by Mark Troy
Back in my room, I woke up my laptop and prepared an accounting for Gillespie and a summary of what I had done to that point. After that, I checked my e-mail, deleted several dozen messages promising the secret to larger body parts, some of which I owned and some I didn't, as well as ads for cheap Viagra. Most of the non-spam could wait until I got back to Honolulu. The only one of interest was a report from the information broker I'd contracted for the search on Gillespie's breeding business Since I was through with the case, I figured I could wait.
What to wear for my date was foremost on my mind. Fortunately I wasn't all cowgirl on this trip. I'd packed a white summer outfit for just such an eventuality. The dress was flimsy and short, held up by spaghetti straps. I gave some thought to underwear and then spent time on hair and makeup
By ten to eight I was ready. At quarter after eight he hadn't arrived or called and I wondered if he were lost. I'd wait in the bar, but that ran the risk of running into Gillespie and wrecking a promising evening, so I ordered a vodka tonic from room service.
While I waited, I opened the file on Gillespie's company. The report contained nothing remarkable. It listed purpose, assets, capitalization for the company, Gillespie Buckers. I scrolled down, sipping the v.t. until I came to another document. This document was a dissolution of partnership for a company called Wild Thang. This was more than cowboy humor. The partners were Doyle Gillespie and Junior Boy Higa.
I'd bet my Wranglers the break-up resulted in some bad blood. I was pondering that when Dawkins called from the lobby.
Dawkins's face brightened when I stepped out of the elevator. From the way he took me in, I knew I was right to lose the jeans. Dawkins looked rugged and hot. He wore pressed jeans, a pressed shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps, and ostrich boots. He still had the sexy stubble on his face. I had to bite my lip to keep from shouting, "Yee hah!"
I noticed the elastic bandage was gone from his hand. The damage from the bull's rope was visible as red welts. "How's your hand, cowboy?"
He flexed it. "Good enough to put a squeeze on a filly."
This fire was about to consume us both. "Don't go charging from the gate. You kept me waiting an hour."
"Sorry ma'am."
"And I told you --drop the 'ma'am.'"
We went to a seafood restaurant on Kahului Bay. The decor was all dark paneling and dim lights. At that hour, we had no trouble being seated on a lanai over the moonlit sand. Dawkins looked good enough that I could forgive him for making me wait. My head buzzed with moonlight, surf, and the alcohol I'd had in my room. I passed on drinks before dinner, but agreed to wine with the meal.
"How long have you been riding bulls?" I asked.
"All my life, I think. I rode steers in junior high. Rode my first bull before I had a driver's license. The eight seconds is an awesome rush."
"The roar of the crowd gets your blood jumping?"
"The only thing that gets my blood jumping more than rodeo is a dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty in a little white dress." He gazed at me the way a starving man regards a steak. Me, I would gladly throw myself on the plate.
"Whoa, cowboy. We haven't had dinner yet." The warning was as much for my benefit as his.
Our dinners arrived, mahi mahi in mango sauce for me and snapper with chilies for him. I went slow on the wine, a pleasantly dry sauvignon blanc, because I didn't want to get toasted and miss any midnight rodeo. Conversation with Lance was easy and unforced. He told stories of the cowboy life on the circuit.
"How much longer can you ride?" I asked.
"As long as I have something to ride," he said.
That sounded like a proposition. We headed back to my hotel. I didn't wait for the elevator doors to slide shut before making the first tentative kiss. His response was anything but tentative. His lips were warm and his tongue insistent. By the time we reached my room, I was ready. I yanked at the snaps on his shirt. They came open with satisfying pops.
I raked my fingers through the hair on his chest. "Just so you know, cowboy, I expect this event to last longer than eight seconds."
He hoisted my dress and tore at my panties. "No problem, lady."
But there was a problem. In spite of our desire and efforts, the only thing that rose was frustration. The desire petered out after about three quarters of an hour. Our effort lasted a little longer.
Finally he rolled off me. "Sorry," he said.
"Don't worry. This can happen sometimes. I put too much pressure on you."
He cradled me in his arm. "It's not you."
