Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  Albert was an outdoorsman, a junior like herself, and they established a comfortable relationship. It centered around hunting seasons, the movies, school functions, and some fairly innocent making out. But secretly, selfishly, she was aware that being with Albert solved her Spiral problem.

  Pica never shunned Spiral or refused to say hello; she just avoided any possibility of close encounters. That was how their relationship stayed until they all graduated high school, and Spiral went off to the University of Calgary.

  Albert’s romantic drive outgrew Pica’s, and they split amiably. He subsequently married and now had two children.

  She had not thought of Spiral or Albert since graduation. But apparently, as she sat in the cab of the Heaven’s Helper rendering truck, pressed against the passenger door listening to Spiral Keets pour out his deepest feelings, the torch he carried for her still burned brightly. All she could think of was that Spiral needed psychiatric help!

  She began to feel vulnerable.

  “This is too much,” Spiral was saying, halfway to himself, as they drove on eastward. Highway 2 was dry. The sky was overcast, and snow covered the country on both sides of the road.

  “It’s not a coincidence that we have been reunited after all this time . . .” he rambled on in this vein as Pica weighed her options.

  She thought about telling him she was married, had kids, was with the FBI, was an escaped felon (which was actually closer to the truth), had become a nun, was with the Canadian Game and Fish Department, or even had a dreadful contagious disease. But she was not a good liar or actress. She usually chose direct action as her modus operandi.

  “Can I borrow your cell phone?” she asked Spiral.

  “It’s not working,” he said. “I tried earlier. The battery’s dead. No charger in the rig here.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Spiral, would you mind pulling off the road for a minute?”

  He looked at her with concern. “Are you all right, Pamyka?”

  “Pah-my-ka?” she asked.

  He looked at her with the tiniest embarrassment. “It’s my pet name for you. How I think of you in my heart and mind. Pah-my-ka, as in ‘My Own Pamyka.’”

  “Oh,” she said. “I just need to get out for a minute.”

  “Sure!” he said. “Nature calls. I understand. How ’bout this bunch of trees here, hey? You go first, ladies first and all, ya know.”

  She did and returned to the truck and climbed inside.

  He excused himself and walked into the edge of the copse humming “Pincher Creek Wrangler” from one of Ian Tyson’s albums.

  When Pica could see his backside amongst the tree trunks, she slid behind the steering wheel, quietly put the gearshift into second, and hijacked the rendering truck!

  Sixteen miles to Cut Bank, the coldest spot in America, according to the Talking Penguin that served as the town’s statue. She had her foot to the floor and was doing 65 mph! The heavy metal bed banged and rattled, the engine roared, the tires sang a heavy drone, and wind whistled through the leaky windows.

  Four cars headed west passed her as she raced across the Blackfeet Reservation. Approaching Cut Bank she watched for a large parking lot. IGA and Albertson’s side by side loomed on her left. She pulled in between them and parked on the fringe.

  It would be unkind to take the keys, she thought. So she didn’t.

  Now what?

  A handsome blonde woman strode out of Albertson’s automatic doors marked Exit. She looked at the high clouds and light blue sky that formed the winter’s roof on the Hi Line. Then pulled her fur-lined jacket closed around her neck against the twenty-degree weather. As she cut across the striped lines she noticed a warmly dressed woman wearing a small backpack staring at the rear of the blonde’s two-month-old riptide-blue Cadillac Escalade four-wheel-drive SUV with the pewter interior.

  There was a sticker on the back window that read LCA Wild Animal Sanctuary.

  The blonde punched the electronic key that she held in her gloved hand. The taillight blinked just as she said, “Can I help you?”

  Pica jumped in surprise. She turned and looked at the blonde woman, who was a couple of inches taller than she. “I . . . I . . .” Pica stammered. “Your plates . . . your license plates are Nevada.”

  “Yes,” said the blonde. “I know.”

  “I’m thinking of going there myself,” said Pica, looking meekly up into the blonde woman’s face. Pica noticed that the woman was older than she was, but her hair was a sparkling blonde.

