by Ray Hoy
I held out her coat. “C’mon, lady, we have some shopping to do.”
“Shopping? What are we shopping for?”
“We’re going to find you a horse,” I said.
“Are you serious?”
“I am, indeed. The doctor said it’s okay.” A small smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.
I helped Felicia into the Jag, then stood there worried while Ripper jumped in. She gathered him in her arms and moved him around until they were both comfortable. She saw my worried look and said, “Jack, it’s fine, really. I’m not breakable. Seriously, it’s fine.”
I wasn’t convinced, but I reluctantly got in behind the wheel and started the engine. “Okay then. Let’s go find you a horse,” I said.
The doctor’s receptionist had told me of a stable located just outside of town. I found it without too much difficulty.
We walked through the corral, looking at horses. She didn’t want one too big. “About fifteen hands high,” she said, “and not too wide. It’s too uncomfortable straddling it.”
With a little gasp, she grabbed my arm and pointed toward a gray gelding. “Oh, Jack, look at that one!” She walked around him, patting his flanks as she went.
“Do you like him?” I said.
“I love him!”
“He’s yours.”
She looked worried. “How long is the lease?” she said, a worried look on her face. “Won’t it be awfully expensive?”
I laughed. “Lease? Will I have to come up with first, last and a security deposit?”
She laughed along with me.
“You don’t have to sign a lease when you buy a horse,” I said.
The most beautiful, pleased expression spread over her face. “Buy him, Jack?”
Jane Withers, the woman who ran the stable, was a healthy looking gal about forty-five years old. She went six-two or so, and maybe one-hundred-eighty pounds, mostly muscle. She looked like she could kill a mountain lion, yet somehow she came across feminine. I liked her.
“Fifteen-hundred,” she said.
“Sold,” I said.
“You’re a real horse-trader, partner,” she said with a jovial laugh.
I laughed. “Yeah, right, that would be me.” I counted out the money. She gave me a receipt, and we made boarding arrangements.
I watched Felicia mount up. She sat in the saddle for a moment, looking down at me. “Jack, I just don’t know what to say.”
“‘Giddyup’ is good. That works in the movies.”
She gave me a smile of pure joy. “Jack, thank you. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
“Believe me, it is my pleasure.” I found myself smiling. What an understatement! Hell, I felt thirty feet tall!
“I’m going to call him ‘Traveler’ after General Lee’s horse.”
I laughed. “Sounds good to me, and very historic. Take Ripper with you. He needs the exercise. I’ll come back for you in say, an hour?”
“That sounds wonderful. I’ll see you in an hour.”
* * *
The days stretched into weeks. Felicia spent every available minute riding in the hills, Ripper trotting happily alongside Traveler. The hills offered her the escape she needed—the time to be alone with their child.
Then, one evening as we sat in front of the fire, she turned to me and said with a big smile, “Let’s go buy a Christmas tree, Jack.”
I was genuinely stunned. “Is it December already?”
She laughed. “Yes! It’s December 10th, in fact.”
“Won’t the tree be dried out by Christmas?”
“If that happens we’ll get another one. Don’t be such an old Scrooge, Jack Frost. Why, your name alone should give you some kind of Christmas spirit!”
So we went out and found a Christmas tree. We brought it back to the little cabin, strapped to the chrome luggage rack on the back of the Jaguar. It was a snow-covered monster, nearly covering the car. I was soaked with perspiration by the time I wrestled it into the little cabin and got it mounted in the Christmas tree stand.
We spent the evening decorating our prize, and afterward, in the glow of Christmas tree lights, we toasted each other.
She noted curiously the way Christmas music made me melancholy, but she did not tease me about it, or even comment on it for that matter. She simply accepted it.
* * *
“Just a few more days until Christmas. Let’s have dinner out some place on Christmas Day,” I said.
“No, Jack, let’s have dinner here.”
“Why bother when there’s just the two of us?”
