Hey, Cowgirl, Need a Ride?

by Baxter Black

  Lick’s eyes were adjusting to the dark. Behind him was a ladder in the wall that led to the catwalks above the stage. He grabbed a rung and scrambled up. Beneath him he could feel and hear commands from the stage, roars from some jungle beast, and excitement from the crowd. He started across the stage on one of the catwalks. One of the backstage men was coming up the ladder after him. He looked in front of him. The other stagehand had climbed up the opposite side and now blocked the other end of the catwalk.

  Lick slid off the catwalk onto a four-by-eight platform that seemed to hang suspended over the stage.

  Both his pursuers stopped still. One waved at Lick to get off the platform. Then he froze and put his finger to his lips, indicating Lick should be still.

  Suddenly a huge billow of smoke accompanied by blaring music assailed Lick’s senses. Then, the platform dropped out from under him!

  55

  DECEMBER 12: TIGER ACT

  Cody and Chrisantha sat third row center in the eight-row theater, which was elegantly appointed in gold-leaf décor and rich velvet curtains. To Cody’s left sat a small Asian woman who introduced herself in proper, though accented, English as Ms. Narong, from Thailand. She showed Cody pictures of her grandchildren. “They live in Singapore and San Francisco,” she told him. “Very good grandchildren.”

  Behind him the lady rock star named Qpid d’Art and two large men were whooping it up. Qpid was a voluptuous black woman. Her deep red leather vest was festooned with feathers that matched the plumage in her hair. The two gentlemen with her were almost cartoonish in their suit coats, one lime green, the other fluorescent orange. Black satin lapels, rakish fedoras, and heavy gold necklaces completed their ensembles. They were loud, and they were drunk or high or very happy, or all three. In her exuberance, Qpid kicked the back of Cody’s seat, causing him to jiggle his drink.

  “Sorry!” Qpid giggled, then accidently slipped and whacked him again. “Oh, man! Sorry, we’re gettin’ screwed up!” She leaned forward between Lick and the Asian woman and said, “Sorry, Grandma,” then had a laughing fit accompanied by lots of pounding and gyration. As she was gasping to recover, she leaned forward one more time, her scarcely contained expansive breasts elbowing themselves between Lick and the old woman, “Sherry, shorry, sorry,” she giggled and wiggled.

  Quicker than the Lone Ranger could get the drop on Black Bart’s acting coach, the sweet little Asian grandmother drew a .44 automatic pistol as big as a ham hock, and stuck it under the straining halter top on the north face of the closest Teton.

  “That’s awright, missy,” said Grandma. “I think it won’t happen again. If it does, I will let the air out of one of your life rafts.”

  Qpid sat back contritely.

  Cody was too surprised to speak. If Qpid’s left 18 CCL (half of a 36 D) had been unable to stop the .44 shell, he would have been hit in the shoulder. Grandma just smiled sweetly at him. The pistol had disappeared.

  Chrisantha took it all in and gave Cody room to move. Everybody faced forward as if nothing had happened.

  From the booming speakers in surround sound, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony suddenly rained down upon the crowd. Timpani thundered, cymbals crashed, cellos laid ground cover while violins strafed the theater. Now and then a flute or piccolo would ricochet across the room.

  The startling noise caused Chrisantha to grab Cody’s leg forcefully just above the knee. He’d once rescued a poisoned great horned owl. In a moment of Saint Franciscan compassion, he’d set the stunned, unmoving creature in his lap. Guided by some deep instinctual roosting behavior, the beast roused itself from its coma and sank all eight talons into the meat of his thigh. That memory returned instantly.

  Cody stood straight up, breaking Chrisantha’s grip. She screamed! He screamed! Mercifully, the stage suddenly filled with smoke and the small crowd turned its gaze from the screaming couple to Ponce de Crayon as he stepped out of the cloud to center stage. Cody sat back down. Chrisantha scooted away from him.

  Another cataclysmic explosion of lights, music, and smoke was followed by a wave of Ponce’s magic cape. A six-hundred-pound Siberian tiger appeared like magic on the stage next to Ponce. He put the tiger through his tricks like a conductor decorating a cake. The tiger roared, stood on his haunches, batted the whip, even rolled over and curled up on a giant throw pillow. Ponce lit a cigarette and held the still-burning match up in front of the tiger. The tiger blew it out.

