3rd World Products, Book 16 (2 page)

Greer chuckled, “No, I don’t think so. Okay. Later, Ed.”
 

“Later.”
 

He hung up and I sipped beer as I looked for a song that would be worth a buck to me. Linking to the juke box, I quick-scanned the list and didn’t find such a song. In the glass front of the box I saw someone approaching me from behind and moved to one side.
 

A tall woman of about thirty stepped up and studied the box. She had bottle-blonde hair and seemed to keep herself more than reasonably fit. She didn’t bounce at all where she shouldn’t, anyway, but she wasn’t skinny and she was
damned
good looking. She reminded me vaguely of some TV or movie blonde. Elizabeth somebody. Berkley? Yeah. A Biker Barbie version of her. Cuter face, though. Her black t-shirt read ‘Harley Davidson’, as did the sides of her boots.
 

She asked, “Did you play anything?”
 

“Nope.”
 

Glancing at me, she asked, “Really? Why?”
 

I shook my head. “Not in the mood, I guess.”
 

Feeding the box five dollars, she said, “Too bad. Did you try the song search?”
 

“Nope. Not enough interest.”
 

Turning to face me, she canted her head slightly and studied me for a moment, then turned back to the juke box. As she poked the menu, she chuckled, “You like what you see? You’re looking at me hard enough.”
 

I returned her chuckle with, “There’s absolutely nothing better to look at in here, and I’d swear that on a stack of Bibles, ma’am. Too bad you came in here with a guy who looked a lot like a husband.”
 

She shot me a grin. “You can tell just by looking?”
 

“Oh, yeah. He’s either a hubby or the same thing without the ring. He isn’t hovering around you or staying within earshot. That means he either trusts you or doesn’t care, and since he kissed your cheek on the way in, I’d say he trusts you.”
 

Turning to face me again, she smiled as she softly said, “Wow! You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
 

“Not when a woman like you walks in. Then I notice everything about her, including who she’s with and under what readily apparent circumstances.”
 

After a pause, she asked, “A woman like me?”
 

“Now you’re fishing, ma’am.”
 

She chuckled, “Good. You didn’t miss that, either. ‘
A woman like me
‘? What does that mean to you?”
 

“Hold that thought and I’ll tell you both. He’ll be here in a second to find out why no music is playing.”
 

Looking past me, she saw what I’d seen in the faint window reflection behind her. Her guy had left the bar and started toward us. The blonde’s eyes came back to me and her left eyebrow went up.
 

As the guy neared us, I looked past her at the song menu and said, “There’s nothing on that box I haven’t already heard too often. Most people play the latest twenty songs that are popular in whatever genre they prefer. Some play older stuff, but that gets… well…
old
, y’know?”
 

She grinned at our cover topic and asked, “Oh, really?”
 

Grinning back, I said, “Yeah, really. How many times have you heard ‘
Red Solo Cup
‘ lately? Know all the words yet?”
 

The guy laughed, “If she doesn’t, I damned sure do. It’s on about once an hour at work.” Looking at her, he asked, “You weren’t going to play
that
, were you? We’ll probably hear it again on the way home.”
 

Shaking her head, the blonde laughed, “
No
, I wasn’t going to play it.” Then she looked at me and met my gaze as she said, “Now you can tell us what you were going to tell me about ‘
a woman like me
‘.”
 

The guy looked at me and asked, “Is that a song?”
 

I shrugged. “Might be, but I was referring to her.” After recapping our previous conversation, I said, “She asked what I meant, so I told her to wait ‘til you got here.”
 

Nodding firmly, the blonde said, “That’s right. Somehow he knew when you started over here.”
 

I said, “Timing and other circumstances. I’d say you two have this routine worked out pretty well.”
 

The guy’s gaze narrowed. He asked, “Routine?”
 

With a grin, I said, “Okay, then maybe only
she
has it worked out. In any case, the ‘routine’ part of it started when she asked if I liked what I saw. She knew exactly how long to stall the music to get you over here.”
 

