by Baxter Black
Ponce walked to the bed. She slid her feet onto the floor and stood up awkwardly, scraping the handcuffs on the metal headboard. She could sense the muscular power beneath his suit. He reached out a big hand and hooked his right index finger under her chin. She winced. He firmly pulled her head to face him.
“So, you are ze little flower zat is causing me so much trouble.” His voice was low and modulated, with a French accent. Of course, he always spoke Frenchly in the Napoleon Room.
“I hope I can convince you of ze error of your ways, but first I must apologize for our wretched hospitality. We do not treat even our animals like zis. But your husband, he is not skilled in ze social graces. Allow me to arrange to make you more comfortable so zat we may have a more civilized conversation. I will call for you at five.”
He turned to Pike. “I will be sending a maidservant to assist Madame Pantaker with her toilet. Please extend her the courtesy of some privacy. However”—he looked back at T.A. and smiled his crooked, snarling smile—“I will still hold you personally responsible for her, shall I say”—he inhaled through his nostrils for effect— “security.”
Within fifteen minutes Chi Chi Leblanc, Ponce’s wardrobe designer, seamstress, fashion counselor, and French-accent coach, was in the Napoleon Room to help Teddie.
She had come prepared.
49
DECEMBER 12: LICK AND CODY GO TO PONCE PARK
“This would’ve sure been easier in the daylight,” said Cody, peering through the windshield down the two-lane road. “What time is it?”
“Quarter to six,” said Lick. “How much farther is it?”
Cody looked down at the odometer. “Another fourteen miles to the turnoff,” he said.
“You don’t think Allura gave us bad directions, do you?” asked Lick.
“For two thousand dollars in chips, I don’t think so,” said Cody.
Out of the black night two headlights suddenly pointed at them from less than a hundred yards away.
“Quick,” said Lick, “pop the hood! I’ll duck in the brush.” He scurried out of the car while Cody stood in front of the pickup, hand on the grille. He was frowning in feigned concentration when the vehicle slowed and stopped beside him. It was a limousine.
The driver powered down the window and leaned over. “You okay?”
“Not sure,” said Cody.
“Are you headed to the party?” asked the limo driver.
“Uh, yeah. This the right road?”
“Yes. But it doesn’t get paved until you reach the main gate, which is another eight miles. I can’t pick up riders, sorry, but I expect there’ll be others coming back and forth tonight.”
“I’m supposed to wrangle some horses tomorrow, but I don’t know exactly what’s goin’ on.”
“It’s kind of hush-hush,” said the driver, “but they’ve got a group of VIPs going on a wild-game hunt.”
“You mean celebrity types?” asked Cody.
“Not your run-of-the-mill celebrities. These are the stinking-rich types. The kind that you don’t see their pictures in the paper. Only on the Forbes Zillionaire 500. I’m making another run back to the casino to pick up a lady rock star. You’ll see others coming by here in limos. Plus, lots of kitchen help, locals. And, I can tell you, the security’s pretty tight. Hope you’ve got your name on the master list or you won’t get past the first gate. Good luck to ya, buddy. I’ve got to go.”
“Thanks,” said Cody, “we’ll see you down the road, I guess.” The limo drove off.
They topped a ridge and suddenly a little valley spread out before them. A mile away they could see two or three cars stopped along the road, and another mile beyond was a cluster of lights.
Cody killed the engine. “That must be the main gate. Probably got a checkpoint, guards and all,” he said.
They sat in silence for a minute, then Lick spoke. “You got any bright ideas?”
“How important is this?” Cody asked in a neutral tone.
“Well,” said Lick, “I’ve been layin’ under the wagon scratchin’ fleas and lettin’ life pass me by. And I’m thinkin’ even if I don’t love her, or care about savin’ endangered species, or want to rid the world of the evil twins F. Rank and Ponce, or . . . give a rat’s patoot where this chapter ends and my next one begins, I am ready to do somethin’ . . . and there is nobody that I’d rather do it with than my ol’ pardner. So I say, let’s crash the party.”
