"A voice spoke: 'Let's pants him!'. Before I could adjust myself to this new idea, I was literally swarmed upon by a whole covey or gaggle or whatever the hell you want to call it, of soft, cuddly, lissome and nubile womanhood.
"I found out later that there were sixteen of them after they took off all my clothing and carried me back out to the swimming pool.
"There were two splashes me and the kid. I came up, laughing fit to bust. Some prize we'd won!"
Like to win a whole Las Vegas Chorus, from a nudie show? All of them? For ten bucks? That's what Bud and the Remuda Kid did one night. It looked like a million until the gangsters entered the picture!
Author Gary Bolin takes you behind the scenes of glamorous Las Vegas as only he can do. In "Nude Ranch Nymphs" you'll meet people you've read about. And you'll find actual facts you wouldn't have believed!
"'I PAY SIXTY BUCKS A WEEK AND FOUND PLUS ALL THE LOVIN YOU CAN GET' I TOOK THE JOB.! "
CHAPTER I
I shot the lock off the door of Apartment Twelve. I kicked the door open and walked in, and I was knocked right on my can.
When I came to, I was in jail. That's right, in the bucket.
I was questioned by T-Men, police and the sheriffs office.
I tell you the truth, I didn't know what was what nor who was who. Or whom. This was a mess you almost had to have a program for in order to tell the horses from the jockeys.
If that sounds confused, you can imagine how I felt. Me.
Bud Kubek.
Stunt man. Part-time cowboy. In love with a girl who couldn't keep on a brassiere.
Is this a thing? You bet.
Hell, I'll tell you all about it.
Listen...
I softly stroked her neck while I pressed my body tightly to her. I could feel the dampness between my thighs as I squeezed. She rolled her eyes wildly at me. I saw a fleck of froth at the corner of her mouth, as every muscle in her body quivered. Then, a thrill of exultation as I told myself that I was going to conquer her, absolutely and finally become her master. I'd seen wild ones like her before.
And each one of those wild ones remembered me! I liked the wild kind! Everyone knew it and, in a curious way, I was respected for my tastes and, in another way they paid me. In the thrills, the joy that asserting my mastery over them gave me and in cash! Because, one way or another I always got paid.
But this one was she going to give me the action I craved needed? I gently ran an exploring hand over her silken ribs. Her muscles quivered again frantically, but she wouldn't move beneath me.
"All right," I muttered, "you'll move for me, you bitch!"
I slapped her across the buttocks, hard! She exploded into a frenzy of wild, uncontrollable action!
If I'd wanted action, I was getting all any man could ask for more than most men could handle!
She went crazy. Her legs convulsed, kicking. Her head rolled from side to side, while her limpid brown eyes turned up until only the whites were showing!
I tried to catch the rhythm of her impassioned motion, but it seemed elusive; I wondered if I was losing my grip.
I didn't have much longer to wonder. With a madly convulsive heave of her entire twitching body, she threw me off, and I hit the dirt of the corral hard enough to loosen my teeth, plus a few other accessories.
"Cut!, " cried the director, and the cameras quit rolling. He called over to me as the Remuda Kid was picking her up.
"Quite a ride. How d'you feel, Bud?"
I got to my feet slowly, dusting my Levis off with my hat. I was already aching, and I knew tomorrow would be worse.
"That's the last goddamn filly I ever ride," I assured him, bitterly. He laughed, turned to more important matters. I limped over to the fence, and stood there for a minute, collecting my thoughts. I reached for a cigarette, lit it, then blew out the smoke slowly.
This life was fast becoming no life at all. I've been working in the motion picture industry for twelve or thirteen years. Now I was down to stunt riding for seventy-five dollars a day when I could get work!
I figured out that I was working one day maybe a week average, and this didn't seem to be much of an income for the kind of work I was doing.
There had to be another answer, I told myself wearily, as I collected my saddle gear, tossed it in the back of my '49 station wagon, and headed for the little hotel room near Western and Santa Monica. You can't call that neighborhood "glamorous Hollywood."
When I got home, I showered and lay down for awhile, just resting. I'd have taken a hot tub, but my room didn't have that kind of luxury. I looked around me, and had to shake my head.
This was a far cry from the swinging apartment I used to have in Beverly Hills, back when my good looks and a certain native acting ability made me a handsome five hundred to a grand a week. Now, most of the time, I was just one more guy lined up at the State Employment Office drawing my fifty-five bucks a week unemployment compensation. And, most weeks I had to live on it.
* * *
I got up, slipped on a pair of slacks and a T-shirt and went down to the little cocktail lounge off the lobby. I decided to have a couple of drinks, then drop into one of the greasy spoons around the corner for a bite of dinner.
I had sort of a date for tonight but it entailed getting dressed, going up to Hollywood and Vine. And I wasn't sure I was going to make the scene.
It seemed like a lot of work for a second-class hump, if you know what I mean. And I was sore. Maybe I'd feel like making the effort a little later in the evening. But, right now, I wanted the first drink!
Charlie, the bartender, greeted me by name. "Howdy, Bud."
"Hi, Charlie, Give me a bottle of beer and a shot of that bar whisky."
He placed it before me, clowning like always. "Sarsaparilla and redeye!" he announced.
Sometimes I enjoyed the clowning, but not tonight. I grunted, drank my shot fast, then let the cool beer sooth my throat. I shoved the shot glass back for a refill, then took a moment to look around. No one I knew.
Charlie came back with the bourbon bottle, filling my glass, and nodding toward the other end of the bar.
"Know that joker?" he asked.
I looked at the man he'd pointed out. Nice enough looking man. In his late forties or early fifties. Outdoors type, from the weathered, tanned face, and the casual way he wore his clothing.
"Nope. Never saw him before. Why?"
Charlie looked at him again, then leaned across the bar confidentially.
"Buddy," he whispered, "he owns a great big dude ranch over in Nevada, just a few miles from Las Vegas. I don't know how he stumbled in here, but he told me a little while before you came on the scene that he was looking for a couple of new hands for his scatter. His season is just starting."
I glanced back down the bar with renewed interest.
"Want me to introduce you?"
I kept on looking, then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "Why not?"
Hell, I thought. Nothing could be worse than the life I was now leading. like a squirrel on a treadmill. I wasn't getting younger, and I was definitely getting nowhere!
Charlie walked down the bar and spoke to the stranger. He looked up pleasantly enough, nodded, and made a half-wave. Then, he sent me up a drink.
I toasted him, belted it down, and got up to move down beside him.
"Bud Kubek," I introduced myself. "Hear you're looking for some help for your ranch?"
"Might be at that," he said. "My name's Ed Bailey. You look like a ranch hand. If fact, I'm damned if you don't look familiar to me. We ever meet before?"
"No," I smiled. "But you might have seen me in pictures or on TV."
"Why, sure. Bud Kubek ... that name sounds familiar, too, now that I think about it. Well, damn it, I don't suppose you'd be interested in a job like I got to offer. Appreciate it, though, if you could steer me onto a couple of good boys, not too old and reasonably good looking. See, my lady guests like 'em that way."
"What's the pay?"
"I pay sixty bucks a week and food. And you should pick up that much more in tips. Plus all the lovin' you can handle."
I didn't hesitate a minute.
"Mister," I told him, "I got you one hand." Grinned, "I can probably find you another. When do we start?" He reached over, shook my hand. "That's a deal," and he grinned. "When are you free."
"Now."
"You're on the payroll!"
"Let's have a drink to that."
We did and it turned into quite a party.
Next morning, nursing a hangover that was hand-made, and a collectors item, I stopped past the studio and picked up my last check. I dropped into the little bar on Gower that movie cowboys frequent, and had a couple of cold ones for therapeutic purposes.
Pretty soon as expected the Remuda Kid showed. Looked like he, too, had put in a rough session.
I waited until he'd had a chance to regain his balance, then told him of the deal. Told him I'd accepted it. Told him, "Room for one more, the man says."
"How long's the season?"
I didn't know, and said so. He grinned.
"What the hell's the difference? I'm in!"
We shook hands on it, and I promised to call him at his hotel in a couple of hours. He was going to pack while he waited. If his situation was anything like mine, that should take about five minutes.
Back at my own pad, I grabbed my few possessions, packed a suitcase, looked around the room and thought bitterly that there sure didn't seem to me to be much of an accumulation of personal belongings not for all the money I'd made and spent! In a little frame on the battered dresser was a picture of at least one good reason for the lack The Ex-Wife Cassandra "Sandy!"
A real doll, a good drinking companion and fun in bed.
A minor actress. I was never hell on wheels as a thespian, but even my agent told me that Sandy would never really make it. Cute, but no talent!
Well, she'd had enough talent for me. We laughed, we made love together, and it was a ball. A real ball!
Until the day I caught her in the hay with a lousy assistant director.
I beat the hell out of him, but he was the wrong person. Maybe if I'd belted Sandy around a little bit more things would have been better. I don't know.
I do know that I couldn't, and I know that I didn't! I left the house of course.
It was my best friend, The Remuda Kid, who snapped me out of a drunken orgy of self-pity with the news that I apparently was the only person in Hollywood who hadn't known my wife was hustling on the side. That she's gone to bed with anyone, male, female anytime for just about any amount of money!
I don't know what other guys would do under the same circumstances, but I do know what I did. I came out of it right then. I went on the wagon for six months, and then the bitch sued me for divorce.
Very much sued me! California law, being what it is, she got it, not that I fought the action. Hell. I wanted out from under. But she got the car she got the house she got the furniture. And, she got the bank account! Plus fifty percent of my earnings until she remarried. Which, thank God, she did In a couple of years. But not until she'd wiped me out!
Well, I figured, dropping the picture in the wastebasket, that's show biz!
I was going to Nevada and a new way of life. No more falling on my ass for seventy-five bucks a day. No more standing in line for the unemployment check. Fresh air, good food, sixty bucks a week clear! And all the nooky I could handle. That sounded like a hell of a lot better deal than a tired Hollywood with its tired whores.
I cut a chapter out of my life when that picture hit the bottom of the wastebasket. But I didn't cry any tears for my misspent youth, if you know what I mean. It was almost as if a big load was off my back.
I went down to the lobby, paid my bill, and shook hands.
I stopped in the bar. Bailey, my new boss, wasn't there, so I ordered another beer and called his room.
I got a sleepy "Hello."
"I got your other hand," I said. "We're packed and ready to go. You going, too?"
I had to wait until he lit a cigarette and coughed for a minute or two.
"No," he answered, still hacking. "I'm gonna lay over for another day or so. I have to see my advertising agency about some new brochures. But, the name of the place is the 'Hard-Way-8', and it's just a few miles before you hit Vegas the way you'll be going in. Incidentally, it's damn near all freeway there now, so you can make pretty good time. You going right out to the ranch?"
I thought about this for a second. "No, I don't think so. We'll get in too late to do any good tonight. Figured to go on into Vegas and maybe indulge a little, then go out first thing tomorrow morning."
He chuckled. "I'd a bet on that. Need an advance?"
"No. I got plenty of money for now. Say who do we report to?"
"My foreman's name is Balckie Blackie Delmar. He might not be there and if he isn't, just stop by the ranch-house and tell my daughter so's she can arrange for extra meals. We only got a couple of guests there now, so there won't be a hell of a lot for you to do until I get up. See you in a couple of days."
He rang off, and I called the Remuda Kid. He was ready. I finished my beer, picked up my suitcase, and threw it in the back of the station wagon, along with my gear.
On the way out to pick up the Kid, I stopped at the bank and drew out my account. Two hundred and twenty dollars. I had about thirty-five more in my pocket.
My suitcase, my saddle and gun belt. A suitcase full of clothing, and a heart full of bitterness. That was my total accumulation for thirteen years in motion pictures. A lot of them good ones, financially speaking. But not a hell of a lot!
The Kid climbed in and grinned at me. "Boy," he laugh ed. "We sure travel light, don't we?"
I didn't tell him I was thinking just the same thing.
We took out time on the drive, chatting about many things, speculating on the whereabouts of old friends, stopping at every town we passed for a beer, or a hamburger. It was getting dark as we approached Las Vegas, and we were still almost ten miles out when we could see the lights of that fantastic playground shining in the sky.
I stopped the car, and we both gawked at it.
"I got a feeling," the Kid said, solemnly. "I got a feeling that we're gonna get drunk, and screwed and gamble all our money away before morning!
I agreed with him. "I got a feeling that we're gonna do our damndest anyway!"
We grinned at each other, and drove on in.
"THERE WERE 16 OR 18 GIRLS ON STAGE. (COUNT THE BAZOOMS AND DIVIDE BY TWO!)"
CHAPTER II
The Kid and I both figured on getting drunk, which we did without too much effort. We managed to grab a good steak dinner along the way. We hit the casinos, and we won. Not a lot, but steadily. By two o'clock in the morning, I'd picked up almost five hundred dollars, and the Kid was ahead about half that amount.
"Hey," he suggested. "Let's grab a show? One of them bare-bosom jobs."
"Why not?"
We made it out to The Strip.
Well, sir, it was as advertised, all right. I haven't seen anything like it since my first week-end pass to Paris where I'd herded up with the other displaced G.I.'s to watch the Folies Bergere.
There were about sixteen or eighteen girls on stage (count the bazoonms and divide by two!) and they were all lookers. Lovely, vibrant breasts, all pink-nippled, by the way, were jiggling all over the stage, and I could hardly taste my drink!
The waiter came over to our table, between drinks, and asked: "You gentlemen care to take a chance? Ten bucks."
I handed him ten without looking, thinking I was getting into a keno game or something. So did the Kid, I noticed.
Some cornball singer came on and warbled a few choruses of a song I'd never heard before and didn't particularly want to hear again, and then the girls came back!
They were probably wearing different costumes, but you couldn't have proved it in a court of law, they were so small. Those gorgeous, firm, bouncing breasts were still very much in evidence, though!
The waiter came back to our table, handed the Remuda Kid a slip of paper. "Congratulations, sir," he told him, in a stage whisper. "You won."
The Kid nodded absently, his eyes never leaving the gorgeous gals on the stage.
The number ended, the lights went out, then up again as the curtains closed. There were no encores. The lights came up in the room, too. I nudged the Kid.
"What'd you win?" I asked him.
"What?"
"Come on-what'd you win? The slip in your hand?"
"Oh!" He looked at it, shook his head. "Beats hell out of me. What is it, anyway?" He handed the slip to me.
It read: "Congratulations. You win. Pass 2. 7218."
I shrugged. "Call the waiter," I suggested. He did.
That worthy looked surprised. "Didn't you know? You go to..." he leaned over and whispered into the Kids ear, then straightened up as the Kid let out a loud guffaw.
"What it it?" I asked, as the waiter walked away.
"Bud, you'll never believe it. Never!"
"What?"
He held the slip of paper in his fingers, waved it merrily. "We just won the goddamned chorus!"
He'd lost his mind, and I mentioned the fact to him. The Kid shook his head, still convulsed with laughter. "I mean it! They got a drawing here once a week. Ten bucks a ticket. Maybe a thousand or two thousand bucks involved. The lucky winner and his friend and I guess we're friends win the chorus for the rest of the night. All we can eat and drink and play with. How's that grab you?"
It grabbed me good. I started to laugh, too! Hell, you can have Hollywood for the rest of your life we had Las Vegas! At least a very good part of it! I could see we weren't going to get to the ranch on time tomorrow, but who cared?
The waiter was hovering in the background. He was mad, maybe, but he was still expecting a tip, and I didn't really blame him. I slid him fifty.
He called us a cab and gave instructions to the grinning driver who had been there before. I tipped the driver fifty, too. Hell, wasn't I a big Hollywood star? Well, ex-star, anyway.
* * *
It was a motel, when we got there, and for Las Vegas a rather sedate, quiet-looking type of motel. The cocktail lounge was small and intimate, and the pool wasn't very big. We stopped in the bar for a drink while we got our bearings.
I was about to ask the bartender for instructions, when he asked us.
"You gentlemen here to get the lay of the land?" he asked. And he accented the last four words.
I gulped part of my drink, noted the Kid was too red-faced to answer.
"I guess that's about it," I said. "We won the ticket."
He looked at us with admiration and envy. "You know what? I been buying into that damned auction for over a year, every week. I got over five hundred bucks invested, and not a call." He took up a towel, mopped the bar top. "I guess some guys got all the luck. Jesus Christ, you got sixteen beautiful broads all to yourself for the rest of the night, and the day, too. Wow! Boy, are you guys in for a ball!"
He was right. We were and we did. Have a ball, that is.
* * *
It started when the telephone behind the bar sounded off. The bartender picked it up, listened for a second, then gave me and the Kid a knowing leer.
He hung up, looked at us and licked his lips. "Jesus, I envy you guys!"
Okay, so he envied us. "One of you goes to Number Three. The other goes to Number Six-B."
I glanced quickly at the Kid. He took out a quarter, flipped it, said, "Call it."
"Number Three."
He glanced at the coin. "Go man. And good luck."
I decided we'd better have another drink. Courage, like, you know?
We had it, tipped the vicariously happy bartender a couple of bucks, and went outside. We stood there, beside the pool, trying to get our bearings.
"Just think," the Kid murmured. "This morning we were in Hollywood. I had a date, too. Come to think of it. Kind of tired, but a sure-fire pop. Now, look at us. Man, we've got the choicest meat in the world!"
I had kind of an inspiration. "Look how much bread have you got left, Kid?"
He reached into his jeans, brought out a handful of lettuce. He counted it absently, his mind elsewhere. "About two bills."
I motioned. "Give it to me."
"What?"
"Give it to me. I'm gonna salt it for us."
Obediently, the Kid handed over his bankroll. I took it, got out my own reserve, noting with some surprise that it was still over the four hundred mark. I peeled the whole enchilada down to even money, six hundred. I walked back into the bar. "Here," I said to the bartender. "Hang on to this until we come out, hey?"
He looked a little offended, but did what I asked, putting the money in an envelope which was ceremoniously sealed in front of my eyes, and handed to me together with a pen.
I signed it, across the flap, handed it back to him and rejoined the Kid at poolside.
We stood there for another minute. Finally, he turned to me.
"I'm kinda spooked," he confessed.
"Me, too. I wonder which one is Number Three."
"Yeah." He mused another moment. "Well, what the hell let's get at it!"
