Sylvie's Cowboy Read online

  “Well, I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised,” said Leslye. “I have always suspected the man was capable of anything. Any. Thing.”

  Sylvie glowered at the oblivious player number three and muttered to herself. “The secret life of Walter Mitty McGurk.”

  Down on the field, players criss-crossed in a systematic drill for warming up the horses and the players’ mallet-swinging “shooting” arms. As both teams were moving about the field, Dan Stern managed to ride up alongside Walt and Walt’s pinto in a corner of the field where their interchange would be unheard.

  “Say, Dogpatch,” said Dan, “as long as you’re here, why not be a sport and help me win a friendly wager this afternoon, eh? I’ll share the winnings.”

  “How ‘friendly’ is the bet?”

  “Substantial—but he can afford it. No one will be hurt. Sort of a great joke on him, all right?”

  Walt smiled. “Sorry. No sense of humor. If you’ve got a lot riding on this match—and if you need to win for a change, as I expect you do—I reckon you best try to play a little better’n usual today.”

  As quickly as they had come together, they parted as if nothing had happened. Dan had to work hard to camouflage his anxiety, however. He did need to win, and McGurk on the other team meant no sure thing for Dan’s side.

  The afternoon progressed and the lead changed hands several times. The match was tied going into the last chukker.

  The ball was dropped. Dan and Walt battled for possession. Dan took it. They raced for the goal.

  Walt leaned forward, said something to his horse, and the animal surged forward with new life. Dan seemed set for his match-winning shot when Walt came out of nowhere to snatch the ball with an unbelievable backshot.

  Dan was stunned. Walt whirled 180 degrees and raced to the opposite end of the field, where the ball had been cornered by his teammates. They set up the shot. The timing was perfect. Without breaking stride, Walt’s horse met the ball at center field, where Walt’s mallet sent it zipping past the goaltender’s ears into the net. The winning point!

  The crowd screamed and applauded. Spectators surged onto the field.

  Walt’s eyes met Dan’s across a sea of celebrating players and spectators. No love was lost between them. Dan made his way to the edge of the crowded field, where he dismounted and slunk away toward the horse trailers, treating his exhausted horse like a criminal.

  Leslye and Sylvie, who had surged onto the grass with the rest of the spectators, showed themselves to be loyal fans. They left the celebrating masses on the field and joined Dan on his walk to the trailers.

  Leslye tried to be encouraging. “Quite a thrilling match, Danny! You played wonderfully!”

  “Not wonderfully enough,” he grumbled.

  Sylvie patted the footsore cayuse on its soft nose. “You need more ponies like this one, Danny. He works so hard for you. He just played his heart out in that last chukker.”

  “Thinking of having him shot,” muttered Dan.

  An hour later the stands were empty, the horses in their trailers, and the stragglers making their way to the parking lot. Sylvie had waited as long as she could so that none of her wealthy former peers would see her sneaking to her dilapidated Volkswagen. When she reached her bug, she climbed in quickly, intent on getting out of the parking lot with no witnesses.

  In her hurry, she revved the clankety engine, ground the rattling gears, and zoomed backward—BANG—into the yellow door of a red pickup truck.

  “Careful,” called Walt through his open window. “That’s your half you’re puttin’ dents in.”

  Sylvie glared at him as he exited his truck and walked around the two vehicles. He studied her Volkswagen. Until today, three of its fenders had boasted layers of body putty. Now the fourth fender needed body putty, too.

  “Guess you do this kinda thing a lot?” Walt quipped.

  “You could see me backing out, you jerk! Why did you get behind me? And what do you mean showing up here without telling me? Are you following me or something?”

  “Following you!” he said over her words.

  “Because if you are,” she continued, “if you are, buddy, you’ve got another think coming.”

  Walt began talking at the same time, since it appeared she was not stopping, even to breathe. “I’m not the least bit interested in where you go or what you do!”

  “I’m a grown woman and I can go where I please!” she said, while he was saying, “I’m a grown man and I can darn well go anywhere I want!”

  They both shouted, “It’s a free country!” Then they glowered at each other.

  Walt bounced his car keys in the palm of his hand before making a fist around them. “I’ll see you at the house,” he said.

  “I’m meeting someone for dinner first.”