“Do you have a plan?” asked Cody.
“I will, compadre. By the time we get there, I will!”
50
DECEMBER 12: THE LIMOUSINE
The limousine driver had never heard of Anakra Nizm, the intensely private Wall Street warlock with considerable influence on the Federal Reserve Board and president, chief stockholder, and beneficiary of more banks than the James Gang. An international financier, counselor to anybody who could pay the commission, and a private collector of art, artifacts, and rare specimens.
The limo driver knew only that the man in the backseat looked like a model for menswear. In his sixties, with wavy gray hair, blue eyes, and a stern expression, the financier radiated confidence. He was accompanied by a stenographer/niece/daughter/trophy wife/ rental/anybody’s guess, and by an officious right-hand man sporting a briefcase and a nervous smile.
The limo’s headlights shone on a large dually pickup in the middle of the dirt road. The driver hit the brakes. The assistant lowered the partition separating the driver from the passengers.
“Why are we stopping? What’s that in the road?” the assistant asked the driver.
“I can’t tell, sir. There are two men standing in front of the vehicle and it’s blocking the road.”
“Better see what it’s all about,” ordered the assistant, glancing at Mr. Nizm to confirm he’d made the right decision.
“Just make it quick,” said Nizm. The man in the down jacket and cowboy hat approached the limo. The second man stayed by the pickup, legs spread, hat pulled down, holding a rifle in the parade rest position.
The driver rolled down his window. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
Cody stuck his head inside and peered into the backseat, where two figures sat in the dark. “Sir, we are undercover for the FBI,” he said to the driver. “We have reason to believe that a mass felony, the destroying of endangered species, a violation of the Endangered Species Act and punishable by fines of a hundred thousand dollars and fifteen to twenty years in the penitentiary, is going to be committed tomorrow morning. We also believe that, in addition to the perpetrators, conspirators have been invited to participate in the crime. Now, allow me to speak to the persons you are transporting. Roll down the back window, please.”
Before the driver could respond, the rear window buzzed down. Cody could feel the warmth from the heater in his face as he leaned in.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “We will appreciate your cooperation. I will need your invitation, code, or whatever information is required to get through security. Also some means of identification—a business card will be fine.
“It’s obvious you aren’t going to the party to bus tables. My proposition to you is simple. You leave me the clothes you’re wearing. You will take my vehicle, return to town, go directly to the airport, and depart on the next flight. Your identity will remain unknown, at least in my written records, and you will be saved enormous embarrassment, not to mention probable jail time. I expect you to say nothing of this to anyone if you wish to remain uninvolved.
“Do not return to the hotel. If you never hear of this again, count your blessings and thank your lucky stars it was you we stopped instead of the next limo. Is this perfectly clear?”
Anakra Nizm studied this imbecile. Obviously not an FBI man, but whoever this cowboy was, he did know about the hunt and he was certainly right about the publicity. Nizm abhorred publicity. He paid a private PR expert a six-figure salary to keep his name out of the papers, his photo off the society pages—or any pages
—and his whereabouts and background unknown.
The other thing that gave Mr. Nizm pause was that though he himself was a master of deceit, he practiced his skills on ambassadors, princes, politicians, and dictators. They were civilized. This fellow leaning in the window didn’t look like a fool; he looked like he fit right into this godforsaken Hell’s half section in the middle of nowhere. And that gave the cowboy an edge. Nizm thought of asking about a refund of his half-million-dollar down payment, but realized it was not the proper time to discuss it. Besides, he’d get it back. He had too many connections to allow these Las Vegas hustlers to scam him.
He made his decision. “Would you be kind enough to give me some clothing to wear to the airport?” he asked.
“I just happen to have some in the back of my vehicle,” said Cody, “and we are in a hurry.”
While the exchange was being made, Cody took the limo driver aside.
