Black Pomegranate

by David W. Cowles

  Cat snatched the microphone out of Villa’s hands and addressed the crowd, which had all the appearances of turning into an unruly mob embarking on a vengeful vendetta.

  “My fellow citizens of Granada Negra! Listen to me carefully. Listen to what I have to say, as you have never listened before!” she implored. I was reminded of Eva Peron at her pinnacle of popularity.

  Cat pointed a finger accusingly. “This man standing before you today, General Pancho Villa, is a world class liar and cheat—and, most of all, a silly old fool!

  “Do not be alarmed. That was not the Granada Negra I destroyed. It was only glass—a worthless piece of trash, a fake, a fraud, a sham rock. Villa had it made because he did not know where the genuine, priceless Granada Negra was and he wanted to cheat you out of your rightful presidente, my father, Mario Perez!”

  The band started playing the Granada Negra national anthem again—slowly, dismally, in a funereal manner, like a dirge. Pancho Villa was still in shock, speechless.

  “Villa has lied to you! Mario Perez is not dead! He is, in fact, here with us right now!”

  Catarina pointed decisively toward the back of the hall. Heads turned, women swooned and fainted, and men applauded and cheered, as President Perez entered triumphantly, wearing an all-white military uniform with gold buttons and epaulets, holding high the real Granada Negra in his outstretched gloved hand. Perez was flanked by Pablo, Pietro, Red, and Muscles, all of whom wore the distinctive uniform of the Granada Negra Purple Berets.

  The band picked up the tempo, playing the national anthem to the beat of Perez’s dynamic stride.

  Completely stressed out and terrorized, Villa cowered behind the podium, then fell prone to the floor and beat his head against the marble tiles.

  Thirty

  All’s Well That Ends Well

  SOLDIERS SURROUNDED and shackled Pancho Villa, then shuffled him out of the banquet hall in shame, his disgraceful departure accompanied by boisterous boos and clamorous catcalls. Catarina’s father made a short but inspirational speech to the citizenry, which was broadcast over national television and picked up by CNN and MSNBC.

  Then, a mighty feast was served. Roasted meats, poultry, and whole fish. Salads and salsas. Breads and cheeses. Every type of bean imaginable. Fresh tropical fruit. Side dishes too numerous to list. An elaborate assortment of pastries and desserts.

  Champagne and pomegranate wine flowed like water all evening. Harlequins, jugglers, acrobats, magicians, and trained animals performed. The band played, the guests danced. Everyone lined up for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to touch or kiss the Granada Negra ruby. The festivities continued throughout the night and until the wee hours of the following morning.

  Cat and I returned to the Sharpton exhausted and fell asleep as soon as our heads hit our pillows. The following day, we awoke at noon and called room service to order breakfast.

  “Catarina, my love,” I began, while buttering a piece of toast. “I have a number of questions to ask you.”

  She smiled slyly. “I thought you might, Alfredo, my precious.”

  “Where was the Granada Negra all those months when everyone thought it had been stolen?”

  “In our kitchen cupboard in Timberline Village,” she shrugged, taking a sip of pomegranate juice.

  “Whaaat! How could it have been in our kitchen cupboard? I never saw it there.”

  “It was in an unopened can of Granada Negra coffee. The can I took to my papa when we visited him at his hacienda in Mexico.

  “When Miguel came to our apartment and told me papa wanted a can of special blend coffee, it was all the proof I needed. I knew Miguel was my brother and my father had sent him. I was absolutely certain. No one but papa and I knew where the Granada Negra was hidden—not even Pablo or Pietro.”

  That figured. I really should have guessed.

  “What’s going to happen to Pancho Villa? Will he be executed?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. The General is a very sick man. He will be confined to a mental institution for the rest of his life. Or perhaps papa will give Villa a generous pension and send him to California to live. He’ll fit in well there.”

  “You said you were absolutely certain Villa’s soldiers would not shoot us. How did you know?”

  Cat looked at me as if I were crazy. “Why, Miguel bribed them, of course. Four dollars apiece, American money.”

