Sylvie's Cowboy Read online

  “That’s what I like to hear. We’ll see you soon, Danny.” Hugo bounced the truck lid one last time, then let it rise. The pressure wedging Dan into the trunk suddenly ceased. Hugo and Scampi disappeared into the shadows of the vast parking garage.

  Dan slowly stood, rubbing his sore neck, and looked around. Nobody in sight. He closed the trunk, picked up his dropped briefcase, and moved toward the elevator.

  ...

  In the ranch house living room, Walt lounged on the couch reading a newspaper, coffee mug at his side.

  He could hear Sylvie racing back and forth between her bedroom and the bathroom, in various stages of dressing.

  At one point, she dashed past an oblivious Walt to disappear into the kitchen. Clunking and clanking resounded, an appliance door closed, and Sylvie dashed out of the kitchen. “Watch my eggs, will you?” She disappeared into the bathroom.

  “Mm-hmm,” mumbled Walt, lifting his mug for a leisurely sip.

  Then ka-boom! pow! boom! pow! burst from the kitchen. Walt somersaulted from his seat, coffee and mug flying, threw himself on the floor and palmed the pistol from his ankle holster.

  Sylvie leaped from the bathroom in terror. Walt almost shot her.

  The sudden silence was eerie.

  “Wha--,” Sylvie began, but he stopped her with a gesture.

  Pistol at the ready, Walt stalked toward the kitchen.

  Sylvie fretted in the hallway, afraid to move.

  Walt disappeared into the kitchen.

  More silence.

  Then Walt shouted, “Gol-dang it, Sylvie, somebody ought to tan your backside with a good stout razor strap, and if I didn’t think I’d kill ya, I’d take the job my own self!”

  He exited the kitchen, toweling yellow goop off his hands. He forced Sylvie to step aside to let him into the washroom.

  Mystified, Sylvie edged toward the kitchen.

  While washing his hands, Walt was still yelling. “If I didn’t know for a fact what Harry spent on your upbringin’, I’d swear to goodness you was raised in a barn! Dang it! Look at that mess!”

  He stepped back into the hallway. “I don’t know what you was thinking—heck, I don’t know if you was thinking—but let me tell you, Miss Priss, I better not ever catch you putting raw eggs into a microwave oven again! Not ever!”

  Again he disappeared into the bathroom. Sylvie opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Walt leaned out into the hallway. “Not ever! I mean it!”

  He withdrew. Sylvie drew breath to speak, but before she could make a sound, he shouted from the bathroom. “And I ain’t cleanin’ that!”

  ...

  Six hours’ drive north of the Pace-Larrimore-Stern offices, a Japanese receptionist in Jacksonville’s Independent Square office building opened an overnight envelope that arrived with the morning’s mail. Minutes later she delivered the sorted mail to various executive offices for attention by the appropriate addressees.

  The overnight envelope was addressed simply to Ichi-Noboku Corporation, rather than to a specific executive. In such instances, the receptionist delivered the item to a dapper vice president, Mr. Ikagi.

  Mr. Ikagi, a Tokyo native and a rising star at Ichi-Noboku Corporation, played a pivotal role in coordinating U.S. real estate acquisitions for Ichi-Noboku. He had at least a passing knowledge of all pending major transactions, so he was ideal for fielding correspondence of a non-specific nature.

  Mr. Ikagi was young for a corporate executive, only in his mid-thirties, but he was no fool. Alarm bells rang in his head when he opened the overnight envelope and withdrew no note or letter, but only a file labeled “Pace Tower.” Quickly Ikagi scanned the documents and correspondence in the file. Abruptly, he stood, closed the file, and with the folder under his arm walked directly to the office of the senior executive for all U.S. operations.

  When the senior executive perused the file Ikagi presented him, his first reaction was a peculiarly Japanese “Hrrrmph!” of extreme displeasure.

  CHAPTER TEN - THE JOB

  In the ranch house truck shed, Sylvie Pace stood waiting near the red pickup. She was dressed for success. Any exclusive brokerage firm, law firm, or corporate bank would have scooped her up in a second, just to improve the look of their lobby.

