Sylvie's Cowboy (9 page)

Sylvie was reading in bed with Maude nestled
among the covers and Butch on the floor beside them. At the sound
of the front door opening, Butch and Maude perked up and rushed
from the room.

Sylvie dropped her book, shrugged into her
thick terry robe, fluffed her hair, and went to stand in her
bedroom door. Walt came into view, trying not to limp, accompanied
by the happy dogs. He stopped when he looked up and saw Sylvie in
the doorway. “Oh. Hi. Sorry I woke ya.”

“Where have you been?” she asked, trying very
hard to sound as if it didn’t actually matter.

“Ah, visiting. Visiting a friend.”

“Uh-huh? Well, how is she?”

“Who?”

“Your friend.”

“Oh. Ah, fine. She’s fine. She’s okay.
You?”

Sylvie looked down at her toes and back up at
Walt. “I wanted to sell a horse today, McGurk. I’m just sorry it
was to you. I mean, I’m sorry about the way it happened.”

“Hmmph,” he nodded, and continued limping
toward his room.

“I was hoping you’d say, ‘That’s all right,
Sylvie. It wasn’t your fault.’”

Outside his room, he put his hand on the
doorknob and turned back toward her. “Was only one finger on the
trigger, Sylvie girl.”

He limped into his room and closed the door.
A second later he opened the door and shooed out the two dogs. He
shut the door again.

“G’night,” Sylvie said to the closed door.
She returned to her room, admitted Maude, and shut the door.

Maude whined.

Sylvie reopened the bedroom door to admit the
waiting Butch. Maude welcomed the big mongrel with slurps and
wiggles. Sylvie sighed. “Maude, didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s
just as easy to fall in love with a rich man?”

The following morning Sylvie was on the
telephone at the front desk in Clarice’s Beauty World when an obese
woman entered from the street. The woman wore a flowery pink house
dress and her hair was covered with a red kerchief. She carried a
purse and a Walt Disney World shopping bag. Sylvie thought the
woman looked familiar.

The beauty salon vibrated with the hum of
conversation, whir of hair dryers, and twang of country music.
Nearly every chair was occupied by ladies in various stages of
trim, wash, rinse, comb-out, roll-up, or blow-dry. The corner table
in the reception area was mounded with house-and-garden, celebrity
gossip, and style magazines.

Sylvie looked like a beautician instead of
like an investment banker, because today she was wearing a uniform
and shoes borrowed from Clarice. Sylvie greeted the
familiar-looking obese visitor with a smile and a raised finger
while listening to the party on the other end of the phone. When
she turned from the customer to her calendar on the opposite side
of the desk, Sylvie’s eyes passed across the photo of her puppy,
Maude, in a silver frame standing beside the phone.

Sylvie did a double take, twice comparing the
dog’s face with that of the obese newcomer. It was the same face.
Sylvie quickly placed the dog’s photo face down. She turned toward
Clarice and received a tiny nod of understanding.

Clarice waved to the customer and called, “Go
on back and get shampooed,
Maude
.” She sent Sylvie a wink
when she emphasized the name. “We’ll be right with you.”

Maude Stokes waved at Clarice and lumbered to
the rear of the shop, where she disappeared into the shampoo
room.

Sylvie, on the telephone, said, “Okay, then,
we’ll see you next week. Regular time. You take care of that baby,
now.”

“And take away that filthy pacifier,”
muttered Clarice. “That’s how they pick up every germ that comes
along.”

On the phone, Sylvie added, “And Clarice
sends her love. ... Right. ... ‘Bye.” She hung up the phone and
scribbled something in the appointment calendar.

“You never tell ‘em what I tell you to tell
‘em,” said Clarice from the first chair behind the desk, where she
was rolling up a permanent wave on a red-haired woman.

“You never want me to tell them what you say
you want me to tell them,” said Sylvie with a smile.

Minutes later, Maude Stokes emerged from the
shampoo room, towel around her head, carrying a cup of coffee. She
waddled to the empty chair beside where Clarice was working.

The red-haired woman smiled at Maude. “Well,
don’t just sit there, get ‘em, out!” said the redhead. “We all know
you’re dying to show ‘em, and you know we can’t wait to see
‘em.”

Happily, Maude put down her coffee and delved
into her shopping bag. She produced a photo album. “It was
gorgeous,” she drawled. “Sue Ann never looked so sweet.”

