Sylvie's Cowboy (6 page)

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.”

“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.

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 agreement 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.