I slapped him on the shoulder and we took off for our respective assignments. I felt like a cosmonaut getting ready for orbit. I wasn't so far wrong, come to think of it.
I walked around the edge of the pool clockwise. The
Kid was going in the opposite direction. I squinted at the doors. What lights were on were dim, and I had to walk close, practically up to the panel itself, to see where I was. I noticed that the Kid was having something of the same problem.
I found it on the third try Number Three.
I tapped on the door. There was no answer, so I tapped again. Now, I could hear a suppressed giggle.
The door opened a crack.
"Yes?" The voice was low, husky, sexy.
I stood there like a goddamned fool for a minute. I gulped. "I I'm one of the ... winners?" My voice went up in a Texas-style question.
Again, that giggle. Then the door opened wider, and a pair of hands appeared briefly in the dim light. "In here, honey!"
I followed. The living room was pitch-black, and I bumped into a coffee table, or some damn thing, cursing softly.
A voice spoke: "Let's pants him!" Before I could adjust myself to this new idea, I was literally swarmed upon by a whole covey or gaggle or whatever the hell you want to call it, of soft, cuddly, lissome and nubile womanhood. I found out later that there were sixteen of 'em after they took off all my clothing and carried me back out to the swimming pool.
There were two splashes me and the Kid! I came up, laughing fit to bust. Some prize we'd won, baby!
"SHE WORE TWO TOWELS ONE WRAPPED AROUND HER HEAD LIKE A TURBAN THE OTHER AROUND HER SLENDER WAIST..."
CHAPTER III
Well, frankly, it was a hell of a party! Both the Kid and I damn near drowned, sixteen broads in a pool with you, all trying to make out! Get that scene.
It was a shocker, all right all those lovely breasts I'd been staring at earlier were mine, all mine. Reach out and it was impossible not to touch some intimate portion of a cute and cuddly female!
But now I realized that the Kid and I had a problem; I half-swam, half-waded to the edge of the pool (and don't think those girls didn't have exploring hands, too!) and announced firmly that I had to go to the John. It's a funny thing the girls should have felt exposed, or something, but I've never felt so naked in my life as when I climbed out of the pool and they started with the wolf-whistles bit, together with some remarks intended to express admiration.
I headed at a dead run for the nearest room! I heard the Kid call after me: "Hey, wait for me!"
We hit the front door together, jumped inside, and leaned against the door, panting. I looked at the Kid and started to grin. He broke out in a hearty laugh.
"Never thought I'd see the day when a nude broad could scare me," he chuckled.
"Me, neither. There's just so damned many of 'em! You don't suppose we're expected to take care of all of 'em, do you?"
This was a sobering thought. I imagine myself as a pretty good swordsman, but who's kidding who in a spot like this?
The Kid looked worried. "What'll we do? We can't stay here the rest of the night and all day tomorrow. But I'll be damned if I can get up enough courage to walk back out there."
"Look," I pointed out. "It was you that won the prize, not me. Hell, I'm just your guest. It's up to you to figure something out."
"No, sir!" The Kid was firm. "You talked me into coming to this burg. I figure it's your responsibility."
We didn't argue any more though. The decision was made for us. There was a rap at the door, and I opened it a crack.
The girls were lined up outside, practically in military formation. It was quite a sight. I don't imagine I'll ever forget it.
"Which one of us do you want?"
And that, my friend, was a question it was damn near impossible to answer!
They were all beautiful. This goes without saying. They were apparently all ready, willing, and more than able.
One thing we obviously weren't being called upon to take care of them all, and that made me feel some better. Up to now, I'd been kind of overwhelmed. Now, I was just uncertain.
"Hey, you guys," one shapely brunette called. "Make up your minds. It's colder than hell standing out here!' '
I personally, was anything but cold along about then, but I could see her point. I felt the Kid tugging at my shoulder, so I called out to the chorus: "Just a minute..." and closed the door.
"I can't go out like this," the Kid protested. I looked at him and realized he was telling the simple truth. I walked into the bathrom and picked out a couple of big bath towels, tossing him one.
We tucked them around our waists and walked out. I pointed to the first girl in line.
"How about you, honey?" I asked. She nodded pointing to the next apartment.
I followed her in, leaving the Kid standing before the other fifteen lovelies. He'd have to make up his own mind. I had other things to do, now!
Inside, my girl hurried to the bathroom, calling out to me: "Make yourself at home. There's some bourbon on the bedside stand. And some scotch in the top drawer of the dresser. I've got to get dry before I get pneumonia!"
Sociable enough! I found a glass with only a little lipstick on it, poured myself a straight jolt of bourbon, tossed it down. She came out of the bathroom wearing two towels, one wrapped about her head like a turban, the other, sarong-like about her slender waist. I had to admit she looked a hell of a lot better in a towel than I did.
"Get a drink?"
I held up my glass.
"Good," she said. "I better have one myself. My teeth are chattering. How'd you like your ... reception?" she asked, slanting her eyes at me as she poured herself a straight shot.
"It was a little well, overwhelming. You girls do this sort of thing often? By the way, what's your name?"
"Doris. No," she shook her head, "just once a week. It's mostly for kicks. Kind of Russian roulette with sex, if you know what I mean. We keep the money in a joint account. It's not a lot, but we work about thirty-nine weeks, and it mounts up. We cut it at the end of the season. Two or three thousand bucks for getaway money. And we give birthday parties for each other out of it. And if one of the kids gets sick or has an emergency, we meet and have a vote on how much we give her. We don't hustle if that's what you mean. What's yours?"
"What?" I didn't follow.
"Your name. I've already told you mine. Doris."
"Oh. I'm Bud."
She brought the bottle over to where I was seated on the edge of the bed, poured us both another drink.
"Here's to it, Bud. I think we're going to get along fine."
We drank to that, and the towels fell to the floor as she slid into my arms and pressed her warm lips to mine. Delicious!
I caught fire, and so did she. She rolled over, pulled me down beside her on the bed, never taking her lips from mine. She took my hand and guided it to her body, then explored my body with hers. I felt the blood begin to pound in my veins, wrenched my mouth from her lips and applied it to one of her wonderfully tender, firm breasts. She uttered soft little cries of delight as I stroked her body, and I could feel that she was starting to be consumed by passion. Her lips began to twist and her cries changed to moans.
"Now!" she commanded, pulling me to her body, guiding me. I threw myself at her, violently, and we rocked with a wild rhythm of ecstasy.
"Oh, God yes! Yes!" she moaned, whipping her body beneath me. "Now oh, yes!" She bit me, hard, in the shoulder, but I hardly felt the pain. Instead, I was one with her, in a blinding flash of screaming, animal lust that drained us both, left up panting and breathless.
We lay motionless, savoring the throbbing moment of our meeting and releases. I rolled away, reached over to the bedside stand, groping for a cigarette.
In the dark, I might have had an excuse, but in the haste of our coming together, neither had put out the lights. She smoked filters, and I naturally lit the wrong goddamn end!
Doris laughed. I scowled, then I laughed too. It was nice.
"Look," I told her. "It's all very funny, but it's damn near daylight. I got to get some sleep."
"So soon?" she murmured.
I felt her body start to writhe again.
"So soon!" I said, firmly. 'The day isn't finished. Just me I'm pooped."
She pouted.
I took a weary look, snubbed out my smoke. "Can't you wait a couple of hours?" I asked. "Just a couple of lousy hours?"
She sighed, snuggled tightly against me. "If I must," she answered.
I went to sleep, dreaming of all the women I'd ever known. She stacked up against them, in spades. In fact, she was a winner.
I slept.
* * *
I woke up in a couple of hours. At least, I guess it was a couple of hours.
Doris was throbbing with passion, and I was half-asleep. Her body felt familiar, yet strange. Her breasts were as firm, her thighs as rounded, her cries of passion as I art-felt and soul-fulfilling. Yet, there was something altogether different about this wild darling something I couldn't put my finger quite on.
I decided not to worry about it, but to enjoy her. It was a wise decision. We met in m unsurpassed frenzy of passion, subsided once again into a contented sleep.
Fantastic! Wonderful!
* * *
Daylight was breaking through the Venetian blinds when I awoke. I wanted coffee. I wanted a cold beer. I wanted eggs and milk.
I felt the warm body next to me, reached over and stroked the long thighs and firm buttocks close to me.
Doris murmured softly in her sleep. I smiled to myself, reached for a cigarette, checked to make sure that I had the right end in my mouth before lighting this time, then took a deep drag.
The cigarette smoke apparently waked her. She stirred drowsily, looked up and smiled at me. I smiled right back. Hell of a girl. Even now, after the wild night we'd shared, even after the somewhat sordid overtones of it, she looked charming, bewitching and completely adorable.
"Hi, sleepy!" I greeted her, offering her a drag on the smoke.
She accepted, drawing the nicotine deeply into her lungs, then blowing it out in a blue cloud of smoke.
"Hi, you, too!" she answered, dreamily. She reached over, stroked my body. "Enjoy yourself last night?"
Only one answer to that. "Yes, indeed. You were wonderful."
"Thank you. Now what?"
"Oh ... out to the ranch, I guess. Get started to work for the season. When do I see you again?"
She made a little moue' of annoyance. "You don't. We never have anyone back twice. But you could be the exception, anyway."
I thought about this, about what I'd understood the night before. "You're ... kind of a closed corporation?"
"Yes. Kind of." She wrinkled her brow. "But you, Bud I think I could break a few of our rules for you."
Her hand was getting pretty damned intimate. I shuddered with pleasure. She noticed it.
"Bud one more for the road?" she asked.
The bathroom door swung open. A curly-headed brunette stuck her head out into the room.
"Or even two?" she asked.
My mind flashed back. That second time ... was it Doris ... or...?
The brunette was quite frankly grinning. I swung my gaze around to my bed-partner. She was grinning, too.
Son of a bitch! All of a sudden I knew why Doris' body had felt strange, that second time! It hadn't been Doris, at all!
I climbed out of the bed, stoutly. 'Sorry, ladies," I said firmly. "I don't go for twosies or threesies. Not in front of anyone."
I dressed, putting the towel around my waist, and trying desperately to remember where the hell I'd shed my clothes the night before. It came back to me. Number Three!
I stormed out the door, accompanied by a gale of feminine giggles.
Number three was just two doors over. I banged on the door, got no answer, then tried the handle. It worked. The door opened, and I walked in.
The Kid was just getting out of bed, wrapped the sheet around himself protectively when he heard me enter. He saw who it was, dropped the sheet, and grinned.
"Howdy. Have a good time?"
I grunted, made for my clothing, started to dress.
I noticed that there were two girls in his bed!
* * *
In an hour, having picked up the station wagon, our clothing and our money we'd cached with the bartender, the Kid and I were on our way back out of Vegas. Back out to the turn-off for the ranch the dude ranch where we were going to work for the rest of the "season."
We drove along in comparative silence for some time, I knew exactly what the Kid wanted to ask. I didn't tell him, and he started to speak, but then subsided into silence.
"Yeah," I grunted. "I had a pair, too."
"Quite a town, ain't it?" he mused. "Indeed."
We drove the rest of the way to the dude ranch without comment, each of us lost in his own thoughts. Companionably, though.
"I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING ... I'M STARTING TO FEEL LIKE A PRIZE BULL..."
CHAPTER IV
The entrance to the dude ranch, the "Hard-Way-8", was marked by one of those signs strung between two posts and crossing over the narrow road. It featured a pair of dice, each showing four dots. I gathered that this would be the brand on the horses, the ranch station wagon, the letterheads and advertisements, and the cattle. If there were any cattle.
When they say 'desert' in Nevada, they mean just that. Sometimes, in California, you wouldn't even know you're in the desert unless you asked somebody, but this isn't true in Nevada. I wondered what the hell the tourists saw in this spot anyway. A few miles off the main highway, I had my answer.
I stopped the station wagon and the Kid and I sat there like a couple of goony birds and just gawked. Hell, Princess Grace would have been proud of this scatter!
The desert ended right there! There was a cluster of three buildings, each fronting on the huge swimming pool, which was landscaped by beautiful palm trees. Connected by little gravelled paths, tinted pink, green, and just about every shade of the rainbow, were perhaps forty or more little structures. I figured they were guest homes. There were tennis courts and what looked like the starting tee for a golf course. I could see stables. I could even see a couple of people riding horses. Man, this was plush!
We finally closed our gaping mouths and drove on down in silence, feeling like poor relations coming to call on the banker and his wife.
I pulled up in front of what was evidently the main building, and shut off the motor.
A Mexican kid was mowing the lush green grass that probably cost a fortune to maintain. He was riding on one of those power mowers and flashed white teeth at us in a grin of greeting.
The Kid and I climbed slowly out of my battered old station wagon and walked up the steps. A sign said "Office," so I tapped on the door.
A man's voice answered, saying: "One moment, please."
The door opened in a few seconds and a rather pleasant-faced fellow looked us over. I looked him over, too.
He was wearing western clothing, but it was the kind you see at rodeos. Everything hand-tailored, everything expensive. I glanced at his boots. A hundred bucks, easy. I was impressed.
He, after looking us over, didn't seem to feel the same way.
"Something I can do for you boys?" It was a natural, easy western drawl. I pegged him as a Montanan.
"I'm Bud Kubek," I said. 'This is the Remuda Kid. Mister Bailey hired us as hands for the season. We're supposed to report to Blackie Delmat."
He nodded thoughtfully, still looking us over.
"I'm Delmar," he offered. "Mister Bailey said he was going to hire a couple of hands. Come on in the office."
We went in. It looked about like what I'd expected. Rich, but simple. Everything looked genuine.
He sat himself behind a big desk, waved us to chairs.
"Been a few complications," he told us. "Mister Ed got in an accident on the Hollywood Freeway late last night. Nothing too serious, I don't figure, but bad enough to lay him up for a couple of weeks. Means I'll have to take over his duties for the next month, probably." He glanced keenly at the Kid, then at me. "One of you is going to have to ramrod this outfit until he gets back into action. We got four, five hands here now, but they ain't worth a damn. You both look like ranch-raised boys."
I nodded. So did the Kid.
"Good. All right then it'll be you, Kubek. Kid, I take your specialty is horses?"
"Yes sir! Break 'em, ride 'em, take care of em."
Blackie laughed shortly. "Won't need much breakin' here, Kid. Most of our stock for the lady dudes are just rockin' horses. Got a few good head for the boys, but that's about all. Couple of Mex kids to help you."
"Any cattle?" I asked.
He laugher again. "About fifty head. Just enough to say we got some, and for the ladies to see when you take them out for a ride. Don't worry about them. Couple of Mex kids to take care of them, too."
He glanced at his watch. "Look, why don't you fellows pick out an empty cabin and settle in?" Stop at the desk on your way out and give the bookkeeper your social security numbers, and ask the clerk for a key. Take the rest of the day off and look around the place. Chow's at six this evening. You eat in the main dining room with the guests, so be clean." He grinned. "Pretty, even! I'll introduce you to everyone there tonight."
He got up, extended his hand in a firm grip, first to the Kid and then to me. I liked him.
* * *
The cabin they assigned us to was something, all right! Twin beds, but each was full size. Television. AM-FM radio, and a really good German-made stereo, along with a collection of records that must have been worth five, six hundred bucks. Air-conditioning, thick pile rugs, a huge bathroom, lots of closet space, even a bookcase with real, live books.
We stood in the door, looking around.
"Some bunk house, huh?" asked the Kid. "Don't reckon they made a mistake, do you?"
I shook my head. "No but I'll tell you one thing. I'm starting to feel like a prize bull in all these imagine surroundings."
"What," asked the Kid, "is wrong with that? I take this one," he added, throwing his grip on one of the beds.
We put our plunder away carefully, showered, shaved and changed to our imagine rodeo outfits. We had about three hours to dinner, and decided to look at the local facilities this evening. Tomorrow would be time enough to really get out and ride fence so as to see where everything was.
The more we saw, the more impressed we were. Hell, it was a real luxury spot, and I realized that being foreman, even temporarily, wasn't going to be a snap. I figured that what with the cooks and pot busters, handymen, stable boys and all, I'd be in charge of about twenty people, and this wasn't counting the other help like bookkeepers, room clerks, maids and waitresses.
We walked out to the stables and corral, and even these facilities were better than that damned furnished hotel room I'd left behind in Hollywood.
Despite Blackie's statement about the stock, it all looked A-l. Even the "rocking-horses" for the lady tender-feet were well-muscled and glossy-coated.
The Kid was in his element here, and he was chattering away in Mex with the stable hand when I left him there. It was the Kid's department, and I was going to let him run it.
A girl came tearing by on a horse, mighty near running me down. I stepped back out of the way, wondering angrily who she was. She sat her horse like a real rider, and was a cute little nubbin, but I didn't have time to make much more out before she was past with a little yelp of surprise.
I looked at my watch and decided I had time for a little siesta before supper or dinner, or whatever they called it here. I was still pertty doggoned tired from last night and this morning. An hour's shuteye would just about fill the bill.
" ... THEY'RE HERE FOR TWO REASONS DECORATION AND ... STUDDING!"
CHAPTER V
I woke to the sound of the old-timey cookie's triangle, and wondered if it was a recording; everything else was certainly modern enough to warrant electronics devices in department, too.
At the dining room, I met with my first surprise. There were only a handful of people, maybe twelve or fifteen.
Blackie was there early, acting as a sort of master of ceremonies, and motioned me to a seat between two girls. One I'd never seen before, but sure wouldn't mind seeing again. She was a striking brunette with a lissome but well-endowed body, jet-black, sparkling eyes, and what I guess you'd call raven hair.
On my left was a little blonde, and she was no bag of bones, either. However, I'd seen her before. She was the little rascal who'd almost run over me earlier, out by the corral.
The waitresses cute little Mexican girls placed our soup and salad before us. Blackie tapped on a water glass, rose to his feet and said:
"Well, folks, here we are. I thought we might get better acquainted if we'd all just get up and introduce ourselves. Tomorrow night this dining room will be full up we've got a couple of bus loads of tenderfeet coming in so ladies, here's your chance to get the jump on the new gals by meeting our handsome cowboys; and fellers, here's your chance, too!"
He laughed, and everyone joined him politely.
"I'll start her off," he added. "I'm Blackie Delmar. Usually, I'm foreman of this spread. Right now, our owner is laid up in the hospital, so I'm kind of general manager. Got any complaints about your accommodations, the food, or anything, just walk up and ask me."