A woman two chairs away, in the middle of
drying her hair, shouted over the din of the dryer. “Are those the
wedding pictures? I want to see those when you’re finished.”

Maude Stokes waved acknowledgment and handed
the album to the redhead. Sylvie retired to the back room to
complete some chores there.

While Maude waited for the return of her
prized wedding album, she looked at Clarice with the keen interest
of an accomplished gossip. “Clarice? Think you and Walt will ever
tie the knot?”

“We’re just friends.”

The redhead chimed in, “Saw his truck at your
place last night.”

Clarice tried to appear calm in front of the
curious women. The rumor mill would churn into action the minute
these ladies detected any emotion in Clarice’s reaction. “I’d
appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk about ... about me and Walt ...
about us keeping company. ... I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say
anything in front of Sylvie.” Clarice tilted her head toward the
back room.

Ironically, Sylvie chose that moment to
return with a broom and begin sweeping around the beauticians’
stations.

The redhead caught Clarice’s eyes in the
mirror. “Ooooh, so that’s how it is!” she told Clarice with a sly
smirk.

Maude Stokes called, “Sylvie—”

“Y’all behave!” Clarice whispered.

“I’m behavin’,” Maude crooned to Clarice
before turning again to Sylvie. “Sylvie, how’s Walter? I heard the
poor boy’s all stove up. My Eddie loaded the truck for him
today—and Walter McGurk ain’t never in this world let nobody load
feed for him before. I could send Eddie over to the ranch in the
evenings to help out if y’all need him.” Maude licked her lips at
the prospect of a juicy story brewing.

Sylvie kept sweeping. “Walt’s all right,” she
said pleasantly.

“He’s fine, Maude,” said Clarice
dismissively.

“You should know,” Maude murmured just loud
enough for Clarice and the redhead to hear. The redhead
giggled.

Sylvie began sweeping toward the rear of the
shop, putting distance between herself and Clarice’s two
visitors.

…

A short while later the telephone rang on the
living room end table at the McGurk ranch. Footsteps approached and
stopped. A man’s hand lifted the receiver. The man wore a gold
Rolex and an expensive, well-tailored business suit. It was Walt
McGurk as few people ever saw him. He lifted the receiver to his
ear and said, “McGurk.”

At the reception desk of Clarice’s Beauty
World, Sylvie was hunched over the phone trying to keep the call
private. “Hello, Walt?”

“Sylvie? What you doin’ callin’ in the middle
of the day? Somethin’ the matter?

“No. Huh-uh. I just, ah, well, I ... how are
you feeling? I mean, you hardly said anything this morning and I
thought maybe, I mean, are you in pain or anything? You want me to
get you something from the drug store?”

Walt held the receiver away and examined it.
This was a tone of voice he had never heard from Sylvie Pace. He
returned the phone to his ear, shaking his head. “No, thanks. Don’t
need a thing. Just gonna be sore for a few days.”

“Maude Stokes was here. She said if you’re
laid up and need help, she could send Eddie.”

“Well, you can tell that old busybody that I
ain’t laid up in the least, and she can keep her spies at home,
thank you very much. Fact, I was just on my way out. The shop in
Clewiston got your car runnin’, by the way. You can drive yourself
home this evening if you want.”

“Okay. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’m sure,” Walt confirmed. “See you
tonight.”

“Right. ... ‘Bye.”

Walt almost hung up the receiver, but he
yanked it back. “Wait, Sylvie! ... Sylvie?”

“Yeah?”

“Listen, I ...

Thanks. Thanks for callin’.”

Walt and Sylvie both looked bemused as they
disconnected the call.

…

A couple hours east of the McGurk ranch, Dan
Stern’s car sped southward on I-95 toward downtown Miami. Behind
Stern’s car, a black limousine wove left and right, lane to lane
until it reached a position just off Dan’s rear bumper.

The interstate was always crowded, and the
entire commuter herd was stampeding at more than seventy miles per
hour. The black limousine thumped the rear of Dan’s car.

Dan felt the jolt and reacted with a look in
his mirror. His phone rang. He reached for the handset, looked
nervously in the rearview mirror, then punched the speaker button
instead. He spoke into the microphone on his sunvisor. “Hello?”

Hugo’s voice was unmistakable. It oozed from
the speaker like oily black smoke. “We read the papers, Danny Boy.
Your deal with the Nipponese fell apart. We want our money,
Danny.”

