“Not too nervous, are you?” The warmth of his breath set my skin ablaze as his fingers massaged their way down my spine.
I told myself I should stop him—but my body had thoughts of its own. My muscles relaxed with his touch. Not only did the man look good but he gave a hell of a back rub. A slight moan escaped my lips, and embarrassment shot through me. But Brian didn’t say a word as his hands continued to light tiny brushfires under my skin. Just as I felt sure I would melt into a puddle, he had the good sense to stop.
“There. That’s the first part of the evening. Let’s move onto the second.”
What concerned me was what he had planned for the third.
Strains of country western music led the way through the front door into the Eureka Hotel. Once inside, it was as if we had been transported back in time. The hallway was covered from floor to ceiling in elegant red and black wallpaper, whispering intimations of a naughty Victorian brothel. Period furniture added just the right touch.
But it was the smoke-filled bar that recreated the wonders of the old West in glorious Technicolor. Raucous cowboys slugged down beers, laughing and cheering, as five-dollar bills flashed in the air. I stepped inside, curious to see what all the commotion was about. I pushed past startled cowboys too polite to put me in my place until I landed in front of the bar. A live rattlesnake lay coiled inside a large pickle jar. I watched as one cowpoke after another placed a hand on the outside of the container, while the other held a five-dollar bill high in the air.
“Keep your eyes open!” was the chant as the next man came up to bat. The challenge was for each contestant to keep his hand against the glass without flinching, as the snake lashed out in fury, striking against the jar. Cowboy after cowboy pulled back or blinked each time the snake struck, its fangs bared in frustration. A nearby jar filled with five dollar bills affirmed the fact that the snake was the winner.
“That’s some sport they’ve got there,” I commented to Brian. He had edged in behind me as yet another cowboy bit the dust. “Is this what’s considered a good time around here?”
One half-soused cowboy turned to eyeball me. A snake-skin belt with a silver buckle the size of a baseball held up jeans that rested on his hips, leaving breathing room for a stomach that hung like a tired old hound dog. Glancing down, I saw that his boots were made of snakeskin as well.
Hitching his thumbs inside his belt, he moved in close, his beer-breath smack in my face. “You got a problem with this, little lady? What are you? Some kind of animal rights nut?”
After three months in Nevada, I was beginning to tire of the macho cowboy routine. Staring him straight in the eye, I matched him inch for inch, proving I wasn’t so little. “What I am is a federal Fish and Wildlife agent. Have you got a problem with that?”
The cowboy spat on the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Bullshit. You don’t look like no federal agent to me. You look like some pussy city slicker come out to poke fun at us locals.” He bristled. “You think you’re so smart, you stick your damn hand out there. Put your money where your mouth is, girl.”
Brian quickly put an arm around my shoulders in an attempt to steer me away. “She didn’t mean anything by it. No harm done. We’ll be on our way.”
But my cowboy was itching for a fight. “What’s the matter, little lady? You gone and got scared? Not so easy now, is it? Maybe you ought to apologize to all of us here. Or you need your boyfriend there to fight your battles for you?”
An older, broken-down cowpoke sneered, “You better do like he says. Otherwise he might end up sticking you in a jar for us to play with.” He looked around the crowd and flashed a five-dollar bill in the air. “Who’d bet five bucks to see if this lady here would play like a snake and bite?”
A whoop of laughter broke out as Brian pulled on my shoulder, but I refused to budge. I’d had it with cowboy humor.
“What’s the deal?” I asked the first cowpoke.
Leering at me, he flashed a lopsided grin in need of some serious dental work. “We’ve got a live one here, boys! Place your bets now.”
“I asked, what do I get out of this contest, Roy Rogers?” I persisted.
He fixed me in his sights before edging up against me in a game of Mine’s bigger than yours. “You get to walk out of here alive.”
Brian immediately swooped in as my gallant knight on an errant mission. “Back off, buddy. If she’s crazy enough to go through with this, let’s just do it and get it over with.” I turned and shot Sir Galahad a look to kill. “Thanks for the support, but I can handle this on my own.”
