Tom made the introductions. “You all remember John Galloway? Jungle Johnny?” We shook hands all around.
“Call me JJ,” he said. “Takes less time.”
He eased himself into a chair and helped himself to a huge piece of pie. “Love working with you, Tom. You spare no expense,” he said.
“We don’t normally eat like this,” Tom replied, “but Grisha has to look every inch the Russian mafioso, and they like big, heavy meals. I like my details perfect.” He turned to JJ. “And I want you in civilian clothes tomorrow.”
JJ poured himself a glass of Frangelico, took a sip, and sighed loudly. “Ahhh! The devil is in the details.” Then he leaned conspiratorially forward. “Now, let’s get to work. Talk about details, we’ve got to get everything just right.” He sat back and gave us a solemn look. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’re up to it because tomorrow we’re turning into Russians!”
Chapter 42
NOT REALLY RUSSIANS, MORE LIKE RUSSIAN ACCOMPLICES, but it was as though a switch had been thrown. Suddenly my heart felt alive. Suddenly something inside of me awakened, something I hadn’t felt in months. I pulled my chair closer to the table. I was almost quivering with anticipation. Tom led off.
“Later on today Grisha and Neelie will meet Lance Imperialle of the Circle D Ranch,” he said. “Neelie, you will not look like or act like a horse person or animal bleeding heart or anything of that nature, or they will detect your cover a mile away. You are merely Grisha’s arm candy.”
I looked over at Diamond. Her brilliant red hair was pulled up into a tangled bun, and her green eyes were bright with excitement. Jungle Johnny couldn’t take his eyes off her, and I wondered why she couldn’t see his enthrallment. My thoughts were interrupted when Tom threw a set of maps on the table.
“The ranch is about three thousand acres,” he began. “Diamond knows how to navigate quickly and easily over new territory, so we’ll use her when we are actually getting the elephants out of there. Neelie’s job is to see if there really are elephants, where they are kept, what kind of security system they have, and how the animals are maneuvered for the hunt. She’ll be documenting everything.”
JJ whistled. “That’s a tall order,” he said. Which was just what I was anxiously thinking.
“Neelie’s smart, she’ll be able to do it,” Tom replied confidently, and I shot him a nervous but grateful smile. “They don’t allow anybody on the place to just poke around,” he continued, “and Grisha will be busy in the office.”
“Grisha is making contract with Mr. Lance first things after lunch,” Grisha added, alternately smoking and plowing through his dessert. He licked his plate but not before declaring, “American dessert too sweet. You should try good Russian vareniki. Not tasty at all.”
“So I go with Grisha,” I repeated. “How do I document what I see?”
“We’ll give you a camera. Try to get some pictures—see what they have. Wander around as much as you can. Even if the elephant isn’t Tusker, we’re going to take it anyway. A friend of mine thought they might have an old circus elephant that they’re planning to shoot. These old animals become big inconveniences when they’re done performing. I guess they’ve found a lucrative way to get rid of them. Try to get a feel of the place while Grisha signs the contracts for the hunt.” I gave an involuntary shudder.
Grisha finished his dessert and lit a cigarette. Both Jungle Johnny and Diamond dug into their rucksacks and pulled out cheroots in a simultaneous choreography, then looked at each other and smiled. The room began to fill up with that peculiar cesspool odor that I had never quite adjusted to.
“So, Grisha is millionaire—” Grisha began.
“Billionaire,” Tom corrected him. “You are part of the Russian mafia. They have money to burn.”
“Much heavier!” Grisha smiled approvingly, taking another puff. “Grisha likes this! Grisha is heavy billionaire and heavy bored with life. Grisha wants to hunt. Big trophy. Maybe two. And Grisha will pay heavy for special considerations.” He had learned his part quite well.
Diamond looked over at Tom. “Why can’t Neelie pretend to be married to you and then the two of you can go. You really are a billionaire, right?”
“Mr. Thomas has face with heavy recognizement,” Grisha pointed out correctly. “Mr. Thomas must stay out of lamplight.”
Now Tom focused his attention on me. “Do you think you can do it?” he asked.