  It was a splendid display of animal magic. The crowd was awed and appreciative. With a flourish, Ponce swirled his cape again. The stage flashed with thunder, lightning, and smoke. The master of Ponce Park stood downstage imperiously, like Red Adair, master fire snuffer, in front of an oil well fire.

  The smoke gradually dissipated, leaving Ponce in all his glory, the tiger replaced by a dazed cowboy behind him, stage left. The cowboy’s hat was crushed, his nose bleeding, and his moustache askew. He looked like he’d just dropped in—from ten thousand feet. He struggled to stand up straight.

  “Lick!” Cody said in surprise.

  “What?” asked Chrisantha.

  Cody considered what he’d just said. “I mean, look!”

  Ponce de Crayon stood smiling and unaware of his supporting actor onstage until Busby, who was sitting in the back row, shouted, “That’s him!”

  “Who?” asked F. Rank Pantaker, who was one row in front of him.

  “That cowboy! The one who rescued Teddie before we got her back,” answered Busby.

  Cody could hear it all clearly. He looked back at Lick, who was regaining his senses. Ponce still didn’t realize he wasn’t alone on the stage.

  The crowd had now fallen silent.

  “You sure?” asked F. Rank.

  “Yessir!” affirmed Busby.

  “Get him!” cried F. Rank, springing out of his seat.

  The two stagehands raced for Lick. Ponce saw F. Rank and Busby charging the stage and heard the noise behind him. He turned. Lick reared his head back to stop the bleeding and fell over backwards just as the stagehands descended on him from opposite sides. The one coming from backstage left hit Ponce and knocked him into F. Rank, who was just mounting the stage in a single jump. It was a midair collision! The stagehand entering from the right missed them altogether and sailed off stage left into the audience like a sailor being buried at sea. Lick staggered back up to one knee in time to see the divers recovering and crawling back onstage in his direction. He turned and weaved to the door. Down the stairs he stumbled, falling flat on his face. He rolled over on the grid that formed the top of the tiger alley.

  His hand hit a latch pin. He pulled it, rolled off the trapdoor, and dropped in. The barred lid closed on him. He was now in the darkened tiger tunnel. He heard his pursuers banging through the stage door above him, clattering down the stairs, and racing away down the upper tunnel.

  Back in the theater, the audience sat in silent confusion. They didn’t know if it was all planned or if they themselves were in danger. Cody leaned over and whispered to Chrisantha, “Get up and tell everyone it’s part of the act and the show is over.”

  She looked into his eyes quizzically.

  “For me,” he whispered, and kissed her on the lips.

  She smiled, stood up, and strode to the front. Cody started clapping. Soon everyone joined in, smiling.

  Chrisantha gave the speech of a career diplomat. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you all enjoyed our evening’s entertainment. And now ve vill all rebound to de main veranda for drinks, good-nights, and socialisting. Follow me, please.”

  As he joined the crowd filing out of the tiny theater, Cody hoped he could dig himself out of the sticky tar pit of temptation he’d just stepped in.

  56

  DECEMBER 12: IN THE TIGER CAGE

  Lick was in the tiger tunnel that led from the theater stage back to the animal cages. He crawled farther under the stage and listened while the crowd departed. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could see the mechanism that allowed the tig
er to appear and disappear onstage. The barred tunnel ended with a ninety-degree turn into a three-sided, clear, hard plastic elevator that was eight feet high and had a black ceiling, a black floor, and hydraulic rams underneath.

  The roof of the elevator was now level with the floor of the stage. When the elevator was raised, its floor pulled even with the floor of the stage. The roof was hidden by an overhanging curtain. During the rapid ascension and fall, smoke and lightning hid the mechanism.

  Lick debated crawling back up through the overhead door to gain access to the upper tunnel but deemed it too risky. They’ll be back, he thought. In the tiger tunnel an I-beam lip ran lengthwise along the top corners. Maybe he could flatten himself against the inner wall and escape detection.

