Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  “On a side note, the girl that has taken your place in the LIP LASTER booth created a scene tonight at the sponsor’s party. I hate to wish anyone bad luck, but it was so hilarious!” Cooney started to laugh.

  “Well, I don’t know her,” said Pica, “but I remember I had several pie-in-the-face moments when I first started with OTT. That queens banquet I did in Greeley. OTT even hired a woman who had tried to make me more, like, sophisticated. It was awful. And I didn’t even know I was humiliating myself ’til afterwards. So, I feel sorry for her. Oui Oui Reese, right?”

  “Yup,” said Cooney. “Oui Oui got some kind of bugs or stinging nettle in her fancy bikini top, and she couldn’t have broke the party up more if she’d yelled ‘Fire!’

  “Any word from the lawyers about your court date?”

  “No, except that it won’t be anytime soon. It’s an international crime . . . Gosh, I can’t believe I said that. I’m an international criminal.”

  “Don’t think like that, Pica,” said Cooney. “You’re not guilty. You know that, and so do I. And there’s probably lots of folks who know you who know you couldn’t have done it.”

  “Yeah, but, the, like, you know, the press. They keep trying to get interviews. There’s even photographers who have come down and hid out trying to get pictures of me. They found one in an old hunting magazine of me in camp sharpening my hunting knife. It was on the front page of a national rag, hey, a gossip magazine,” Pica took a breath.

  “Don’t let it get to ya. You didn’t do it! And we are going to prove it. So, remember that,” said Cooney with force. “And there’s one other thing that you should remember.”

  “There is?” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  She waited. He spoke not.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  “Uumm,” he said. “I, uh, I just want you to know, you don’t owe me anything for this.”

  She literally held the telephone receiver away from herself and looked at it quizzically.

  Should I invite him to call collect next time? she thought.

  CHAPTER 41

  October 18, Tuesday

  Denver, Colorado, Meeting at OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS Headquarters, Denver Tech Center, 10th Floor

  Turk Manniquin sat at the end of a long conference table wearing a custom-tailored Italian suit made by Caraceni in silver-blue with sleek black lapels. It went well with his Calvin Klein eggshell-colored turtleneck and silver Gucci loafers with black tassels. His black bald pate reflected the ceiling lights. He wore no bling. He was pushed back from the table in a large padded-leather office chair with leopard-skin seat. The other chairs were similarly made but with a zebra pattern.

  He was tapping a yellow pencil against his cheek, thinking.

  To Turk’s right side at the table sat Nova Skosha, in her black bobbed hair and black pants suit. The only appurtenance to her austere attire was a soup spoon–size seashell inlaid with turquoise hanging around her neck. Beside her in the next chair File Blitzer waited subserviently, as a vassal awaits his liege.

  “Well,” began Turk, “we need to make some decisions about our LIP LASTER COWBOY KISSES campaign. It has certainly taken a detour from our original intent. Our two stars have dimmed. One is under indictment, and the other appears to have lost his spark.

  “But in their place we now have a spokesperson that appeals to the eighteen- to twenty-year-old testosterone burners. That’s a far cry from the metrosexuals, male and female, that we set out to reach.

  “I’m not complaining. The initial product made a big splash in sales with national attention, following Pica’s bronc ride and the feminist tour that ensued. Unfortunately, sales dropped like a rock after her arrest. Oui Oui’s commercials have stopped the decline. Sales aren’t climbing yet, but at least they’ve stopped falling.”

  Turk looked around the table. His staff waited respectfully to ensure that he was finished talking.

  “It’s significant that the demographics have changed since Oui Oui got on board,” said File. “The last survey indicates our new base follows professional wrestling, martial arts, and X-Box more than rodeo.”

  “Not exactly the more sophisticated GQ, Outdoor magazine type we aspired to reach,” observed Turk, “but is it a bad thing to now be competing with Budweiser and Colt 45 for the attention of our redneck homeboys? Nova, what do you think?”

