Eudora said, “Get her done today, okay? She can cook overnight, and we’ll see if she can move in the morning. If she’s good and paralyzed with pain, he’ll ride her. Otherwise, you can do more then. Got it?”
The camera swept up and down nauseatingly as Charley nodded. His hand rose toward his head, and the video went dark. When it flicked on again, Billie was looking straight at Sylvie, standing backlit in the stall door. Charley was inside the stall, looking out at her. She pointed, and he turned to see at what. The camera picked up the mare Eudora had been talking about. She lay on the floor of her stall. Sylvie knelt beside her, snapped a lead to her halter, and pulled. The mare didn’t even lift her head. Sylvie kicked her, but she still wouldn’t get up. She lit a cigarette and held it against the mare’s rump.
Eudora’s voice laughed. “This’ll do. Go get Dale.”
The video turned again into undecipherable smudges, but Billie heard the horse moan.
The mare was up when Billie could next decipher what was going on, crouching, shifting her weight from side to side, her front feet barely touching the floor. She tried to sit, but Sylvie prodded her with a pitchfork. Blood trickled from the punctures.
“If she does okay for Dale,” Eudora said, “I’ll break her tail this afternoon, and we can get her into the tail set in time for the Big Show.”
The last thing Billie heard Eudora say was “Get the chains, Charley.”
The last thing Billie saw was Sylvie, turned away from the horse, looking directly at the old man with the camera in his cap.
Billie pulled Gulliver onto her lap.
Was this why Charley had given her the flash drive? These last few minutes of evidence? This would give the government Dale, Eudora, and—oh, God—Sylvie. What was the punishment for a minor who abused horses in this way? Was seventeen a minor or an adult? What did this mean for Richard? For the other kids?
Did Richard know the extent of Sylvie’s involvement? It was bad enough to ride a sored horse. But to participate in soring itself? If Richard didn’t know about it, should Billie tell him?
The phone rang, startling her. The pain meds Doc prescribed for Gulliver had made him so groggy he didn’t even flick his ears at the sound. Billie answered without checking and realized for an airless moment that the bank was on the line. When she got off the phone after reasoning and pleading, she felt strangled. Bills and debtors. Horses who needed to be fed. Clients who mustn’t know what a hard time she was having in case they took their horses away and cut her tiny income. She was afraid of her own telephone. It was too early to drink. A bath would feel good.
She started to run the water then stopped and went back to her computer. She watched Charley’s footage again. She knew how to make money. The way she always had before she ran away, came here, and started her life over on this ranch.
She pulled a notepad onto her lap and started to write.
Later, she took a break to feed the horses, returned to the casita, and finished writing around eleven. She poured herself a glass of wine then and filled the tub. What she had written was good. She could tell. The words had come with a rhythm that had transported her as she wrote. That was how she always knew she was on target. Tomorrow she would type it into the computer, editing as she went. She would send it as an attachment to Frank. She didn’t want to be a writer anymore. She just wanted to ride Starship and live on her ranch with Gulliver and take care of other people’s horses.
She lay back, closed her eyes, and with her toes, turned on the hot water.
CHAPTER 17
ON FRIDAY EVENING the phone rang after Billie had finished feeding and gotten back to the casita. She had an open beer can in one hand and a slice of cantaloupe in the other and didn’t want to put either down. Gulliver, feeling better, was busy with an old rawhide he had dug up. It was too late for bill collectors. Billie answered without looking.
“Billie.”
“Frank.” She could hear the smile in her voice, and she knew that he could too.
“Billie.”
“Frank.”
“Billie?”
“Yes?”
“What were you thinking?”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed loudly. “We need to talk. In person.”
“Are you still coming to Tucson?”
“I just got in. Meet me at Señor Roco’s in an hour.”
“It’ll take me more than that to get there.”
“Well, hurry up. I’ll be in the bar.”
She’d taken off the door to her closet because it protruded too far into the tiny living space when it was open, and she never closed it anyway. So she’d made it into the table where she worked and ate, when she wasn’t working or eating off her lap on the futon. She’d hung an old serape she found at a thrift shop in its place as a make-do door. This she now held back with her forearm as she searched for something to wear to Tucson to meet Frank.
Nothing. There was not a single thing in there she could wear on a date. Which of course this wasn’t. This was even worse, a late-night business meeting with her ex-husband—exponentially more important than a date. She riffled through a pile of semi-folded T-shirts and tank tops. No. The closet bar held a couple of hangers with Western wear shirts, their pointed collars and lapels with rhinestone snaps eliminated them. She could imagine Frank’s disapproval if she dressed like that. The bureau drawers were stuffed with sports bras, cotton jockey briefs, sweatpants eroded by miles of horseback riding until they were almost rags. Sweatshirts. Boot socks.