"Sure." I couldn't help feeling ineffectual. I tried to push those ugly emotions away.
"Honest. It's happened before."
"They, uh, make pills for this, you know."
"I've tried them. I've taken so many, my vision turned blue like I was looking at the world underwater. My doctor says I have nerve damage from riding too many bulls."
I got out of bed. "You could have told me. I'd have understood."
"Look, Val, I thought I had a chance for something different with you. When I saw you I was sure it would work this time. Don't get steamed about it."
I wasn't steamed, just disappointed. "I'm taking a shower."
I needed time alone to sort out my emotions and I thought he might, too. I liked Lance. Once I got past the self-doubt, I felt a great sadness for him. What must he be feeling?
The shower restored my confidence and elevated my mood. I dried off, wrapped the towel around me and turbaned another one around my head.
When I returned to the room, Lance was sitting on the bed, wearing his jeans and boots, searching my purse. My stomach tightened. I had to force myself to be calm.
"What's going on?"
"You tell me." He held my license. "Private investigator, huh?"
"You went through my purse? What gave you the right?"
He threw the license at me. "You're spying on me and you ask what gives me the right?"
His eyes blazed. I had an inkling of his strength from our bed action and now fear crept in around the edges of my own anger. My only weapon, a canister of pepper spray, was in my purse, which sat next to him on the bed. I tried to calm him down. "You're overreacting, Lance. What makes you think I'm spying on you?"
"You think I didn't catch on to the way you came on to me?"
"Maybe I was attracted to you. Did you ever consider that?"
"Who are you working for?"
"What does anything matter now, anyway? Gillespie hired me to investigate sperm-jacking. He suspected Higa, not you."
"Son-of-a-bitch Gillespie. Why did he suspect Junior?"
"They were partners once. My guess is they had a falling out. Look, Lance, I'm not condoning Higa, but I don't like Gillespie at all. I quit the job after I met you."
"You could have told me," he said, his voice heavy with mockery.
"Go to hell. I was afraid of ruining things between us. I guess I did anyway."
He looked at me with scorn. "I knew you weren't who you said you were."
"So you were just putting on a charade, too? When you told me I made your blood jump, that was all a lie?"
"No, damnit! I had hopes for us. You made me feel like nobody else has ever done." He lay back on the bed and put his hands over his face. "You're right, it doesn't matter anymore. But, I didn't lie about you."
My fear of Dawkins drained away. The empty spaces quickly filled with sadness for what we'd lost.
"Okay, we both screwed up. What gave me away?"
"Your face when I mentioned the flanking strap. You'd never heard of it."
"You got me. I'm just a city girl. What is a flanking strap?"
"A strap they put around the bull's abdomen. Someone pulls it tight when the chute opens. The strap pinches the animal's genitals and he tries to buck it off."
"No wonder they buck."
"Yeah. A bull is not normally aggressive."
"I think that's cruel."
Dawkins's cell phone chirped on the nightstand. He an
swered, listened for a moment. "What?" he said. "You're not making sense. . . . Oh, damn. Just you?" The color drained from his face. "Don't do anything. I'm on my way. . . . You didn't? The police? Crap!" He closed the phone and grabbed his shirt.
"What's wrong?"
"Another rider," he said. "He had a tankful of booze and went to rouse Junior Boy. When Junior Boy didn't answer, this rider kicked the door in. Junior Boy's dead."
"How?"
Lance pulled on his shirt as he headed out. "Effects of the concussion, probably. Brain trauma, I don't know."
"I'll go with you."
"I'm going alone."
I put on my dress, and slipped into my shoes. No time to hunt a replacement for my ruined panties. I stopped only to pick my license off the floor and grab my purse, but Dawkins had too long a lead.
I had no trouble locating Higa's room at the motel. A Maui County Sheriff's car sat outside painting the concrete facade in red and blue flashes. A knot of people had gathered in the lot near an open door. Dawkins and another cowboy stood a little apart from the crowd answering questions from a deputy.
I pushed my way through the group and flashed my investigator's license.
Dawkins scowled at me. "Keep out of this," he mouthed.