  “Are they mutually exclusive?” she posited. “Does it have to be one or the other? One of the risks we ran marketingwise was to use real athletes as spokespersons. Granted, our rodeo stars do not have the broad celebrity appeal of Tiger Woods or A-Rod, they were not in our budget, but Straight and Pica have the cred of authenticity. And for a moment there it looked like we had struck gold with Pica. But any team owner who’s had a player arrested, accused, and convicted of drug use or dog fighting or philandering knows that sometimes you choose wrong.

  “We could have started with actors playing cowboys. It’s easier. They aren’t real people. If they get caught in some mischief, we just hire another actor. Just run a new Marlboro man into the game. But it’s safer.

  “If you recall, Pica just sorta came along. Fell into our laps and made us set up and take a good look! More than any of us expected. I think she would have achieved considerable notoriety, good notoriety, if . . .” Nova paused. “I know we’ve hashed this over a million times in the last few weeks, but I still can’t believe she planned the smuggling. It’s just so out of character with the fairly innocent, or at least naive, girl that I spent so much time with.”

  “File,” asked Turk, “what do you think about the whole LIP LASTER COWBOY KISSES marketing campaign as it stands today?”

  “Well, Boss,” started File, “personally I’d say it’s time to move on. Kiss the cowboys goodbye. Put Oui Oui in a bigger venue. There’s nothing wrong with the professional wrestling. They always rank high in the cable ratings. Set up a booth at the NASCAR track. Let Oui Oui pour wine on the winner’s head, pose in front of muscle cars, put LIP LASTER on Kyle’s lips. Instead of COWBOY KISSES it could be NASCAR KISSES, maybe a tie in with NASA, call it LIP BLASTERS, or get the drywallers’ endorsement, LIP PLASTERS, or the fishing show LIP CASTERS, or the PGA LIP MASTERS TOURNAMENT, the ecumenical council LIP PASTORS; we could sponsor a hunger strike, promote LIP FASTERS, but I think I’d start with the WWF, the World Wrestling Federation. Call it LIP RASSLERS.”

  File saw that Turk was having trouble digesting his radical solution, so he hedged it by saying, “Of course, I know we saw something in the rodeo setting that we liked,” he said, changing his tack, sucking up to Turk because COWBOY KISSES was Turk’s personal idea. “If we feel the need to continue with the rodeo theme, at least through the national finals, we could promote some spectacular finale, an awards ceremony where Oui Oui mounts . . .”

  The top bulldogger, thought Nova.

  “. . . a stallion and rides around the arena,” File continued, “or she sings the national anthem wearing sort of a Wonder Woman suit, maybe a cape, with lots of fireworks . . .”

  They talked for another hour, tossing out scenarios, molding, discarding, assembling, and finally came up with a game plan. Turk summarized: “Pica’s out. Even if she didn’t do it, she’s finished. Tarnished, I’m sorry to say. I thought she had what it took.

  “Straight’s probably not going to make the finals. Only a month away. If he makes it, his presence in the booth might draw a few more fans, but if he doesn’t . . . we won’t need him in the booth. Nova, I’ll give you the dirty job of telling him.

  “So it looks like Oui Oui is going to be our big attraction at the finals,” concluded Turk. “She’s here in Denver, isn’t she, File?”

  “Yessir,” File replied, rigid with glee.

  “Why don’t you and she give some thought about how we can use her best in the
rodeo venue,” said Turk. “Then both of you come here to the office at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll consider our options.”

  File departed to dispense the good news to Oui Oui. Nova Skosha lingered. “Turk,” she asked, “do you think that Pica really smuggled those feathers into the country?”

  Turk shook his head noncommittally. “Truth . . . I just don’t know. Our lawyers did some deep diggin’. Seems our sweet little bronc rider shot a guy one time. On a hunting trip. There was an inquiry, but she was a juvenile, so the records are not public. It had to do with a mountain lion or grizzly bear . . . anyway, protected animals were involved.” He sighed, “She was hard to read.”

  “That she was,” agreed Nova. But in her mind she was beginning to have some doubt.

  Nova had a dirty job to do. She’d done dirty jobs before, and putting them off did not make them easier. Straight had come to Denver to coordinate schedules. He was staying nearby with Cooney. She called him at his hotel and invited herself to lunch.