  That figured, too. “Now that your father is back in power, does that mean the revolution will be over soon?”

  “The revolución is over now, but not because papa is back in power. It’s January. The start of our soccer season. No self-respecting Granada Negran would participate in a revolución during soccer season.”

  I still wasn’t surprised. Maybe I was starting to think like a Granada Negran.

  “And what about the troops massed at the Parador border? Will there be a war?”

  “Of course not,” she giggled. “The soldiers are stationed near the border so they can meet their girlfriends every night. Parador women are notoriously easy.”

  “One more question. I’ve been wondering … back when we first met, what did you see in me, Catarina? I was a nerd. I had a crappy car, a crappy apartment, a crappy job, a crappy boss, crappy clothes, a bunch of crappy students, a crappy workload, crappy food, a crappy haircut, and a crappy love life. Worse yet, I was content with my crappy existence. I was pathetic and pitiful!”

  “Oh, my love, all of those things are superficial and inconsequential! When I looked at you I saw a man who was smart and strong and kind and loyal and brave and loving and appreciative. A man I knew I could count on always, a man who would protect me with his life. From the very first moment we met, I was absolutely certain you were the one man for me!”

  In the Granada Negran way, she had answered my question completely.

  I dug into my ham and eggs. Cat had a glint in her eyes. I wasn’t sure if it meant trouble or not.

  “Alfredo, my love, I think it is time you had money of your own. It would be nice for you to be able to buy me a teeny-weeny trinket from time to time. A diamond necklace, a new Mercedes, a sable coat—just little things to let me know you love me.”

  I twisted at my collar, which suddenly seemed much too tight. Catarina was absolutely right. I’d been sponging off of her for months. I’d been a kept man. But, I didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about earning the kind of money she was talking about. I didn’t even have a job any more.

  “Uh, what do you suggest?”

  “I think you should buy a ticket for the Granada Negra National Lottery. The prize is now sixteen million dollars, American.”

  “A lottery ticket? What makes you think I would win?”

  Cat tossed her head knowingly. “Oh, you will win, Alfredo. I’m absolutely certain.”

  “Are you trying to tell me the lottery is fixed?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. The lottery is not fixed. It is broken. That is why you will win.”

  MUCH OCCURRED over the ensuing weeks.

  After Pancho Villa was hauled out of the banquet hall in chains, Uncle Carlos spent the remainder of the evening comforting and consoling a deeply distraught Carmine Arenque. Thanks to his attentions, she recovered quickly from her grief. Carlos and Carmine took off the next day for an extended vacation in Las Vegas, Nevada.

  Before they left for Timberline, Heidi and Luther were married by President Perez himself. Cat and I received a letter from the newlyweds a month or so later. Heidi was expecting twins. They were very surprised, because neither the Martin nor the Hazelhorst family had any history of multiple births.

  The Martins promised to return to Granada Negra for our wedding, which was planned for early spring—as soon as Cat’s mother arrived home from France. Everyone said our wedding celebration was going to be the social event of the decade; at least, in Granada Negra.

  President Perez promoted Pablo and Pietro to positions high in the Granada Negra government. With the revolution over
and peace assured between Granada Negra and Parador, Red and Muscles were recalled to the United States, then reassigned to quell a disturbance somewhere in the Middle East.

  Catarina’s father wanted to appoint me as Granada Negra’s ambassador to Parador, but Cat wouldn’t let me accept the post. Vilda Hyer, president of the republic, had a daughter who was only seventeen years old—incredibly beautiful, very nubile and extremely anxious, Catarina explained. She was also Catarina’s half-sister. Cat’s liberal attitude toward marital infidelity obviously did not extend as far as me.

  To his great delight, Miguel was assigned the job in my stead. He was anxious to get to know his half-sister.

  I was also offered the position of ambassador to the United States or to the United Nations, but I couldn’t see spending even one miserable winter weekend, let alone the entire season, in Washington or New York. My body had already become accustomed to the tropical climate of Granada Negra.

  I did win the Granada Negra National Lottery, as Catarina predicted, so there was no need for me to find a job. Besides, I would soon be the son-in-law of the president of the Sovereign Republic of Granada Negra. That would be sufficient occupation, of that I was absolutely certain.