He sat down, and then the guests and hands arose, individually, and introduced themselves.
I learned with interest that the brunette on my right was named Rita Ricardo and made a mental note to remember that name.
I introduced myself as "acting foreman" and turned to the little blonde.
"I'm one of the hands," she said, to my surprise. "I'm 'Nubbins' Bailey, the owner's daughter, and I'm here to act as your hostess."
I was kind of glad that I hadn't cussed her out earlier. She must have sensed my emotion, for after the introductions had been completed, she turned to me and said, quietly, "I'm real sorry about this afternoon, Bud. I didn't see you. To tell the truth, I was kind of worried about Dad and wasn't looking where I was going. I hope you're not too angry with me."
"Ma'am" I answered seriously, "your handsome apology is accepted." I grinned at her, and she grinned back.
I turned to the brunette. "What brings you here, Miss Ricardo?"
She looked up from her salad. "That's Mrs. Ricardo." She shrugged. "The usual. Getting a divorce. Establishing residence. I hope that doesn't shock you..."
"No, ma'am. Kind of surprises me, though. Mr. Ricardo must not be a very bright sort of fellow, letting you go like that." I figured this would be the standard kind of flattery needed in my job and didn't at all mind the Ricardo dame being the test ground!
She smiled, thinly, turned those jet-black eyes directly on me. "Not at all. Mr. Ricardo is a little too bright, if anything. I like men. Far too well. And, far too often."
Her gaze was a direct challenge to me. I felt a thrill right down to my spine.
The conversation went lightly after that, but every once in awhile during the meal, our eyes mer. And, I saw more than a challenge in hers. I saw an open, naked invitation. This babe wasn't fooling around. I began to feel sorry for the soon-to-be ex-husband. He'd had more than a handful!
When dinner was almost finished, "Nubbins" took advantage of a lull in the general conversation to make an announcement.
"Blackie and the boys have a short meeting in the office right after we finish here," she told us. "Then, we're going to make up party and go into Vegas. Of course, none of us have to go, but we haven't any formal entertainment to offer, so drinks will be on the 'Hard-Ways' for the night. Your gambling losses are your own, though. We know you can understand that!"
I looked at Rita. She shook her head ever so slightly, and I got the message. She was going to have her recreation right here, tonight! I nodded. Understanding. And agreement. She mouthed the words "Nine o'clock." Lifted her eyebrows questioningly. I nodded agreement. Again.
In the meeting, Blackie explained the situation.
There were only four hands besides myself and the Kid. The Mexicans, he didn't count. None of the others looked too impressive to me.
"Bud Kubek here, fellows, is going to be acting foreman while the old man's laid up. The Kid will be his assistant. Bud, I want you to know that you got a problem. Not a one of these bastards is a cowhand."
He grinned ,and they grinned too, so there was no malice to las words.
"They're here for one reason. Decoration. Maybe I should have said two reasons. Decoration and studding. Hondo, there, he's a pretty good trail cook, which comes in handy later on in the season, as you'll all find out. I don't think he knows how to saddle a horse though. Pee-Wee and Pecos Jack, well, one of 'em plays real good guitar, and the other sings cowboy ballads. They're from Indiana, so I guess you can imagine how much they know about hosses. And this feller here 'Handsome' he's an ex-professional football player, and our number one stud hoss. Pretty sorry lot, but they're fine for the jobs they're holding down."
He became suddenly, the serious 'boss-man.'
"All you boys report to Bud in the morning. And don't forget. We start our day at seven sharp."
We shook hands all around, and then went back to the ladies.
The Kid had big eyes for the bosses' daughter, and paired off with her for the trip to Vegas.
I declined, politely, telling the group that I had to work on plans for the schedule of future activities.
Everybody else decided to go on into Vegas and buck the tiger.
Except Rita. And, except me.
I thought little Nubbins looked strangely at me, but what the hell? Wasn't this a part of my job, too?
* * *
My phone rang about nine. I grabbed it in a hurry.
Her voice on the line was just about what you'd expect it to be sultry, low-pitched, oozing sex, and throbbing with the promise of unspoken delights.
"Bud?"
"Sure," I said. "Rita?"
"Hmmmm. Care to drop over for a couple of drinks? I'm suddenly very lonesome."
"On the way oh, your number."
"Number Twelve. And, Bud..."
"Yeah?"
"Wear something comfortable. Not those ridiculous goddamned cowboy clothes. I'm ... very comfortable."
I grinned as I hung up. I bet she was, at that. I changed to a pair of comfortable slacks and a knit sports shirt, ran a comb through my hair, made sure I had a fresh pack of cigarettes and left.
Number Twelve was some distance away. I savored the night air as I walked over to Rita's, but a vagrant thought that I couldn't quite pin down was disturbing me. Well, perhaps later. I shrugged, flipped my cigarette into the darkness, tapped lightly on the door of Number Twelve. It opened slowly.
God, she was lovely!
She was wearing a gold lame' gown, slashed almost to the navel in front and clinging like wet silk to her lush thighs. The twin globes of her unfettered breasts were almost entirely revealed as she stood in the open door and invited me to enter. I knew one thing this was going to be an experience I wasn't about to forget very soon. And I was right about that, partner!
"Hi!" she greeted me. And this was probably the understatement of the year!
I gulped, looking at all that womanhood.
"Hi!" I answered. And if this wasn't a pretty corny exchange of greetings, I don't know what would have been.
I was, quite frankly, drooling. I entered at her unvoiced gesture, and looked about me.
It was about the same as my cottage large beds, stereo, TV, bar. She had crossed to the bar by then, started to mix us a drink.
"Bourbon," I told her. "Bourbon on the rocks."
Silently, she poured and handed me a drink. But she was swishing that hostess gown around so that I could see a sweeping, lovely expanse of thigh.
She picked up her own drink, walked maddeningly to the sofa the long sofa, and patting a place beside her, she beckoned me. I walked over and sat down beside her in that spot she'd indicated and perhaps, too eagerly.
"Long day?" she asked.
I sipped at my drink.
I watched her breasts rise and fall. "Reasonably so," I answered. Her breasts were pretty damned thrilling.
Then she crossed her long, exciting legs, allowing me a glimpse of my own special weakness sheer stockings, with just a whisper and a promise of garter-belted thrills to come.
I wondered how she knew my own, particular kicks! Rita smiled at me, licking a rosy, kitten-like tongue over her lips. "Like?"
I looked briefly at the rise of smooth, girl-flesh gleaming over stocking tops. I thought of the frothy lingerie which was probably there to look at later. I sensed it, just above, and my tongue involuntarily ran over my suddenly dry lips.
"Am I ... exciting?" she asked. Whispering the words. Knowing the answer.
I nodded assent. My eyes caressed every nubile gleaming curve of her body. Of her gleaming body
She had some records playing on the stereo, and the music was starting to throb through my veins. It was somewhere about the middle of "Scherezade," which has to be the sexiest music ever recorded.
Then Rita opened her arms, and I sank gratefully into them. It didn't seem quite the thing to do, yet it seemed right. As if she were the pursuer and I were the pursued. I snuggled into the hollow formed by her lovely breasts, and she caressed me.
I could hear the pulse beating in those globular delights, and I felt that suddenly I was the luckiest man in the world. Her fingers strayed over my body, titillating, teasing then thrilling me. I responded in kind and was rewarded with little of whimpers of joy.
"Oh, Buddy, Buddy, Buddy," she moaned. "Let me make it right for you, darling!" She got to her feet, shakily dropped the golden hostess gown.
Christ! There stood Aphrodite, there stood all the feminine, the female, the lovely women in the world.
I gazed at that picture. Of course, we made love. But! Let me describe what I saw then!
When the gold lame hostess gown dropped, I saw raw, savage woman, undraped, except for some little goodies that I am, myself, most peculiar for!
Lovely mounds of breasts, unclad, needing no support. Standing. Thrusting themselves at me, pink-nippled and challenging my touch.
All of this enclosed in a fine froth of silken lace, ready for the touch and the tear of a charging male and, dad, I was the male!
She grasped me tightly, moaning all the while, and I damn near drowned in so much lovely girl-flesh!
I kissed her shoulders, her arms, her...
All the while she moaned and writhed in a passionate semblance of lust and love.
My hands caressed her voluptuous body, exulting in the satin smooth feel of her silky flesh.
I slid a hand down her back, caressing in a circular motion, while she wriggled uncontrollably. I felt her savage claws rake my back as I threw myself upon her quivering body. But the pain was glory, and the glory was pain. And she screamed in my ear.
"Oh, daddy," she squealed softly, "That's what I want." We had reached the crescendo of our emotions and I felt her warm, yielding response to my lovemaking. We held tight, joining, for just a few seconds. With a gasp of tired defeat I rolled away, lit a cigarette.
She law silent, not speaking as I offered her a puff.
Deep, moist black eyes stated into mine. I wondered what she was thinking. I got up, very much aware of those inscrutable eyes still on me, went over to the bar and poured myself another drink. "Rita?"
She shook her head, smiled lazily. "I'll share yours, lover."
The music was still playing and she still looked lovely to me. I went back to the bed, but before I could touch her she rose to her feet and crossed to the clothes cabinet. She turned and threw a full-length mink coat on the floor.
"What's that for?" I wanted to know.
"Haven't you ever done it in fur?"
I never had. But we did, right then and there. I will go on record as stating that it is sensational. A little expensive, maybe, but sensational!
I left her before any of the others returned from Vegas. The alarm going off at six in the morning hurt; it also started me on a round of activity which kept me plenty busy for the next few days and nights. Every once in a-while I'd stop my work, whatever I was doing, and think of Rita. Quite a gal!
* * *
A few more guests were arriving every day. Not a great many, but some. Blackie and I were knocking ourselves out seeing to their accommodations and entertainment. The Remuda Kid had time for nothing but the horses, which left only four hands to squire our little darlings around the place.
The boys were spread pretty thin, even discounting the rumor that they were handling lady dudes both nights and matinees.
And the hell of it was, we ran a night guard routine. like, at night midnight one of our hired hands would saddle up and ride the area, keeping an eye out for prowlers, undesirable husbands, petty thieves and the like. They also kept a careful eye out for fire, which was a real terror. First relief was pulled at three in the morning by some other poor unfortunate who rode the area until six a.m.
The whole thing only totaled six hours a night, but it cut deeply into the more profitable aspects of the operation. We all took a crack at it, or tried to as much as possible. The lady guests were starting to complain about the lack of escorts. Couldn't really blame them.
Blackie called me in the office one day and introduced me to a nice-looking young fellow.
"Bud," he said, "shake hands with Bill-Tom Jenks. I figgered we better take on another hand or two the way things are going. At least, until the boss gets back next week."
We shook hands. He had a firm, manly grip.
"Glad to know you, Bud. Ready to do anything!"
I glanced at Blackie, and he chuckled. 'You better be," I warned him, "Because you sure as hell will do just about anything you can think of. How are you around lady dudes?"
Bill-Tom smiled easily. "I ain't exactly against 'em!" hz reassured me.
'You probably will be before long very long. If you've already checked in, scoot on out to the corral and give the Kid a hand. You can meet the rest of the gang at chow. I'll want you to ride guard tonight, too, on the second relief."
He nodded, and left.
Blackie asked me: "Think he'll do?"
"Right now, if the guy can just stick on a horse at a slow walk, he'll do. He looks all right though."
"Let me know how he works out."
"Sure."
I felt better than I had for a couple of days, anyway. Tonight, by God, I was going to get some sleep. The Kid said the new man would do, which was encouraging, and that he'd take the first relief on guard.
I got to bed early for me, after a late-evening session going over accounts with Blackie in the office. I stretched and yawned, not even hearing the Kid climb out of his bed to get dressed for his guard relief.
At one-thirty in the morning, all hell broke loose!
The Kid had gone and shot Bill-Tom. Killed him. The whole goddamn ranch was in an uproar. The sheriff arrived, heard the stories in private and then put the handcuffs on The Kid and departed for the County bastille.
Blackie, Nubbins and I held a conference of war in the office, and the rest of the hands turned to, soothing the ruffled lady dudes.
There was no need to mount a guard for the remainder of the night. Everyone was awake. Lights were blazing, nerves were frayed.
Nubbins wisely ordered the cooks to start an early breakfast. Right now!
It was one hell of a mess and I didn't even know how, why, or exactly when it had happened!
"SHE JOINED ME, WEARING THE BOTTOM HALF OF A BIKINI. I'D FORGOTTEN HOW WELL-STACKED SHE WAS!"
CHAPTER VI
We were a pretty sorry threesome, there in the office.
"One thing," Blackie offered thoughtfully. "This is gonna raise pure hell with business. Those lady dudes will be checking out of here tomorrow, bright and early. Some of 'em are packing right now."
Nubbins nodded, soberly. "That's right. I expect I'd better call daddy as soon as I can."
"Goddamnit!" I exploded. "A guy got killed here and another guy is on his way to the pokey. The hell with business, right now. What I want to know is, what happened? How the hell could they pick the Remuda Kid? Blackie, you know the night guards don't carry live ammunition, only blanks."
Blackie looked at me quietly. "There were two shots. Both of 'em hit dead center. The Kid admitted seeing a figure skulking around, and said he hollered first. When the man kept running, the Kid fired at him twice."
"But with blanks!"
"Nope. Blanks never made a hole like that in a man. Had to be from live ammo."
I couldn't even begin to figure it.
"Don't look so concerned, Bud. I know the Kid's a good friend, but the worst he'll get will be a manslaughter rap. Probably even justifiable homicide. After all, he was on guard duty here, and Bill-Tom was skulking around, acting suspicious."
A thought occurred to me.
"Blackie, did you check that Bill-Tom's references before you hired him?"
Blackie looked a little abashed.
"No. I got to take the rap for that. If the fellow was a bad one. Hell, we needed help so bad I'd have hired any man who walked down the pike. Seemed decent enough although of course you can't always tell."
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow thoughtfully.
"Claims he went broke in Vegas and needed work. Said he knew horses, had a pretty good rig." He shrugged.
"What would you have done?"
He was right I'd been hollering for help and I'd have done the same in Blackie's situation.
We adjourned for the time being. Breakfast was being served or at least offered to those of our guests who had been unable to go back to sleep. I circulated around the dining room, reassuring our nervous lady dudes. Nubbins was doing the same thing while Blackie was getting set for a siege of checkouts and refunds.
I was playing my role absently, though something was bothering me and I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
About eight that morning, I climbed in my old station wagon and, feeling a bit guilty about taking off in the midst of all the confusion, drove into Vegas to call on the sheriff. Before I left, I went back to my pad and checked my equipment. One of my pistols was missing; I suddenly felt the cold fingers of fear creeping and crawling down my spine.
I'm not what you'd ordinarily call an egghead. But even to a simple-minded galoot like me, there was something fishy as hell going on!
When I got to Vegas, I asked around for the name of a good attorney. I thought I'd need one. It took a little doing, but finally I got one and he showed up. Between us, we arranged for bail bond for the Kid, although he couldn't hit the street until after his arraignment, which wouldn't be until sometime later in the morning. I left word at the jail as to where I could be reached and drove on out to the motel where we'd really hit the jackpot on our first night in Las Vegas.
I didn't really have anything much to do. Anyway, I wanted to see Doris again. I stopped off first in the little bar at the motel I got a beer and some change and went to the telephone and called the ranch. I got Nubbins, told her I'd be back out as soon as the Kid was sprung, explaining what I'd done up to this point.
She said that was fine, that Blackie was just getting ready to come in to town to do the same thing, so that this would save him trouble. We chatted for a moment or two, then I took my drink and went out back, climbing into a really comfortable lounge chair by the pool. I didn't want to bust in on Doris if she was entertaining any friends (especially male) but I figured she'd spot me soon enough.
And I was right. She joined me in about five minutes, fetchingly attired in the bottom half of a bikini. I'd forgotten how well-stacked Doris was, and I have to admit that I was still a little shocked by the way these chorus babes flaunt their charms around.
Doris looked amused at my direct gaze.
"Well, hi, cowboy!" she greeted me. "How've you been and where's your friend?"
I told her the story. Right up to date.
She puzzled it out. "My, you really have been busy, haven't you? I don't know what I can do. Maybe I could through the other girls and their friends get a line on this fellow who got killed. Describe him to me again, Bud."
I obliged her, to the best of my ability. She seemed satisfied.
"And you say he called himself Bill-Tom?"
"Bill-Tom Jenks," I supplied the last name.
"I'll talk to the kids. They might know something."
She slanted her eyes wickedly at me. "Anything else on your mind?" She was almost leering. "I find myself very agreeable today. Must be the weather."
The Kid showed up,, grinning, before we could get that balloon off the ground. I was so glad to see him that I forgot to be mad about his arriving just at this particular time.
"Doris," I said. "I hope you'll pardon us. And make that date for a little bit later, maybe when things are cleared up. The Kid and I have a lot of talking to do as you do know."
"Sure," she said. "We'll make it later. And, Bud, I really will try to find out anything I can."
We practically shook hands on if which is a fairly rotten way to do business with such a stacked babe, but I was really getting concerned, and I wanted to talk with the guy who'd been there.
"Where'll we go?" the Kid asked.
I shrugged. "I guess this little bar is as good as anyplace."
We stepped into the cocktail lounge, just off the pool and ordered two cold beers, then slid back into a corner booth.
"Hell of a thing, huh?" asked the Kid.
"Yeah. Just tell me one thing did you shoot him? Was your gun loaded?"
The Kid looked at me quizzically. "Funny, ain't it? You told me not to carry live ammo. So I didn't. Ballistics just checked out the .45 I was carrying on my hip. Two shots fired, sure. But no lead in the barrel. Just blanks."
He looked up at me.
"But, Bud they found another gun near where it happened. Two shots fired. Lead in the barrel. They're waiting now for the coroner, but the law seems pretty sure it's the murder gun." He kinda grinned.
"It's lucky for me, but it's gonna mean a tough rap for whoever owns the one they found. You see, if I'd have killed Bill-Tom, I would probably have beaten it, because I was on guard duty, after all."
And now I knew what it was that had been so much bothering me. My gun was missing. And it was a hundred to one that my gun was the one that had fired the pair of slugs that removed old Bill-Tom from this mortal coil!