  “So, with Pica being out of it and you not making the finals, it kind of leaves a big hole in the ‘real athlete’ endorsement campaign.”

  “There’s still a chance I’ll make the cut,” Straight reminded her.

  “Believe me, if you make the finals, we want you in the booth, for sure,” encouraged Nova. “But in case, Turk want to be prepared to take another direction.”

  Neither ate much. Straight said, “Nova, I think there’s something going on with Pica. I’m convinced she was framed, or a professional smuggler used her as an innocent mule.”

  “What do you mean, ‘framed’?” asked Nova.

  “If she is innocent and it wasn’t a professional criminal, then it had to be someone who wanted to hurt Pica. Or at least get her out of the way. Maybe somebody who wanted.” Straight paused for effect, “. . . her job.”

  Nova’s eyes narrowed, “You mean . . .?”

  “I can only say that I’ve accidentally eavesdropped a little and heard some suspicious talk.”

  CHAPTER 42

  October 19

  On Highway 90

  between Houston and Beaumont

  Cooney and Straight had spent the night in a motel near the Denver airport after the OTT meeting going over their itinerary. Their main goal was to qualify Straight for the National Finals Rodeo.

  During the previous two weeks, Straight had ridden Klackamas Jack and won enough to stay in contention for qualifying. He and Cooney had contested at the Silver Spurs Rodeo in Kissimmee, Florida, the Heart O’ Texas Fair and Rodeo in Waco, and the NILE ProRodeo in Billings, Montana.

  They were hot. Cooney was locked in a tight three-man race for second place in the saddle bronc with winnings to date, all within $2,000 of each other, close to $100,000. He was also in solid second in the bull riding at $120,775.

  Straight had won money in both Waco and Billings. Enough to bring him within $1,700 of the saddle bronc rider in fifteenth place, a rookie from Utah.

  Two weeks of rodeos remained. By stretching it they could fly Denver to Houston to do the Trinity Valley Exposition in Liberty, Texas, on October 19, fly Houston to Denver to Rapid City on October 20, fly Rapid City to Denver to do the Fort Collins Qualifier at the Fort on October 21, then fly Denver to Medford, connecting in Portland, on Sunday morning to ride in the Wild Rogue Pro Rodeo in Central Point, Oregon.

  It was a killer schedule: Wednesday through Sunday, 6,000 miles, $2,500 each airfare, not counting hotels, rental cars, and entry fees. It left Straight little time to work the LIP LASTER booth that first weekend. File didn’t seem to mind.

  They pulled out of Houston’s George Bush International Airport on Road 1960 headed east toward Liberty. Straight had told Cooney about OTT’s intentions to drop his sponsorship if he did not qualify for the finals. That goal lay beneath all the other conversations.

  “Anything new with Pica?” asked Straight after they got out of heavy traffic.

  “She’s supposed to be diggin’ into the smuggling business. Maybe give us a clue where to turn. You remember when you told me that Oui Oui and File were talkin’ trash about Pica? We need to be following up on them. ’Cause they sure got motive. Making her a star.”

  “I agree,” said Straight. “I’ve been thinking: If those two are in cahoots, then they had to somehow buy those feathers from the poachers and hide them in her suitcase. How would someone know what kind of endangered stuff they would need and then where to get it?”

  “I can’t get my mind around it,” said Cooney, “and we’re too dang busy right now to.”

  “I know,” said Straight, “and Pica’s sittin’ up there by herself.”

  “I’m stayin’ in touch with her,” said Cooney. “She’s all right, right now. It’s just that she has to wait for the lawyers to do their stuff. They are supposed to be looking into the source of the contraband.”

  “I’ve got a good feeling we’ll get her out of the mess,” said Straight. “Just like we’ll get through this wild week.”

  “Are ya ready?” asked Cooney.

  “I am,” said Straight with certainty. “I am.”