  “Fine.” He swung into his truck, slammed the door behind him, gunned the motor, and roared out of the parking lot. Sylvie leaned her head against the steering wheel of the Volkswagen, exasperated.

  At the same time, on the opposite side of the polo grounds, Leslye Larrimore sat in a Jaguar alongside Dan’s horse trailer. She counted out a large sum of cash angrily. She jammed the money into Dan’s waiting hand then fumed while Dan counted it again.

  “What does it take to convince you?” she scolded. “There is no ‘sure thing.’ You think because you’re playing in it, the match is a smart bet?”

  Dan snapped, “It was until that friggin’ cowboy showed up.”

  “Or until your horse stumbled, or the wind changed, or the girth slipped, or the ball took a bad bounce. Where does it stop, Danny?”

  “Shut up, Les. You sound like Harry.” He shook the money at her. “You’ll get it back.” He walked swiftly toward an ominous black limousine waiting several yards away.

  Leslye muttered, “At least I won’t break your legs when you don’t pay. I think.”

  As Dan approached the black limousine, two of its doors swung open. A slight, jockey-size man with one hand amputated at the wrist emerged. He was immediately overshadowed by a large bald man, who got out of the second door.

  Dan held out the money to the big man, whose name was Hugo. Hugo fanned it and gave it to the smaller man, Scampi. Hugo’s eyes never left Dan’s while Scampi expertly pinned the cash to his side with his elbow and flipped through it with his one hand, counting. Scampi returned the money to Hugo, who leaned down expectantly. Scampi whispered something in Hugo’s ear.

  Hugo rose to his full height and glared at Dan. “What about the rest?”

  “This is just to take care of today’s match,” Dan said. “I’ll have the rest. I’m putting it together.”

  Scampi spun and sent a kick across Dan’s jaw. Dan dropped to all fours, only to be lifted and flipped onto his back by Scampi’s follow-up kick to Dan’s ribs. Dan wasn’t bleeding, but the wind had been thoroughly knocked out of him.

  Hugo looked with pride at Scampi. “Gotta soft touch, don’t he? Didn’t even break nothin’ this time. You make sure there ain’t no next time, okay?”

  Breathless, Dan could only nod and mouth, “Okay, okay.”

  Hugo and Scampi slithered into their black limousine and drove away. Dan rolled over and began pushing himself to his feet. He looked around. It had all been so fast and quiet, no one on the polo grounds had taken any notice. Dan headed for the locker room. He needed a shower in the worst way.

  ...

  Sylvie waited inside the glass foyer of Il Girasole, an upscale Italian bistro favored by the polo set. Leslye Larrimore’s car pulled up and stopped outside the front door, but Les did not give her keys to the valet. Instead, she beckoned to Sylvie.

  Sylvie hurried out to the curb. The passenger window whirred down, and Sylvie leaned on the sill. “Hi, Les. What’s up?”

  “Sure you want Italian?” Les asked. “We can go somewhere else.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a good old-fashioned lobster, actually.”

  “Hop in. I’ll bring you back to your car later.”
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  “Works for me!” Sylvie got in, and Leslye’s car moved away.

  Nearby an engine rumbled to life and a set of headlights bloomed white. A red pickup truck with yellow doors eased forward to follow Leslye’s car.

  Minutes later, Les looked in her rearview mirror for the tenth time. Anxiety crinkled her brow. Sylvie noticed. “What’s wrong?”

  Leslye forced a smile. “Guilty conscience. I thought I saw an old friend I’ve been trying to avoid, but it wasn’t them.” Then she diverted the conversation to the seafood restaurant they had been considering. “I hope the lobsters are already dead. I can’t eat them after they’ve seen me and waved their little claws at me through the aquarium glass.”

  “Oh, geez, you’re right. Let’s eat Japanese instead.”

  “Listen, Pearl Harbor or no Pearl Harbor, I draw the line at cannibalism.”

  The women exchanged a glance, suppressed a giggle, then together said: “Italian!”

  Leslye’s car made a U-turn and headed back toward the Italian restaurant they had left only minutes before. In the passenger seat, Sylvie was laughing. While digging in her purse for a tissue to dry her eyes, she didn’t see the red pickup truck, which had been caught off-guard and was now part of oncoming traffic. Leslye saw the truck, however, and flashed a smile of triumph. By the time the red truck could escape the congested multi-lane intersection, Leslye would be long gone. It would be impossible for Walt McGurk to follow her.