“You’re in on this, too. We can get you five to ten on aiding and abetting, and I can personally guarantee that your life will be in danger if you alert anyone outside of this vehicle about this exchange.” Cody appraised the limo driver’s uniform. “I’m going to need your shirt, coat, and tie immediately. Here’s five hundred dollars for your trouble.” The limo driver swallowed and began to unknot his neckwear.
As Lick emptied their stuff from the pickup into the limo, Cody looked down at the nervous driver. “If you’re worried about getting in trouble with your boss, I can guarantee you this hunt tomorrow will be a disaster and you’ll be thankin’ us from the bottom of that five-hundred-dollar bill. Now, get ’im to the airport, leave the truck in long-term parking, unlocked, with the key under the floor mat. I’m takin’ your ID so I can write you a thank-you note.”
Lick and Cody watched the truck turn around and head back toward Las Vegas. The assistant was hunched down in the pickup bed, shivering. Lick shook his head and gave Cody a big smile.
“By gosh,” he said, “you have flat become a first-class talker and confidence man! The FBI, I am impressed! I take it you’re gonna be the big game-hunter and I’m the driver.”
“Yup,” said Cody. “Might be somebody in there who knows you, and that would spoil our sneakin’ in. Sorry that the jacket and shirt are so big, but we only need to get through the checkpoint. This will get us in.” He handed Lick a gold coin the size of a silver dollar. It was minted with the Pharaoh’s Casino logo on one side and a picture of a panda on the other.
“Solid gold, I bet,” said Lick.
Whether it was solid or fool’s, it did the trick.
51
DECEMBER 12: PASS THE POI, PLEASE
It was close to six when Chi Chi, Valter, and Pike escorted Teddie Arizona to a large second-floor office and accompanying suite that adjoined the Big Cat House. A small room-service table was set up, with white linen, candles, and Limoges place settings. A bottle of a particularly exquisite Napa Valley reserve waited in the cooler.
“Wait here,” said Valter. “And remember, we’ll be guarding all the exits.” The trio filed out, closing the door behind them. Teddie walked to the window. Beneath her spread a vista of cages, outdoor animal-confinement areas, vast high-desert landscape, and the remnants of a weak sunset.
She saw something reflected in the glass and did a double take. For a moment she thought it was a reflection of a painting on the wall behind her, or a hologram that moved when she did. The reflection was of a beautiful woman. T.A. was stunned and actually raised her hand to her cheek for confirmation. She hardly recognized herself.
Chi Chi had been a showgirl herself and then a makeup artist for the showgirls. She knew how to make flowers bloom.
T.A.’s dramatic eye makeup would have made Cleopatra envious. Her thick streaked-blonde hair had been trimmed, layered, and styled into a shining mane. Small gold earrings shone on her lobes and a pearl choker glowed around her throat.
She was wearing a floor-length evening dress made of sheer ivory fabric held up by spaghetti straps. Delicate sequins decorated the deep-cut neckline. The elegant length was a compromise, Chi Chi had said, because although she’d wanted to show off T.A.’s shapely legs with a higher, more flattering hemline, alas, she thought it best to cover the ankle cuffs. They were actually horse hobbles that Pike had found in the tack room. Valter had insisted. Chi Chi sighed, and let T.A. wear her tube socks and cowboy boots under the concealing hem. “Stilettos and shackles don’t mix,” she said.
T.A. shuffled around the room, vaguely aware of being watched. She finally spotted the miniature security camera in the corner.
She heard the doorknob turn. Ponce de Crayon walked in alone. She could feel the electrical charges within the confined space realigning to make room for his presence. He now wore an ascot and a red velvet evening jacket with satin lapels.
When he opened his mouth to speak, a flat New England accent emerged; it was like listening to a tape of President Kennedy give his inaugural address. “Good evening,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but we’re having a reception for the hunters tonight and I’ve been overseeing the last-minute details.” He pulled one of the chairs back from the table. “Won’t you sit down?”