Brian threw up his hands in defeat as the crowd roared. They loudly began placing their bets, most of them running against me. I turned back to my Marlboro man and waited for an answer.
He shook his head and chuckled. “I just love easy money.” A dribble of tobacco juice crept out of the corner of his mouth. “The deal is, you stare the snake in the eye, and if you don’t move your hand or flinch when he strikes, you win the pot of gold. But take a good look there, gal. You see all those five-dollar bills? What does that tell you?” He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Let me clue you in. The snake wins all the time.”
He reached into his pocket and slapped his own five-dollar bet on the bar. “And if you lose, you buy us all a round and admit you’re a pussy city slicker.”
“Is that what everyone does that loses?” I inquired.
“We’re making a special exception in your case, little missy.” He grinned at me again and winked, spurring on my urge to knock out his few remaining teeth.
“Then I have a rule of my own,” I informed him. “If I win, you set the snake free.”
Mr. Marlboro looked me over once more, more closely this time. “You’re right. You are crazy enough to be a goddamn fed agent.”
The crowd of cowboys erupted in laughter again. Then a rotund cowpoke with a body like a beach ball rolled his way to the front, his tummy jiggling as he held in a chuckle.
“What the hell, Sharkey. You afraid she’s gonna win? Let her have the damn snake,” he said magnanimously.
Sharkey pushed him roughly aside and turned back to me. “You got a deal. Now stop stalling and let’s play.”
I glanced at the snake, its coils already rattling, its tongue flicking toward me in eager anticipation. Evidently I looked like an easy mark to her, too. Somehow I knew the snake was a female, probably as tired of dealing with cowboys and their macho games as me. I edged over to the jar for a closer look, and realized the snake was much larger than I had originally thought. She stared back at me with unblinking, glassy eyes, conveying one pure and simple message: Sucker.
I heard the snickers building behind me and was aware that Brian was in the crowd, biding his time, while he waited for me to lose. A sea of faces gathered around the jar, intent on catching me blink.
I shut out the motley throng and concentrated. When worse comes to worst, I tend to fall back on my acting skills, meager as they might be.
It’s a role, Rachel. Nothing more. If you pull this one off, you win the Oscar.
I focused on the jar, its sides slathered in spent venom. The snake was already agitated, its body squeezed inside a bottle that had long ago grown too tight. It dawned on me that she was kept there for more than just the amusement of a bunch of drunken cowboys. These rough and tough men were fighting hard to contain their fear of the unknown, of one more critter that couldn’t be broken, no matter how hard they tried.
I gazed at the snake and a shudder ran through me. We were both scared. That’s when I felt walls of my own close around me like a tomb.
It’s a role. It’s a role.
I repeated my mantra as I slowly reached toward the glass, locking eyes with the snake. I could pull this off. I had stared down worse threats in the subways of New York.
It’s a role. Snakes are the one thing you’re not afraid of.
Time stood still as the snake regally drew itself up to its f
ull height. And then suddenly it was as if I had been sucked inside that same bottle, where I gazed out on the drunken crowd filled with blood lust and fear. The overwhelming silence of being in that vacuum had a calming effect on my nerves. The noise of the mob was muffled, the venom-splattered jar creating a stained-glass mosaic of jeering faces mouthing words I couldn’t hear. The only sound was the hiss of the snake’s tongue, flickering in and out in mesmerizing rhythm.
The flesh of my hand hovered closer and closer until it covered the side of the jar. I became perfectly still, caught in a web of morbid fascination. I watched as the snake pulled back, as though in a dream, and everything came to a stop. Except for the reptile, whose movements were crystal-clear. My chest rose and fell with the weight of my breath, and I felt the blood course through my veins. I froze as the snake’s jaw unhinged, opening wide, its body sensuously swaying. Then, in a slow-motion dance of death, the reptile surged forward, its fangs bared, aching to plunge into warm, human flesh. I held my breath and waited, feeling the dull impact as the snake hit the glass and bounced off.