“Three of us,” she corrected, patting her belly. “No, four of us!” She pointed toward Ripper, snoozing in front of the fireplace. “And I want to make dinner.”
We were in and out of the cabin to the grocery store God knows how many times during those last few days before Christmas. I’d have sworn she intended to feed an entire army, instead of just the two . . . four of us.
On Christmas day, it was all there: turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, pumpkin pie, and hot coffee—and it was delicious. Afterward, I groaned. “My stomach feels like yours looks,” I said.
She laughed. “Jack! Be nice!”
“Be nice! Listen to you! You love it!”
She smiled, her face softening. “Oh yes, I do love it.”
We opened our gifts after dinner. She handed me a small package, a shy look on her face. “It’s not much,” she said, “but I hope you like it.”
I felt immensely pleased, even before I opened the package. Somehow I knew it was something that she had made for me.
It was a necklace, made from an arrowhead that she had found along the trail. “It’s beautiful,” I said, meaning it. I could see the relief on her face. I put it on.
“Oh my,” she said, “that really looks good on you!”
I walked to a mirror and admired it. The most curious feeling swept through me. “No one ever made anything for me before,” I said, and even I was surprised at how my voice sounded.
I glanced at her reflection in the mirror, and saw tears spring into her eyes. Clearing my throat quickly, I walked to the closet and withdrew a long rectangular box and offered it to her.
“Oh, Jack!” she said, as she unwrapped the package. She lifted the guitar out of the box, making little “Oooo’ing” and “Ahhh’ing” sounds. You would have sworn I had given her diamonds.
“But how did you know I wanted a guitar?”
“I saw you looking at it when we were shopping.”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me, a happy, solid, sisterly kiss. “Thank you, Jack. Merry Christmas.”
I stood there, my knees weak, unable to catch my breath. “Merry Christmas, Felicia.” I leaned down, picked up a package with Ripper’s name on it, and handed it to her. “Open this for the ugly dog, will you?”
She laughed. “What is it?”
“Something he’ll just love you for.”
She opened it, and looked at me, puzzled. “Scotch? Won’t that hurt him?”
“It will actually turn him into a nice guy.”
Ripper stood at full attention, eyes bright, trying to wag that stubby tail. He watched intently as Felicia poured some Scotch into a pan. He lapped it up, stopping from time to time to look up at us with a toothy smile. Felicia sat on the floor, fascinated, legs drawn up to her chin, hugging her knees.
Ripper proceeded to get roaring drunk and make a total ass of himself, as drunks have a tendency to do. When he finally reeled off into the corner and flopped down to sleep it off, we sat there, grinning at each other.
“You have quite a dog, Mr. Frost,” Felicia said.
“Scotch is his only weakness. He turns up his nose at any other kind of booze. Has to be Scotch.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I continued: “In an ugly little jungle war somewhere, Ripper and I stumbled across a group of four dead ‘advisors’ who had walked into an ambush. I lifted a bottle of Sco
tch from a guy who wouldn’t be needing it any more. That night, I poured myself a shooter, and just for the hell of it offered some to Ripper. He took one sniff, then gave me a look that could only be interpreted as appreciation, or something close to it. He lapped it up like it was pure spring water. Out of the entire bottle, I had just two jolts.”
I looked at the sleeping dog and shook my head. “I guess everyone is entitled to one vice. I suppose I’d miss the ugly brute if anything happened to him.”
“Well . . . there’s hope for the boy after all!” she said with a laugh. She held her glass of water high, looking around the room, toasting an imaginary crowd. “The Christmas cheer has gotten to him, folks!” We touched glasses. “Here’s to love, Jack Frost,” she said. “The world needs more love.”
* * *
The passing weeks turned into months. We grew accustomed to the cold winds, and we walked together in the snow, just friends—as far as she was concerned, anyway. We were happy, the two of us—four of us—in that small cabin during that long, cold Nevada winter.