  Catarina’s short, sharply tapered haircut, dyed bright red, caught on quickly. Within a matter of weeks, most of the women in Granada Negra—from tiny toddlers to geriatric grandmothers—sported the style.

  Cat finally came clean about two issues that had been burning in my mind for a long time. She admitted she was not entirely ignorant of computers when she joined my class at Timberline College. Far from it. Before the revolution, Catarina had been the head programmer for IBM de Granada Negra.

  And her car didn’t start that dark and stormy night when we first made love because she’d had a hidden switch installed that enabled her to secretly cut off all electricity to the vehicle. Cat said she knew I was too staid to invite her to stay the night, and feigning car trouble was the only way she could think of to inveigle herself into my bed without making the seduction seem too obvious—or, as she put it, too Paradorian.

  We probably never will know precisely why the government agents bugged our apartment in Timberline Village and followed us around Cancun like white on rice. But, since I’m going to be living in Granada Negra permanently, that really doesn’t matter, does it?

  About the Author

  David W. Cowles was born in Los Angeles, California, and grew up in California’s San Fernando Valley. He moved to Las Vegas, Nevada in 1976.

  Cowles is a member of the State Bar of California (inactive) and is admitted and qualified as an attorney and counselor of the Supreme Court of the United States. He’s served as a board member and president of numerous nonprofit organizations, and was awarded Congressional and other commendations for his efforts.

  Cowles founded and was CEO of companies in the photographic and financial communities. He’s flown his own airplanes; traveled extensively; and spent a month as a volunteer with the Israeli Defense Forces.

  For over eight years, Cowles published and edited Keno Newsletter, a monthly publication read by keno players and casino executives. For six years, he wrote a weekly column for Gaming Today. For three years, Cowles wrote op-ed columns and a weekly cooking column for the Peninsula Gateway newspaper in Gig Harbor, Washington. His articles have been published in the Las Vegas Sun and Newsweek magazine.

  Cowles draws on his background and experiences to write in a wide variety of genres including mystery, adventure, thriller, comedy, fantasy, romance, erotica, how-to, children’s, novellas, treatises and expositions, short stories, and cookbooks. Often he’ll combine several genres in one book.

  More books by David W. Cowles

  Please read below to learn about other entertaining and informative Kindle books by David W. Cowles. On many ebook reading devices and applications, clicking on the book titles will take you to the appropriate Amazon.com catalog page for additional information and convenience in ordering.

  The Michael Kaplan Mysteries

  The Michael Kaplan Mysteries are a new generation of novels. They’re murder mysteries with the tempo of fast-paced R-rated movie thrillers, filled with gorgeous wanton women, sleazy, amoral villains, rapid-fire action, multiple killings, explicit sexual encounters, and extremely graphic violence. As with today’s motion pictures, the Michael Kaplan Mysteries are intensely erotic and mayhem-filled.

  In the Michael Kaplan Mysteries, David W. Cowles, a long-time resident of Las Vegas, Nevada, captures the essence and flavor of the exciting “Entertainment Capital of the World” and its surroundings—the glitz, glamour, and grit as seen through the eyes of tourists and gamblers; an insider’s view of the casino industry; and the ordinary hometown known to locals.

  The Michael Kaplan Mysteries provide readers with an accurate insight into the fascinating day-to-day operation of Las Vegas casinos. Readers familiar with Las Vegas will instantly recognize the famous hotels, casinos, and restaurants upon which fictional counterparts are modeled.

  From the prologues through the teasing, I-want-more epilogues, the Michael Kaplan Mysteries abound with strange but interesting three-dimensional characters; demented, despotic, obsessed villains; exciting, romantic locales; constant plot twists and turns; clues, false clues, red herrings, surprises, and gotchas; and an abundance of subtle humor, wordplay, sexual repartee, and erotic situations.

  Seldom are things as they seem in the intriguing, fast-moving Kaplan mysteries. The good guys often turn out to be the bad guys—and vice versa.