I said to the deputy, "I believe the man inside is the subject of an investigation I'm working."
The deputy, a young Hawaiian with a broad face, studied my license. He studied me and my dress a little longer. "Your investigation all pau now, sistah."
"Can I see him?" I asked. "Just to be sure."
He looked me over again. "Come with me," he said. "Quick look. Coroner's wagon is on the way."
"How'd he die?" I asked.
"Ask the coroner. The paniolos say the guy got a big concussion."
"No sign of foul play?"
"Died in his sleep, my opinion."
Higa lay on his back on the bed, eyes closed, a pillow beside his head. His face no longer had the clown makeup but small bruises darkened the flesh around his mouth and nose. I pointed them out to the deputy.
"So? The guy got tossed by a bull today. He should be one big black and blue."
"He didn't have bruises on his face after the rodeo. They could have been made by someone holding something over his face. A pillow maybe. If he suffocated, you might find broken blood vessels in his eyes."
The deputy regarded me curiously and, for a minute, I thought he would break loose some macho bullshit about me being a woman and an outsider on his territory, but to his credit, he didn't. He lifted an eyelid and shone a flashlight in Higa's eye.
"Red through and through," he said.
He lifted one of Higa's hands.
"Material under the fingernails," he said. He checked the other hand. "Both hands."
"He may have been lethargic," I said, "but he didn't go easily."
The deputy's expression hardened. "Never had a murder before and I ain't gonna screw this one up. I need you out of here now, sistah."
I took a final visual sweep of the part of the room I could see from the door. An elastic bandage lay on the floor next to the bed. Dawkins had worn an elastic bandage.
And Dawkins was nowhere to be seen. The other rider was sitting against the wall, head in hands. I kicked his boot. "Where'd Dawkins go?
He looked up at me through bleary eyes. His breath smelled like the floor of a bar. "He split. Gone up Mount Haleakala."
If he went up the mountain, away from the city and the airport, then he wasn't trying to flee. But he might be trying to hide. I got in my rental car and followed the only road up. Nearly midnight and up-country Maui had already gone to bed. The road wound through darkness. Now and then I spotted car lights a mile or so ahead of me. Dawkins, I assumed. Once, I caught a flash of headlights in my mirror, but they were far behind me. I continued on through Makawao town, having a good idea of Dawkins's destination.
* * * * *
Oskie Rice Arena appeared deserted. Pole-mounted floodlights struggled to cut the shadows of the livestock trailers in the parking lot. The low sounds of cattle and horses drifted from the animal pens. I found Dawkins's truck parked beside another one. My headlights caught him removing a case about the size of a double-wide ammo box from the neighboring truck. I left the lights on and got out.
"Junior Boy's truck?"
"Yep."
"And the case?"
"The ejaculator," he said, shielding his eyes from the headlights. The putty-colored box spelled "Dyno-jac" in big blue letters.
"What are you planning to do?"
"I'm going to use it on myself. Nothing else works."
"Stop it with the lousy cowboy humor, Lance."
"I guess my jokes don't work with you any more than my dick."
"Quit beating yourself up. You're about to destroy the thing, aren't you?"
"Junior Boy's dead. This would only raise questions. His memory deserves better."
People will have a lot of questions about you, too. Put it down."
He set the Dyno-jac on the ground and stepped back from it. "What kind of questions? Why I can't I get an erection for a beautiful woman? No thank you."
"Stop it, Lance. You and Higa were partners, weren't you?"
"You can't prove anything."
"This afternoon, in the bar, you tried to shut Junior Boy up because you had suspicions about me."
Dawkins shrugged. "He was talking nonsense. The concussion fucked up his thinking."
"But when he wouldn't quit, you decided to get him away from me. Then what? You two have a falling out? Things get out of hand?"
Dawkins mouth fell open in surprise. "Wait, you think I killed him?"
"What did you do the hour you kept me waiting?"
"That hour? I made sure he was all right. Then I called around to ranches, checking you out."
"You left your elastic bandage by his bed. Did you try to strangle him? When that didn't work you used a pillow?"
"You're crazy. I didn't need the bandage anymore so I took it off."