As her pregnancy progressed, Felicia had a difficult time finding a comfortable way to sit. No matter what she did, her stomach got in the way. She spilled soapsuds on her belly when she did the dishes. She bumped into things. When she dropped something, she couldn’t reach over and pick it up. Her ankles began to swell and her breasts began to get sore.
But these things only fueled her burning desire to have Jonathan Flynn’s baby.
I found a local health food store, and bought the best vitamins I could lay my hands on. She took them, followed every order that her doctor gave her, did her exercises, and watched her weight.
She was a happy woman. Only occasionally would a melancholy mood quiet her for an evening, but generally she bubbled with excitement. At times she would simply sit quietly with her eyes closed, listening to music, her hands folded contentedly over her belly, a little mother-to-be.
She had trouble reaching things on the upper shelves of the kitchen. I walked in just as she was struggling to slide a dish into its proper place.
“Here, let me get that for you.”
“Jack! I’m not a breakable doll! I can do these things myself!”
That took me by surprise, and . . . well, I guess it hurt my feelings. She saw the look on my face and instantly said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Jack, I’m so sorry. I do appreciate your help, believe me.” She took my face in her hands, stood on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek, her big belly pressed up against me.
It took every ounce of willpower I had to keep from putting my arms around her and pulling her close. Instead, I found myself standing there saying, “Hey, listen . . . don’t worry about it . . . I’m not trying to smother you, really.”
I tried to make light of it, but failed miserably. I found myself walking out of the cabin, mumbling that I had to get something from the car.
Chapter 18
Benny Florentine looked across the desk at his boss. Only the sound of a wooden pencil, tapping against the side of Varchetta’s nose, broke the silence.
Benny had been apprehensive when he had been called to the phone, just twenty minutes earlier. He had been ordered around and ridiculed since the day Felicia had disappeared. Now he expected more of the same, but this time the boss had sounded distracted. Benny had taken the elevator as quickly as possible to the thirtieth floor. Maybe, he thought, if he could do something really good for the boss he’d give the girls back.
It had been pure hell since Felicia left. He had been forced to comb through the seediest Las Vegas bars, looking for women who needed the money so badly that they were willing to endure the kind of degradation that he administered.
Benny’s dark reputation always preceded him.
Harry Varchetta swung his feet up on his desk and stared at his shoes for a few moments as he continued tapping the pencil against his long hooked nose. Finally he said, “Benny, do you remember Gino Porcelli? He worked here for a long time.”
Benny’s brow furrowed and his hooded eyes closed as he concentrated. “Gino Porcelli. Yeah, I think I do. He used to be a pit boss, right?”
“That’s right. Gino retired about two years ago and moved to Lake Tahoe with his wife. Remember that?”
Benny’s brow remained furrowed. “Yeah, boss, I do,” he said, “I think I do remember that.”
“That’s good. Well, Gino called me this morning.”
“He did?” Benny said, thinking that he should try to sound pleased. “How’s he doing?”
“Just fine, he’s doing just fine.”
Benny wondered where the conversation was going, but he said nothing. Varchetta went on: “While Gino and his wife were visiting Virginia City yesterday, they saw a very strange sight.”
Benny relaxed. His boss didn’t look mad. In fact, he looked almost happy. “What’d he see, boss?”
“He saw a big man, with a big Doberman, and a little black-haired gal, very pregnant.”
The smile faded from Benny’s face and he leaned forward in the chair. “Felicia?” he said, an incredulous look on his face.
“Yeah, Benny. Felicia.”
Benny sat for a moment, his mind racing. This is good. I can go get her. And when I bring her back, the boss will give me the girls again and I won’t have to spend all my time looking at those ugly porkers in the bars. But then he thought more about what his boss had just said, and a smile split his face. “Did you say she’s pregnant? You’re gonna be a father? Congratulations, boss!”