  Michael Kaplan is in his early thirties. He’s tall, dark, and handsome; intelligent, educated, and urbane. A woman-charmer, not a womanizer. Masculine, not macho. But Michael has major character flaws that make him fallible, culpable, and a thoroughly different type of mystery hero.

  He’s completely clueless (and therefore helpless) when dealing with the seductive wiles of the beautiful, lustful, sexually predatory women he encounters, until it’s too late for him to avoid entanglement. His naiveté and compete lack of judgment when dealing with the opposite sex keep him in constant trouble.

  Although Kaplan is a law school graduate who passed the California bar exam on the first try, he’s never practiced in the profession. His legal training entitles him to quote the law. His lack of experience causes him to sometimes misquote it, and he frequently proves the adage that “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

  Kaplan isn’t particularly ambitious—in fact, he’s rather lazy. He works beneath his education and abilities as a restaurant critic for the Las Vegas Times. The newspaper’s managing editor continuously prods and goads Michael into taking on additional responsibilities—which he reluctantly accepts, with an attitude falling somewhere between stubbornness, obstinacy, and recalcitrance—and with good reason. Michael has an uncanny ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. When bodies are found, convincing evidence usually points toward him.

  Except for one deliberate exception (Cowles never reveals who committed the original crime in Blue Goodness) by the end of the books all the myriad clues fall neatly into place. There aren’t any dusty trails leading to a dead end.

  Many of the realistic plots, sub-plots, and devices—such as the slot route operator scandal and the newspaper joint operating agreement in Buridan’s Ass and the attempted murder of a veterinarian in Blue Goodness—were inspired by actual events that transpired in Las Vegas … examples of art imitating life.

  But then … numerous times, shortly after wholly fictional passages in the novels were written, strikingly similar incidents actually occurred in Las Vegas and were reported by the local media. To the author and those who read early drafts of the manuscripts, it was beginning to seem that putting an idea on paper destined it to happen.

  Cowles wrote in The Tastevin of dead bodies found in the desert. A few weeks later, newspapers reported a like occurrence.

  In Buridan’s Ass, he wrote about mysterious green lights in the skies north
of Las Vegas. The words were barely typed into Cowles’ computer when several casinos installed lasers on top of their buildings and residents many miles away complained about being kept awake at night by laser beams reflecting off clouds and mountains.

  In Blue Goodness, a corpse is dumped down the shaft of an abandoned mine near the small town of Jean. A couple of months after the story was on paper, a real murder victim was found at the bottom of an abandoned dry well—also near Jean.

  Many other incidents in the novels were closely paralleled by later actual events—a boating accident on Lake Mead where the bodies were never recovered, gold ingots stashed in an abandoned mine, a bigamist exposed, and so on.

  Is Cowles psychic? He maintains he is not. Still—

  In Buridan’s Ass, a gaming industry insider—a technician who has knowledge of and access to slot machines—reprograms the machines’ computer PROMs so that, by playing coins in a secret, varied sequence, he can trigger big jackpots and thereby cheat casinos at his convenience.

  Michael Gaughan, owner of many Las Vegas hotel-casino resorts, read Cowles’ manuscript for Buridan’s Ass.

  “You’ve written a great story—lots of fun and suspense and excitement,” Gaughan said. “It’s quite a page-turner. But of course, that slot machine scam could never be pulled off. The method you thought up for gaffing the machines wouldn’t work in real life.”

  Fact: Ronald D. Harris, formerly a Nevada Gaming Control Board employee, was arrested and found guilty of modifying slot machine PROMs in order to score big jackpots illegally in the exact manner described fictionally in Buridan’s Ass—an exquisite example of life imitating art!

  Tastevin

  Book One of the Michael Kaplan Mysteries

  Michael Kaplan’s sweetheart Myra Brotsky is a typical Jewish American Princess raised in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles, the daughter of a kosher butcher. As programmed by her parents, Myra’s primary goal in life is to find a handsome, wealthy Jewish man—preferably a doctor or a lawyer—and marry him. Her sights are set on Michael, who meets all but one of those criteria.