The limo thumped his bumper again, nearly
sending Dan into the traffic rushing by on either side of him on
the multi-lane freeway.

Dan clutched the steering wheel for dear
life. “Are you crazy? You’ll get us all killed!”

“Only one of us, Danny,” the smoky voice
said.

“Look, I’m on my way right now to meet a guy
and take him to look at the project. I’ll get the money.”

“You bet you will,” said Hugo. “And that’s
one bet we’ll be happy to cover.”

The phone went dead. The limo swerved around
Dan and swooped past him as if he were standing still. Dan wiped
sweat from his face with trembling fingers.

…

Forty-five minutes later Leslye Larrimore
stepped off the elevator at Pace-Larrimore-Stern, briefcase in
hand, and crossed the lobby to her office.

Her secretary looked up from typing when Les
entered. “Good morning, Ms. Larrimore.”

“Pardon? Oh. Morning.” Leslie fumbled for her
new key then wrestled with the lock on her private office.

“I didn’t have a key,” Diane apologized. “I
would have tidied up a little—”

“That’s all right,” Leslye interrupted. “It’s
fine like it is.” The lock finally tumbled and Leslie pushed
through the doorway.

“Are you all right?” asked Diane. Too late.
Les was gone, closing the door behind her.

Leslye ignored the draped model of Pace Tower
as she made a beeline for the desk, dropped her briefcase, and
unlocked a drawer. She popped a pill and washed it down with a gulp
from her silver flask. She finished with a breath spray then
re-locked the drawer and finger-combed her hair.

Diane’s voice came over the intercom of the
desk phone. “Ms. Larrimore? Would you like me to bring you some
coffee?”

“No, thank you, Diane. Has Mr. Stern
called?”

“He called from his car about forty minutes
ago. He and Mr. McGurk should be here soon.”

“Good. Buzz me when they get here.” Leslye
skirted her desk and approached the model table. When she removed
the drape, she reacted with horror. The Pace Tower model was a
shambles, as if someone had smashed it with a sledgehammer and then
taken a blowtorch to it.

“Diane!” shouted Les.

Momentarily, Diane opened the door, alarmed.
“Yes, ma’am?”

“Who’s been in here!?”

“No one, Ms. Larrimore. You have the only
key.”

Leslye stepped aside so Diane could see the
demolished model. “Do you think I did this!”

Diane took an involuntary step forward. “What
happened?”

“That’s what I’m asking you. How could
someone get in and do this?”

“They couldn’t. They, they couldn’t get in.
Nobody could—”

Leslye cut her off. “Call Stern and head him
off. Send them to the construction site instead. I can’t show them
this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Diane and hurried from the
room.

Leslye plodded back to her desk, slumped in
her chair, and stared at the smashed model while she reached for
the flask in the drawer.

The phone rang on her desk. She took a swig
from the flask.

The phone rang again. She slapped the
intercom button. “Diane, get that, please.”

“It’s not ringing out here, ma’am. It must be
your private line.”

Leslye slapped the intercom off. The phone
rang again. She took another swig and stared at the ruined
model.

The phone rang yet again. She activated the
speaker with an angry swat. “Leslye Larrimore.”

A man’s voice on the phone sang, “Rockabye
Leslye, in the treetop—”

“Who is this?”

“—When the wind blows, the Tower will
rock—”

“How did you get this number?”

“—When the deal breaks, the Tower will
fall—”

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“—And down will come Leslye, Tower and
all.”

Disbelief joined the fear on Leslye’s face.
“I know you. I know your voice.”

The man said, “Didn’t I always tell you, you
get what you pay for, Les?”

“No! It can’t be you!” Leslie was beside
herself. Even though she was now speaking to a dial tone, she
cried, “Who are you!”

Diane’s voice came over the intercom. “Ms.
Larrimore? Are you all right?”

Wild-eyed and panting, Leslye took a swig
from her flask before answering. “Yes. Yes, I’m all ri—I’m okay.
I’m fine. Fine.” She chugged another hit from the flask.

“I reached Mr. Stern. He’s taking Mr. McGurk
to the construction site. Will you join them there?”

“No!” Leslye calmed herself with an effort.
“I mean, no, I’ll be in conference all day. Tell them I’m sorry,
but I can not be disturbed.”