“Yep,” I promised. “I will say nice things and be gracious. I will come off silly and vain and indifferent.”
“Perfect,” Tom said. “Try to be everything I hate in a woman.”
“I thought I already was,” I retorted, but he didn’t laugh.
Tom did not waste time. He had already arranged for Grisha and me to take a private tour of the Circle D ranch later that afternoon. We arrived in a rented Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, with a driver—Tom truly was sparing no expense—and were ushered through a pair of tall, garish silver-and-gold gates by a man dressed in a pale blue safari suit with silver trim, who introduced himself as Julian, our safari coordinator. Grisha, dressed in an expensive dark brown business suit and chocolate brown tooled crocodile-skin cowboy boots, puffed on his cigarette and looked imperious. I did my best to function as the trophy wife, Texas style, with stiletto heels, a flouncy miniskirt, and low-cut blouse enhanced by a push-up bra, courtesy of a frantic shopping trip after lunch, as well as a heavy veneer of makeup, courtesy of Miss Stella, the beauty consultant at the Holiday Inn Hair and Beauty Spa. She also sprayed my hair into a two-foot cement block of banana curls.
“Now, don’t y’all just look darlin’?” she had drawled, stepping back to admire her work. “Your hubby’s mouth is just gonna water.” I was hoping it wasn’t the kind of uncontrolled salivation that comes just before vomiting.
Our Rolls was whisked away, and we waited a moment under a tent-size silver umbrella held by Julian, to protect us from the hot Texas sun.
“Canapés and drinks will be served in the inner sanctum,” he informed us, and for a moment, I had the heady feeling that I was royalty going to be locked in a cave. A minute later, a bright gold safari jeep pulled up. We drove along a Belgium-block driveway to a many-columned Georgian mansion with a brass sign outside that declared “A Man’s Castle Is His Castle,” and whose innards were done up in red velvet and gold trim, an obvious paean to bad taste and conspicuous consumption. Julian led us down a dark-paneled hallway across rugs that ate our ankles to the private office of Lance Imperialle. It was here, Grisha was given to understand, he would sign contracts and pay for his special considerations. I flounced my way down the hall on Grisha’s arm, nervously aware of the GPS in my hot pink Marc Jacobs handbag, with the tiny digital surveillance camera tucked into its clasp, a little gift from Tom.
“They’ll be looking at your handbag,” he had said. “You need a good one.” No objection from me. A little arm candy for the arm candy seemed a nice touch.
Lancelot Imperialle, owner of the Circle D Ranch, was, as Tom described, a self-made sleazeball in good standing. He was waiting as though at attention when we were led in. Julian gave a little bow and disappeared. Lance gave us a small nod of his head.
His black hair was pulled back in a greasy ponytail, he wore tight white jeans, white leather boots with fringe, and a white muscle shirt that highlighted bulging workout muscles under artificially tanned orange skin. Every knuckle had a big gold ring. He wore a large gold L on a chain around his neck, and he leered at me every time Grisha looked away. He gestured for us to sit down.
“You came highly recommended, Dr. Trotsky,” he said to Grisha. “Everyone I’ve spoken to seems to somehow know your name.”
“I am big man in my country of Russia,” Grisha grunted, and took a puff on his cigarette.
A man came in carrying a tray of champagne and little crackers with caviar heaped on top. “Iranian caviar,” Lance pointed out. On Wheat Thins, I noticed with amusement. I guess the veneer of wealth only g
oes so deep.
“Needs spoon from mother-of-pearls,” said Grisha, helping himself to a handful of crackers.
“So, how can I help you,” Lance Imperialle asked, pouring a glass of champagne and offering it to me.
“What kind is it?” I asked, adding just the right amount of petulance in my voice.
He looked at the bottle. “‘Armand de Brignac,’” he read off. I made a face and took the glass from him.
Grisha noisily let his breath out. “I am already bored. You have something interested for me?”