Freshly spent venom oozed inside the jar, mocking the reptile’s infuriating impotence. A sour taste of bile rose up from my stomach, lodging in my throat. It was almost as if I had made the strike myself and missed. Sweat rolled down my face to my neck and settled between my breasts as I came back out of the bottle and took a deep breath. It was over. I was shaking, but I had won.
My victory was met by dead silence. Then the few cowboys crazy enough to have played the odds by betting on me whooped it up, demanding payment from the crowd. Brian’s arm slipped around my shoulder.
“What else do you do for fun, and does it require protective gear?” he asked suggestively, leaning in toward me.
But my gaze was locked on my Marlboro man as he turned and motioned to the jar holding the snake.
“Here. Don’t you want it now?” he asked belligerently.
I leaned casually against the bar, afraid that my legs might buckle beneath me. Somebody passed me a beer and I took a long drink, quenching my fear.
I looked Sharkey square in the eye. “The deal was that you set the snake free. After that, there’s a round for everyone on me.”
Sharkey gave me a look that his momma would have slapped him for.
“What’s the matter, Sharkey? Afraid to pick up the jar?” a voice called out from the crowd.
“Hey, maybe he can pay the little lady to do it for him,” someone else teased.
Sharkey growled at the bunch of raucous cowboys. Then, stepping forward, he placed one hand on the lid, carefully sliding the jar off the bar until the glass bottom nestled in his palm.
“Clear the way, goddammit!” he yelled. Pushing through the crowd, he headed for the door.
Once outside, he set the jar on the ground and stepped back. I noticed that his hands were shaking.
“That’s great. But now you’ve got to open the top, Sharkey. Otherwise, the snake can’t get out,” I observed.
I saw Brian walk over to the Jeep and wondered if he had decided to leave me here. Instead, he came back with a pair of heavy work gloves.
“Give the guy a break, Rachel,” he said, a chuckle escaping him.
Sharkey took the offered gloves, glaring at me the whole time. “What’s your name?”
If Brian hadn’t been watching, I would have been tempted to give him a fake one. I didn’t need one more angry cowboy on my trail.
“Rachel Porter,” I said.
“I’ll remember that,” he snapped.
Sharkey walked over to the jar and twisted off the top. Then, jumping back, he tipped it over with the toe of his boot. The snake lay perfectly still inside the glass, as if suspicious of yet another prank. Then, slowly slithering out onto the warm desert floor, she looked around at us. The coils on her tail rattled one final warning, and the snake disappeared into the black depths of the Nevada night.
I went back inside and claimed my own jar filled to the brim with five-dollar bills as a few happy cowboys congratulated me.
“Why do I feel you’re more relaxed now?” The tips of Brian’s fingers lightly touched my back as we crossed into the dining room and were led to a table. “Am I going to always have to get you so charged up just to calm you down?”
The sexual innuendo wasn’t lost; I just chose not to reply. But he was right. I felt perfectly relaxed after winning the showdown. The adrenaline rush was addictive.
A small stage had been set up in the corner of the dining room, where a cowboy in a ten-gallon hat and fancy snake-skin boots plucked on a guitar, singing a forlorn tune. The melancholy melody pierced the air, the music spilling out of a jagged hole in his heart.
I had another beer while we waited for dinner and studied the man across from me. Everything about him came in a large, neat package. Too neat. It made me nervous. He was good-looking, intelligent, and employed, to boot. Why was he alone? It didn’t add up.
“I’m beginning to think I didn’t need to get you that dog after all,” Brian lightly remarked. “I get the feeling you like taking care of yourself.”
He was wrong about that. It was just that I was afraid of depending on anyone else—especially when it came to men. More than once, I had left myself wide open only to be let down. Even now, I was still confused about Santou.
“What about you?” I asked. “I don’t see you settling down.”
Brian took a sip of his scotch. “I want to; I just haven’t had the chance. My job keeps me pretty occupied. Speaking of which, I hear you’ve been busy, too. Word has it you’re riling up cowboys outside of bar rooms as well as in.”