  ...

  Hours later, Sylvie’s Volkswagen bug clattered into the ranch house yard and parked under the forbidden tree. She was too tired to go park in the truck shed and then trek across God’s Little Acre on sore feet. Sylvie got out of the car and, carrying her ultra-high heels, entered the house. She floated from room to room, singing to herself, extinguishing the few lamps that had been left on for her.

  As she neared her bedroom, she noticed the door of the opposite bedroom was ajar. Walt’s voice growled from the darkness beyond the door, “Late enough for ya?”

  Sylvie smiled. “ ‘Night, Mother.” She entered her own room and firmly shut the door.

  CHAPTER NINE - THE BULL

  In the wee hours of that same night, at the Pace-Larrimore-Stern office building, the janitorial team moved through the rooms, emptying trash receptacles and vacuuming carpets. A man in janitor’s coveralls stopped at the locked door of Leslye Larrimore’s private office. He took a key from his pocket and let himself in.

  Once inside, the janitor flicked on lights, set aside his cleaning supplies, and went to Leslye’s elaborate wall unit. A curio shelf swung out at his touch, revealing a hidden cabinet behind the wall unit. Removing a second key from his pocket, he unlocked the hidden cabinet. He removed four file folders from the cabinet and dropped them into his cleaning cart.

  The file labels read: Tropigale, N.V.; Danmore Limited, N.V.; King’s Cay, Limited; and Pace Tower.

  The janitor cleaned the cabinet, curio shelf, and wall unit meticulously—until not even a fingerprint could be seen on their glossy surfaces. Then he closed and locked the office, leaving it looking exactly as he had found it.

  Downstairs in the Pace-Larrimore-Stern parking garage, the cleaning crew packed their van and prepared to depart. One janitor removed four file folders from his cleaning cart and walked across the echoing concrete to a 25-year-old pink Mustang parked nearby. He handed the files in through the window. Accepting them was the driver of the Mustang: a man in a yellow windbreaker and Stetson hat. The driver handed the janitor an envelope.

  The janitor opened his envelope, fanned a large number of twenty-dollar bills, nodded, and left.

  The Mustang started, sputtered, died, started again, and drove away. It had no license plate.

  After exiting the parking garage, the Mustang, running rough, stopped at a corner post office. Windbreaker Man leaned out of the car window to drop an overnight express envelope into the curbside drop box. The envelope was addressed to Ichi-Nobuko Corporation, One Independent Square, Jacksonville, Florida 32201.

  ...

  The light of dawn seeped into Sylvie’s bedroom to find her sound asleep. Outside, the air resonated with a symphony of birdsong. Inside, Maude slept at the foot of Sylvie’s bed, atop a Laura Ashley coverlet.

  Sylvie had made her mark on the room since that awkward first day at the ranch. Now the ten-point buck was covered with drying pantyhose. Rings and bracelets dangled from the claws and teeth of the bearskin. The moose had become a shoe rack, and the mountain lion wore a diamond choker. The robe of Sylvie’s sheer negligee hung from the curled horns of a mountain sheep.

  A cacophony of pounding metal and shattering glass abruptly jolted Sylvie from sleep. The pounding and crashing continued, coming from outside. Sylvie leaped from bed, snatched the sheer robe off the wall, and donned it over her equally sheer nightie as she raced down the hall toward the front door.

  She arrived in the living room to find Walt’s bulk blocking the open front doorway. She elbowed past him to look out into the yard. Sylvie screamed. “What is he doing! Stop that! Stop it right now!”

  A large, foul-tempered Brahma bull bashed into the Volkswagen bug, beating the heck out of it. From the doorway behind her, Sylvie heard Walt say calmly, “I told you not to park there.”

  Sylvie shook off the paralysis of surprise and went into action. She charged at the bull, pelting it with rocks she picked up from the ground as she crossed the yard. “Stop it! Get out of here! Get! Go on! How dare you! Get out!”

  Walt grabbed Sylvie about the waist and thrust her behind him as the bull turned toward them. Walt stood between Sylvie and the bull, knowing the bull could easily obliterate them both. Walt held his breath.