Some son of a bitch was using me and the Kid for a pair of patsies, and I, for one, didn't like it. But I tell you now, frankly I was scared to death.
I told the Kid my suspicions, and he chewed it over.
"But why," he asked finally, "why the hell would anyone want to frame us for something like that?"
I had no idea. Well, maybe I had a glimmering of one.
"Try it this way," I said. "Bill-Tom came here for something beside a job. Somebody knew it, and decided to knock him off. They figured he'd be out that night, trying to do whatever it was he was here for, and they kept watch on him. Now, this person, whoever he was decided to take a long chance, and kill Bill-Tom with my gun. Then, you spotted him running around in the brush, and fired a couple of shots. Too good an opportunity to pass up, and so they shot him down while you were firing those blanks. Then they tossed my gun on the ground and retired to wherever they came from in the first place. Leaving you and me to face the music. What do you think, Kid?"
"I think you're out of your skull. Look at all the coincidence there would have to be."
He shifted, to face me even more directly.
"Look, Bud. First, this 'person' would have to know both Bill-Tom and whoever or whatever he was after. But Bill-Tom wouldn't know him. Not too-likely. Second, they'd have to know that Bill-Tom was going to move when he did. How could they know that? Third, they'd have to get hold of your gun, load it, pack it and take a chance that you wouldn't miss it until after the ball was over! Nope," he said stubbornly, "I don't buy it."
"Well, what's your theory?"
"I don't have one. I've been thinking about it, laying in jail today, but I sure haven't got a theory. Now, if I was the sheriff," he added, with a nasty grin, "I'd figure that Bill-Tom was maybe some old rival of yours, or that you owed him money. And that, as you were the guy that assigned the guard you'd know that I was riding that night at that time. So what would be easier than for you to tell Bill-Tom that you'd meet him out there at that time, and then wait until I rode by and call to him so I'd be sure and spot him. And then, when I fired those blanks as you ordered, me to do you could have cut down on him. And then, maybe, lost the gun while you were making tracks out of there!"
I turned this idea over in my mind. Dammit, it's about what I'd have thought if I were the sheriff.
I was the gold star, silver plated, diamond studded number one candidate on the suspect parade. It was as inevitable as sunup, sundown.
The Kid cocked an eye. "So?"
I shook my head. "So let's have another drink and get back out there. I want to do some snoopin'".
" ... I WAS GRATEFUL TO HER ... AND GRATEFUL FOR HER!"
CHAPTER VII
We postponed the ride back to the ranch for a few hours, though. Doris had different ideas. One of them was getting the Kid fixed up for the afternoon. The other idea was more fun. For me, at least. It had to do with our taking off for Lake Meade and doing a bit of solo boating. Seems she had a friend of a friend who had a 27-foot cruiser on the lake, with full access to same. I went along with this.
I apologized to the Kid, although this was rather difficult. He was already shacked up with a little chick from the chorus, and in no mood for an interruption. You couldn't blame him. She was a real delicious little doll, stacked much on the order of Nubbins, but with a set of breasts that would knock your eye out!
He gave me a parting word of advice. "Take your time!" is what it consisted of.
Doris took one look at the station wagon, burst into laughter. I felt a bit offended, and must have shown it, for she was instantly contrite.
"I'm sorry," she gurgled, "It's just that it looks so well, beat up. Why don't we take my car?"
I looked. She gestured towards a new T-Bird, and that really put me down. As a matter-of-fact, I wasn't so damn sure the station wagon would get to Lake Meade, myself.
"We'll take your car," I told her.
"Not so fast. First, we have things to do." She became real housewifely. First off, I had to go back into the bar and have a long, cold drink while she got her goodies together, I agreed. She took off, and I had a Collins.
I was on my third drink when she returned, all flushed and excited. "You'll never guess what I got for our lunch on the lake!" she exclaimed, I looked up with a bleary well, just a little eye. "What?"
"Wait 'til you see!" she chattered. "We've got fried chicken, potato salad, ham. swiss, rye bread, cold baked beans, onions, radishes the works. Even devilled eggs and pickles. How long since you've had devilled eggs, hey?"
She was fairly dancing for joy. I didn't have the heart to tell her I'd had devilled egs for lunch just yesterday. "Beer?" I asked.
She tossed a mane of hair. "We'll get it at the marina. It'll be cold. We'll get some ice there, too. Hey look I gotta be back by dark. I work tonight. Let's get going, huh?"
We took off in the Bird like a couple of large posteriored fowls, flying to the lake in a matter of minutes. Christ, it was a kick, man!
I dig boats of all kinds. Some of my best friends own boats, you know?
This was a real beauty. Doris identified herself at the marina. I walked back out to the boat, feeling very, very superior and kind of like an old salt. Far cry from a saddle.
It had everything I've always liked in a boat. Flying bridge. A head large enough to turn around in. Nice little galley, and while we had a refrigerator on board, the ice box was a lot more efficient if you were going to haul a crowd for any length of time. I mentally saluted the owner. He certainly was trying his best-and it was an expensive best-to run a tight little, right little craft.
I dumped the beer in the ice box, tumbled the ice in on top of it.
I took off the hatch cover, letting it air out. After all, that's where all the explosions start, and I wasn't in the mood for one. Doris puttered around in the galley, stowing away our lunch, then joined me on deck while we waited for the motors to air out. Just sitting there, companionably sharing a beer, was fun. I looked at her curiously.
She was looking out over the lake, just tilting up a beer can. This doesn't sound very glamorous or exciting, but it was, by God!
We left the hatch-cover off, and I kicked in the motors. Beautiful. The power throbbed under my hand on the throttle. I threw the gear into reverse, and we cast off, slowly backing out of our slip as the bubbles went "blub-blub-blub" under the stern.
All right. It wasn't as good as sailing in the sea, like at Long Beach when you're clearing the breakwater and watching for the big ones. And the air wasn't salt. But it was a hell of a long way from a horse, shall we say?
I cleared the marina, then reversed the engines, and we took off for a short cruise.
I sat on the left, on the bridge, in the pilot's stool. Doris ducked below, emerging with two more beers. She handed mine to me, then retired across the way to the other stool.
There wasn't any traffic to speak of, so I revved up for a few minutes. The water churned into a creamy white at the stern.
Lake Meade, in case you don't know, is one of the largest man-made lakes in the world. It backed up as a result of Boulder Dam, and contains a great many hundred miles of shoreline, inlets and coves. There's a legend that a gambling city is buried under it, but this isn't true. Still, every year a few skin divers try to find this legendary town, with silver dollars embedded in the bar tops. I even made a TV segment about it.
But this day, this afternoon, we went almost to the middle. Here, I cut the engines, and we just drifted, lazily climbing with the swells. That's something I forgot to mention. Sometimes the lake gets so turbulent that it's actually dangerous to sail on it in any kind or size of craft. But this wasn't one of those days. This was just a beautiful, lazy day at the very beginning of summer, and the waves were gentle, soothing. We drank another beer, and we ate just about every bite of food that Doris had brought along for the occasion. I was grateful to her. Grateful for her.
We drowsed in each other's arms. By this time, I managed to put the hatch cover back on, and the top of it was a pretty swinging mattress, all covered in blue duck.
There we napped.
Oh, sex entered my mind, all right, but it was all so peaceful, so lulling and comforting, that the subject slipped away.
Therapy, that's what it was!
We woke up in a couple of hours. I figured I was going to be sunburned (I never was, for some silly reason) but didn't care at the moment. Doris curled her tongue in a yawn, slipped down below. She returned in a few moments with the last of the beer, and the remaining two chicken legs. I kicked on the engines, and we made for port.
Somehow, it had been a wonderful day. A hell of a day. We slipped into the marina. She jumped over the side, tying us in.
"All secure, cap'n" she cried. I cut the engines, stepped grandly ashore.
We walked hand in hand, not talking, to the car. We drove back to Vegas in silence. I delivered her to her room.
"Thank you," I said. "Thank you, Doris. I needed this kind of day."
She smiled at me, almost shyly, said: "I'll call." I stood there as the door closed, then walked down to the bar to wait for the Remuda Kid. He showed up before I'd finished my first drink.
He yawned. I could smell perfume on him. "Have a mad time, ol' buddy?"
I thought back on my afternoon. "Mad!" I assured him, gravely.
"SHE WAS WEARING ONLY A HALTER TOP AND THE BRIEFEST OF SKIN-TIGHT SHORTS..."
CHAPTER VIII
The Kid and I drove back to the "Hardway 8" without a great deal of conversation. First, it was too damn hot to talk, there in the desert. And almost impossible to think. Answers I needed, and I knew I was going to have to come up with a few before very long; that, or I had the unhappy feeling that the Kubek butt was going to wind up in the jailhouse.
I pulled up to a steaming halt in front of Qur own lodge at the ranch. The Kid and I climbed out stiffly, although each of us had different reasons. As we entered, he hurried over and turned on the air conditioner. I sank to the edge of my bed as he mixed us a long, cold drink.
"Kid," I asked, blindly groping for information to fill in the blank spots, "where did you spot Bill-Tom last night?"
The Kid looked up from his drink. "Well you know that gully that's got a little footbridge across it, right between Numbers Fourteen and Sixteen?"
I pictured it in my mind. Rita lived in Number Twelve. Fourteen was empty. A big blonde heifer, fifty years old but as coy as a young filly, lived in Number Sixteen, on the other side of the bridge. The two boys from Indiana, on our payroll, occupied Number Eighteen.
"Yeah," I said. I had it pretty well fixed in my mind. "I got it, I think. Which side of the gully did you catch him on?"
"The side closest to Number Fourteen." I mulled this over. "Fourteen's empty."
"Maybe he was looking for something that was cached in Number Fourteen?"
Maybe the Kid had something there! I snapped my fingers. "By God, it could be! Here here's my pass key. Get over there right now and start tearin' her to pieces! I'm gonna check in with Blackie and Nubbins. I'll be there in a few minutes. I think we got something!"
The Kid didn't look so enthused. "What the hell am I supposed to be lookin' for?"
"I honestly don't have the faintest idea," I grinned at him, cheerfully. "But it must be something mighty expensive. If somebody wanted it badly enough to kill for it. And frame us."
"Amen," the Kid intoned, mirthlessly. He took off.
I left right behind him. At the main ranch house I ran into Nubbins, looking mighty fetching, indeed. She was wearing only a halter-top and the briefest of skin-tight shorts that revealed every inch of her small but perfect frame in what was almost embarrassing (to me) detail Wonderful warm-weather garb, no doubt, but it sent my blood pressure up a few uncomfortable points. She asked first about the Kid. I told her that he was okay, but resting a bit. Figured there was no need of letting everyone know about our suspicions.
Blackie smiled with relief when he saw me.
"Kid's out, huh?"
I said yes. "How'd it go this morning?"
"Checkouts? Not too bad." He laughed, thinly. "Funny. The Kid is kind of a hero. The old ladies think he probably saved them from being robbed and raped. Not," he added, wryly, "that they'd have minded the rape part so much, I don't guess."
I nodded. Some of them wouldn't, that's for sure.
"That reminds me," I said. "What'll we do about guards tonight?"
"Do?" he asked. "Do? Hell, we'll have to have guards now."
"I was just thinking," I mused. "D'you suppose it'll be all right to use the Kid again? I don't mind telling you that I think there's something funny going on around here. I'd rather have a man I know and can trust riding herd on these dudes after midnight. Suppose I pull one shift and the Kid pulls the other?"
"Sounds fine to me. Expect I'll sleep a little sounder myself. Something funny, huh? What makes you say that?"
I didn't mention my missing gun, I decided to wait for the sheriff to bring it up, if he did. I was almost sure he would, too.
"I just don't know," I finally said. "Maybe I'm just spooked after last night, but I got a funny feeling, you know?"
"Oh by the way, the sheriff's office just called. Nobody is to leave the ranch until he gets out here either tonight or first thing in the morning. Says he wants to talk to a lot of people. And he's waiting for the final report from the coroner."
This statement sent a little chill of apprehension down my back. "Find out anything about Bill-Tom?"
Blackie shook his head. "Not yet. Leastways, he didn't seem to have any information. Said he was trying to establish 'positive identification,' and had wired prints to Washington. Guess he ain't heard nothing back yet, though. I suppose he'll tell us more when he gets out here."
"Yeah," I said, thoughtfully. When he gets here. "Yeah. Well, guess I'll get out and scout around. Anything special you want me to do?"
Blackie snapped his fingers. "Boy, I'm glad you asked. As a matter-of-fact we got a dude checking in this afternoon." He glanced at his watch. "He should be checking in any moment. Let's see might as well put him in Number Fourteen, eh?"
"Good as any. I'll go check it out in case it needs some maid service."
Blackie shrugged. "It should be okay, but go ahead if you want. See you in a little while, at supper."
I hurried over to Number Fourteen, slipped inside. The Kid was standing there with his hands on his hips and a baffled look on his face.
"No luck?"
"Nada. Can't find anything here that isn't strictly issue, looked her all over careful, too. I didn't want to tear anything up."
I peeked around a bit, with the Kid heckling me, telling me how he'l already looked here and there. I finally gave up in disgust. As we started to leave, I remembered. "Hey, we're sharing the guard tonight. I'll ride early shift, you take over at three."
"Empty guns again?"
I stopped and thought about that. "Suit yourself. I'm considerable spooked, myself. Reckon I'll pack the real thing."
"Me, too! See you later." He took off. I took a last look around, went to the door and locked it from the outside with my pass key, after turning on the air conditioner.
I didn't know who the arriving guest was, but, he might as well be comfortable.
I passed Rita on my way down the path, and she smiled at me, and asked me about the Kid. She was polite, but sort of distant.
I kind of imagined she wanted to take a shower and lay down before eating tonight. She looked dusty, and a little more tired. Maybe she'd been riding at least, she looked like it.
The next hour or so I spent, just fooling around the place, trying to find out what the so-called help was doing. To find out how many guests we had left, and so on.
During the course of this afternoon, I ran into Nubbins once again.
She walked up to me in that innocently sexy way of hers and grinned. "We're having a campfire and sing-out tonight," she shifted weight from one pretty leg to the other. 'And an early morning trail-ride and cook-out. I'm going to check in fairly early tonight."
"Then I'll keep an eye on things here tonight," I assured her. "But, Nubbins I won't be along for that early morning deal. The Kid and I are splitting the guard shift tonight."
She placed a tiny but beautifully formed little hand on my arm, looking at me earnestly. "Please, Bud you and the Kid be careful?"
I gulped. And I agreed. There was a kind of a warm feeling in my heart, even though I knew she was thinking of the Kid.
I wished, just at that moment that she had that special kind of feeling for me. Or, that someone did. Well, you can't win 'em all.
Before I left, I was being paged. I took the phone just off the lobby. It was Doris, back in Vegas.
"Bud, I might have something for you. A man who answers the description of that ... Bill-Tom, wasn't it? ... one of the girls in the chorus, Wanda, is positive that a man answering his description was in the club a few nights ago and he was throwing money around like he invented it. And she said something else that might help. The character was with a real swinging, dark-haired chick, sort of the sultry-Latin type, you know, Bud?"
I felt that little prickle along the back of my neck.
"What did they call him, did she hear?"
"No," her voice was faint, but clear. "No name on him. But Wanda said he called his broad "Rita." Is that any help at all?"
Christ! How I wished I was back on that boat! and Jesus Christ! The feeling I had! I didn't know for sure what it all meant, but at least and at last, things seemed to be falling into place just what place, I wasn't, again, at all sure.
I thanked Doris, hung up, and stood there chewing a knuckle thoughtfully.
Bill-Tom. Rita. The location of the shooting just a few yards from Rita's lodge.
I had questions now. Lots of them.
But I'd have felt a hell of a lot better if I'd had a few answer. The sheriff was due out anytime, and I could just see him hauling old Bud Kubek off to the pokey.
And, I didn't want to go, because the way things were, right now, I didn't stand too good a chance of coming back!
Not, at least, as fast as the Kid had. Maybe and this thought chilled me maybe, never!
I was trying ro remember whether it was Nevada or Utah that stood you up in front of a firing squad when the phone rang again.
This time it was Rita.
I knew that voice. Hell, it was unmistakable.
"Bud ... going to be over this way anytime this afternoon maybe before dinner?"
Just about that time I heard a car pull up in front and could see a dude getting out. I remembered Number Fourteen.
"Yeah," I told her. I'll be over in that area in about five minutes. Checking a tenderfoot into Number Fourteen. I'll stop by then and...
"Tenderfoot?" She almost yipped at me. "You mean a man!"
"What's wrong with a man? I thought you liked them!"
"Bud," she answered, and her voice was tense, "Don't waste any time when you come over this way, will you?" Her voice lowered, became sultry, but stayed tense. "I mean just check him in and run right next door to see me. I ... I'll be waiting for you. You know."
I grinned to myself, in spite ofmy trepidation about the whole damned affair.
"I'm afraid, honey," I told her, "we won't have the time for any of those fun and games before dinner. And I'm hungry."
She wasn't amused. And she sure wasn't entertained.
"Please, Bud remember what I said. Come as quickly as you can. This is important. Maybe life or death!"
I hung up and let that thought chill me for a while.
I decided to have a long serious talk with the Kid before time for guard duty.
I sauntered out into the main lobby to give our new (and only) he-dude a once-over.
He wasn't a bad looking guy, oh, maybe a bit shorter than me. But I figured him for six feet or over anyway. He was broader. And he had a certain look about him I couldn't quite figure out.
Mean Someway that you couldn't put your finger on. They introduced us, and I caught only the last part of his name. "Mr.--Marvin."
I "Howdyed" him, and we set off for Number Fourteen.
He talked about the way you'd expect a guest to talk, asked the usual number of questions, but I kept feeling he didn't give a damn about the answers.
I swung open his door, told him about the "get-acquainted" campfire and sing that was about to take place after supper. I also joshed him about being the only male guest in camp. He grinned, but it was like he was going through an act.
I decided I didn't like him very much, and when he offered me a five dollar tip, I took it!
I stuffed the money in my jeans, tapped on the door of Number Twelve. It opened a cautious crack and I saw a jet-black eye peering out. I snickered, whispered "it's me, Fearless Fagan of the F. B. and I!"
Rita closed the door to take off the chain, then opened it and waved me in.
"That really wasn't funny" she snapped.
