave her a malevolent glare.

  “Do you smoke?” he asked.

  She shook her head no.

  “Indulge me,” he said with menace. He placed a cigarette between her lips and lit it, then turned her in profile.

  “Stand right here and don’t move a millimeter.”

  He stepped back from her ten feet and cracked the whip. She winced.

  “I suggest you do not move. Put you hands behind your back and stand up straight.”

  T.A. closed her eyes and said a quick prayer. She heard the swish of the whip, the crack of the popper, and opened her eyes. The lit end of the cigarette was gone. Her knees buckled but she caught herself.

  Suddenly a low door opened at the back of the cage and in slunk a huge orange-and-black tiger. He was nearly ten feet long and weighed over six hundred pounds. The tiger slipped up on one of the stools and sat.

  “This is Khyber,” Ponce said, reverting to an East Indian accent. “He is a fourteen-year-old Siberian tiger. Very rare, only four hundred thought to be living. They are the biggest cat in the world. Isn’t that right!” he cried, and cracked his whip at the tiger. Khyber roared. T.A. took a step back.

  “We feed Khyber whole lambs. Alive. We keep a flock just for this purpose. When they reach about one hundred pounds, we shear them and serve them with mint jelly, ha, ha, ha, ha!” Ponce laughed a hideous cackle.

  “What is it you weigh, my dear?” he asked innocently. “I’d guess about one-twenty? Not much more than a yearling ewe. Come. Stand in front of me,” he ordered.

  T.A. stayed frozen in place.

  “Come!” he shouted and cracked the whip inches from her face.

  T.A. hobbled over to him. He grabbed her by the arm and swung her in front of him, face to face with the big beast. He engaged his fearsome whip again, snapping the popper in front of Khyber’s nose. The huge cat swung a big paw and roared.

  Although she was eight feet away from the tiger, T.A. pushed back into Ponce’s hard body. She could feel the heat from his skin, smell his pungent male animal scent. He pushed her closer to the tiger and cracked the whip again.

  Again the tiger roared and swiped at the whip. T.A. struggled to get away but Ponce held her tightly in his grip. He pushed her forward toward the tiger, cracking his whip and tormenting the magnificent predator, who growled and roared and stood on his hind legs clawing at the air and baring his ferocious fangs.

  All the while Ponce de Crayon was laughing and shouting, challenging the tiger to charge and attack, then dominating him. Suddenly, he stopped. T.A. crumpled to her knees. She was less than an arm’s length from the head of the massive animal. Ponce stood over her, eye to eye with the tiger.

  “You would like to eat this little lamb, no?” he crooned to the beast. “She would be very tender, you think. Not all covered with wool like the others.”

  Ponce grasped T.A. by the hair and gently tilted her head back so the tiger could see her face. “Not very pretty by tiger standards, I guess. But she does have a backwoods beauty, and . . . as you know, presentation is half the meal. Good night, my friend.” Ponce nodded and an unseen hand lifted the back door of the cage. The tiger never took his eyes off Ponce. Ponce counted silently to five, then whispered, “Sic.”

  The tiger whirled off the stool and departed. The door to his underground tunnel clanged behind him.

  Ponce pulled T.A.’s head around to face him. His face was inches from hers. “Are you still so certain you don’t want to tell your master where the money is? The next time, I may just let Khyber have a little bite. Maybe start right here,” he threatened as he placed his right hand around her neck and squeezed.

  Still looking into her frightened eyes, he released her and she slumped to the floor. He stepped out of the cage and locked it behind him.

  “Let her stay here and think about it,” he told Valter. “If she yells, tape her mouth. That is all.”

  53

  DECEMBER 12: PARTY CRASHER

  The entrance to Ponce Park was designed with a boulder motif, fountain
s, and thick forests of ornamental plants. The wide glass-front entrance offered VIPs and celebrities a runway of sorts to make a grand entrance.

  Lick turned to Cody, who sat in the back of the limousine wearing Anakra Nizm’s tailored suit and shoes. “You look like you could pass for a businessman or fancy lawyer or whatever that guy was. Except for the tie. I don’t think you’ve got that right.” The boys couldn’t get the tasteful handmade silk tie to lay flat, especially with a granny knot at the collar.