  Straight’s future hangs in the balance, as does Pica’s. Of our three heroes, only Cooney has the odds on his side. If this were a movie, the scene would be a rear-view shot of the big Dodge pickup with a camper shell headin’ down the road toward a fuzzy blue-sky Texas horizon with an old Garth Brooks/Chris Ladoux rodeo song sailing in their slipstream and broken notes dancing in the bronc rider’s backwash.

  Like Willy says, “On the road again!”

  CHAPTER 43

  November 15, Tuesday, Five Weeks Later

  On the Road to Alberta

  Straight was driving. The big Dodge long-bed with a Capri camper shell was a popular rig with the cowboys. The Capri had room to sleep and to hang your clothes.

  The previous forty-eight hours had been rough for our Buffalo, Alberta, bronc rider. Not qualifying for the NFR, being informed by OTT that he would not be needed in the booth in Las Vegas, and now dreading his brother’s expected insincere sympathies, to wit: “Gosh, Straight, I’m really sorry you’re not good enough at the stupid sport of rodeo to even make fifteenth place. Maybe you could deliver propane for UFA or get on the Provincial Motor Vehicle Bureau, something that doesn’t demand much and has a good retirement plan.”

  Our two heroes were headed north out of Great Falls, Montana, on Interstate 15. Straight was in the “cowboy up” mode. Stoic acceptance of his setbacks. His indigestion was acting up, nagging him to periodically pop an antacid. The sky was bleak, a bluish-white washed-out ceiling pressing down on a vast doormat of earth the color of the bottom of a shoe.

  Cooney was sensitive to the fragile tension within the cab. He himself had qualified for the NFR in both broncs and bulls. That, in itself, generated a leg-shaking nervous buzz, but in addition, Pica had invited him along on a five-day hunting trip with her family. He had not seen her since he had paid her the surprise visit.

  “You want another piece of chicken?” asked Cooney.

  “No, thanks. I’m good,” said Straight.

  “Yeah, you are,” said Cooney.

  “What?” asked Straight.

  “Good,” said Cooney. “You are good. You’re a good man, a good friend, and . . . a good bronc rider.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Straight sarcastically. “Didn’t even . . .”

  “. . . Made the finals five years runnin’,” interrupted Cooney. “Won it all one year, taught me how to ride better.”

  Neither spoke for half a minute.

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” said Straight. He had actually placed sixteenth in the total annual winnings, $2,100 out of qualifying. His dream of “endorsement” income had gone up in smoke. Until it happened he hadn’t realized how important it was to his self-esteem.
He was a man with a plan . . . he had it all worked out.

  “My life plan hit a brick wall,” he mused and kinda laughed. “A big brick wall. I must have taken my eye off the ball.”

  “Why don’t you come with me to Pincher Creek? I’m sure they can squeeze in one more,” said Cooney.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to go home and face the music, see the folks,” answered Straight.

  “Maybe Brother Lard Butt won’t be there,” said Cooney.

  “Oh, he’ll be there all right. He wouldn’t miss this for anything,” said Straight.

  “You can handle him,” said Cooney. “Just take ’em all out to dinner, pick up the tab. See if he offers to get the tip! Practice forgiveness and mercy to all that offend.”

  “What?” said Straight.

  “Forgiveness and mercy to all that offend. A Bible quote, I think,” Cooney repeated.

  “Where’d you come up with that?” asked Straight.

  “My old Sunday School teacher,” Cooney explained. “There was this kid. He was on the high school rodeo team. He left some anonymous notes to Miss King, the new computer teacher, and signed my name. They were pretty graphic. He even tried to imitate my handwriting. It was good enough to get me in trouble. I got suspended. Shook me up!”

  “I’ll bet,” said Straight.

  “I explained to Miss King that it wasn’t me, but I couldn’t prove anything. All I knew was I didn’t do it, and I was pretty sure who did. It was eating me up. So Mr. Blair, my Sunday School teacher, had a talk with me. He told me, ‘Practice forgiveness and mercy to all that offend.’

  “The heart of the matter was the guy who sent the notes knew I didn’t do it. I knew I didn’t do it. And God knew I didn’t do it. And no one else mattered.”

  “And you believed it?” asked Straight.