  He worked his way cautiously down the tiger tunnel, which smelled like the kennel room of a veterinary clinic. It forked and the upper tunnel crossed over him left to right. He opened a heavy barred gate and entered the left fork. Soon the tunnel connected with a large round cage twelve feet high and forty feet across. The cage itself was inside a big room with painted cinder block walls. A few chairs were scattered around the room. Lick lifted the barred sliding door and entered the cage quiet as a cat. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. Nothing but straw scattered all around and a lion tamer’s stool. Then he saw her.

  He knew immediately it was Teddie Arizona. She lay in the fetal position on the sawdust floor, like a fallen angel in her ivory dress. He approached her slowly and laid a hand on her shoulder. She gasped and swung a hard backhand, catching him square on the jaw, knocking him off his feet! Then she sprang.

  In another instant, T.A. was kneeling above Lick’s prone body. “Oh, Lick, I’m sorry. Are you hurt? Did I . . . ? I was so . . . I hope I didn’t—”

  Lick moved his arm and looked back over his shoulder cautiously. “T.A. Are you all right?”

  She looked like a wildcat. Her hair was sticking out at odd angles and was sprinkled with sawdust. She had several red scrapes and welts on her face, shoulders, and chest. The flimsy dress she was wearing couldn’t hide her heavy breathing. She unconsciously lifted the spaghetti strap that had fallen off her shoulder. She bent over Lick to touch his face and he looked right down at her heart. Neither of them noticed Valter, who had slipped in and was now watching them from outside the cage.

  “Who is this interloper!” demanded Ponce, rushing into the training arena a few moments later, trailing a winded F. Rank.

  Valter realized that F. Rank had never seen the cowboy. “This is one of the cowboys that Mrs. Pantaker was with when we found her in Idaho,” he said.

  “So,” said Ponce, eyes narrowing. He whirled and marched out the door. F. Rank turned back to T.A. and Lick, who were slowly rising from the sawdust.

  “What a mess you’ve made of everything, Teddie,” said F. Rank, shaking his head. “It’s out of my hands now. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  There was a loud clang as a large Siberian tiger blew into the cage with a roar! Valter recognized him as the one who had been onstage with Ponce.

  Lick and T.A. stumbled back against the bars, hearts pounding. The tiger skidded to a stop ten feet in front of them. His eyes bored into them and he roared again.

  Ponce reappeared on the other side of the bars. He spoke in a soothing voice. “The time has come to make your last call, to shine your last shoe, to have your last meal, to make your last stand. Prepare to meet Custer!”

  “I have kissed my last fool!” T.A. whirled around, shouting through the bars at Ponce, who stepped back in surprise. She had both hands on the bars and fire in her eyes. Her diaphanous dress clung to her curves like a wet tee shirt on the Statue of Liberty. Dust rose from her hair as she shook it.

  “I have tolerated my last indignation, and cooed my last dove! You bunch of pompous, pretentious pretenders to the throne of celebrity have condemned yourselves to the shallow landfill of weak sisters, also-rans, and runts of the litter. Look at yourselves!” she demanded. “Look at the company you keep. You’re like something I’d have to scrape off my shoe before I came in the house. What a lame excuse for the best America has to offer! You want your money back? Not a chance! Not as long as you go on with this charade you call a hunt. You think I’m afraid of this tiger? Gimme that whip. I’ll show you who’s afraid!”

  Teddie Arizona stood there like Joan of Arc charging into the locker room of the Oakland Raiders at halftime. All the men were stunned into silence—including Lick.

  Ponce recovered his composure and drew his pistol. F. Rank gasped.

  Suddenly the tiger took a step toward Lick. Then another step. They were big steps. Lick put himself between T.A. and the four-legged beast. He raised his arms and shouted at the tiger. The tiger backed up, startled. Lick dove to his left and reached for the lion tamer’s stool. The tiger made a movement toward T.A. Lick swung back and cracked the big cat behind the ear with the leg end of the stool.

  The tiger pivoted and swiped a pawful of bared claws toward Lick. Then he pounced. Lick went down on his back, hard, the seat of the stool pressing into his chest. The stool legs drove into the six-hundred-pound striped beast, one under each front-leg armpit, and two into the soft underbelly.