  She had very few wrinkles, but what was most unusual was that she had one blue eye and one brown. Also that her fur coat was very expensive.

  “Blue sable,” said Pica, refurring (sorry) to the collar on the woman’s coat.

  “That’s right. Why Nevada?” asked the blonde.

  Pica paused, then replied, “It’s personal.”

  “A man?” the blonde asked.

  Pica didn’t yea or nay.

  “Leaving or chasing?” asked the blonde matter-of-factly.

  Pica, who had not met the woman’s gaze, looked up at her. “Both,” she said.

  It wasn’t a lie, Pica rationalized. She was being chased by Spiral, and was she really looking for Cooney? Maybe she was.

  The blonde woman relaxed her shoulders and studied Pica. Then she reached out and gently pulled the cap’s ear flap, coat collar, and string of reddish-blonde hair back from Pica’s face. The fresh scrape across her cheekbone and left eyebrow looked black against the cold, pale, freckled skin.

  Pica said, “I fell off a truck.”

  “Sure ya did, Honey,” said the blonde. “Sure ya did.”

  Just then a high-wheeled four-by-four with big mud and snow tires and a deer guard across the front bumper wheeled into the parking lot off Main Street! It slowed, then sped up in the direction of the Heaven’s Helper one-ton rendering truck.

  Pica turned quickly and saw Spiral’s long face through the passenger-side window. He was leaned forward and pointing to his truck!

  “That’s him!” Pica said with fear in her voice.

  The blonde took Pica firmly by the elbow, opened the back door, and pushed her in. “Stay down,” she said.

  The blonde stood by the driver’s door, fumbling her keys as she tried to get a look at the man who had scared the girl.

  Spiral jumped out of the high-wheel pickup and advanced on his ugly one-ton. He opened the door, looked in, then made a complete circle of the vehicle checking in the dump bed, between the frame, and under the hood. Satisfied, he looked around the parking lot, noted that none of the shoppers was Pica, and advanced on Albertson’s.

  The blonde slid under the steering wheel, started the car, and pulled out of the parking lot. She reached back and patted her passenger. Pica sat up.

  The blonde spoke to Pica’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. “I’m Teddie Arizona. Who are you?”

  CHAPTER 56

  December 8, 9:32 a.m.

  Innercom Hotel, Las Vegas

  The ringing phone woke Oui Oui. She pushed the black velvet eye mask back on her golden brown locks and reached for the bedside telephone. She placed the receiver to her ear and said, “File, I’ve told you . . .”

  “Perdon, Senorita,” said a man with a Spanish accent. “It iss not that. It iss me, Feliz, Feliz de Barbados, de Senor Huachuca.”

  “Feliz?” she said, sitting up against the headboard. “Is Three all right? He’s not hurt or . . .”

  “No, no, Senorita. He iss muy fino. Pero, he hass sent me on to here to help watch for you. I mean, cuida a su . . . su seguridad. He hass write a note for you to get from me. So I am here at the hotel, bajado, es waiting for you. I haf come from the airplane this mornin’ from Miami.”

  “Feliz, can you, do you mind waiting for a
few minutes, let me get dressed? I’ll meet you by the reception desk at,” she looked at the clock, “ten o’clock, please.”

  “Bueno, Senorita. A las diez.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Adios.”

  She thought about calling File immediately but then realized she would have to explain more to him about the Caribbean trip she’d made last September than she had so far. I’ll talk to Feliz first, see what’s up, she decided.

  At the appointed time Oui Oui walked up to a slender, handsome Latino wearing a cheap suit, straw fedora, and wing-tip loafers. He had a rather prominent bump on the bridge of his nose and a well-kept mustache.

  She was wearing a baseball cap, tennis shoes, tight jeans, and a loose, long-sleeve sweatshirt. “Follow me,” she said. Soon they were seated in an obscure booth in the back of one of the show bars. The stage was empty this time of the morning.

  She was reading the letter that Feliz had delivered. It read:

  My little cappuccino, mi leona feroz,

  I am sending Feliz with the message. I have heard through the grape juice that a certain well-known expert de plumas, de feathers, from the Chunited States iss askin’ about a certain person who was captured in the aeropuerto de Miami with the goods.