Varchetta swung his feet to the floor and stood, eyes riveted to Benny’s face, which fell quickly under the horrible gaze.
Benny realized he had said something very wrong.
“You dumbo! It’s not my baby!”
Benny looked perplexed. “But if it ain’t yours, whose is it?” he said.
Varchetta slammed his fist on the desk, livid with rage. “You big dumb ass!”
Benny cowered, not knowing what to say. Varchetta began to pace the room. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely under control. There was no smile, no casualness.
“Gino heard through the grapevine about Felicia. He did the friendly thing and called.” Varchetta glared at Benny. “Frost and Felicia are living in a cabin, just outside of Virginia City. That’s just south of Reno, up in the mountains. You ever been there?”
“No I ain’t boss.”
“Well, you’re gonna be. And this time, Benny . . . this time I don’t want Felicia back.”
Disbelief showed on Benny’s face. “You don’t want her back?” Then can I have her? For a moment he felt instant terror, but with a huge sigh of relief, he realized he hadn’t actually asked the question aloud.
“That’s right, I don’t want her back.” Varchetta’s eyes were slits as he lit a cigarette and watched the smoke drift upward. “I want you to kill her. I want you to find her and kill her. Then I want you to get rid of her, understand? But keep your hands off her! Kill her, and get rid of her so nobody ever finds her—but keep your hands off her!”
“Ah, boss, I wouldn’t think of—”
“My ass you wouldn’t, but I’m telling you right now, if I ever found out in any roundabout way that you had—and Benny, I would find out—you’d be sorry . . . real sorry. You hear me?”
“I hear, boss. Don’t worry about—”
“Oh shut the hell up!” Varchetta said.
He gave Benny instructions, and after the sulking brute left, he flopped into his chair and once again put his feet on his desk. He examined the television monitors that looked down on the casino action, thirty floors below. He concentrated on the tables, and forced the memory of Felicia Martinez out of his mind, forever.
* * *
Benny Florentine signed the paperwork at the car rental desk at Reno-Tahoe International Airport. After picking up his single suitcase, he drove out of the airport. It was good to be away from Las Vegas, and his boss’ constant, critical eye. At least for a short time, he would not have to answer t
o anyone. He would have to account for every penny of the money that the boss gave him, but he had some of his own, and he could spend it any way he wanted.
He would find Felicia and watch her for a while. But he didn’t want to run the risk of running into that big dog. He wasn’t worried about the man with Felicia, even though he looked to be in good condition. Nobody’s as tough as I am, but that damn dog . . . I hate dogs.
Benny decided to ambush the animal from hiding. He nodded as he drove, liking the idea.
As he cruised down Virginia Street, he realized he was hungry. A few minutes later he spotted a little cafe and parked and went inside.
There were only four people in the place. They stared at him when he entered. A man of his size and appearance constantly drew attention. He was used to it.
He ordered three hamburgers and a cup of coffee. When the waitress brought them, he began wolfing them down, staring into a corner of the restaurant as he chewed his food open-mouthed.
When the waitress came back to refill his coffee cup, he asked, “How far is it to Virginia City, honey?” He saw her eyes dart to his open mouth, full of food, and saw the look of distaste on her face. He frowned. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Don’t give me that shit!” he said. “Don’t you like what you see?”
“I didn’t mean anything at all,” she said. Clearly rattled, she tried quickly to get back to his question. “Virginia City is about . . . uh, forty-five minutes from here.”
Benny continued to stare at her. He reached out and grabbed a slim wrist in his left hand, tightening his grip until her face blanched. He looked around. No one else in the restaurant was paying any attention. Pulling her close, he ran his right hand up the inside of her thigh. She recoiled. When the commotion drew attention from the other customers, he withdrew his hand and grinned at her.
She hurried away, trembling, and disappeared into the kitchen. Benny watched the open serving window that looked into the kitchen. The bald head of an old man peered out at Benny, the simian eyes glancing only briefly at him before darting away.