Looking at her, I said, “That ‘
a woman like you
‘ remark was because you remind me of Elizabeth Berkley. I don’t mind in the least letting you know I think you’re the hottest woman in
this bar, ma’am — and possibly even in this side of the state, for that matter — but I’d hate to think you intended to stir up some trouble just to feed your ego.”
 

That made her laugh again, then he laughed as well, which surprised me a bit. Neither of them seemed surprised at my comparison of her to Berkley.
 

She leaned close and whispered confidentially, “I know I look like her. That’s what gets me work. I’m a stuntwoman.”
 

Hm. True? False? Did I give a damn? Not really, but nobody seemed upset. Rule 13; play it where it lands.
 

I said, “Not surprised. You’re pretty and fit and you carry yourself well.” Looking at him, I asked, “What about you?”
 

He shook his head. “Not me. I’m just her live-in manager.”
 

With a grin, I replied, “Kewl! If I become a manager, can I get a fancy blonde like yours?”
 

She grinned hugely and he laughed, “Hey, they’re out there, dude! Give it a go!”
 

Upshot: they’d been filming in Lake City and had two weeks to kill, so they’d rented bikes and hit the road. We talked through another round of beers. They told me they had time off because a production company had run short of money. I told them about my very brief career as a movie extra in Europe. A little before ten, they suited up against the cold night air and hit the road for Tampa. The blonde did a hundred-foot wheel stand when her tires reached the pavement of US-41.
 

A guy I knew as Jim shook his head and laughed, “Man, when I saw him head for the juke box, I thought he was gonna pound you flat for talking to her. Next thing I knew, you were all shootin’ the shit over another round.”
 

He was probably expecting some kind of an answer, but I didn’t particularly want to chat with him. Timid people annoy me. I opened the front door and gestured for him to go ahead.
 

At the bar I took the coaster off my mug and sipped. Sandy came over and leaned on the bar with a big grin.
 

“You really liked that one, huh?”
 

“You mean Biker Barbie, ma’am?”
 

Sandy snickered, “Hell, yes, that’s who I mean. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.”
 

Pretending defensiveness, I replied, “Hah. I looked away at least twice. I think. Maybe even three times.”
 

Sandy laughed, eyed me briefly and laughed again, then asked if I wanted another beer. I shook my head.
 

“Nah. I’ve short-napped my way around the clock so I can get some sleep tonight and get up at a reasonable hour. I plan to spend tomorrow on the bike.”
 

Sandy sighed delightfully and sounded wistful as she said, “Wish I could do that. This place takes all my time lately.”
 

I shrugged. “Excuses, ma’am. You could marry whatshisface and put him to work. Child labor might be illegal, but husband labor isn’t.”
 

She shook her head. “Not a chance. This place is all mine and it’s damned well going to stay that way.”
 

After a few minutes of chat with Sandy, I headed home. The huge semi-Siamese cat that had recently appeared in the neighborhood was sitting on my picnic table as I landed on my front porch. He backed away and bellowed a battle cry as he fuzzed up. I sent theta waves at him that quickly calmed him, then put him to sleep. He had a collar and looked well-fed, so I went into the house for some of Tiger’s dried cat food. After placing a small handful near the cat as a friendship offering, I put the trash out and went to bed.
 

Chapter Two
 

January in west central Florida. Sixty degrees and sunny at nine in the morning. Too good a Saturday to waste indoors. By the time I’d checked my bike’s fluids and tires, the temperature was up to sixty-five. After rolling the bike out of the garage, I went back into the house to make a fresh coffee and put my laptop in my backpack.
 

The laptop is an old but functional IBM T43 I picked up for fifty bucks. It easily fits in my backpack or the bike cooler, but it’s mostly just a convenient cover. I can display things on it rather than use a question-attracting field screen in public.
 