  Mi espia, my espy is tellin’ me that the liddle mule, the little burrita, she is knowing that you recibio un paquete, a certain package hand-delivered to your door.

  How does she know? Sometimes it iss that the espys are working two ways. It is jus’ business. But she has connected you to the, the giffs. So, este es un aviso, a warning to be on the outlook. This ragamuffler could be seeking your position in order to do you harm. I am worried for you. Entonces I am leaving Feliz to stay with you, for your safety. I was lookin’ on the Internet and Gugled you and know where you are this week, which iss why Feliz is there.

  With much confection.

  Oui Oui looked up from the computer printout page. “Do you know what this is about?” she asked Feliz.

  “Maybe some things, but not other things,” answered Feliz. “El Jefe dice que that I should take the letter back after you read it, and he wants for me to stay in the hotel room next to you and to guard your body.”

  “I think I will keep this,” said Oui Oui, looking at the letter.

  “No,” said Feliz. She looked up, leveling her low-browed, threatening look that normally scared the hired help. Her lips froze where they parted when she saw his expression. His deep eyes drilled her, demanding undivided attention. She could see the angle of his jaw close slowly as his eyes became slightly opaque. It was Al Pacino as the Godfather taking the measure of a man. “Do not ask me to disobey El Senor Huachuca . . . effer.”

  She gathered up her wits quickly. “Sure. Sure, Feliz. It’s just that we’re so . . .”

  The stare of Feliz did not change. It was deadpan. He did not release her eyes.

  “Right,” she said, taking a deep breath and handing him the piece of paper. “Right on.”

  Ten minutes later back in her room Feliz was watching Oui Oui explain the story to File: “So that’s it. Somehow my Caribbean source found out that Pica knows, or at least suspects that we are somehow involved in framing her for smuggling. I don’t know how she could think that! I mean, as well as we’ve treated her, tried to help her, before we framed her, I mean. I was beginning to feel like her big sister. I tried to give her tips on foundation, skin care, her heels . . . her heels were so hard, scuffed, like the bottom of a dog’s foot.”

  “I know, Baby,” said File, “but now is now. You know what they say: No good deed goes unpunctured. Are you thinking she might actually be coming down here . . . to Las Vegas . . . to ruin your debut tomorrow night? It can’t be. I’ve got two—two, mind you—two agents from Hollywood that are coming to that party.”

  “Oh, I don’t know what . . .” then she stopped herself. “File. That girl is not going to ruin my party! Feliz is here. He is going to move into your room next door.”

  “Well, where am I . . .” he said.

  “We’ll find something.” She went on, ignoring his interruption. “We don’t know if she will be trying to catch me in the hotel room or at the rodeo or shoot me or arrest me or what.”

  “We don’t know if she is actually coming here,” said File. “She may suspect something, but remember, she is confined to her family ranch in Canada, by law. Do you think she’d break the law?”

  “Not a doubt that she’d break it,” said Oui Oui. “You could make a telemarketer phone call and say . . . no, no . . . I’ll make the call. You still have her cell phone number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dial it,” she ordered. He did and handed his phone to her.

  She listened to the message, and hung up. “See if you can find the number at her home ranch. Ask Straight. He might know.

  “Right now we are going to be on full alert. You can go down to the booth this afternoon. I’ll wait here. Feliz can keep an eye out for suspicious activities. I’ll bet you still have some promo photos of Grimy Girl. Give one to Feliz so he can know who to look for.”

  “If she shows up,” said File, “she won’t recognize Feliz. She might not even know that I am involved. Do you think she would use violence?”

  Oui Oui pondered. “Yes. I believe she would. She is an outdoors person, good with a gun, a hunting knife, stalking in the woods. The use of physical force would not be out of the question. Regardless, I think it is me she is after. We will just make a point for one of you two gentlemen to be with me at all times . . . at least ’til tomorrow night is over.