She sat awkwardly, hampered by the ankle cuffs and the flimsy, revealing neckline.
“You look lovely,” he said, admiring her. “Chi Chi does such a wonderful makeover.” He picked up the bottle. “A glass of Chardonnay?”
She gave him a cold stare.
“Very well, then, I will dispense with the pleasantries. I was hoping I could persuade you to forgo your desire to disrupt our wonderful weekend. And, of course, there is the issue of the money. What will it take for you to pull this thorn out of my paw, so to speak?”
T.A. looked at him levelly. “What I’m having trouble understanding is how you, a professed animal lover and trainer, could actually kill these endangered creatures. You were one of the bright spots of my life when I moved to Las Vegas. I envisioned you as a man of integrity. Your Wild Animal Refuge, your efforts to save endangered species . . . I actually looked up to you. When I began to understand your intentions, when I overheard F. Rank talking to you on the phone about killing them, I . . . It just drove me over the edge.”
“Ah, but you see, my dear”—his accent began to dive Down Under—“they are not really endangered, my little sheila. I raise them, I buy them, I keep them from becoming extinct. The wilderness is being paved! It is the legacy of our techno world. The people who make all the decisions live in cocoons. They spend their lives in front of a screen. They have no intention of going to India or Africa or China to see pandas, tigers, or white rhinos. Condors, spotted owls, snow leopards, even dinosaurs are saved on their computers forever, and that is enough for most people. They think Jurassic Park is real!
“Soon all the real wild animals will be raised in private parks like mine. It is capitalism. If you want to stop poachers, you don’t deal with them, you shoot them. You cannot reason with poachers. They are competition. If a Chinese potentate needs powdered rhino horn to keep his wife happy, he can come to one of the private suppliers, like myself. That is what most people don’t understand. I, and others like me, will be keeping the endangered species alive, but of course we expect to make a profit doing it. Not too much to ask, is it?” He smiled an innocent smile.
“Are you serious?” she asked incredulously.
“Deadly so,” he replied. Then, picking up the bottle, he asked again, “Wine?”
T.A. considered her options. Belligerence. Acquiescence. Duplicity. She had to assume that her only hope, Lick and Al, hadn’t gotten her message, or if they had, they had no way to find her. Even if they did find her, what could they do? Whatever was going to happen, she was going to have to do it on her own.
She still was the only one in the world who knew where the money was, but would they be able to force her to tell them? Deep inside, she was afraid they would. Yet she was pig-headed enough to think that she could still find a way out of this, save
the animals, and reclaim herself. She’d done a lot of things she wasn’t proud of for money. Maybe she was capable of doing some unsavory things for the greater good. She decided to play along with Ponce’s flirtation.
“Maybe just a little, please,” she replied, extending her glass.
Ponce poured. “I have an excellent selection,” he said. “Actually, three cellars. I pride myself on surrounding myself with only the best. I’m sure you will agree with me, it takes a certain kind of person to appreciate the finer things in life.
“I suspect you have gained a taste for the good life. F. Rank needs someone with your sophistication to guide him in his search for quality. That is why I think you and I are much alike.”
He sipped his wine. She was expressionless.
“Regardless,” he continued, “someone with your compassion for the endangered species could be very valuable within my organization. Once you grasped that the endangered-species harvest is essential for raising money to preserve them, you could help legiti— uh, promote my operation. It could be a lucrative arrangement for you. Provided, of course, that you turn over the money.
“It’s not the money,” he explained. “It’s the principle. You can see how this makes me look in front of my employees and business associates. Surely you can understand?”
He waited for her to respond. “Well?” he said pleasantly.
The half glass of wine she’d drunk had begun to stir small bubbles of indigestion. She winced slightly as rising acid flooded the back of her throat.
“Well?” he asked again.
She waited a few seconds, then said, “I’m thinking.”
“I’ve ordered some poo-poos,”said Ponce, switching to a Hawaiian accent. “Ees good, brudder. Ah, here dey ah.”