Ben Soul

by Richard George

(who did not appear). She howled like a coyote bereft of prey, the moon, and its privates. She swore in several foreign languages and arcane dialects she created on the spot. She wearied, and eventually fell asleep on the hard, thin, mattress that lay on the concrete ledge as a bed.

  When she awoke, hours later, she was calm as a frozen lake. Her black eyes pierced the gloom left in the corners by the single small bulb that lit the space where she was confined. She admitted the reality of her physical situation. She could not escape this confinement by breaking things or shaking them to pieces. She’d have to break the system that chained her here.

  “Guard!” she called. No one answered. All shifts of guards had heard her tantrums. None wanted to be near her. “Guard! Are you there, nitwit?” she called again. No one responded. “Guard!” Vanna screamed at the top of her voice. Other inmates in the cell block began banging on their doors, hoping to drown Vanna’s screams.

  More time passed before a small woman in a khaki uniform came in pushing a large cart. She stopped at each cell along the row and slid a tray into a slot on the cage door. When she came to Vanna’s cell, she slipped the tray in. Vanna looked at the crushed beans and chopped corn embedded in thick gray gravy. She shuddered. She could not bring herself to eat it with her eyes open. She was surprised at how reasonably good it tasted, and ate the full tray. A small paper cup held a tablespoon of green gelatin for dessert. For drink, she had water drawn from the basin and fountain located above the toilet tank.

  She put the tray back on the ledge by the slot through the door. The small guard with the big cart came back and methodically picked up the trays from each cell. “Tell whoever is in charge that I want to speak to my lawyer,” Vanna said, as calmly as she could. The little guard paid no attention. Vanna growled her frustration into one last word. “Please!” The guard left the corridor.

  The dim light prevented Vanna from forming any reasonable opinion as to the passage of time. She did not know what interval transpired before she heard a key in the lock on her door. She stopped her pacing back and forth and waited to see who would enter. Sheriff Druff came in. He motioned to her bed. “Sit down,” he said.

  Vanna looked at his burly form. She saw an authority in his bearing that cautioned her against any overt rebellion. She sat. He loomed over her.

  “Man outside says he’s here to be your lawyer. Some dude up from the City. Says his name is Dayton Mann.” Vanna let her relief show.

  “He was my lawyer in the City,” she said. “I’d like to see him now, if I can.”

  “You can. Got that right. Want to clean up first? You could stand a hosing down.” Vanna looked at Dan Druff’s craggy face. She read no unkind intent in it.

  “A shower would be nice,” she said.

  “Good. Keep calm, and I’ll have a couple of guards walk you to the showers. They’ll find you a uniform to fit, too.” He went out of her cell. Before he locked the door he said, “I’ll tell your attorney to wait until you get presentable.” The sheriff shut the door and locked it. Vanna waited only a little while before two very burly women in khaki uniforms came to escort her to the showers. Vanna stripped her tawdry costume off, showered, and dressed herself in the prison issue orange. Even the bra and panties were orange. The particular orange shade the prison preferred looked vile on Vanna. It imbued the pallor of her face with sallow highlights that gave her an appearance of jaundice. Grimacing at her mirror image, Vanna swiftly combed her hair and bound it in a pony tail. Then she went to meet Attorney Mann.

  Dayton Mann rose when the guards brought her into the bare interview room. He had been sitting on one side of a table empty of everything except his briefcase. He still dressed in fashions he hoped would capture the attentions of women. He wore a gray flannel jacket cut in the latest fashion, with soft suede patches at the elbows. Instead of slacks, he wore denim jeans carefully faded to highlight his crotch. On his feet he had bright yellow tennis shoes. His gray hair topped his sartorial splendor with a celebration of the ludicrous.

  Vanna guessed women still ignored Dayton as they had always done. He had developed his legal skills, however, to a fine point, and had a strong reputation as a defense attorney. Although his advances and plays for her had disgusted Vanna when she first came to know him, his later legal skills made him a useful acquaintance to keep in her arsenal. Now this weapon must be unleashed.

  They exchanged brief greetings, before Vanna told Dayton the circumstances of her arrest by DiConti. Dayton made several notes on his yellow legal pad. Then he told her about the charges pending against her, and the determination of the judicial system to try her for harassing La Señora and the San Danson Villagers. He warned the fight might be difficult to win.