. "You have welts on your wrist. Junior Boy struggled and scratched his attacker."
"My hand got caught on the bull rope. Do these look like scratches?" He held his wrists out to the light.
The welts did indeed look more like bruises than scratches. The skin was unbroken and the damage was confined to his left hand, the one he lashed to the bull.
"I had to know for sure," I said. If Dawkins didn't kill him, I had a good idea who did. "Higa and Gillespie were partners in Wild Thang. "How bad was the split?"
"Real bad. Junior Boy didn't talk much about it, but I got the idea Gillespie screwed him out of a lot of money."
"Junior Boy was going to collect Terminator's semen. Did he always pick Gillespie bulls?"
"Come to think of it, yeah. You think that son-of-a-bitch Gillespie killed him?"
"Makes sense. Higa was trying to get back his money by hijacking the semen. Gillespie wanted to stop him."
Movement behind a nearby livestock trailer caught my attention. Dawkins and I turned as Gillespie stepped out from the shadows. A chrome-plated semi-automatic in his hand caught the light from my headlights.
"Been listening to your pretty theories, Missy, and I like your first one better. Dead-dick cowboy here kills thieving clown. Really, Dawkins, you can't even get wood for a fine filly like this? I pity you, boy, I really do."
Dawkins shouted, "You bastard. Did you kill Junior? I'll kill you, myself."
Gillespie pointed the gun at him.
"Lance, calm down," I said.
"Good advice, Missy. Lady Nine here gets nervous around jumpy people. Why don't you move over with the cowboy? Don't worry, he's harmless. Leave the purse on the ground."
I dropped my purse and went to stand by Dawkins. "Why did you hire me, if you planned to kill him anyway?"
"Wasn't the plan, Missy. After you ran out on me, I went to talk to him. The motherfucking clown wouldn't listen to reason and I had to improvise."
> Both of Gillespie's forearms had nasty-looking claw marks. Higa had fought hard.
"The car following me up the mountain was you?"
Gillespie nodded. "Came to see you tonight, Missy. I don't like people quitting on me. But when they change sides, that really burns me. I spotted you two in the elevator and it didn't take any more brains than a prairie dog's to figure out what's going on. Way you were pawing her, Dawkins, who would have guessed your pocket rocket wouldn't ignite?"
"Shut up, Gillespie," I said. "What do you want?"
"I want to show you a dick that works and I'm sure you're curious about this little 'ol device. Pick the thing up, Dawkins, but don't get cute."
Dawkins hesitated. Gillespie pointed the gun at me. He said, "You'd hate for anything to happen to your lady love, cowboy."
"Don't hurt her, Gillespie." Dawkins picked up the Dyno-jac.
Gillespie motioned us toward the animal pens. "I do admire the way you try to rise to the occasion, boy, even when you're dick's useless as a pool cue made of string."
We walked to the animal pens. With a gun in my back, I had to go along. I only hoped Dawkins didn't try to be a hero. The bulls pressed against the steel fences and watched us curiously. So many big animals would make me nervous without Gillespie and his gun.
Gillespie ordered us to stop at Terminator's pen which bordered the arena. He said to Dawkins, "Get in the pen, boy."
"Don't, Lance. You'll get hurt," I said.
"Nothing to worry about. I've done this plenty of times."
Dawkins pushed the Dyno-jac case under the fence and climbed over. He opened the case and took out some tubes.
Gillespie interrupted him. "The lady here deserves a fully-dressed bull, don't you think?" He grabbed some ropes from a peg on the pen and tossed them to Dawkins. "Go ahead, set him up like he was going to be ridden."
Dawkins fastened a flat rope around Terminator behind his front legs. Terminator paid him no attention.
"I'm sure you know about the bull rope the rider hangs on to," Gillespie said. "You know about this other rope?"
"The flank strap," I said. "Why don't you put it around your fat ass?"
"You should rein in your smart mouth, Missy. I can see how a guy could lose an erection real fast around you."
Terminator snorted in irritation when Dawkins put the strap loosely around the bull's midsection.
Gillespie stuck the gun in my back. "Now you. Get up on the rail so I can keep an eye on you."