  Walt arrived at the shed—surprised to find her waiting—and reacted to her stunning appearance. He squelched his reaction immediately. “You look fine. Real fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  He had his hand on the driver’s side door handle before he remembered his manners. He walked around to the passenger side. “Now, what exactly did you learn at that fancy Ivy League college Harry sunk so much money into?”

  “Medieval English Literature.” She saw no comprehension in his face. “Shakespeare, Chaucer, all that stuff.”

  Walt nodded. He opened the passenger side door and stood back to admit her. As she eased into the rustic cab, and he tried not to look at her bust line or her shapely legs, he asked, “You type or anything like that?”

  “No,” she said. “Nothing like that.”

  Walt nodded, forcing his eyes away from her as he closed the door. “You look fine.”

  …

  The nearest town big enough to be worthy of the appellation was Clewiston. Sylvie and Walt rode from one end of town to the other—took about ninety seconds—before Walt parked the pickup and they got out.

  Sylvie looked back up the main street they had just traversed. “That’s it? That’s all of it?”

  “Yep. That’s the place you’ve come to seek your fortune.”

  “Maybe I’d have a better chance at finding a fortune if I went to Miami. You really think I can get a job here?

  “It’s a hundred-mile commute to Miami. Don’t worry, I can get you a job here. Up to you to keep it, though.”

  “I’ll keep it. And I can still sell horses on the weekends.”

  Walt didn’t know how he wanted to respond to that. “You look fine,” was all he said.

  ...

  Less than an hour later, a thirty-something bleached blonde named Clarice was showing Sylvie how to keep the appointment book and answer the phone at Clarice’s Beauty World. While a quartet of beauticians worked on customers, Clarice taught Sylvie about dealing with the beauty-seeking public.

  Outside on the sidewalk, Walt could see through Clarice’s picture window, but his focus was divided. He was talking on his cell phone while observing Sylvie and Clarice. He was angry with the person on the other end of the phone call. “We gotta talk about this plan of yours,” he insisted.

  He listened a moment, then responded. “She’s fine. It’s you we’re talking about.”

  More listening, accompanied by head shaking. “You’re playing with fire—and Sylvie ain’t what I bargained for. This won’t work—”

  The other party interrupted him and spoke loudly.

  Walt said, “Look, I said I’d take care of her. You just do your part. And hurry it up! Before somebody gets hurt, y’hear?”

  The other party disconnected.

  Walt slapped his cell phone. “Crazy!”

  ...

  Leslye Larrimore was pleased and proud. The architects’ model of Pace Tower had finally been installed in her office at Pace-Larrimore-Stern, and the effect was superb. It was especially timely to have the model in place now, because the Japanese clients had called yesterday to set up an appointment today.

  Diane knocked a warning, then opened the door to Leslye’s office and admitted the gentlemen from Ichi-Nobuko Corporation. “Mister Yorobuko and Mister Ikagi,” Diane announced, then she withdrew and closed the door.

  Leslye exchanged bows and traditional greetings with the well-dressed visitors. She had made a study of proper Japanese business etiquette for just this purpose. Formalities accomplished, Leslye led her visitors to the table displaying the model of Pace Tower. She gestured to it like a game show host.

  “Well, there it is! Lovely, isn’t she? How did that final version of the agree
ment strike you? We have it on computer; we can make changes immediately if you like. We could schedule a signing for tomorrow.”

  Mr. Yorobuko nodded to the younger man. Ikagi reached into his briefcase and produced the overnight envelope addressed to Ichi-Nobuko. With a bow, Ikagi presented the envelope to Mr. Yorobuko.

  Mr. Yorobuko said, politely, “I believe there are some structural problems to be discussed. The signing may have to be delayed.” He removed Leslye’s own Pace Tower file from the envelope and, with a bow, handed it to her. “We have taken the liberty of making copies of everything.” He said.

  Leslye turned whiter than a kabuki dancer’s face paint.

  ...

  A short while later, the Windbreaker Man watched from a hotdog stand across the street as Mr. Ikagi and Mr. Yorobuko exited the Pace-Larrimore-Stern building. Their faces were grim. Windbreaker munched his hotdog and chuckled to himself.