Ten minutes later I was rolling north through relatively open countryside north of Brooksville. No condos, no strip malls; just a few houses set well back from the road and an occasional gas station or small business of some sort. Some of the cows looked up as I passed.
 

As I neared the Larten farm, a roan colt named Memphis ran to the fence and whinnied a greeting. I slowed so he could keep up as he ran alongside me and sounded off again.
 

The Lartens’ gate was closed, so I parked to one side of the drive and spent a few minutes patting Memphis and supplying him with wads of grass from my side of the fence. He accepted the attention with enthusiasm and seemed to be trying to talk as he munched the grass. His mother, Angelique, came to join us for a share of the grass and attention.
 

A sheriff’s car slowed and pulled into the driveway, then stopped. The guy who got out of the car looked unhappy. Angelique backed away from the fence, but Memphis stood happily munching his grass and watching the deputy approach.
 

The deputy stopped by my bike and said, “You need to get away from those horses and show me some ID.”
 

Memphis stuck his nose through the fence slats and nudged me. I pulled up another clump of grass for him, then said, “I’m a friend of the owners.”
 

The deputy’s gaze narrowed. “The owners aren’t here to tell me that, so we’ll do this my way. Get over here.”
 

Linking to my orbital core, I used it to trace the location of Bill Larten’s cell phone and dial the number as I reached for the wallet on my belt. The deputy tensed as I pulled my shirt up, but relaxed a bit when he didn’t see a gun.
 

Bill answered as I fished my driver’s license out for the deputy. “Hi, Ed. What’s up?”
 

“Hi, Bill. I’m at your gate, schmoozing with Memphis and his mom. There’s a deputy here who needs reassurance.”
 

As I started talking, the deputy became wary again. When I put up a two-foot field screen, the deputy froze, then stepped back with a hand on his gun.
 

Bill said, “No problem. Let me talk to him.”
 

I said, “Done dunnit, Bill. Watch your phone screen.”
 

Holding my driver’s license out, I approached the deputy. He rather starkly watched the screen move forward with me and snapped, “What the hell is that thing?!”
 

“It’s a field screen, and this man owns the horses.”
 

Memphis whinnied and Bill replied, “Hi, Memphis! Hang on a minute, Daddy’s gotta do something first.”
 

Reading the deputy’s name tag, I said, “Bill, this is Deputy Leeman. He saw me feeding Angelique and Memphis and he probably wants to know things are okay.”
 

Leeman eyed the screen, then me, and then said, “Just a minute, sir. Let me see who I’m talking to.”
 

He took my ID and studied it, then looked at the screen and said, “This covers him, but you could be anybody.”
 

Larten said, “William H. Larten. Pull up my license on your car computer.”
 

Memphis sounded off again and I turned to see his entire head jammed between the fence slats. Anchoring the field screen in place, I said, “Aw, hell. Everybody stand by one,” and went to use a wad of grass to entice Memphis to pull his head out of the fence. After tossing a couple more handfuls of grass on the ground near him, I returned.
 

Bill said, “He’ll be too big to do that soon.”
 

I shrugged. “Not soon enough, but he’s almost too big now. Think he’ll realize that before he gets his head stuck?”
 

Laughing, Bill replied, “Not likely. He’s got the brains of an Irish Setter.”
 

Deputy Leeman regarded us for a moment, then said, “Back in a minute,” and headed for his car. He kept an eye on us while he ran our info, but soon got out of the car and returned.
 

As he gave me my license, he gave us both a little ‘all done here’ salute and said, “Just had to be sure. Have a nice day,” and turned to leave.
 

Bill said firmly, “Deputy Leeman.”
 

Leeman turned to face us halfway to his car and Bill said, “Thanks for stopping. I appreciate your taking the time to check things out.”
 

Leeman nodded and said, “Just doing my job, sir,” then continued to his car.
 

As Leeman backed out of the drive, Bill said, “We’re having a party tomorrow afternoon. Celia’s home from college.”