  “Feliz, you may get moved in if you wish. File, see if we can get a sense of whether Pica-Smyka is still in Alberta or absent without leave. Now, if you two will excuse me, I am going back to bed.”

  CHAPTER 57

  December 8, Thursday, Midday

  On Interstate 15 in Montana,

  In Teddie Arizona’s Car

  Teddie Arizona exited the Albertson’s parking lot and drove east out of town headed toward Interstate 15. “Are you hungry?” she asked the still-prone body in her back seat. There was no response. Pica had fallen asleep.

  They reached Shelby, where Teddie Arizona stopped at a convenience store, gassed up, and got coffee. There she picked up Interstate 15 and headed south. Somewhere between Shelby and Great Falls, Pica stirred and woke.

  “Mornin’, Sunshine,” said Teddie.

  Pica groaned.

  Teddie didn’t say much for the next few minutes. She let Pica come awake on her own. When Pica did, she dug her cell phone out of her shirt pocket and checked the messages. The first was from Cooney, who gave her the hotel and room number in Las Vegas of Oui Oui Reese. The second was a call whose phone number she thought she recognized—File Blitzer. That call was a hang-up. There were six calls from her dad.

  Pica had deliberately refused to make any calls on her cell phone. She wasn’t really knowledgeable about the technical abilities of cell phones. Could people trace her calls if they were eavesdropping on Cooney or File or Straight? She chose to remain cybersilent. She was on her way to Las Vegas, wasn’t she?

  It was the day of the eighth performance of the National Finals Rodeo.

  The lady who had given her a ride was still headed south, Pica guessed by the sky.

  Finally Pica spoke: “Thank you for helping me.”

  “It’s nothin’, Darlin,’” said Teddie. “Violent men are like a D-Con truffle in a box of candy. Anywhere is better than where they are. I hope you didn’t leave any children behind.”

  “No. I’m not even married,” offered Pica.

  “Well, good, I guess,” sighed Teddie. “Have you ever come close?”

  “Not really,” said Pica. “I’ve got one now that is really confusing me. I’ve only even kissed him!”

  �
��Yer kidding me!” said Teddie. “You don’t even know how he is in the sack, and he’s got you all a-dither!”

  “I’m all a-dither, as you say, about a lot more things than him.”

  “Ah,” said Teddie. “Yer not pregnant, are you?”

  “No. No chance really,” said Pica.

  “You mean with him . . . or with anybody?” Teddie asked.

  “I’ve never been ‘officially’ all the way with anybody,” said Pica.

  Teddie Arizona took all this in and puzzled on it.

  “So,” Teddie said, changing the subject, “you say you are heading for Nevada?”

  “Did I?” Pica asked. “I guess I am.”

  “Someplace in particular?” asked Teddie.

  “Las Vegas,” said Pica.

  “Ah,” said Teddie. “Las Vegas. Sin City, the place of dreams, the home of magic, alcoholism, and the National Finals Rodeo!”

  Pica remained still.

  “Almost twenty years ago I had a ride with a cowboy,” mused Teddie Arizona. “I had a bad marriage and tried to escape it and . . . well. I guess that cowboy saved my life. He actually asked me to marry him. I didn’t. I was mixed up, so was he. It never would have worked, but I believe I was truly in love. But betting on him was like betting on a crippled horse.

  “I came into a lot of money, built a wildlife sanctuary . . .”

  “I saw the sticker on your back window,” said Pica.

  “Yeah, the LCA . . . stands for ‘Lick, Cody, and Al.’”

  “‘Lick’?” puzzled Pica. “I’ve heard of a Lick, Lick Davis, cowboy poet. He’s been to . . .” Pica started to say “Pincher Creek,” then stopped herself. She was an escaped criminal in the eyes of the law. Zip yer lip, Darlin’, she said to herself.

  “Yep, that was him,” said Teddie. “When I knew him he wasn’t famous. He was just a burnt-out cowboy on a winter camp in Idaho. Anyway,” she said, “our paths crossed. We had a close relationship, but neither of us was very stable. He finally got his act together, took a job with a veterinary drug company, and started doing cowboy poetry.