Word traveled fast. “What can I say? Harley and his friends have no sense of humor. Not to mention a complete lack of sanity,” I replied.
Brian played with the ice in his glass. “You’ve got to understand where they’re coming from. They’ve had rights to this land for generations. They don’t like it when an outsider threatens to curtail what they do on property they think of as theirs.”
“But it’s not theirs, Brian,” I corrected him. “That’s just the point. They’re renting federal land for close to nothing. That means there are rules they have to abide by.”
Brian gave a slow smile. “I’m afraid not everyone agrees with you on that.”
“So I’ve discovered—Ed Garrett, for one. Remind me not to vote for him in the next election.”
“He’s got a large constituency who back him, Rachel. I’d be careful there,” Brian warned. “Ranchers, developers, and mining companies give him their whole-hearted support. And I agree that more federal land needs to be released for private use.” His eyes lit up, warming to the topic. ‘‘There’s still one hundred million ounces of gold buried beneath this state, just waiting to be dug up. All that’s holding it up is government red tape.”
“It’s that red tape that protects every bit of land from being destroyed,” I reminded him.
Brian was quiet for a moment. “You don’t like mining companies much, do you Rachel?”
I liked them about as much as I liked wildlife dying from all the pollution mines create. Brian must have read my mind.
“You know, mines have cleaned up their act from just a few years ago. There was no law that netting had to cover tailings ponds when I first got into this business.” Brian took a sip of his scotch. “In fact, my first week on the job, I learned that a doe was stuck in one of them. She’d gone down to get a drink of water and then couldn’t get out. It wasn’t the toxicity in the pond that was killing her but getting caught in the thick plastic liner. She’d been struggling for two days and nobody would help her out. By the time I found her, the doe was alive and alert, but both hind legs were destroyed. I had no choice but to shoot the critter.
“Afterward, I asked some of the workers why they hadn’t stopped and gotten her out. Seems they were placing bets to see how long it would take before the coyotes reached her.”
He looked back at me. “That was the attitude back the
n. That’s changed now, Rachel. Rules and regulations are in place to stop that sort of thing. Sure, business goes on as usual. But we’ve learned to be much more careful.”
I could have tossed a coin as to whether it was the melancholy music or Brian’s tale that made my eyes mist over. If he had wanted to get to me, he’d hit the right spot. I found it hard to believe that this was the same man who was hiding contraband in his freezer.
“Harley claims a handful of environmentalists are dumping desert tortoises on ranchers’ land. Do you agree with him on that?” I asked, secretly hoping he’d give the right answer.
Brian’s eyes narrowed and the corners of his movie star mouth pulled down. “You’re talking about those kooks in the ark, aren’t you? Take a word of advice: stay away from them, Rachel. Especially that nut, Noah Gorfine. The man is certifiable and capable of anything.”
“Why? Because he defied DOE on where and how to dump nuclear waste?”
Brian looked at me in surprise. “You have been digging around. Don’t dig too deep, Rachel, or you’re bound to land in trouble, wolf dog or no wolf dog. You’re sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
I’d obviously struck a nerve. Brian downed his drink and ordered a second scotch. A double, this time. I decided to steer him back onto the subject of mining.
“If there’s still so much gold out there, why isn’t your company buying up claims from small miners in the area?” I questioned.
Brian homed in on where I was headed. “You’re asking about Annie McCarthy, aren’t you?” I nodded my head. “I don’t believe her claims are of any value where gold is concerned. But I told you that before,” he reminded me. The waiter brought Brian’s drink along with our meals.
“That’s it. Enough business for tonight,” Brian declared, his mouth softening into a smile. “Let’s talk about you, princess.” He plucked a rose out of the Coke-bottle vase sitting on the table and gallantly offered it to me. “Are you involved with anyone I should know about?”
It was the million-dollar question I’d dreaded, since I didn’t seem to know the answer to that anymore.
Tortoise Soup (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 14