  “I’m gonna drop you off at the front door,” Lick continued. “You’re gonna have to wing it. If Pantaker’s henchmen are there, they’ll recognize me for sure. I’m gonna park this rig and explore around behind the scenes. Let’s say we meet at the front door each hour on the hour. If one of us misses, we don’t sweat it, we just be there the next hour.”

  Cody was getting nervous. “What if they have pictures of that guy? What if somebody knows him?”

  “Cody, my boy, the coin is coded. It has a number. That’s all they need. Besides, we’re wingin’ it. What can I say? Would you rather sneak around the outside with me? Might be safer.”

  “I reckon it would be better if we split up. Be a better chance of hearin’ something about the girl,” conceded Cody.

  “Teddie. Teddie Arizona. T.A. She’s got a name,” said Lick.

  “Sorry, I know, I’m just—”

  “Listen, Cody, you can do it. If you could pull off an FBI undercover agent, you can dang sure do this. We gotta take our best shot. Okay, here we go. I’m gonna drop you off right up here and it looks like there’s a bunch of limos parked over there to the left. That’s where I’ll leave this rig. See you in . . . forty-five minutes.”

  As Lick pulled the limo to a stop, a doorman stepped forward promptly and held open Cody’s door. Cody flashed his gold coin.

  The doorman said to Cody, “Please go by our reception desk on the left after you enter the foyer. They are waiting for you.”

  Cody stepped into the foyer and paused a moment to take in the scene. Sequined velvet curtains in sherbet colors offered a clashing backdrop to a magnificent display of mounted wild game. The style could be characterized as “Elvis meets Tarzan.” Taxidermied animals abounded: a polar bear eating a seal, three wolves attacking a bull elk, an anaconda swallowing a tapir headfirst.

  Through the glass wall on the opposite side of the room he could see the pool area. It was populated with attractive, well-dressed people mingling, munching, drinking, and talking.

  “Boa noite, senhor. May I help you?”

  It was the . . . well, in a hotel it would have been the concierge, in a café it would have been a waitress, in a dark room during a burglary it would have been a surprise. Here, it was Isabella Reyeno, organizer, formerly of Portugal.

  “Uh, yes,” said Cody, handing her the gold coin.

  Isabella studied the coin, checking the unique code number. “Ah, yes, Senhor . . . Nissum,” she said, checking his name on the guest list. “Welcome. How would you prefer to be called? Many of our guests have chosen to be called under an alkali, a false name, if you understand what I mean. To protect your privates.”

  “Excellent idea,” said Cody. “How about . . . Count, uh . . .” He paused a moment. He had an uncle by marriage that he’d always liked although the man didn’t fit into the “ranchy” part of the family. His name was Milsap Downs. He claimed he was related to Hugh Downs and that the racetrack in Lafayette, Louisiana, was named after him.

  “Downs,” said Cody.

  “Countdowns?” confirmed Isabella.

  “Yes. Count Downs,” said Cody, enjoying the sound of his new title.

  “Muito bem, excelente, senhor,” she said. “Ah, here is your personal escort tonight, who can answer your questions and introduce you to the other guests . . . if you wish.”

  Cody felt a presence beside him. He looked around, then up. His escort stood an inch taller than he in her medium heels, and he was six feet in his borrowed tasseled loafers. She had pale radiant skin, golden hair, light blue eyes, and a long face with a strong jaw. She was wearing a dark single-breasted suit jacket secured by one brave button two inches below her solar plexus, with no blouse beneath. The hemline on the matching skirt was halfway up her thigh.

  She wore two gold bracelets on her left wrist, and a solid gold, inch-wide neckband that came to a graceful point right above her angle of Louis. She wasn’t necessarily beautiful, but absolutely striking—a Nordic princess. The kind you see striding down the concourse by the dozens in the Minneapolis airport. Cody felt the tug of sexual tension, the uncontrollable surge that makes your knees weaken: what some would call the estrogen wash.

  “This is Chrisantha,” introduced Isabella pleasantly. “She will be your escort for the party this evening. Here is your gold panda,” she said, returning the coin.

  “Chrisantha, this is Countdowns.”

  “Count Downs,” Cody corrected.

  “Ya, I’m very glad to meet you. Come vit me, Countdowns.”

  They walked a few steps, then she stopped, turned around, and faced him. “Allow me to fix your tie, Countdowns. It looks like a Laplander vas trying to strangle you.” She smiled and retied his tie, then led him outside to the veranda.