"Ma'am," I informed her solemnly, "I wasn't hired to be funny, only nice. And I don't feel funny or nice. You called me, remember?"
She tossed her hair, strode across the room. And, brother, she could stride! like a pantheress, lissome flanks gleaming beneath the semi-transparent robe she was almost wearing.
No matter what, and I was rapidly building up a whole gang of suspicions, she was one hell of a woman. All woman!
She turned, looking directly at me. Dramatic as hell. I looked back, interested.
"Can I trust you?" she whispered. I sort of shrugged.
She turned away for a moment, then turned back again. "I've got to! Only you can help me." Looking at the words now, they seem kind of corny. But right then, backed up by all of that woman, they sent a chill down my spine.
She crossed the room, picking up a key from the coffee table, and opened a large and expensive alligator bag.
She looked at me steadily as she reached in it, took out a package about twelve inches square. It looked heavy.
"When I walked out on Ricardo," she announced, "I also cleaned out my safe deposit box. In here," she went on, holding the package up for my inspection, "is close to seventy-five thousand dollars in cash, mostly in large bills. And almost that much again, in jewelry." She walked toward me. "I'm afraid, Bud, that I was ... well, say indiscreet in Las Vegas. I think the man who was shot here last night was a man I met, and passed some time with there a few nights ago. I may have had too much to drink, or I may have been trying to impress him. Anyway, I think he was after my money, and my jewels. He was after this box. And that," she concluded pointedly, "is why he was shot."
I looked polite. 'Any idea who shot him, and thus ended his checkered career?"
"I thought the Remuda Kid was on guard that ... "
I walked over to her, hoisted the package. I judged it weighed about twenty pounds. Her story didn't sound too bad, but I knew the Remuda Kid hadn't cracked down on our boy bandit. And I knew I hadn't.
That seemed to pretty well indicate a third party.
Who? Rita, herself? Or possibly a rival hoodlum, looking for a soft touch? I was beginning to see a faint glow of daylight in this matter, but I still wasn't able to put a name to it, put a finger on it.
"What do you want from me, Rita?" I asked her. And I asked bluntly.
"I want you to take care of that for me." She indicated the package.
"Why not put it in the office safe? Or take it on into Las Vegas, put it in a bank there?"
"I don't think there's time. And I don't think the office safe can 'hold' it ... safely, that is. That's an awful lot of money, Bud."
I considered her words soberly. A lot of money, indeed. But why was she handing it to me, of all people? I asked her this question, out loud.
She answered me with an eloquent shrug, and "Why not you? I know you as well as anyone around here. I think you can handle yourself. And, I'll give you ten percent if you hang on to it for me."
"Hang on to it for how long?"
She shook her head impatiently. "How should I know? Until we can make better arrangements? Until we can figure something else out? Look, Bud. You've got to realize that someone's out after this money. I'm a woman. I can't protect it here, or in Vegas. I doubt if I could even get to Vegas, with or without an escort."
"You could ride in with the sheriff, tomorrow. Maybe tonight."
She lifted her shoulder impatiently. "That's not now, Bud. For God's sake who's the man you checked into Number Fourteen a few minutes ago? Do you know him?"
That pulled me up kind of short. He'd been a mean-looking hombre, now that I thought back on it. And, I could see what she meant. I wasn't necessarily buying any of it, but I could see what she meant.
"Okay," I said. "I'll watch it for you. But you can forget the ten percent."
"Oh, no," her eyes widened. "You'll get the ten percent. And I have some very special ways I'd like to pay you, too. Maybe ... as we go along!"
Hot dog, mate! That makes the blood run faster and the desert bloom.
She looked straight into my eyes. "Like ... a little later? like ... tonight?"
I thought it over about two seconds. "Yeah ... a little later. Tonight!"
Hell, it doesn't take much strength to ride a horse for a couple of hours!
"WITH ALL THIS QUAIL AROUND, WHO NEEDS ORGANIZED RECREATION?"
CHAPTER IX
I hoisted the package a couple of times while sauntering back to my quarters, trying to think of a place to hide it.
I sure as hell wasn't going to carry it around with me day and night. I went in, tossed it on the bed and started to build myself a martini before dinner. Or supper.
I took off my shirt, sank on the edge of the bed and examined said package very carefully. It was well-wrapped. You could say that for it. Looked like it had been dipped in a water-proofing wax.
I rattled it. No rattle. I shook it hard. No noise. No noise at all. What ever was in there was solidly packed. I turned it over in my hands once more, then tossed it back on the bed, and took another sip of icy martini.
That damn package was going to present quite a problem, and I was feeling more than vaguely uneasy about it. And about a lot of other things. I had just about decided that I was the innocent possessor of a completely lame brain when the phone rang again.
More calls than a movie star!
I picked it up. It was Doris again. Calling from Vegas.
"Bud," and she was breathless. "Here's something that might help! The word is around that that Rita woman is carrying a valuable package. And the word is also around that the guy who got shot was a syndicate boy, sent after it. And-" Boy, she was never going to stop! "-that they're sending another guy out after it!"
I sat there, holding the phone, silent, and feeling like a piece of cheese in a mouse trap.
"Bud ... Bud? Did you hear me? About the package. . . ? "
I eyed the goddamn thing, sitting right there beside me on the bed. I thought briefly of Mr.--Marvin.
"Yes, Doris," I answered thoughtfully. "I heard every word you said. And thanks. Thanks a lot." I clicked the receiver down.
Lovely!
The Kid wandered in while I sat there, lost in thought. "Well," I mentioned. Casually enough, considering, "We got a lot of trouble on our hands."
I pointed to the package. "Trouble sitting right here. Somewhere between one and two hundred thousand bucks worth of trouble!"
It didn't register at first, I don't suppose. I waited for the inevitable reaction.
He stripped off his shirt, tossing it on his bed. And all of a sudden, I got hit with a brainstorm. Looking back, I'm not sure if it was good or bad.
The Kid came over, picked up the box, examined it and looked up at me. "Did you say something about two hundred thousand bucks?"
I nodded my head in assent. "What do you think it's dipped in?"
He looked at it carefully. "Seems like plain old wax paraffin. Why?"
"Put your shirt back on and scoot over to the kitchen. See if the cook has got any of that stuff. He just might have."
I could make a short story long, but the upshot of it was what you'd guess; the Kid was back in five minutes with a couple of blocks of paraffin, and we made up another package of approximately the same size, and weight, from stuff we had around the place. We filled it with paper and some dirt I scraped up in back of the lodge. We hoisted it before we dunked it to make sure it was about the right weight. I melted the wax in the wash basin, and if you don't think that's a job, just you try it! But it worked. We dipped the package to water proof it, then stood back to admire our handiwork.
"Bud."
"Yeah?"
"Why are we doing all this?"
I shook my head. "I don't really know, Kid. Maybe I got a hunch. Maybe I'm just sillier than hell. Anyway, guard this package-" and I indicated the dummy, "with your life. Until I go eat. We're gonna run shifts on it, too."
I picked up the package, the real one, and left. I stopped by the car, my old station wagon, carefully storing the thing under some saddle gear, after making sure no one saw me.
Hell, it was as good a place as any. And I figured that if someone was after that package, he'd figure that the Kid and I were guarding the real one, not the dummy.
I felt kind of smug. The feeling lasted for only a little while though, because I remembered the sheriff was due to arrive just about anytime now. And that I was going to have to do some mighty tall explaining about that murder gun.
I went to chow, ate fast, hurried back to my lodge and turned the Kid loose to chow down.
I hadn't seen Rita at supper, for whatever that meant; I thought maybe she was just too upset to eat. The man dude was there, looking about the dining room interestedly. His act was still too pat for my comfort, but he was sort of a focal center for all the female eyes, and I thought, with grim humor, that he was going to have himself a real pleasant vacation. If he was on the level.
I sat there, staring at the dummy package. The Kid came back from chow, kicked off his boots, and turned the radio on low, laying back on the bed, hands beneath his head.
After awhile, he looked over at where I was still sitting in silence.
"Bud," he asked, "you got any of this thing figured out yet?"
I grunted. "The more I figure it, Kid, the less I understand. If Rita's telling the truth, which doesn't seem-likely, it's a simple case of some hoodlums trying to snap up all of this loot."
"You don't believe her, then?"
"Hell, no. How could I? Nobody, not even a crazy dame, runs around with that much cash and jewelry in a cardboard box."
He speculated for a moment, twisting his lips. "We got our butts in a sling, and we don't even know why."
"Keep right on cheering me up, son," I advised him. "You're in free. It's Mrs. Kubek's boy, little Bud, who's in trouble. You think for one minute that sheriff ain't gonna take me in?"
"Where'd you hide the box? The real one?"
I shook my head. "Right now, I'm the only guy in the world who knows. And I'm gonna keep it that way as long as I can, Kid. No offense. But it strikes me that it's my one ticket out of this mess, and I don't want my ticket falling into the wrong hands. Not even by mistake."
"It's your football, Bud. You call the plays."
"There's only one play, right now. We go along with Rita's story until it falls apart. Which it will, or I miss my guess. And this phony package is the real one, as far as anybody else is concerned. We guard it. We watch it. We try to nail whoever comes after it. Because," I continued flatly, "someone's going to come after it. Pretty soon, too."
The telephone rang. I picked it up. It was Blackie. He told me the sheriff wouldn't be out until morning. I thanked him for the information and hung up, glancing at my watch.
The Kid was looking at me curiously. I walked over to the dresser, got out my spare .45, spun the cylinder, dropping the blanks into the palm of my hand Then I reached back in the dresser drawer and got out some live ammo. I loaded up.
"We'll get action tonight, Kid," I said positively. "Who-ever's after that package must know by now that we've got it under guard. And they'll know before long that the sheriffs not coming out until tomorrow. Tonight's when they'll make their try."
The Kid grinned cheerfully. "One thing about it. We ain't gonna have to stall around any, then. And I call that good. Hell, we could have been stuck with this duty for a week or more."
I poured myself a stiff shot of bourbon, held it to the light, then belted it down. "Instant courage," I said. "I think I'm gonna need a lot of it tonight! All right, Kid I'll mosey around a little bit, see what I can pick up. I'll be back in an hour, then you can go to the campfire thing for awhile. Nubbins is going to be there early, too."
The Kid's face lit up. I shook my head fondly. He was a hell of a guy! I clapped my sombrero on, buckled my gun belt, and took off to see what I could see.
I walked down to the area near the pool, where the Mexican kids were setting out all the gear for the camp-fire and sing. This included a public address system with speakers, a large portable bar, several washtubs full of beer, lots of chairs, pillows and blankets. There was even some firewood.
It was just coming on dusk, and it was beautiful as only the desert can be. For just a moment, the beauty lulled me into a false feeling of security.
Then, I spotted Mr.--Marvin walking slowly in my general direction, and away went that feeling of peace. I didn't particularly want to talk to him, and while I suppose I could have walked away, still my curiosity got the best of me and I decided to wait for him.
He was genial enough as he approached. "Well, hello there! Mister--Kubek, wasn't it?"
I nodded. "Evenin", Mr. Marvin. Just call me Bud."
He took a long pull on the cigar he was smoking, exhaling luxuriously. "They really do things up proud here, don't they?"
"Just try to show you folks a good time. That's what you pay for."
"Listen," he said with a chuckle, "with all this quail around, who needs organized recreation? Take that hot number next door to me, that brunette in Number Twelve boy!" He whistled.
I managed to look politely bored. "You mean Mrs. Ricardo? A very attractive woman."
Marvin laughed. "You can say that again, brother!" He nudged me. "I saw quite a bit of her a little earlier. Right after dinner, she took a shower, and left her window open. What a shape! like, wow! Why, she's got a pair of boobs that would stop traffic! Hey," he nudged me again. "Does she put out?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to ask her, Mr. Maryin." I was rapidly increasing my dislike of this character.
"That's a hot one!" he guffawed. "I bet you guys here are getting all that choice stuff. And baby, that Ricardo dame is really choice." He looked at me, speculatively. "I bet I know what it is with you I'll bet you're getting some of that;! Tell me the truth, now Bud. How is it? Hot? She got any tricks you know?"
I was pretty well bugged by this time.
"Mr. Marvin," I said quietly, "You're a guest here, a paying guest. I'm an employee. Only an employee, you might say. My job is to see to it that you're comfortable, healthy and safe. It's not to cater to your whims. If you want to meet Mrs. Ricardo, she'll undoubtedly be here in a few minutes for the entertainment. I'll see that you're introduced to her."
"Hell, boy don't get stuffy!" He rolled his cigar back and forth between his fingers. "We all like a little now and again, and I don't guess she's different from the rest of the human race. I'm not saying it has to be her. There's that cute little blonde you were sitting across from at dinner. Now there's a nice looking little piece. Big knockers, too. I wouldn't mind getting a little of that."
I looked at him coldly. "That little blonde is the owner's daughter," I said. "I wouldn't advise any funny stuff there." I walked away before I felt I'd have to belt him one.
I'm no prude. It wasn't so much what he'd said or the validity of his remarks. It was I don't know the way he said them. Slimy, like.
Preparations for the campfire were just about completed, I noticed. I decided to take a turn around the area and then go let the Kid out for the early part of the evening.
When I got back to the lodge, he was all gussied up and rearing to go. I told him about my meeting with Marvin and the gist of the conversation.
"I'll watch him like a hawk," the Kid said. "If he tries anything..."
"He won't. But watch him like a hawk, anyway. I got a very strong feeling that he's our boy."
The Kid agreed, and left for the festivities. I took off my gun belt, kicked off my boots, walked across the room and mixed a drink. Then I turned the radio off, and flopped down on the bed, eyeing that dummy package glum-
All of a sudden, I was homesick for Hollywood. And my crummy little hotel room. And falling on my butt from the top deck of a bucking horse at seventy-five per copy.
I rolled over, flicked out the lamp, and lay back, trying to nap a little before tonight's fireworks. Whatever they might be.
"HE'D TAKEN A COUPLE OF REALLY BAD KNIFE SLASHES BEFORE I GOT THERE..."
CHAPTER X
I wondered how the Remuda Kid was doing at the campfire. I've mentioned him so much, you probably think I'm kind of hipped on the guy, and you wouldn't be too far wrong at that.
I've known him since he was a button, from way back when I first left the old man's scatter after he died, and I started out as a real saddle tramp.
That sounds kind of romantic or like something of a western novel, especially in this day and age, but isn't a romantic life, and it's still going on young guys, ranch-raised, with a fairly decent education, but no liking for anything but horses, cattle, whiskey and dames.
We were, back in those days, what I guess you could have called farm-boys on horseback. I'm pretty sure the same situation prevails in midwestern farm towns only there the farm boys don't have boots, and spurs, and cow ponies.
The Kid's dad, Yancey Montana, was one of the men I admired more than somewhat, when I first spread my wings. I'd been hitting a few of the smaller rodeos. I hadn't quite got my full growth then, but I was going to be a big man, all right. Unless, of course, I got thrown too hard, or trampled, or stomped by a Brahma bull.
From the first, I was attracted to the more rugged events at these rodeos. I went in for bulldogging, calf-roping (and don't think that can't get rugged!) and bronc bustin'.
I guess Yancey Montana was just about the best there was around these little shows, and he cottoned to me right away, even if I was a ganglin', knobby-knead youngin' at that time. I had a great appetite for whiskey and women in those days, but I could never satisfy them, because I had an even greater appetite for food. It was seldom that I had enough money for all three appetites, and not too dog-goned often that I had enough money for the food.
Housing wasn't much of a problem, I slept in stables, cattle cars, horse-trailers, the cab of semis name it, I've slept in it.
I thought for awhile that I'd never get the smell of horse manure washed off me. Some of the gals I did make out with must have had strong nostrils.
And this little button, the Kid Yancey's kid; hell, he followed me around everywhere I went. It was a mild case of hero worship. I was like a great big brother to him. To tell you the truth, it got mighty aggravating sometimes.
You see, in the Kid's eyes, I could do no wrong, nothing bad or nasty or crooked. Which, I hasten to state, was far from true.
Just about the time I'd be conning some mark for a few bucks, up would pop the damned Kid, all shiny-faced and adoring. I couldn't let him down, but I sure as hell went hungry a lot on account of it.
Yancy, of course, knew all about it, and was secretly really tickled. He figured me and the Kid were good for each other, and when I look back now, I can see that he was right.
Well, the years passed. They passed slowly. (They pass a lot faster recently, I've noticed.) And I kept growing, kept filling out, kept getting more proficient at my chosen trade.
I started beating Yancey in some of the shows, so much so, and so often, that he finally had a serious talk with me one night.
"Bud," he said, spitting an amber stream into a stack of hay, "you're gettin' too good for these Mickey Mouse rodeos. Time you moved up. Calgary Stampede. Madison Square Garden. like that. This life is peanuts, and I sure should know.
"I started because I went bust on my little spread. Okay, I figgered I could win enough money to maybe get started again, but what happened? We're strictly minor league. When you do hit a good one, like as not the promoter takes off "with the prize money. Nobody pays your doctor bills. It's a lousy life. Look at you. I bet you got twenty, thirty bucks in your pocket and you feel rich. Right?"
I had to agree. I had twenty-five dollars and some odd change. It was about the most money I'd ever had left over, and I did feel rich, sort of.
Satisfied, he nodded. "That's what I mean. You been hangin' around these sawdust sideshows for four, five years. That's what you've got to show for it. That's all you got to show for it. I ain't a hell of a lot better off."
Then, he changed his pitch. "How's the Kid look to you lately?"
I had to answer that one right. The Kid, just turned sixteen, was building a powerful rep as a bronc rider. Lithe, wiry and tenacious, he was gifted with an uncanny sense of balance, of timing. Give the button some really good stock in the top shows, and he'd be another Casey Tibbs. I knew it, and so, God love him, did Yancey, his old man. I told him what I thought. He nodded.
"I'm holding a few hundred bucks. Enough to take the two of you to some of the better rodeos. How about it?"
I gulped. "Look, Yancey. You been mighty good to me, and I'm not gonna say 'no' to anything you ask. But are you sure this is what you want?"
He clapped an arm around my shoulder. "Boy, I'm over the hump. I'm fifty years old. I'll never make the big time, but you and the Kid you're naturals. Why go through a lot of waste motion? The Kid cottons to you, he'll listen to you better than he will me. I don't want you to do anything to get him off on the wrong track, and I don't think you will. I think you and the Kid are gonna be close friends for the rest of your lives. And I'd like that."