She backed out of the closet, desperately looking under piles and into corners, then glanced up at a suitcase she’d stored up on the highest shelf when she first moved here. A suitcase she’d brought from New York. She slid a wooden side chair over, stood on it, and pulled down the bag. She hefted it onto the futon, and after a struggle, got the zipper to open. Everything inside was black. Black wool skirt, black slacks, black shoes, black jacket with black jet buttons, black pantyhose. Tucked into a side pocket, she found a black lace bra and lacy thong and tossed them onto the kitchen counter. The microwave’s clock told her she’d already spent a quarter hour just looking for underwear. She dove back into the suitcase and this time found a silk T-shirt in a brown so deep it was almost black, simple and softly elegant. She remembered spending three hundred and seventy-nine dollars for it in a Lexington Avenue boutique. She had paid cash, hid the receipt from Frank, and never wore it in case he asked about it.
She washed fast, running a soapy washcloth all over herself at the kitchen sink, then rinsing with a soaked hand towel. Not yet dry, she dove into the bra and thong, slipped on the silk blouse, and pulled on the first pair of jeans on the pile. Hopping, she shoved her feet into a pair of scuffed fat baby boots and ran to the truck. Before she got in, she rubbed the top of each boot on the back of her blue-jeaned calf and hoped that at least they’d look clean.
Parking in downtown Tucson was always tough. There weren’t enough spaces for the compact cars and SUVs owned by townspeople and rented by tourists. Billie’s long bed Silverado struggled to make the sharp turn into a rare open space, failed, and when she backed up to correct the angle of her approach, what seemed like a crowd of other drivers honked.
She twisted around to look over her shoulder. The driver behind her was trying to back up to give her space, and the one behind that was leaning on the horn. She turned forward and wrenched the steering wheel. The front of the truck made it into the space, but her tire bumped up onto the curb. She turned off the ignition and got out to see how badly she’d parked. Probably not bad enough for a ticket, and anyway, she didn’t have time to look for another spot. She locked the door and jaywalked across Congress Street, jogging.
Billie wiggled through the small crowd that milled in front of the restaurant, pulled open the old wooden doors, and entered. It was crowded and noisy with talking and bursts of music that sounded like a band setting up. She paused for a second to take in the antique wall sconces and S
altillo floor tiles. She used to come here as a teen on dates. Twenty some years later, the place looked the same. Two old wooden phone booths huddled side by side near the entry. Wagon wheels hung on the walls. Spurs sat on tabletops, holding menus. The tables’ edges were wrapped in lariats, the seat cushions covered in bandana cloth.
Billie squinted at the stage at the far end of the room to see if she knew what band was setting up. A banner on the wall advertised KXCI, the local independent music station, but she didn’t see anything with the band’s name on it, and she didn’t recognize any of the bushy men clutching mandolins and guitars as they milled around in the blue spotlight.
She spotted Frank seated toward the middle of the bar, staring at bottles lined up on mirrored shelves. He hadn’t seen her enter, and she paused to look at him for a minute. The years hadn’t changed him much. Now fifty-three, he looked a little thinner than when she’d last seen him. Or maybe not. His jawline was sharp enough to see under his beard, his cheekbones more pronounced. Maybe he’d just aged a bit. He needed a haircut, unless he now wore his hair longer. He used to like it cropped so short his curls didn’t show. Now the curls fell into his eyes and softened the edge of his collar. His hair and beard were still dark. She had always liked his beard, the feel of it, the professorial look of it, the way it accentuated his almost black eyes. She watched as he picked up his pen and held it between his second and third fingers, jiggling it in a gesture of impatience she had hated when they were married.
He glanced down at his wristwatch then turned and looked right at her as if he’d known she was watching him. He looked her up and down then reached over and pulled back the seat next to him.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked. “The same as before?”
“White wine. The house white is fine. Whatever.”
He gave her a quick look before hailing the bartender.
“You nervous, Billie?”
“Nope. Why would I be? It’s just you and me in a bar, again.”
He took a long drag on his beer, watching her in the mirror. Billie expected him to toss back the bourbon chaser in front of him, but he turned and stared silently at her.
“So?” she watched her mirror-self ask. Above the neckline of her brown silk blouse, her skin was tanned almost butterscotch.
“You look…rugged, kiddo. I like the short hair.” He reached for her hand. When she gave it to him, he turned it over, opened her fingers with his own and, holding them back, looked at her palm. He turned her hand sideways and examined the callous along the outside of her index finger and the one along the outside of her pinkie. Then he looked up.
“Will you have dinner with me while we talk?”
“Sure,” she said, sounding casual, as if her future didn’t rest on it.
He picked up the ballpoint again and resumed jiggling it between his fingers. He looked up toward the corner of the room, then to another corner. He whistled tunelessly, just an exhale, drumming the bar top with his pen. Bad signs, all of them. She sat silently, watching herself in the mirror. She should have worn a necklace, something bright at her neck. Otherwise, she looked good, hard and soft at the same time. Chic enough to suit him. Add the right jacket and she’d be good to go anywhere. She looked ready.
Finally he asked, “What were you thinking sending me that query?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Billie. That was a joke, right?”
She hadn’t forgotten the way he could slice her to shreds with a few words, but she hadn’t expected it.
“You know we don’t do pieces on animals. For God’s sake, Billie! Horses in Tennessee! Who wants to read about Tennessee? This isn’t Reader’s fucking Digest! You were kidding, right? Please, please tell me you were.”