“Yes, of course.” Lance Imperialle sat down at a huge Gothic rosewood desk. There were animal heads on every paneled wall. Exquisite lions, and what I recognized as a rare white Bengal tiger, a grizzly, a white rhino, a springbok, a polar bear, all stuffed, glass eyed, jaws lined with perfect teeth and open in a final, soundless protest, all of it soulless and sickening.
“Like my rogues’ gallery?” He gestured to the walls.
“You have Masai giraffe?” Grisha pointed to a doe-eyed, beautiful marked creature with velvety dark chocolate patches on rich gold fur that hung behind Lance.
“We have everything,” Lance said. “What we don’t have, we can order. Takes a while, but we can get anything you want.”
“Do I have to sit here for this?” I whined. “I’m boo-rrr-ed, too. I hate business talk.”
Grisha jumped to his feet. “My darling, you must not be bored! Grisha will buy you diamonds when we leave here.”
“Then let’s leave now,” I whined again. Grisha bowed and gave Lance Imperialle a helpless shrug.
“Don’t worry,” Lance said. He pressed a button on the desk. “I can have my personal assistant give your little lady a tour. Would you like a tour?”
“Can I have more champagne?” I asked.
“Of course,” Lance Imperialle said soothingly. “I noticed you didn’t like this bottle. How about Cristal? You like Cristal?”
I gave a careless shrug. “Louis Roederer?”
“The very one,” he said.
Julian came back into the room.
“Take Mrs. Trotsky out for a little tour,” Lance said, “while Dr. Trotsky and I sign these boring contracts.” He gave me a wink. I wanted to kiss him for playing right into my arm-candy hands.
I wobbled to my feet, balanced on my three-inch spikes, fluffed my skirt and my hair, which I realized was irredeemably unfluffable, before I bent over to give my adoring Grisha a much-lipsticked kiss on the lips and followed Julian out the door. Stumbling across the weedy gravel path, I clutched my handbag, adjusted my décolleté, turned on my GPS, and told Julian I couldn’t wait to see all the nasty little beasties.
“Oh, we’ve got lots of nasty beasties,” he said, “ready and waiting for your entertainment pleasure.”
Chapter 43
WELL, THE CHAMPAGNE WAS GOOD.
The gold jeep had a wet bar and a snack bar and a television, as if the specter of destroying animals wasn’t entertaining enough. Julian was unctuously devoted to my comfort.
He pointed the car to a road behind the mansion and drove. The trappings of the ranch dropped away as if it were a Hollywood set. The Belgium-block road turned to dust, and the lush trees and plantings, the huge swimming pool and cabana were quickly replaced by a landscape that was drearily plain and definitely low budget. Mesquite trees, stunted oaks, and date palms, all draped in Spanish moss; scrub brush; and stalky, tan bromegrass covered the rest of the compound. The humid air filled with dust. Sticker bushes lined the twelve-foot-high chain-link fence that ran along the road. With a little shock, I remembered the sticker bushes at the horse kill pen and how Diamond had remarked how those bushes were frequently used so that the animals couldn’t get through without tearing themselves apart. And true enough, the two-inch-long spikes were a treacherous barrier. We drove about a mile, with nothing to be seen. It looked quite banal, except for what I knew took place here.
“Bored,” I called from the back, and indeed I was. I took another slug of Cristal.
“Here we go,” Julian called out. We came up to a series of cages, dozens, more than dozens, a long line of dirty, rusted metal cages, sitting sullenly in the sun. “There are your nasty beasties.”
They were in there. Caged and crouched. Lions, tigers. A grizzly, several gazelle huddled together, all panting heavily from the heat, their eyes clouded with misery. A panther, some pronghorn deer. Small cages set on concrete slabs, some sitting directly out in the hot Texas sun, each a solitary confinement. The smell of ammonia wafted up to the jeep as we drove by. I could see the water buckets were barely filled, with an inch or so of silt at the bottom. I maneuvered my handbag and pressed the clasp, hoping I was getting clear pictures.
“Oh, I can see these in the circus,” I sneered, taking another sip from my flute of champagne. I looked away, hoping to feign boredom, hoping to keep the tears from springing into my eyes.
Julian nodded. “Well, I’ll take you to see something special. We just got them in. Your husband expressed some interest in them.”