  “We do have a weapon,” he said to her. “Your arrest sounds violent. We will file against this DiConti Sharif for police brutality. Do you think the patrons at the Black and Blue Cowgirl will back up your story?”

  “Yes,” Vanna said, and smiled. Her smile chilled Dayton, and he struggled to keep his cool demeanor with her. “The women of the Black and Blue Cowgirl will do whatever it takes to stop a man, especially a lawman, from abusing a woman.”

  “Give me a list, then, of those who were there, if you know their names.”

  “I only know one, Holly Wudenfein. She’ll know who the rest are, or the barkeeper, Jen Derr, will.”

  “I’ll go to Pueblo Rio and interview these women tomorrow.” Dayton made a further note on his yellow legal pad.

  “Give me a piece of that paper,” Vanna said. “I’ve got to identify you, or they’ll make mincemeat out of you.”

  He gave her a sheet of the paper and a pen. She wrote on it, “Dayton Mann is my lawyer. Please help him help me. In a man’s world you’ve got to use every weapon, even a man, to win. Mistress Whippy.” She gave him his pen and her note.

  “You ever been to Pueblo Rio?” she asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” he said. “I presume there’s a nice place to stay.”

  “Yes, several. Try the Straight Arrow Motel. That should suit you.”

  “And entertainment, a place to meet women?”

  “Pueblo Rio has several bars. You can try with the women. Just be careful which ones you hit on. I need a whole lawyer to fight my fight.” He patted her hand. Its coldness startled him.

  “Be cheerful,” he said. “Dayton’s here. We’ll beat this thing.” He folded the note she had written and put it in the natty jacket he wore. “I’ll be in touch.” He stood. “Guard!” he called out. A guard came to the door.

  “We’re through here,” he said. “Please escort Ms. Dee to her cell. In two days I should know a lot more, Vanna,” he said. He left for the greater world.

  Vanna glared at the guards who came to escort her back to her confinement. They glared back. Vanna marched ahead of them at full speed, head erect, and eyes fiercely fixed directly forward, as if she were leading an army in a battle charge, not returning to a cell.

  Arrangements

  La Señora’s strength returned with the summer sun. She was able to walk with the aid of her cane, and to sit several hours a day sorting through old papers and memorabilia that she had gathered over her long life. She also had stamina enough to provide for those who had served her long and faithfully.

  On this sunny June afternoon she sat at luncheon with Rosa Krushan, Elke Hall, and Willy Waugh. Willy had prepared the meal, and Rosa had praised it. Willy had begun with a clear chicken broth wherein floated tiny wontons stuffed with shrimp and ginger root. A salad of romaine hearts and radicchio dressed in balsamic vinaigrette had followed. The main course had been heated potato salad and ham in a dilled mustard and mayonnaise sauce. For dessert Willy served slices of chilled fresh nectarine lightly dusted with nutmeg and cinnamon. After dessert he poured a Ceylon black tea, quite strong, softened a little with a quarter teaspoon of fireweed honey.

  La Señora a
ddressed them over tea. “You have been faithful friends for many years,” she said. “I must thank you for your continual kindness and attention to both my comfort and my well-being. I have come to an age when it is logical to assume I shall not live much longer. Moreover, I know a great battle on a spiritual plane looms before me. It will, I think, exhaust me utterly.”

  Rosa, in a rare display of feeling, let the tears stream down her cheeks. “Señora, don’t say such things. I cannot bear to hear them.” Her gray hair framed her teary face with waves that echoed a surfer’s dream beach. Her dark brown eyes pooled with sorrow. Elke took her hand and squeezed it.

  “I only say what is so, Rosa. One cannot avoid the inevitable.”

  “We just don’t like to hear it, Señora,” Willy said. His voice was roughened with the strength of his feelings. He could not allow himself to weep, not for a person. For a llama, perhaps.

  “Please,” La Señora said. “Let me go on without interruptions for sentiment.” Her black eyes sparkled in the sunlight. Perhaps they had tears in them, too. Her three guests chose not to know La Señora could weep.

  She continued. “I have made disposition in my will for all of you. In your care, Willy, I will leave the llama pens and sheds and the llamas. Also, I will set aside a cottage for you. The creatures would not