"You talked to the Kid about it?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. I wanted to see what you had to say about it. But I will, if you give me the word. One thing, Bud if you give me your word, don't go back on it. Not ever."
We shook.
That handshake practically gave me the custody of a hard-riding, hell-raising youngster who looked on me not just as an older brother, but as father, mother the whole goodamn works!
Considering the fact that I had just celebrated my twentieth birthday, it was quite a load to carry.
Well, we did it!
It was a real sweat, but we did it. The Kid (he picked up the name 'Remuda Kid' about this time) worked out to be a rip-roaring rider. Fact is, I doubt seriously if there was a horse going that he couldn't ride. Maybe not every time, but most of the time.
Me, I held two world's championships in bulldogging and calf-roping. Fact. Got so the boys were a little reluctant to put in their entry fees in the event me or the Kid had entered.
Then, Yancey died. Kicked in the head in a small-town rodeo by a bronc. I hauled a maudlin, drunken, puking Remuda Kid out of a gin-mill, sobered him up and accompanied him to his old man's funeral. Yancey had left the Kid everything, of course.
And everything came to twelve dollars and ninety cents, a busted-down saddle, two pairs of boots and a Stetson that was three sizes too big.
And a letter. The letter (I never read it) told the Kid to stick with me through thick or thin, and so on. I never read it, but the Kid told me about it one night.
Well, sir, there we were two fatherless children. Me, four years older than the Kid.
I did my best to look after him, but as we got a few years older it was each other we were looking after. And it was a very satisfying relationship most of the time.
We 'invaded' Hollywood together, and we both did good, right from the start. The Kid was no great hand at talking parts, but he was a handsome rascal, and hell on wheels at riding. Me, I picked up some on the acting part, although as heretofore stated, I wasn't any great shucks at it.
He balked a little when I married, but was too much of a gent to tell me why. The "why" I found out about some time later. He'd been right to balk.
And then, too, there was that week-end in Tijuana. Cassandra (Sandy) was gassed, looking for trouble. She found it. And while the Kid had no use for her at all, she was my wife. He'd taken a couple of really bad knife slashes before I got there. All to protect a drunken whore my wife who'd been screaming about her face. I didn't know it, of course. But he did
And that's the kind of a guy he is
Closer than a brother, something more or less than a son, a good drinking and wenching buddy, and a guy I'd trust with my life anytime the chips are down.
I'm not a brilliant man, but I'll make you one small bet; damn few people in this world have a friend like that One who'll go all the way, good or bad.
I counted myself lucky.
I stretched, yawned and drifted off into a troubled sleep.
" ... A WELCOMING SMILE ON HER FACE WAS ALL SHE WAS WEARING!"
CHAPTER XI
I must have slept sounder than I thought. Sometime later, I don't know exactly when, I was awakened by a muffled noise. Someone was moving around in the darkened room.
I scratched, yawned audibly and called out: 'Is that you, Kid?" Blam!
Something took me alongside the ear and for a split second I thought it was the Bomb, the Big One, you know? I saw purple and green and red and bright flashes of white and a couple of colors I'd never seen before and hope I never see again!
Next thing I knew, a worried Kid was bending over me with a wet, cold towel in his hands, mopping my lacerated skull. I moaned a little, and that hurt. Hell, even breathing hurt.
"What in the world hit you?" asked the Kid, staring at me with grave concern in his eyes. I must have been a pretty sight. I was flat on the floor and there was a fair-sized pool of blood where my head had been resting.
"Damned if I know," I finally managed to gasp out, still hurting. "The box is it gone?"
He nodded. "It surely is. And there went all our hard work for nothing."
I reached up, taking the towel from the Kid. I dabbed gingerly at my wound. It felt just jim-dandy peachy. About the size of a hen egg. I sighed, and the Kid helped me to my feet. I stood there swaying on unsteady legs for a moment, then wisely decided to plant my posterior down on the edge of the bed.
I gestured weakly for a drink. The Kid poured me a double slug of brandy, and I didn't sip at it. I gulped it down. Better. Much better.
"Outside of my head, outside of the headache I've got now and the one I'm going to have tomorrow," I pointed out to the Kid, "this may be the best thing that's happens ed So far."
"I don't get you?" he puzzled.
"Well, it's going to force somebody's hand. Whoever our party is didn't go to all this trouble, take all these chances without looking in that box to make sure he's got the McCoy."
Thoughtfully, the Kid agreed.
"And," I continued, "it's not gonna take him long to find out that he hasn't got the right box. Only I know where that is, but whoever our man is, he isn't aware of that fact. Even Rita doesn't know there's a phony box. Our boy has got to make a move, and this time we're gonna be ready for him!"
The Kid raised an eyebrow. "We are?"
"Damn right. And we're taking no chances on the box." I got up, strapped on my gun. "What time is it?"
"Eleven," said the Kid, looking at his watch.
I considered. "That gives us an hour before I start the guard duty. Come on with me; cover me if somebody tries to take me. I'm still pretty groggy."
We walked as far as the station wagon, where I reached under the tarpaulin and brought out the real box. I heard the Kid swear softly in astonishment, and I grinned to myself.
"Never hear of the old 'purloined letter' bit?" I wanted to know. He grunted in reply.
We went back to the lodge, carefully locked the door and closed the Venetians. I took out my pocket knife.
"You gonna open it?"
"Damn right I am. And then I'm going to hide it, in bits and pieces, all over the place. That way, whoever wants it is going to have to work for it."
I placed the package on the table, started to slit the waxed paper.
The Kid chuckled, softly. "Kinda excitin', ain't it? like playing cops and robbers."
I guess my glance showed my annoyance. "Only, Kid, this is for keeps. I don't know who these people are, but they're not playing. They mean business."
I continued to slit the package, carefully. Finally I peeled back the covering and we both looked closely at the contents.
"Wonder what it is?" speculated the Kid.
I had a good idea. I wasn't sure exactly what it was, but I was damned sure I knew the family it came from. It was a white, semi-crystalline powder. It had to be either morphine or heroin.
I closed the package slowly, trying to recall everything that I'd ever read or heard about the stuff. No matter which of the two it might be, if it were the pure product, it would be cut with powdered milk three, five, seven times and resold to the poor bastards of addicts at a fantastic profit.
The package represented, at a rough guess somewhere in the neighborhood of a quarter-million dollars;
I told the Kid what I thought. He whistled in amazement.
"What're you gonna do with it?"
That kind of stopped me. What the hell was I going to do with it? I sure didn't want to get into any money deals involving the stuff, with Rita or with anyone. Turn it in? To whom? I was already under suspicion of murder, that I knew. This wouldn't be making any points for me. It would hang me a little higher, that's all.
"I'll be goddamned if I know what to do with it. I could take it out and scatter it in the wind, I guess. But then who'd believe I'd do a thing like that? Not the sheriff. Not the Treasury Department, which is in charge of this kind of jazz. It's kind of like owning an elephant, I guess. What the hell do you do with it?" I shook my head worriedly.
The Kid had no answers. "What will we do?"
"First thing," I said, with a confidence I was far from feeling, "is to close the package up again. Look in the medicine cabinet and bring me some tape. I think there's a roll of the wide stuff in there."
There was. Painstakingly, so it wouldn't leak any of its nefarious contents, I closed it. It wasn't a neat job, after looking it over, but it served its purpose.
"Now what?"
I looked around the lodge, but I couldn't find nor think of a safe hiding place. Funny. When I'd thought the package contained "only" a hundred thousand bucks or so in cash or jewels, or both, it seemed reasonable to hide it almost anywhete. Now that I knew it contained dope, it seemed about three times its original size. There just wasn't any place to hide it. Not here.
I shrugged, helplessly. "Guess you'd better carry it, Kid. When I relieve you, you can pass it over to me. I don't guess we'd better let it out of our sight at all."
"Sounds reasonable. Suits me. Hand 'er here."
I thought for a second. "I'll walk to the stables with you, to cover you. Whoever wants it might make a try. Snake out that roan gelding, the big one. He'll be good for six hours, and that way we won't have to go back to the stables until morning. No sense in giving whoever it is any more chances than we have to." I was sounding pretty efficient, but I wasn't too sure of what I was doing. It was better than nothing at all I figured.
The Kid picked up the package as gingerly as if it contained a bomb that might go off any second as, in a way, it did. Nothing happened on the way to the stables. I remembered my date with Rita and decided, in the interests of curiosity, to keep it.
The Kid saddled the big roan, looking about himself carefully. I tossed the package up to him after he'd climbed aboard. He squirmed around, trying to get comfortable. The roan snorted softly. "Gonna be kind of awkward," he grinned, "but I'll hand on to her."
"Do that," I advised. "I'm going to be over at Mrs. Ricardo's lodge for awhile." The Kid snickered, but I went on, firmly. "I got a feeling that whatever's gonna happen will probably happen in that area. Kind of keep a special eye out around there, okay?"
"Will do." He waved a hand in farewell, turned the roan and walked slowly off, whistling a mournful cowboy ballad. I watched him out of sight, then walked on down to Number Twelve.
I paused outside, trying to marshal! my thoughts. Just who was Rita Ricardo? She sure as hell wasn't the innocent divorcee with the family cash and jewels that she'd made herself out to be.
How deep was she in this mess? I picked her for deep.
Maybe the ringleader, even. Well, hell, I'd worked in enough "B" movies to make up my own plot as I went along; only one way to find out things for sure get on in there and get about it, boy!
I knocked softly.
She opened the door a crack, just a tiny crack, and I heard a gasp of relief as she closed it long enough to loosen the night chain then swing it open for my entrance.
It was my turn to gasp, but not with relief!
Man, you never saw such a sight!
She was wearing a garter-belt, long sheer silk stockings, the flimsiest of panties and the highest of heels. And aside from a welcoming smile on her face, that's all she was wearing!
Ringleader of a vicious mob, or whatever, she was a hell of a hunk of plunder. All girl and just wide enough!
I stepped through the open door, kicking it shut behind me and took her in my arms, where she needed with a little whimper of content.
"Oh, Bud Bud, darling! What have I got you into?"
Now there was the question of the year. If she didn't know the answer, I sure as hell didn't. I soothed her with masculine sounds of reassurance, patting her firm, warm body. She didn't mind a bit. Her hand starred to work at my belt buckle, and I stepped back a few inches from her straining body to give her room. She looked at me, dreamy-eyed, then suddenly gasped. "Darling your poor head. Oh, baby, what happened to you?"
So much for the mad sex scene. Her words brought back my splitting headache.
"Some son of a bitch belted me a good one," I said, grimly, "and stole the package."
She whipped away from my embrace, nostrils dilating with sudden rage.
"What? You lost the package? Why, you four-flushing, two-for-a-nickel drugstore cowboy!" Well, that was about the nicest thing she said for maybe five minutes. I let her rant and rave for awhile, then clasped a hand firmly over her mouth. She subsided, still muttering under my palm. I wondered how much to tell her, how far I could trust her. The answer to both questions was: "not too far," and I knew it. I decided to let Rita commit herself.
"Honey," I reassured her, "he didn't get the real package. I made up a dummy package, and that's what he got. The real one, with your money and jewels, is still very safe. Right now, it's in old Buddy-boy's keeping!"
By God, it was like pushing a light switch. She melted back into my arms, and her hand went back to my belt buckle, this time unfastening it. Then I could feel her fingers steal insinuatingly under my shirt, caressing my body, sliding lower and lower. Hell, I'm only human! In thirty seconds flat, I was wearing less clothing than she, and that's saying a lot!
She drew me to the bed, sat down beside me, never taking her caressing, stroking, exploring fingers from my body. Okay. If you're going to be conned, this is the only way!
I let her have her way, which wasn't really much of a moral struggle on my part. By now, although I'd hardly touched her, she was moaning and turning with a self-induced passion. If it wasn't the real item, she was a hell of a fine actress. Anyway, it was good enough for me.
I lay back on the bed, her lips burning into mine, her tongue darting like a fiery arrow between my lips, her hands probing and caressing, her lovely bold breasts brushing my chest, the nipples leaving little trails of flame.
Slowly, she backed off, her eyes on mine.
One of her hands disappeared from sight, but I thought I knew exactly where it was going, and I was right. In a second, with her guidance, we were coupled in a frenzy of sheet animal passion.
I've never experienced anything quite like it! Her eyes rolled back in their sockets until only the whites showed. Every inch of her firm flesh was quivering in an unholy orgy of lust. My hands caressed that pliant, nubile body, helping her to arrive at the inevitable climax with me and suddenly, with a scream, a scream of raw delight, she flattened her body against mine and quivered, offering a torrent of love that could not be refused. The moment lasted an eternity, the eternity only a moment. She prolonged it with little movements of her body as we lay there, and with little whispers in my ear.
When she finally relinquished our locked embrace and rolled away, I felt like I'd been hit in the behind with a snow shovel! I was drained of all emotion, all feeling, lust and desire.
I reached over, stroking a silken-dad limb, exulting in the sensuous feel of her firm skin above the stocking top. She smiled lazily at me. I smiled back.
"Daddy," she whispered, "Daddy where's the box now? Where'd you hide it?"
And there it was, kid. Better than a cold shower. Gone was the languid torpor I'd been enjoying just short seconds ago. I was immediately alert, on my guard and damned apprehensive! What a cold-blooded bitch this really was, sexpot or no sexpot.
I got up from the bed, unspeaking. She watched as I slipped back into my clothing, but didn't say another word. Her eyes on me were evil and hungry and I knew she had just one thing in mind. The hell with Bud Kubek! She wanted that package. She wanted it safe, but she wanted it. I felt sort of like a human sacrifice on the altar of greed.
I finished buttoning, walked over to the little bar and poured myself a drink.
"Bud?"
I knocked the drink back, looked over at her and shook my head.
"It's put away," I told her quietly, "where no one can ever find it. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Of course." She puckered her forehead. "But you can get it for me anytime, can't you, darling? Anytime I want it?"
"Anytime you want it. After alL it does belong to you, doesn't it?"
"Of course. Of course it does."
"Well, then?"
She smiled, stretching her hands over her head, making her swelling breasts jut upward, the nipples sticking out proudly and eagerly. "Well, then," she whispered insinuatingly, "why don't you come on back here to bed and get another payment on your fee?"
I felt revolted. I knew better than to show it, tough as it was to hide my feelings. I glanced at my watch. Almost three in the morning and time to relieve the Kid.
"No can do. Got to pull guard duty 'til daylight. I expect that'll make you feel good though, won't it?"
"I'll--I'll sleep beautifully, darling, just knowing you're out there protecting me. Good night. Oh why don't you wake me when you come off shift? Please?"
I opened the door, taking a long last look at that evil but delightfully rounded figure on the bed.
"I'll call you first thing," I told her. "Personally."
"I HEARD A SLUG WHISTLE PAST MY EAR SAW THE ORANGE FLASH OF A GUN!"
CHAPTER XII
I closed the door from the outside and paused a short moment in the darkness, trying to gain my night sight. In a little while I'd relieve the Kid for the balance of the night guard duty. Deep down inside I felt that this was going to be a damn crucial three hours. I stepped down to the path then felt, rather than heard, the Kid ghosting up on the big roan. By God, I thought, even the horse is spooked! The Kid swung down from the saddle and handed me the package.
"All yours," he said, briefly. "Listen, I thought I heard someone creeping around in the gully awhile ago like five or ten minutes before you came up. Want me to kind of sashay around out back for awhile? Until we can find out what's what?"
I took the reins, hoisting the box. "Why," I told him, "that mite be nice. Real nice. I'll take a short ride up to the stables and back. You keep in the shadows and keep an eye open. If there is somebody fooling around, we might maybe nail him that way. Kid," I urged, earnestly, "Don't shoot unless you have to. But if you have to, for Christ's sweet sake, shoot. Get me?"
I swung up into the saddle, atop the nervous roan, looking down at him. He nodded his head in agreement. "I'll do her, don't worry. Oh what about the Ricardo woman?"
It was dark, and I was glad it was dark. Still I had the grace to blush.
"I sure don't trust her. Just keep an eye on everything. I'll be back in a few minutes. Fade off into the brush, huh?"
"Sure. Hey that roan's plenty spooked. Ride him careful-like."
"Will do." I watched as he disappeared like an Indian into some shrubbery, then wheeled my horse and trotted off toward the stables. I figured that, if I slowed to a walk it might take me somewhere like ten or fifteen minutes to make the round trip. Maybe even probably something would develop in that time. I hoped so.
The package was uncomfortable. I didn't know just how to carry it. I tried it under my arm, but it was too wide for comfort. I tried to lash it to the pommel, but it was far too bulky for that. I finally tucked it under a knee. It stopped my circulation in that leg efficiently, but it was the most comfortable place I could figure out. At least it left both my hands free.
The roan and I made an uneventful trip to the stables. I had to nudge him away from the corral gate. He was tired, and obviously thought that this gallivanting around all night was pretty stupid. I did too, but I nudged him away with a boot heel, and we started back to the area we'd just quit.
We'd just hit the bridle path leading to lodges Twelve and Fourteen when the sound of gunfire and in earnest! split the night. The roan reared, but I sawed savagely at his reins, kicking him into a dead run that was dangerous for both the horse and myself at this hour of night. We pulled up in a scattering slide of gravel I grabbed the box in my left hand, piling off like I was jumping off a cliff. I hit running, pulling my .45. The box pulled me a little off balance, and I cursed, but it was just as well. I heard a slug whistle past my ear, then saw the orange flash of a gun from beside Number Twelve. I fired one slug, then turned to aim my fire at another figure emerging from the shadows on the other side of the building. I held up when I recognized the voice. Now the roan was really spooked, and was rearing and plunging, threatening to stomp me into the dirt. What a mess!
"Hey, Bud that you?" It was the Kid.
I heard running footsteps disappearing in the direction of the gully. Good sense told me to forget it, for right then.
I answered the Kid. "Yeah," I said, a little sourly, dodging a flying hoof. "It's me. What the living hell happened?"
"Well," the Kid walked up, scratching his head. "I heard someone prowling around. I thought I'd let them go until you got back here, but then I..."