  The Japanese gentlemen boarded a limousine and left for the airport. Windbreaker gave the hotdog vendor a large bill. “Keep the change.”

  ...

  Inside Leslye’s office, the frantic woman opened her secret cabinet and confirmed her worst fears. The files were missing. She closed the cabinet, eyes wild, and returned to her desk.

  Leslye gulped pills from a bottle in her desk drawer and washed them down with liquor from a monogramed silver flask. She jabbed the intercom button. “Diane! Call the pharmacy and get my Valium refilled. Then get me Stern. Then have the locks changed on my office. Today!”

  ...

  The locksmith put the finishing touches on Leslye’s new office locks just as twilight began to tint the sky beyond the magnificent windows of the posh office. Leslye hovered over him until he handed her the keys. “These are the only ones?” she asked him. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the locksmith. He tore the customer copy of the work order from his clipboard and extended it toward Leslye.

  “Leave it on Diane’s desk on your way out,” she said. She was quick to close the door behind him as he left.

  Leslye didn’t see the locksmith board his brightly painted van and pull out of the Pace-Larrimore-Stern parking garage. She didn’t see the van turn at the end of the first block, ease to the curb, and stop.

  Where the van stopped, the Windbreaker Man sat on a bus stop bench. The locksmith dangled a set of keys. Windbreaker rose from the bench, approached the van, and exchanged a money-size envelope for the dangled keys.

  A happy locksmith drove away. Windbreaker flipped the new keys in his palm and strolled away, whistling “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

  ...

  Twilight had come to Clarice’s Beauty World as well. Sylvie folded towels from the washer/dryer in the back room while Clarice locked all the doors at the front of the shop. No one else remained in the building.

  Anyone looking in the shop’s picture window would have seen two vastly different women. Clarice wore a shirtwaist dress, shop logo smock, and nurse’s shoes. Sylvie wore a Madison Avenue suit and high platform heels. And she didn’t appear to know much about folding laundry.

  “Leave that for tomorrow, girl!” called Clarice. “Get on home and get off your feet.”

  “Whoo, thanks. That’s exactly what I’ll do.” Sylvie wobbled on sore toes.

  As they walked to the front door together, Clarice looked at Sylvie’s shoes. “What size you take?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Shoes. What size?”

  “Oh, ah, in American sizes, ah, a seven, I think.”

  Clarice laughed. “Ain’t that a coincidence? American is exactly the kind I got. I’ll bring you my extra pair of these tomorrow.”

  They collected their purses from the bottom drawer of the reception desk. Clarice let Sylvie out first then locked the door behind them. Walt’s pickup truck waited across the street, with Walt dozing at the wheel.

  Sylvie rolled her shoulders. “Sheesh, I hurt all over.”

  “It’s called working for a living,” said Clarice. “You did good, too, for a first day. You’ll do fine.”

  “Mm-hmm. I could really go for a massage. Is there a good masseur in town?”

  Clarice gestured across the street. “Honey, you’re living with him.”

  ...

  In downtown Miami, it was no secret that more business deals were made across the linen tablecloths of the University Club than across boardroom conference tables. The membership was expensive, the city views were expansive, and the pricey meals were deducted from expense accounts and income taxes. To be seen regularly at the University Club was to be seen as prosperous, solvent, bankable.

  Dan Stern often ate lunch or dinner at the University Club. The Club was his fishpond when he was trolling for millionaire patsies. Wealthy investors schooled at the Club like minnows. This particular evening, Dan was having second and third thoughts about sharing his table with Leslye Larrimore, who was looking a touch too frazzled.

  Leslye ordered a drink—not her first—from a passing waiter. “I got all the bank statements. Cash disappearing left and right. We’re not an offshore corporation any more, Danny, we’re the Bermuda Triangle!”

  “Get a grip, Les.” Dan tried to project enough calm and confidence for both of them, in case other diners were watching. “How many million-dollar wire transfers go to the wrong place because a minimum-wage clerk spills his coffee into the machine or can’t read somebody’s handwriting? It happens all the time. We’ve just gotten into a nest of ‘em recently. You’ll call the bank; they’ll find the mistakes; you’ll iron it out.”