He pulled ahead, driving past cages and cages of animals on death row. Some of them were panting ferociously, harrowing looks of fear on their faces. And they were all thin, that seemed to be a given. So thin. Of course, they were thin, I suddenly realized. The sport hunters only cared about the heads.
I took pictures and pressed the buttons on my GPS and hoped that Julian wouldn’t notice. I wasn’t nervous, more high-strung, my adrenaline pushing my fear aside, making me almost giddy.
“How do you keep them all, you know, from getting stolen?” I asked Julian.
He gave a short laugh. “You think someone is going to break in here and steal a lion?” He whistled at the stupidity of it. “We got four dogs and a security guy. We mostly rely on the dogs. They don’t get drunk on Saturday night and forget to show up.”
“I like dogs,” I said, then poured myself more champagne.
I estimated we drove another mile when I started to smell something, the familiar, warm musky smell that I knew so well. Definitely elephants.
We drew closer. There was a cage behind a large tangle of brushy trees. Julian stopped the jeep, turned off the motor, and helped me out. I still held the champagne glass in my hand and my handbag in the other. “Thank you,” I said sweetly, and followed him to the cage.
He stood cuffed in heavy chains around his front legs, immobilized on a small cement pad. It was Tusker. The delicately curved tusk, the great, giant body—it was unmistakably him. He was emaciated. A trembling skeleton. His flesh hung over an arc of ribs, his spine cut a sharp outline down his back, his gaunt face was a mask of misery. And his head was tilted, giving it an almost inquisitive look, as if he were asking me why.
My king of wild hearts had been broken.
I couldn’t look and I couldn’t look away. I clutched my stupid drink and gave my host a gracious smile.
“Ever see anything that big?” he said.
I tried to answer and stopped for a deep breath. I would not cry. I would not cry.
“Big,” I said. His trunk hung limply, his amber eyes stared glassily beyond us, closed down, seeing nothing.
I didn’t want to stay there with him another second. I couldn’t bear it. The tilt of the head, the golden eyes that had been so filled with good humor and life. I gripped my champagne glass.
“Well, I guess I’ve seen him,” I said. “Anything else?” I hoped my voice hadn’t betrayed me.
Julian nodded. “We’ve got another bull further down the road. Can’t keep them together. The other one’s younger and smaller. This one’s got the bigger head but one shit-ass tusk. The other’s got two tusks, but some kind of rip in his ear. If your husband wants both, I’m sure Lance can give him a special rate. He can also arrange for another tusk to be put on this one’s head.”
I gave him a bright smile. “Oh, wow. How does he do that?”
“Resin, after he’s shot, but you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference,�
�� Julian said proudly.
“Fabulous,” I said.
“We do it all the time. Replace teeth, horns, you know, we promise perfect.” He waited for my approval. “Probably can fix the ear, too. You know, of the other one.”
I nodded. “So, does he just shoot him right in there?” I gestured to the cage, littered with a small pile of dry-looking manure mixed in with a handful of bromegrass, though I was really trying to look for electric fencing, any kind of wiring.
Julian shook his head no. “The back of the pen opens to a chute.”
I looked and sure enough, there was a locked gate opposite me. A simple lock hung on a latch.
“We chase him into the chute with an electric prod. The chute’s only about thirty feet long, so you’re hardly exerting yourself. Most guys like to hunt before dinner, gives them a big appetite.” Julian winked at me. “And later, too, if you know what I mean.” I giggled. Julian returned to the jeep. I turned my back on Tusker and followed Julian.
I couldn’t spend another second looking at the elephant. I felt I had betrayed him. I came from a race of killers and predators of the worst order. I was so ashamed. So ashamed. So ashamed.
We drove on. A few thin horses browsing on bromegrass, another tall, narrow cage full of parrots, sitting listlessly. “We rent them out for parties,” said Julian. “You know, theme parties.”
We passed still another cage with a black panther sitting in the hot sun next to a tub half filled with water and no shelter, his pink tongue unrolled and quivering like a ribbon of defeat.
An Inconvenient Elephant Page 27