There was another jet of orange flame from the direction of the gully, another "wham!" of gunfire and the Kid grunted, dropped in his tracks. I tossed the package to the ground under the hooves of the rearing horse, drew my .45 and ran on tip-toe towards the sound of the shot I saw a figure drop into the gully, dropped in right on top of him.
He was ready for me. I was met with a dandy swing of this character's gun butt, catching me in the exact same spot as my last concussion! I went down and out, fast, only vaguely aware of scrambling feet reascending the side of the wash.
* * *
I couldn't have been out for more than a minute or two, but it was long enough, as it developed, for whoever it was to have made a clean getaway.
In turn, I crawled to the top of the gully, saw the Kid still down, not moving. Hit hard, it looked like. The road was still rearing, stomping and snorting. And under his hooves was a well call it a figure, if you like. To me, it looked like about two hundred pounds of hamburger. Not a pretty sight.
From what little I could observe in all the confusion and in my semi-dazed condition, the mess on the ground appeared to be what was left of Mr. Marvin.
I let the Kid lay for the moment, ran into the lodge, Number Twelve. No Rita!
I staggered back out, struck a match and looked at the Kid. So he was hit. Hard, but, so far as I could tell, not fatally.
Lights came on all over the area. I grabbed the reins of the crazed gelding, led him away a few yards and tied him to a tree. When I got back, a crowd was gathering.
Crowds gather everywhere there's been a disaster. I knew this from past experience. It doesn't matter. It can be a busy street corner, a battlefield or even and I couldn't quite figure this out a dude ranch at about a half-hour after three in the morning, in the middle of the Nevada desert. I mentally chalked up one more to experience, moved on to other things.
Now there were questions, explanations, a regular babble of voices, excited, sleepy, bewildered. Above all this, I suddenly became aware of the sound of a car starting up, and roaring down the road that led from the ranch.
Suddenly, I remembered the package the quarter-million box. It had disappeared. Gone, by God!
Someone had it. It was my hunch that the person, no matter who, he or she was making a fast getaway with a small box worth a lot of loot.
"Watch the Kid!" I snapped at anyone in general and no one in particular, "and call the doctor." I looked at the mess on the ground, shuddered. "And the coroner," I added. "And the sheriff."
I ran back to the terrified roan, swung aboard and fought him for a precious minute or two. He knew I was running the railroad, though, and finally gave in, going my way. We raced for the car park. My old station wagon was there, but I passed it up for a little foreign car, much faster, more reliable. I jumped off the horse, slipped for an instant, then vaulted over the side and behind the wheel, hitting the starter as I lit.
There was a sedate roar of unleashed power, and the door on the passenger side opened. Nubbins slid into the other bucket.
"Get out," I yelled. "Get the hell out. This is gonna be dangerous, you little fool!"
She shook her head stubbornly, as I gunned the motor. "I'm going with you. I know who you're after!"
I hit the drive in a slither of gravel and dust, holding into first until I could make the corner onto the highway, then double-clutching into second speed, and floor-boarded the throttle.
It was really too late to argue by that time. I was doing better than 320 rpm, with the speedometer hanging at the 75 mph mark as we swerved, then straightened.
Rubber was burning, but I wasn't buying tires. She knew who I was after, I reflected. I could add to that I wish I did. I had no idea who was flying up the road ahead of us, well on the way to the California border. Just someone. I settled down for the chase. Just before four o'clock in the morning, there was little or no traffic on the highway. I kept the juice on full, really expecting to catch up to the front car in the next twenty or thirty miles.
As it turned out, I was being a bit more than overly-optimistic. Whoever it was in front of me was making time. One hour (and 75 miles) later, nothing was in sight but the radiator cap. And I was running low on gas. Meanwhile, Nubbins and I hadn't exchanged a half-dozen words, which was bugging me.
I leaned over, casting an anxious eye at the gas gauge. "Who," I asked her, shouting to make my voice heard above the wind, "who in the breathing hell are we following?"
It sounded all right, I guess, but I damn near cracked up laughing after I'd said it. I began to realize how funny it would have come out, tape-recorded, for instance.
Here we were, boy, barreling hell-for-leather through the night. In chase of an unknown car driven by an unknown driver, heading for an unknown destination! Jesus Christ!
"Well?" I screamed at Nubbins.
"Rita," she screamed back. "Rita, you bastard. The sex-pot from Number Twelve."
I thought she sounded pretty bitter. And maybe a little too knowing. After all, I hadn't made any cracks about her personal life. Pass. I tried to give the idea a little thought. Rita, eh? I'd left her throbbing, pulsating body only moments before the shooting. She's been wearing nothing but a garter belt and a smile when I'd left her to go and relieve the Kid.
Okay! This gave me a small idea. I wheeled into the next service station, blasting the horn all the way up the drive.
A sleepy eyed, sour visaged man came out of the building, resentfully rubbing his eyes.
"Fill it up," I ordered. "Ethyl. And answer me a question. Have you seen a good-looking brunette driving a big-" I broke off, turned to Nubbins to supply the description ... She gave the make and model in a strained voice.
'Yeah," I went on, "and wearing a full-length mink coat?"
It was the only logical description I could think of. If Rita had beat it out her front door, swung from under the horse's hooves with that box of narcotics and headed for the car park area, she'd had no time to dress. I couldn't think of a better description to give; in fact, I got a stupid sort of thrill just thinking of the coat!
The bored attendant, hand on the hose, waggled his head negatively. "Nope."
Nubbins glanced at me, inquiringly. "Mink coat?"
Here I went again, blushing in the dark. "Don't worry about it. I know what I'm doing."
"You didn't even know whom we were following," she pointed out. "How come, all of a sudden, you're the masterful male?"
Although it was a good and fair question, I made up my mind then and there not to answer it. Instead, ignoring the whole thing, I reached into my pocket, paid off the sleepy attendant. I asked him how far it was to the nearest all-night restaurant. Between yawning and scratching his behind, he figured it to be about forty miles, more or less. That would be just about at the California Nevada border. I didn't thank him, but swung out in a sharp takeoff. I poured on the coal, deciding to make the forty miles in twenty-five or thirty minutes.
I floor-boarded the throttle. The whine of the hand-tooled engine assured me that it wasn't an impossible goal, barring blowouts or trucks.
We got there at day-night, just at daylight.
If, at that time, I'd been able to enjoy the sights, I could tell you about the lovely scenery. As a matter-of-fact, you can't knock sunrise in the desert. The mountains look like the mountains of the moon, or Mars. They take on really wild hues and tints purples, greens, blues, rose, yellow really unbelievable colors you can't see anywhere else in the world, I'm sure.
Me I hardly noticed. By this time, I was half-hypnotized from the white line in the center of the highway.
Worse, I'd been driving in darkness most of the way, and there's a twenty or thirty mile stretch of freeway that is sheer murder at night (if you're sleepy) because the divider is marked with those little hunks of reflector glass. In this particular stretch they seem to have been engineered by someone with a consuming hatred for the human eyeball.
The border. Here, a canny operator has set up identical restaurants, bars, and so on, on both sides of the freeway. Kind of like "Last chance" and "first chance."
One thing, though both are located on the Nevada side, so that both have 24-hour liquor licenses, and both have the slots.
I swung, full throttle into the off-ramp, blasted up beside the joint (identically named) on my side of the road and turned off the ignition.
There were a couple of other cars parked there, so I walked a little stiff-legged into the place, closely followed by Nubbins.
No Rita.
I sighed, dropped a quarter into one of the slots, and hit the plums. Three bucks back for my effort. Maybe my luck was changing. Anyhow, I sure as hell hoped so.
I ordered a hamburger and a cup of coffee for my self, then looked questioningly at Nubbins.
"Just coffee," she said. And, she sounded about twelve years old. I suddenly realized that I was very tired, and if I was tired, that kid must really be pooped.
The waitress was dressed in a costume that I did not really notice at the time, but which since has come back to me mesh hose (very sexy), eye shadow (too blue), beehive hair-do, topped with a little white cap, and bottomed with a dirty pink uniform.
Nubbins noticed my gaze, grinned with sympathy for me. Or grinned, sympathetically. I'm really not sure which it was. I was so goddamn tired!
Our coffee came. While I idly stirred mine, waiting for my hamburger, I started to mentally put some facts together. What I knew. What I suspected. What I felt. Pretty flimsy.
Just what did I have to go on? A package, no longer mysterious. Still worth a fortune. The death of a 'ranch hand.'
The shooting of the Kid. The con job that Rita had tried on me, plus her present leave of absence, in high gear.
The mysterious, and the very dead Mr.--Marvin!
And, the phone calls from Doris. The chorus I'd won.
And there was more. How I'd been hired for my job. How easily and quickly I'd been made foreman, under Blackie. Nubbins' appearance at this crucial time. And, Ed Bailey having a mysterious well, I was entitled to think of it as "mysterious" accident on the Freeway at just such a crucial moment. like the moment I'd reported to work. I tried to stop thinking, and I shook my head.
Nubbins was watching me, worry in her eyes. "What's bothering you, Bud?"
I raised an eyebrow. "What's bothering me? You've got to be kidding? What's bothering me? Nubbins, for Christs' sweet sake!"
She looked at her coffee cup. "I guess that was rather a stupid question. It really was."
"I guess it was. And, it really was."
My hamburger came, and I practically gulped it down.
Then I ordered another cup of coffee and a piece of apple pie. Nubbins excused herself, and went to the ladies john.
At least, I thought wryly, she was being human. In a detective novel and I felt like I was in one now, all right nobody ever gets caught short. Nobody ever goes to the john.
While she was gone, I started to add things up again. The "Hardway-8" wasn't doing much business. That was obvious. We had more help than we had guests. Yet, no one that should have been, seemed to be distressed by this. I wet a finger, made a mark on the table top.
It cost a small fortune to operate the place it had to. But it simply wasn't taking a small fortune back in. I make another mark beside the first.
Nobody had even checked my references when I was hired. Not mine, nor the Kid's. I wet the finger again. And I made another mark.
What kept the place going? Who and what paid the bills?
I narrowed my eyes, and while this didn't help my thinking into any genius type extent, it made me feel like I was concentrating. So don't knock it.
I wondered how much Nubbins knew.
I dropped my fork on the plate, still bearing the remains of most of the apple pie, took a sip of coffee, and lit a cigarette.
I called the waitress over. She came up, slinking like a burlesqueingenue, waving her behind and her behind wasn't too bad and leaning well over the table as she licked a pencil stub, and laboriously made out my check. I was supposed to be intrigued by her knockers, which she was most careful to expose in front of me. That is, she was careful to expose them while Nubbins was still in the restroom. Frankly, at any other time I might have been interested. But this time I was just curious.
I tossed her a five-spot, told her to keep the change, then whispered to her, kind of confidentially: "Hey don't say anything to my old lady (nodding toward the rest room) but did a real hot-looking brunette, wearing a mink coat, come through here about a half-hour or so ago?"
She scooped up the loot, looked both ways, then leaned over again, giving me a whiff of cheap talcum and still cheaper cologne. "Yes, bo! A real swinger! Had a cup of coffee, then took off. One of your you know?"
"Yeah," I told her, "that's about right. Don't let on you said anything, or that I asked anything. Okay?" I reached out, patted her on her firm behind.
She wriggled with pleasure, winked back. "Don't worry, good daddy. Not a word."
Nubbins came back about then, and we went back out to the car.
My pin-point brain was now starting to arrive at some questions. I thought that Nubbins might have some of the answers. I didn't quite know how to get them, but I did have a small, evil idea.
"THE BARTENDER MADE AN EMPHATIC 'OUT MOTION WITH HIS THUMB."
CHAPTER XIII
We climbed in the car, and I started the engine, turned on the lights and started to make a grand sweep out of the drive.
We were damned near head-on'd by a big, black sedan that slowed crossways in the drive, blocking our exit.
I stormed out ready to fight, when a voice I recognized told me: "Steady on, old son it's Blackie!"
Then he got out from the sedan, grinning. "Goddamn," he exclaimed, "you people really move in a hurry!"
I was really glad to see him, and I grabbed and wrung his hand. "Boy," I said, "you'll never know..."
"Forget it, Bud. I think this play has gone far enough for old Blackie to deal himself in. I don't know what's wrong, but I know that one of my hands has been hurt, and I know that a couple of guys have been killed. Guess I'll just have to join this party."
He peered into the sports car. "Is that Nubbins?"
As I nodded, she chirped, "Yes, Blackie, it's me."
"Well, good! Now we can go somewhere. You-all are chasing Rita, I reckon."
I told him that we were, yes.
"Okay, Now, just for the record, we're all being chased, too. By the sheriff. By the highway patrol. And, I am a little bit more than sure we'll soon have the T-men on our tail"
'T-men?" I was puzzled.
"Sure. There was dope in that package. Or, didn't you know?"
I grunted, and shook my head. Nubbins kept silent. I looked at Blackie "What about the syndicate? What about Mr. Marvin?"
"Yeah," Blackie said, equitably. "How about that? Mr. Marvin was a Treasury Department agent. I found his identification."
Nubbins and I digested this information in silence. "How about Rita?" I asked. "How do we contact her? Because we sure as hell aren't going to catch her."
"That's another thing," Blackie said "Let's get in my car and talk. In fact, let's get in my car and go on into Los Angeles tonight. Because the outraged owner of that little sports car has already notified the Highway Patrol that it was stolen. This car," indicating the black sedan, "happens to be my car. Let's leave the little job set right here, and let's get going. I'll explain some things along the way."
I turned to look at Nubbins, but she was already scrambling out of the sports job and into Blackie's long, black limousine. I climbed into the front seat. She curled up on the back seat, yawned with a little kitten-like curl of her tongue, and promptly went to sleep.
We drove along for several miles, without talking, until I noticed that Blackie didn't seem to be in very much of a hurry. I asked him why.
He held up his left wrist. "Look at the time. It's almost seven o'clock. We'll be lucky to hit the freeway into L.A. by seven-thirty. At that time, you could hide a hippopotamus in traffic. No point in killing ourselves for nothing. Besides, I think we can find where Rita is heading."
I turned my head sharply. "How?"
He nodded toward the back seat. "Nubbins will know. Or she'll know how to find out." I lit a cigarette, watched the pale palm trees flash past I thought of something, wondering whether to bring it up in conversation or not. I decided to feel my way. "Blackie?"
He didn't turn his gaze from the rapidly unwinding strip of road. "Yup?"
"How long have you been working at the Hardway 8?"
"This is my second season. And if you're gonna ask how business was last year, I'll tell you terrible!"
"But they pay the salaries and they pay all the bills."
He took his eyes off the road for a moment. "That they do," he said. "That they do! And I'm starting to think the same thing you're going to say you're thinking."
"A front?"
We were by now about ten minutes from the Hollywood Freeway. He slowed, momentarily. In the light from the dash, which was still on, his features looked drawn.
"Yeah, a front. For smuggling. I even suspected it last year, but Ed was pretty damned convincing. Off-season, and so on. like you, I started to ask questions. The answers I got still don't make sense. There had to be some other income. Guess what?"
I didn't have to answer. I'd already guessed what
Blackie hit the accelerator again, and we made it out to the Hollywood Boulevard off-ramp in practically nothing flat He drove out the Boulevard like he knew what he was doing.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"We'll catch one of the early morning bars here on Cahuenga boulevard," he said, "and kind of regroup our forces." He nodded toward the back seat and Nubbins. "That one can kind of help us. If she wants to and if she will."
Well, I didn't understand him, exactly, but I didn't say anything more until he'd parked. I woke Nubbins up and then the three of us went into the bar at the corner of Cahuenga and Hollywood boulevards, right in the heart of Hollywood, just a few blocks west of Vine street
Inside, the place was jumping. I'd been there before, back when I was breaking up with my wife and couldn't sleep so good in the mornings. Still, I didn't see a living soul there that I knew. Even the bartender was new to me. I led Nubbins to a booth in the back while Blackie went to the bar and ordered three Bloody Mary's. While I don't particularly like vodka and tomato juice, I drank mine slowly. It was better than nothing.
Nubbins drank hers, making little faces at the hot sauce.
"What now?" I asked Blackie.
He questioned Nubbins. "Where's your dad?"
She shrugged. "In the hospital."
"Sure. Sure he is. But which hospital?" Blond curls bobbed as she shook her head. "I just don't know."
Blackie turned a sardonic gaze at me. "You do believe that, don't you?"
Nubbins had started to cry, softly, and the bartender was giving our party of three a pretty hard eye. Two big bruisers like us picking on a poor tiny little thing like Nubbins. I could see how he felt about it and I was kind of embarrassed, not that I didn't agree with Blackie. Something seemed to be decidedly fishy. I asked her.
"Honey," I said, softly, taking her by the arm, "he called you, didn't he? Your dad? From the hospital? Can't you just try and remember where it was the name of it?"
"I I don't know. I can't remember."
Blackie snorted in derision. "She don't know. She knows, but she won't tell us, won't talk. Well, so much for that. I guess we might as well call the Treasury Department, turn the whole thing over to them. What do you think, Bud?"
I agreed, wholeheartedly.
Nubbins didn't. "No!" she cried. "No just give me a minute to get myself together." She lay her head on her arms, sobbing. I glanced up at the bar, and the bartender made an emphatic "out!" motion with his thumb. I couldn't really blame him; not only did we look suspicious to him, we even looked suspicious to me, and I'm broadminded.
I nudged Blackie, who looked at the bartender, too, then nodded silently. I helped Nubbins to her feet and we went back out to the car. I slid her into the from seat this time, so that she was sandwiched between Blackie and me. We pulled away from the curb.
"Now what?" I asked.
Blackie growled deep in his throat. "Looks like it's up to her."
Nubbins was sobbing, uncontrollably. I mean, like in orbit. Blackie and I glanced questioningly at each other. He hunched his shoulders, kept driving. We turned left on Sunset, and I pointed a finger at a motel. It was a rather nondescript motel. You could find one just like it anywhere in the country. You sure wouldn't have to make a special trip to Hollywood or Las Vegas to duplicate it; and it seemed just right for what I had in mind. Perfect, even.
Maybe my ideas weren't so hot, but I seemed to have about the only ideas circulating at the particular time.
"Pull in there," I told Blackie. He raised a questioning brow, then did as I said.
When the car stopped I hopped out, entered the office.