  The tiger screamed in pain! T.A. grabbed the tiger’s tail and pulled the off-balance animal backwards off of Lick. The tiger turned on T.A., holding his right front leg tight to his body. Lick clambered to his feet and swung the stool down hard, seat first, on the tiger’s rump. The tiger paused in confusion.

  A shot rang out!

  Everyone jumped. The tiger turned tail and limped through the low door and back down the tunnel.

  “This iss absolutely enough!” yelled Ponce, holding the smoking pistol. “Get them!”

  Valter pulled his gun.

  “Shoot HIM if you want,” said Ponce. “I want HER in chains.”

  “You heard the boss, cowboy. Is this the hill you want to die on?” asked Valter.

  “Lemme tellya, you dog dumps. I don’t really care,” answered Lick, surprised at his own answer.

  “No, Lick,” T.A. said calmly, “ you’re not gonna die for this. You’re worth more than all these professional lightweights put together. This is my battle.”

  “Now you tell me,” he said.

  She relaxed her stance. “I’ll go with you,” she said to Ponce.

  “Well, I’m not leavin’ without her,” said Lick.

  Ponce studied Lick. The brim of his hat flapped loosely on one side and he was covered with sawdust. He looked like a breaded muskrat.

  “Get some rope,” instructed Ponce. “Tie them good and take them to the tower. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. And after tomorrow, I will be generous and give Mrs. Pantaker one last chance to tell us where the money is. After that, we can decide their fate.” He paused before departing, then smiled his crooked grin and added, “That should be fun.”

  57

  DECEMBER 12: CODY AND CHRISANTHA

  The party had begun to break up by 11:30 p.m. Neither Ponce de Crayon or F. Rank Pantaker returned to the veranda. Several of the guests were gathering their wraps and entourages, and working their way to the limos for their ride back to Pharaoh’s Hotel. Cody watched the beachboy–all-pro quarterback disappear down the hall with Qpid d’Art.

  “Where are they going?” he asked Chrisantha.

  “There is guest rooms here at the Park for those who vish to freshen up, or stay later . . . or stay the night,” she explained. “You vould like me to take you?”

  Cody’s first thought was, did it cost extra? But then he remembered that, for a million dollars, some perks were to be expected.

  His second thought was, if he was going to help Lick, i.e., save his life or help him find T.A., he needed to find a way to remain inside the park as long as possible. Lick hadn’t showed up in the parking lot for the 10:00 p.m. check-in, and Cody was starting to worry.

  And, his third thought was, what to do about Chrisantha, who was already misinterpreting his
intentions?

  “Sure,” he said.

  He trailed her down a hallway with rooms named after jungle animals: Lion, Tiger, Leopard, Panther, Cheetah, Jaguar. She stopped in front of the Ocelot room and inserted the plastic card. The green light flashed. Into the den they entered.

  “Vould you get me a drink, please,” she asked. “Vodka, ice.” Cody began to fiddle with the ice bucket. “Chrisantha, I’ve got a big problem and I either need to tell you about it or ask you to leave. I’m not who I am. Or who I seem to be,” he said, turning back toward her.

  “So?” she said.

  “I mean, I’m not this rich guy that you think I am.”

  “So?”

  “You think I have money, right? I don’t.”

  “I’ve already been paid. I don’t care,” she responded.

  “No, not that you want money, I don’t— What I mean is, I’m not even here for the hunt. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

  “So?”

  “Well, so you can leave. I have things I have to do.”

  “You have my drink.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Countdowns,” she said, “I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re rich. I don’t care if you have things you have to do. I don’t care if you’re not Countdowns.”

  “What do you care about?” he asked, like a mastodon sliding into La Brea.

  “You. You are a man. You look like a man, you feel like a man, you smell like a man, and I need . . . a man . . . right now.”

  He was starting to say something when she hooked her thumbs on the sides of her freshly unbuttoned suit jacket, swept them apart, and placed both her hands on her hips. The fluid motion was the equivalent of Superman spreading his cape and baring his S.

  Cody was caught in the headlights.