  The waiter delivered Leslye’s drink. He gestured an offer of service to Dan, but Dan declined. The waiter left.

  When they were alone again, Leslye leaned across the table. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “You should have. You’re pickling your liver. Back off on that stuff, will you? We’ve still got a few deals left to make, and you need a clear head.”

  “You try to keep a clear head watching little slanty-eyed strangers handle your private papers. They didn’t believe me, you know. Maybe they hate dealing with women?”

  Dan reached over and patted her hand. “Leslye, sweetheart, you’re losing it. We’ve seen investors back out on deals before. They were polite, weren’t they? Nobody called you names, nobody slashed your tires, nobody left a horse’s head in your bed. So they killed the deal. Chill out. Nobody got arrested.”

  A well-dressed couple strolled past, following a waiter to an empty table. Dan gave them his best grin and wave. Les struggled to appear less anxious. She nodded a subdued greeting.

  Dan continued to smile even after the couple was out of hearing range. “Les, don’t you drift into the Twilight Zone on me. Those guys can’t prove anything except that they allowed themselves to be duped, and duped by a woman. No hotshot wheeler-dealer wants to be seen that way. Loss of face, right? Next time will be different.”

  Dan ate in silence for a few minutes. Leslye took more liquid nourishment.

  Then Dan broached a new topic. “Maybe it’s time we invited Sylvie’s new partner to join in some more sophisticated ventures—the kind Harry never included him in before.”

  “McGurk?” Leslye couldn’t have been more surprised. “No. No cowboys. No jailbirds. I don’t like it.”

  “I’ll grant you he’s not exactly Prince Charles,” said Dan, “but from a few discreet inquiries I’ve made, it looks like McGurk definitely can put the cash together. Letters of credit coming out the wahzoo. Incredible but true. Our boy is not the poor yokel he wants us to think he is.”

  Leslye shook her head. “No. Too full of surprises lately. I don’t like it.”

  “You’ll take the meeting, Les. I’ll set it up.” Dan continued, with sarcasm, “Sober up and treat him right, Les. He’s the fine upstanding gentleman who screwed me on that polo match the other day. I owe him one.”

  ...

  After her first day on the job at Clarice’s Beauty World, Sylvie had luxuriated in a hot
bath before covering her sheer nightie with a mammoth, thick, terry robe borrowed from Walt. Looking deliciously frowsy from her bath, with damp tendrils of her hair curling innocently about her face, she had power over Walt McGurk that she would never have imagined. When she reclined on the living room sofa and joked about her aching feet and a good massage, Walt simply sat down at the opposite end of the sofa and took her dainty feet onto his lap.

  Sylvie pretended this was something any friend would do. She pretended Walt McGurk was exactly the kind of sensitive guy one would expect to rub one’s tired feet. She pretended her heartbeat remained steady and her body temperature did not rise.

  Walt pretended that if he wanted Sylvie to have a job, he was obligated to do his part to keep her fit for the work. He pretended he didn’t detect a lilac scent rising from her legs and feet as a result of her recent bath. He pretended he had not thought of her naked under a blanket of bubbles in the tub just down the hall from where he had been pretending to read. He pretended that massaging her feet was for her benefit, because she had as good as asked for it. He pretended his hands were not enjoying the sensations of massaging her delicate arches, small toes, smooth ankles, shapely calves.

  To prove that Walt’s therapeutic attentions had no emotional effect on her, Sylvie elected to transact some business by telephone. Time is money. Waste not, want not. Make every minute count. When she had mentally recited every appropriate aphorism she could remember, she reached for the phone lying on the nearest end table. She scrolled through her contacts and selected a number. She placed the call and set her phone on speaker, so Walt would hear.

  Daniel Stern answered on the second ring. “Don’t wait for the beep, I’m a real person. What’s up?”

  Walt grimaced at the recognition of the voice.

  Sylvie giggled coquettishly. “Danny, you’re too cute. How are you?”

  Flirting was Dan’s first language. “Not half as fine as you are, Sylvie, my sweet. What can I do to you this evening?”