Recoiling from his sarcasm, she gulped the rest of her wine then looked for the bartender. When she spotted him, she held up her glass and mouthed, “White.”
“How are the margaritas here?” Frank hailed the waiter when he brought Billie’s wine then ordered one without waiting for an answer. He stood up. “Let’s move to a table.”
He moved them to a small table without consulting a waiter, pulled out her chair, and sat across from her. “Now,” he said. “Explain.”
“It’s a good idea for a piece.”
“You’ve been out in that Arizona sun too long,” he frowned. “You’d have had more chance at this magazine with a UFO story. And a UFO story has zero chance here. We’re slick, Billie. Cutting edge. This is a National Magazine Awards publication—you know that—not a rag for the Humane Society. Why am I having to tell you this?”
Billie leaned forward. “Listen to me, Frank. This piece has everything you want. Money. Politics. Corruption.”
She pitched it. When she finished he said, “Let’s order.”
Unsure if he was buying, she scanned the menu for something cheap.
“On me,” he said. “This is business.”
The twinge of disappointment she felt irritated her. Of course it was business. At least it was business. Long married and longer divorced, what the hell else did she want? She’d asked for an assignment, and when she’d asked she had thought that was all there was to it. Really.
When their food came—tamales for him and seafood enchiladas for her—they ate, not talking. She wondered what else she could say to persuade him.
“Billie?” He was looking at her empty plate, and she realized she had inhaled the food without even noticing that she was eating.
“Do you want something else?”
She had no idea.
“You always ate slower than I did,” Frank said. “You were always the last one at the table when we went out.” He said it as if he were proud of her for that.
Memories threatened to sabotage her. Memories of the parts of their lives together that she never allowed herself to think of. Restaurants with lines out the door, lines they bypassed when the owner recognized them and waved them in. First-class seats on airplanes, front row seats at fights and ball games, backstage passes to Broadway shows and the ballet.
“You gobble like that and you’ll get fat,” Frank blew out his cheeks at her.
“Not your business.”
“It is my business if you want to work for me again. You have to be competitive if you work in New York. You have to write and look better than anyone.”
“Give me this assignment, and I’ll eat like a fucking bird the rest of my life, okay? If that’s what you care about.”
“I want you writing for me. But no horses. I like the danger angle you’ve got going, but it needs to be attached to something important.”
“Trust me, Frank. This is important.”
“I am not publishing a Pet Partners blog, Billie. I need chic. I need ecstatic readers. I need… Hell, you know what I need.”
“Listen, Frank, you won’t be out anything. I’ll tell you what. Give me the job, and if you don’t like it, I’ll waive my kill fee. You won’t have to take the article, and you won’t have to pay me anything except my expenses if you don’t run it.” She had said it without thinking, had given away everything in an all-or-nothing gamble that she could make the article work.
“You do know that was a stupid offer, don’t you?” he said. “I’ll give you thirty seconds to change your mind.” He unstrapped his Rolex—it was a new one, she saw, not the one she’d given him—and laid it on the table. “Starting now.”
Billie didn’t move, didn’t blink. “Ten. Fifteen. Twenty,” Frank looked at her. “Twenty-five.” He strapped on the watch at thirty. “All right then, baby. I’ll email you a contract early next week.”
“You pay expenses,” she said. “With an advance on them, so I can get started.”
He nodded then signaled the waiter. “Dessert, Billie?”
She started to shake her head no but felt his leg press against hers, from ankle to knee. She closed her eyes. When he took her chin in his hand and turned her face to him, she kept them c
losed. After he kissed her, he said, “Order something sweet while I get us a room at the hotel across the street.”
“I thought you were staying there.”
He shook his head. “We’re at the Arizona Inn for the conference. I figured you and I could talk better here.”
“Where you wouldn’t be seen with me?”
“Something along those lines.”
Billie pinched a chip from the bowl in front of Frank and cracked it into pieces. “Who’s we?”
“The conference attendees.”
The awkward sound of attendees bothered her. “Who are you with?”
“You left me, if you remember.”
“You’ve been coming on to me.”
He laughed. “Look who’s talking, kiddo. You got what you wanted. You can write the damn article. I’ll pay your expenses, and if I like the piece, I’ll buy it. And if I buy it, I might even run it. If I don’t take it, you can try to sell it to some animal rights rag. And if you want to go upstairs, we can do that too, right now. But no strings. Not even the thinnest, weakest filament between us.”
What she saw in his eyes surprised her, a pure sweet yearning for her. She realized that she had won. She’d gotten what she’d asked for not because he believed in her idea or cared about her cause, but because he still loved her.
“I’m going home, Frank,” she said.
He nodded.
“But write me a check before I leave.”
He wrote the expense check and handed it to her, but when she tried to take it from him, he held onto it until she looked up into his eyes. “Do me a favor, kid. Don’t get yourself killed.”
CHAPTER 18
TOO FIRED UP to go to bed when she got home, Billie changed into a T-shirt and made herself a mug of iced coffee. She sipped it standing at the window, looking out at the Milky Way while she listened to a new bunch of messages on the answering machine.
The Scar Rule Page 13