  As a Norwegian foreign exchange student, Chrisantha had completed a masters degree in chemistry at North Dakota State U. in Fargo and had come to Las Vegas with a classmate after graduation. Her classmate/roommate, a math major/physics minor who was working in the counting room at Pharaoh’s Casino, had recommended Chrisantha for the escort job.

  The men and women who were serving as escorts had been informed that their VIP guests were paying big bucks to be a part of a “special tour.” The escorts should be prepared for unusual requests from them, and peculiar behavior. These guests were very powerful people and might have eccentric tastes. The escorts were under no obligation to do anything more than offer professional service. They were not informed as to the specific occupations or backgrounds of the VIPs, although some were obviously more conspicuous than others. The two Saudi sheiks wore their traditional robes and thobes. The Colombian drug dealer looked the part, as did the Iraqi assassin aka general, and the Texas oilman. Eager readers of People magazine might recognize the lady rock star, the California beach boy all-pro football quarterback, or the celebrity trial lawyer. But the grandmotherly Thai opium smuggler or the secretive Wall Street power broker whose clothes Cody was now wearing could easily have faded into the lunch crowd in any New York City restaurant.

  Chrisantha was aware that most of the guests were probably not acquainted with one another. All these factors made her quite comfortable in retying Countdown’s tie. For all she knew, he could be a recipient of the Nobel Prize in Physiology. Although he was much too young.

  They strolled around the landscape. “Vud you care to sit?” She pointed to a small round white table with four chairs. A candle in the shape of Ponce holding a torch was the centerpiece. He was already burned down to the elbow.

  “Sure,” Cody answered. He pulled her chair back, seated her, then himself. He felt a twinge of guilt just being in her presence. Things seemed to be getting out of his control. His mind seemed to blank out that Lilac was back at the ranch and pregnant with their first baby. And that almost exactly two years ago today, he and Lilac had been married at the National Finals Rodeo where Lick had ridden the unrideable bull Kamikaze and won the average. Or that he was spending his second anniversary sitting next to every schoolboy’s dream.

  Cody’s skin flushed. He couldn’t help looking at Chrisantha. The front of her jacket had gapped open and he could easily see the dark shadows and seductive curves of breasts on parade. Her skirt naturally rode to within a handsbreadth of forbidden territory.

  Chrisantha noticed Cody noticing. She was very comfortable with inspecting eyes, as sensual women often are. Being admired is part of their life. She rippled the air between them slightly by signaling a circulating waiter.

  “You would lik
e a drink, no?” the waiter asked.

  “Only if Christina—”

  “Chrisantha,” she corrected.

  “Chrisantha. Only if Chrisantha will have one with me,” he said, looking at her.

  “Ya! Sure I’ll have one vit you, Countdowns.”

  “I’ll have a . . . glass of wine,” said Cody, thinking it wouldn’t do to be reducing his inhibitions whilst Lick was circling the compound like a man with one oar and Teddie Arizona could be nearby in mortal danger.

  “¿Y usted, señorita?” asked the waiter.

  “An Oslo Iceberg, please,” enthused Chrisantha.

  “¿Perdón?” asked the waiter.

  Cody looked at Chrisantha quizzically. “The bartender vill know,” she said. “Vodka on the rocks with a sardine on a stick.”

  “Regreso muy pronto, señor,” said the waiter.

  Cody looked around the stone-floored atrium. It was a jungle with a pool, surrounded on three sides by rooms that opened onto it. It seemed to be open to the night sky until Cody realized it had a glass roof. The temperature was warm, slightly humid, and conversation was steady but muted.

  “So, who are all these people?” asked Cody.

  “Vell,” she said touching his arm, “they don’t tell us vat it is everybody does. But I am sure they are all good peoples. Vould you care to visit the hors d’ouevres table? The presentation is very special.”

  “Okay,” said Cody.

  She led him to a bountiful table. The chef stood behind it in sparkling white. He was wiry, with a thin moustache. “Ah, monsieur, bienvenue. We have a splendid array of very special, even rare, selections. Allow me to introduce you to them, all home-raised and harvested here at Ponce Park.

  “First, we have pygmy owl sautéed in lemon butter and chives, minced snail darter with Vidalia onions, snow leopard tartare, condor-egg soufflé sprinkled with powdered rhino horn, and broiled African elephant tongue, very tasty.”

  “What’s that?” asked Cody pointing at a tray of skewers.