  The bull snorted, pawed the ground, and bellowed. Then he tossed his massive head, made up his mind, turned and walked away.

  Walt yanked Sylvie back when she tried to pursue the animal.

  “Tryin’ to git yerself killed?! You are the dangdest thing, City Mouse!”

  “My car!” she wailed. “Why did he do that to my car?”

  “You parked in his spot.”

  “His spot! The cows have assigned parking?”

  “Old Beauregard comes here sometimes if the gate’s open,” Walt explained patiently. “He hangs out under this tree. He’s got it staked out. It’s his spot. And he definitely ain’t no cow.”

  Sylvie turned on Walt with gritted teeth. “You mean I’ve been parking my car in the truck shed and walking a hundred yards to the house in all kinds of weather so Beauregard can park his tush under this tree!”

  “His—what’d you call it—toosh? Well, his toosh is worth a heckuva lot more than your car, missy.”

  “Especially now!”

  “You was warned the day you came,” he reminded her.

  “Oh, give me a break! I got in late last night and I was tired, okay? So I parked less than a mile from the front door. So sue me.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t be so danged tired if you weren’t so set on finding a rich husband that you go out honky-tonking all hours of the night with any fella can flash a Gold Card for ya!”

  Sylvie jabbed a finger into his sternum and shrieked into his face. “I was not ‘honky-tonking,’ you stupid rube! I was trying to drum up a little business for this two-bit horse-trading operation!”

  Walt grabbed her wrist and held it, stopping the mad finger. “Bidniss! Honey, they’s a name for what you were doin’ with Dan Stern last night –and it ain’t ‘horse tradin’!”

  She jerked her wrist free. She slapped Walt across the jaw with the hardest roundhouse she could deliver. “I was not with Dan Stern last night!”

  Then she reacted to the pain in her hand.

  Walt rubbed at the pain in his jaw and, in the silence, stepped back and got his first thorough look at her. “What the heck are you wearin’?”

  She swung at him again, but he sidestepped the intended blow. They stood glaring and puffing.

  After a few moments, Walt was quieter,
but no less angry. “Get dressed, Princess Grace. I ain’t Harry. You live under my roof, you’re gonna hafta go out and git a job like real people. You hear me? Playtime’s over.” He drew headlines in the air, “Sylvie Pace Goes to Work.” He turned and strode into the house.

  Sylvie looked at her ruined Volkswagen. “In what?”

  ...

  Dan Stern arrived early for work, eager to accomplish as much as possible at his desk before phones began ringing at eight. He emerged from his Bentley in the Pace-Larrimore-Stern parking garage, briefcase in one hand, his keychain and car alarm remote in the other. He punched a tiny button and his car whistled be-u-weep at him.

  A second be-u-weep startled him; it was whistled by a human. He turned toward the sound. Hugo and Scampi stepped from behind a concrete pillar.

  Hugo gestured to the car alarm remote. “I love those things. Does it have the thing that opens your trunk, too?”

  Dan smiled. “Sure.” He popped the trunk lid. “See? Now, what can I do for you boys? And make it quick because I’ve got a lot to do before I head for a meeting across town. As it is, I’ll need a miracle to get there on time with traffic.”

  Dan stepped forward to close the trunk lid, but Scampi grabbed him and deftly bent him over the rear bumper, headfirst in the trunk. Hugo lowered the trunk lid until it pressed against Dan’s neck like a guillotine.

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Hugo. “You do need a miracle. You continue to abuse your credit, Danny Boy. You’re not even keeping up with the interest on the principal. We might have to cut you off if we don’t get some money soon.”

  Dan’s voice was muffled and distorted with his face imprisoned inside the trunk. “I told you, I’m putting it together. Ah!”

  Hugo pounded his fist on the trunk lid, bouncing the edge against Dan’s neck. Scampi kept Dan wedged tight against the car.

  “When, Danny? When can we expect a substantial payment?” Hugo’s fist pounded the trunk lid again.

  Dan grunted with pain. “Look, you know my partner just died a few weeks ago. Most of his share on the Pace Tower deal is coming to me. We’ve got Japanese buyers already lined up. We’re just waiting on the closing papers to be signed. Soon. I’ll have it soon.”