"Something for my wife and myself," I requested of a bright eyed morning room clerk. "Twin beds, maybe? Just drove in from Phoenix, and we're pooped. Got a record audition this afternoon, and we got to get in a little sack time."
He looked at me with complete boredom. He'd heard every reason in the world for a motel check-in during daylight hours and nothing I could say was going to' impress him, his attitude showed. Suddenly his eyes widened. I shifted uncomfortably as he looked at me, then realized I was still wearing my gun belt, complete with .45!
"Window dressing," I laughed, hollowly, fingering the rod. "We got a western routine."
He immediately looked unimpressed again, took my money, tossed me a key. I looked at the key, and despite my own common sense, I shivered a little. It was Number Twelve!
Back out to the car, I collected Nubbins and told Blackie to hang around the area. I took Nubbins into Number Twelve. It was all right. Not elegant, but clean. It even had an air conditioner, in case things got hot.
Inside, she turned to me, pressing her tiny but perfectly formed body against mine. "Don't leave me, Bud," she cried. "I'm so tired. And I'm so afraid of what's going to happen."
I patted her shoulders, telling her not to worry. She had better patting territory, but I was personally too damned worried about what was going to happen to worry roo much about where she was getting patted. If you know what I mean.
"I'll be right back in," I said, heading for the door. "I've got to see Blackie for a minute. Undress and hop right into bed. After you've had a nap, we'll all figure out what to do."
I softly closed the door behind me, trotting back out to the car as Nubbins started to undress. Blackie was waiting, patiently.
"Just what the hell you got in mind, anyway?" he greeted me, scowling over a cigarette.
"I was living at the hotel at Western and Santa Monica when I met Bailey," I told him. "You know a lot of cowboys and grips hang out there?"
He said he knew where it was.
"All right like this: I'll see that Nubbins gets a little rest. Anything she might have in mind above and beyond that, too. Meanwhile, why don't you go check that hotel out? Look in the bar, ask a lot of questions. Call back for us here. I'll pump Nubbins."
Blackie grinned at me, wolfishly. "I bet you will."
I ignored it, possibly because the thought had already entered my own mind. "About Rita," I pursued the sleuthing a bit. "Think we can find her?"
Blackie grunted. He climbed back in the car, kicked the starter. "If we find Ed, we'll find Rita. She's been his mistress for the past four or five years!"
On that note, he departed, leaving me standing in the motel drive. I went back into the motel room. Nubbins held Out her arms in an obvious invitation.
I was tired, dad, but not all that tired!
"WE LAY LOCKED IN WARM VELVET LIKE TOGETHERNESS!"
CHAPTER XIV
We undressed each other. I admit she had more work to do than I she was still wearing those skin-tight shorts that showed every hill and dale of her small but beautifully contoured body. So I cheated a little; I helped her to unbuckle and unzip me but I was impatient and I'm sure any other red-blooded American boy would have been the same way!
What a doll!
Unlike Rita, Nubbins wore a brassiere. She wore it, apparently, to conceal her charms, which were perhaps a bit top-heavy. I mean, she had twin hillocks that were far too large for a tiny-mite of her size, but so beautifully formed that they were almost like living mounds of tempting, vibrant, pink and white flesh in themselves. I left the brassiere on for a few moments, because I'd never actually known a girl to wear one just like it before. The ends were cut out, if you dig me and the nipples protruded through in a very tempting and tasteful manner!
As our hot, naked bodies pressed together, I could feel the large, lovely plum-colored nipples come alive and thrust their tips out through the end of the brassiere!
It was so unusual, so exciting, that it almost drove me off my rocker! I moved back, placed a hand on the cup of the sheer, silken bra. The nipple, larger than life-size, thrust demandingly against my palm. I lay back farther still, let my eyes look in wonder at the scene. Twin, thrusting, almost plum-sized as well as plum-colored nipples were fairly bursting from that bra!
Now her body started to writhe and wriggle. I placed a hand behind her back, rubbing her gently, pressing her body close to mine.
"Oh, God!" she moaned, "Yes! Yes just like that. Do it just like that, daddy!"
My hand slid further down her writhing back, cupped a soft, but firm buttock in my palm. Her flesh quivered as she responded to my urging. My other hand caressed her swelling thigh.
Now her body whipped uncontrollably, little gasps of pleasure came from her warm lips. I marveled at my control over this lovely creature, marveled at her exultant passion as I pressed my body tightly against her.
We rocked in a wild, lost rhythm, and I heard jungle drums beating in my ears as she transported me to heights of sexual joy I'd never before experienced. Faster and faster grew the tempo of our bodies, our breath coming in gasps. She clasped me ever tighter, starting to shudder. I could feel every muscle in her adorable body as she strained in passion against me, and then came, suddenly, inexorably, the bursting of the relief!
We lay locked in warm, velvet-like togetherness. I knew, right then, that this was my girl. Never mind my best friend, The Kid. Never mind the hundred and one suspicions that were running through my mind. This was my woman, my tiny tigeress, my girl! No one else had ever mattered, no one else ever would. This was the end and the all of my being. This was the other half of me, the fulfillment of my life, of all my desires.
Slowly, the surge of passion ebbed for both of us. She lay away from me, fretfully pushing away a stray lock of hair.
"Now," I said, feeling like a complete and utter bastard. "Now. Will you tell me something: where's your dad? And Rita?"
She looked at me with reporachful eyes. "Do we have to do this? Bud, can't we just ... "
"Go away and leave things alone?" I shook my head in sincere regret. "It'd be mighty nice if we could, Nubbins. I'm afraid there are just too many damned people in on it now. If you know what I mean. like the FBI, the police, the sheriff, the highway patrol. And God only knows how many hoodlums. People have been shot and people have been killed."
I looked at her closely. She squeezed her eyes shut and a small tear tricked out, ran down a curving cheek. "It's my dad, Bud."
"I know." I waited for her.
She rolled her head helplessly on the pillow. "I don't know what to do!"
I didn't say anything. I just stood there.
Tears had streaked her mascara. She'd lost a lot of lip stick on the pillow. Any other girl in the world would have been a mess. Nubbins was delightful. Ever read the phrase "a tug at my heart"? That's exactly what I felt. A tug at my heart. Such a little thing, so forlorn, so innocent, and so involved.
I swallowed with a big gulp. "Look, baby," I told her in my best manly-type voice, "we'll do whatever you think best. You want to forget it, we'll forget it."
"No," she said quickly. "No, Bud. We can't forget it. I guess we'd better do something about it. I I don't know where they are, but I know their telephone. And the approximate neighborhood. Will that help?"
"It's a start in the right direction, anyway."
She got out of bed, actually blushing. "Bud: you'll do what's best? For me?"
By God, I tell you my heart turned over. She was so trusting, so small and sweet I almost started crying.
"Nubbins," I swore a solemn oath. "I'll do my very best."
Her little face lit up like a neon sign. "Why," she answered, as she entered the bathroom, "Why, I think that'll be good enough, Bud Kubek." I felt ten feet tall right then!
"WITH A SICKENING THUD IN THE BOTTOM OF MY STOMACH, I KNEW I'D BEEN HAD!"
CHAPTER XV
I'll tell you how it was and how it happened. I didn't believe it then, and I even find it hard to believe now, as I write this down.
By the time Nubbins got dressed (and I was feeling pretty domestic, if you want to know the truth), Blackie had come back and was impatiently tootling the multi-voiced horn of the big Caddy.
We got in rather quietly, and drove on out Sunset Boulevard to Hacienda Place where we made a left and ran all the way down the hill to Santa Monica. I had a feeling that we were heading in the direction of one of my favorite places in the whole world, Barney's Beanery, but until we actually pulled into the parking lot beside Stan's liquor store, I wasn't sure.
I was sure when we walked in, though, and Barney himself raised an inquiring eyebrow.
I'll tell you about Barney.
His real name is John Anthony. He has a heart as big as Mount Rushmore. No actor, writer, agent or producer down on his luck ever has to go hungry or thirsty as long as Barney's in business, and he's been in business for some thirty-odd years.
Checks come in daily from such illogical places as Rome, Munich, Paris, London, and a whole lot of in-between stops you've never even heard of.
Only thing is, you've got be a working actor, director, writer or producer. Phonies he spots immediately.
Out of work he can understand, and does. A guy who talks big but doesn't and won't produce anything in the creative field he also understands. A talker gets nothing, not even a courteous "hello."
So much for Barney. I mention him only because he is a man you can trust. When Nubbins led the way into Barney's, I almost flipped.
The three of us grabbed a booth at the back of the joint, back among the travel posters that plastered the wall, along with signs reading "Fagots Stay Out" (don't yell at me, that's the way he spelled it. And he insists that it's correct) and "Nothing Served at the Bar but: Tacos Enchiladas Chicken a la Carre".
I felt better because, in a sense, I was at home. Kathy came over and took our orders for a drink. That was all right with me.
I wanted a drink. I also wanted some information. All of a sudden I wasn't so sure about a number of things. Stupid as I am, I started to have some major misgivings.
There was a false note. Somewhere.
I looked first at Nubbins. Hell of a girl. Then I looked at Blackie. Nice guy. Four-square, clean-cut, all that jazz.
How come, I asked myself, how come they were right on hand early in the morning? Right on cue, like? That was a good question.
I sipped slowly at the bourbon and branch that Kathy served me. Blackie was staring off into space. Respectfully, I thought. Nubbins was gazing into her highball with thoughtful eyes.
At this point, to tell you the truth, I didn't like Blackie very much. In fact I liked him not at all. It seemed to me that he was waiting to pick on Nubbins. How do I mean that? Well, like a dog waiting to growl at someone. If only the someone will come along, you know?
That's how Blackie looked to me, and I resented it.
Nubbins looked funny to me, too.
She was thinking. I really don't like people that have to think before they act. It's some kind of a fetish, I guess, but such people I don't trust. Why do you have to go through a big soul-searching bit, for God's sake, before you do something like going to the head, or buying a pack of cigarettes? Or making a lousy telephone call?
Which she was on the verge of doing.
Ever see a guy on a high board, ready to dive, but posing, showing his narrow-waisted silhouette against the sky?
Me, I yell "Jump, you bastard!" to such people.
And I felt like yelling at Nubbins. Sweet, lovely and loving Nubbins.
Tote that barge.
Lift that bale.
Make that Goddamned telephone call!
She got up, fishing in her purse for a coin. I heaved a sigh of relief. She was finally going to call dear old dad. Dear old dad, the well-known heroin-smuggler.
She did, apparently. I say "apparently," because she pulled something that only a regular frequenter of the Beanery would have known about. She dropped her dime in the phone, dialed her number, then took the long extension cord outdoors onto the cement porch of the joint. And let the swinging doors close on her. I
This is not a big thing, really, but I picked up on something right away. She'd been here before. She knew the action, you see?
Blackie looked at me, significantly. He nodded. So did I. Rapport, dig?
like, gangbusters. We were going to crack this thing wide open. Clean-living cowhands.
So we sat there, like a couple of stinking idiots and ordered another drink.
It was maybe five minutes later that I happened to think that this was a hell of a long-winded telephone call, considering everything, and stuck my head out the door.
The telephone instrument was dangling over the edge of the iron rail. Nubbins was nowhere in sight. And, with a sickening thud in the bottom of my stomach, I knew I'd been had
I wasn't sure by whom, but I had my guesses.
I came back into the bar, finished my second unnecessary drink, then told Blackie what I'd seen. Hadn't seen, rather.
"Let's get after it," he said, standing up quickly. "They gotta be in the neighborhood. I'll take the street to the left, going out the door. You take the street to the right."
"And if we don't ... " I was following him out.
"Look, we'll go up the hill. We'll meet on Fountain. I believe we can hear a whistle. If you spot 'em, or if I spot 'em, we'll whistle. Hell, I think either of us can cut across back lots easy enough."
I thought so too.
He went one way, I raced the other. I looked over my shoulder, saw him turn the corner and disappear.
Then I got half-smart. I reversed my field and trotted to the corner he'd taken. I was supposed to be a block away.
Blackie was turning into an apartment building as I stuck my nose around the corner.
An apartment building he wasn't really supposed to know anything about if he'd been leveling.
Which he obviously hadn't been doing.
Who the hell was telling the truth? Outside of me?
Things were falling apart for me.
My best friend, gut-shot and hospitalized.
My girl, Nubbins what? I didn't know. I knew there was an area of doubt here.
Then some of the other pieces started to fall into place.
How come I'd got my job with no references at all? How come I'd practically been made foreman, at the outset?
That was a little ridiculous. Vanity had kept me from seeing this flaw in the structure before.
I let Blackie enter the front door of the building, then I raced up the street to see exactly where in the building he'd gone.
I was too late.
Put it like this: there had to be about twenty apartments. It was a typical California scatter. Courtyard style, with a swimming pool. And those awful phony leaning palms, and lush tropical plants. Split-leaf Philodendrons about twelve feet tall that look like they're going to strike out at you as you pass them.
But no Blackie. And no Nubbins!
I looked at the names on the mailboxes.
Forget it!
There was one blank space on the brass mailboxes. I played a hunch. It had to be right. Number Twelve!
I tiptoed up, and remember I was still wearing my .45. There were muted voices inside. They sounded familiar. I didn't even bother to try the lock. I shot it off. be very still."
"The doctor?" I asked feebly. "Tamiko, did you call a doctor?"
"Yes, but don't worry. He won't say anything. All the girls use him for their boy friends-after fights."
I touched my head. There was a professional bandage covering the whole top of my skull. The head felt as though an infantry division had marched over it in double time. And, God, was I weak! Tami brought me juice and had to hold me up so I could drink it.
"What rime is it?"
"It's four o'clock. You came at two this morning, so you've been asleep a long time, but that's good for you."
Everything that happened started coming back to me. I tried to go over it step by step in spite of the pounding in my temples.
"Will you tell me what happened, Abe-san?"
She deserved to know, especially since I'd been so rude to her. I apologized for that and outlined the story for her. When I was through, I asked her to help me find Hilda. She said yes.
I was thinking thickly, but one idea emerged: the best way to find Hilda was through Michiko. That's what I told Tami. Also, Tami would have a far better chance of finding information about Michiko's present whereabouts than I ever could. I gave her the address of the house Michiko and I had and added that there might be other addresses. Tami dressed and fixed me up with more juice and cigarettes before she went out. I went to sleep almost at once.
Tami returned at two in the morning. I realized that I'd lifted my head and raised myself when the door opened. My strength was coming back. I still had a headache, but even that had subsided.
"What did you find out, Tami?" She came and sat on the bed.
"I went to the house you mentioned and that is empty. Then I talked with all of the girls at the Rosebud and found out two more places to look. But I haven't been there yet."
"Time is running low, Tami. Don't argue with me now, but help me stand up." She hesitated, but then put my arm over her shoulder as I got out of the bed. I made it, although it was touch and go for a minute. Finally, I was able to stand by myself and move a little. I thought I'd be okay.
"Tami, where are my clothes?"
"Oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, Abe-san, I'm so sorry. There was blood all over everything so I put them in cold water to soak. I haven't taken them out of the pan yet."
Sweet Jesus! What next? "Is there anything around here I could wear?" I asked.
"I have a man's kimono." She saw my face. "But many men wear them all the time in the street"
All I could do was nod my head. She brought the kimono and helped me on with it Thank God it was big enough. Probably it had been bought for an old GI boy friend. She gave me a pair of zori to complete the outfit, and we left with me leaning on her. I sent her down the street to find a cab. I wondered right then how females could stand to wear dresses. It was a warm night, but a slight breeze blowing under the kimono was already freezing my thighs and legs. Air Force skivies didn't help matters, either.
She found a cab, and we headed for the more-likely of the two addresses we had for Michiko. It was a bungalow similar to the one in which I'd lived. I had the taxi drive by and park a half block beyond. The house was dark, but we let ourselves in through the gate and went to the door. I tried it. Locked. I sent Tami around back. She was back in a moment.
"Abe-san," she whispered, "it's open and something is wrong here. I could see a little way into the house, and
Nubbins.
That kind of gave me a kick in the crotch. Nubbins.
I'd damned near gone off the deep end over her. The sweet little thing.
Turned out she'd headed a regular ring of narcotics dealers. Shows you. Oh, she didn't have a habit. No chance; there wasn't any profit in that kind of kick.
Ed? Well he was no better nor any worse than anybody. Not in my book, although the law said otherwise. Ed had his ranch. His ranch didn't make money. Nubbins, who wasn't his real daughter, but his step-daughter, if you want to draw a fine line, caught on to things in a hurry. She started hustling marijuana.
Poor.
It wasn't very hard to come by, and easy to sell at a profit. Yes, Nubbins.
Then the syndicate, in the form of Blackie, moved in.
Hard stuff, Heroin. Morphine. Cocaine.
Now, I ask you another question. Why Ed? He was a nice guy. All right, I'll tell you. Pride.
Think about that for a minute. He couldn't admit to anyone, least of all himself, that he was a proud man, bur that's why and how it all happened.
Nubbins was the result of an unfortunate marriage, but she had him pretty well convinced that she was only looking after his interests. Sure she was.
And then I got some more information from these more not less informal visits from the T-Men.
Rita worked for the government. She'd been at it for a couple of years.
She'd had the thing almost wrapped up. The package she'd given me was stuff she'd nailed for evidence. I wasn't happy about the way she'd treated me, but she was just trying to still any misgivings I might have had, and I suppose she was entitled.
My dummy package had screwed up the whole routine for all hands. The real package, the one that had been recovered from under the hooves of the plunging, maniacal horse, had been nailed by Blackie.
Ironically, I'd accompanied the damned thing all the way to Los Angeles.
Nice, huh?
I'll cut it short.
There was a trial
Hell, there were a whole series of trials. I got free.
Blackie pulled ten to twenty years.
Nubbins got the gas chamber.
She had killed the guy I was supposed to have killed Me or the Kid.
Rira visited me, and smiled on me. "You you really do like garter belts, don't you, Bud?" she asked.
It was a completely unnecessary question and she knew it was. I smiled just the same.
That's the last I ever saw of her.
And here comes the funny part.
Ed pulled the same ten-to-twenty bit in the Big House. But he deeded the ranch over to me. Of all people. So Ed, who'll be out in a couple months, is a hell of a guy in my book. like I said, it was false pride on his part. The ranch? Boy, I tell you! I tell you!
Thanks to Doris, I've got the whole entire chorus staying there.