by Baxter Black
Cooney couldn’t help but laugh. He reached for the glass.
Lick, in a move that left everyone breathless, grabbed Cooney around the waist like he was a pickup man and slid on behind him just as they crossed the door jamb! Into the chaos they rode!
The crowd literally fell back. Just as our two mounted champions slid up to the bar on four even-toed ungulate hooves, a tall, red-haired man rose from the crowd and tried to jump on behind Lick. He missed. But Lick’s original llama, still hot on the trail, crashed through the door and leaped!
A note about llamas, and I quote: If a llama is agitated, it will lay its ears back. One may determine how agitated the llama is by the material in the spit. The more irritated the llama is, the farther back into each of the three stomach compartments it will try to draw materials from for its spit.
The male is called a macho. An “orgle” is the mating sound of a macho who is sexually aroused. The sound is reminiscent of gargling, but with a more forceful, buzzing edge. Males begin the sound when they become aroused and continue throughout the act of procreation.
Llamas mate with the female in a kush (lying down) position, which is fairly unusual in a large animal. They mate for an extended period of time (twenty to forty-five minutes), also unusual in a large animal.
Source: Wikipedia.org
“Look out, Sheriff!” cried his deputy, but it was too late. Cooney’s llama shot on by as Lick’s agitated llama arrived. He reared up on his hind legs and slid into the red-haired sheriff’s shoulder, pushing him to the ground.
Cooney and Lick, still double-mounted, were propelled farther in, slicing between the bar and the crowd like an edge trimmer. Lick grabbed a guardrail that delineated the cocktail waitress’ station at the bar and locked on! With his right arm still around Cooney’s waist, Lick slicked them off the back of the racing llama like they’d run under a hanging bough!
They landed on their backs, on the bar, still entwined, where they crashed and stuck.
Cooney looked back over his shoulder and handed Lick the plastic cup.
“Sip?” asked Cooney.
“Yer my kinda man,” said Lick and took the last swallow. A deep orgle punctuated the dramatic moment.
An hour later Cooney and Lick were able to slip out the door. The hard-core partiers were still going strong, the less-discriminating of either sex were finding each other, and the ones who knew where to draw the line had gone home.
The night was balmy and beautiful. The proximity of the ocean added a little moisture to the air.
Cooney had planned on sleeping in the pickup camper back at the rodeo grounds, but Lick changed his mind: “Come on home with me. I’ve got a nice room for the weekend. Got two beds, and we’ll find a ride to the rodeo tomorrow. You can catch me up to date on your poetry and that girl with the big smile you been pining after.”
They sat in lawn chairs out by the pool. Cooney was drinking a bottle of water. Lick’s room had included a cheese and cracker basket with a bottle of wine. Lick indulged.
“I’m gettin’ over her, I guess,” Cooney said. “She’s getting so much publicity now. I saw her on TV, People magazine. Don’t think she’ll ever look back.”
“You can take a certain amount of credit for her success, from what I hear,” laughed Lick.
“That thing about ‘women can’t ride’ was taken out of context. Well, not really. The truth is I wasn’t sure that women could enter in the PRCA. Turns out they can,” explained Cooney.
“I guess that’s an honest mistake,” said Lick. “I didn’t know it when I was ridin’. So, how you handlin’ losin’ her?”
“Ump, that hurts. I never had her in the first place. Only in my mind. And I still got this . . . oh, this crush on her. Best way to describe it. Sounds juvenile. It even feels juvenile, but I never had a crush on anyone before.”
“You’ll get over it. You can still dream about her, but another one will come along. You don’t have to forget Pica, but when you find the right one your heart settles down. The memory of old crushes fades.”
“That happen to you?” asked Cooney.
“I’m not sure what happened to me,” said Lick, “except I was in the right place at the right time, and the right women showed up, and when the new wore off I knew I had found the love of my life.
“If you can see past your sexual cravings for her, enough so that you can sleep at night, it makes life easier. If you believe in God you can just step back and leave it in His hands, so to speak. Whatever will be will be. The older I get, the more I realize that I, myself, am not necessarily in charge.
“That’s the only explanation I have for findin’ my wife. It’s either that or just dumb luck, and luck hasn’t always been my best friend.”
The two cowboys stared up at the night sky. The city lights didn’t block out all the stars. The depth of infinity made itself known.
“There’s nothin’ standing between you and the farthest star you can see, Cooney. You’ve got your whole life to get there. Take your time,” said Lick.
That night they both slept in the king-size bed. There hadn’t been two queen-size beds as Lick had thought. No matter, they’d both slept in campers, sheep camps, and bad motels. Sleep was sleep. Lick snored, and Cooney put off thinkin’ about Pica. He finally drifted off.
CHAPTER 32
September 6, Tuesday, 1:00 p.m.,
Day after Labor Day
Miami Airport
“Will you come with us, please, Miss?” said the Customs agent.
Pica looked at File, who was with her in the Customs declaration line. He shrugged his shoulders. She followed the agent, who carried her suitcase, into a small room, where they were joined by another agent who closed the door behind her.
“Please sit down, Miss,” the first agent directed.
The two agents began to empty her suitcase onto the table.
After muffled snippets of conversation and serious grunts, they addressed Pica. “Is this yours?” They held up a Ziploc bag holding brightly colored feathers.
“No,” she answered, furrowing her brow. “Where did you get them?” she asked.
“They were sewn behind the liner in your bag,” they said.
“Let me look,” she said.
“Don’t touch them, please,” an agent admonished.
“I have never seen these before,” she said.
“And I guess you are unaware these feathers are from the endangered Glandular Y Cock, one of the rarest parrot species on Earth?” continued the agent.
“What would you estimate underground collectors would pay for this small bag of feathers, Earl?” Agent No. 1 asked of Earl, aka Agent No. 2. “Two thousand, five?”
Earl nodded seriously.
“I . . . It’s not . . . Is this a joke?” Pica asked, the panic rising in her voice.
It did not help that a few paparazzi were waiting outside the Customs area when File came through the doors without Pica. He was recognized by one of them and was stopped.
“Where is she!?” they clamored.
When they settled down File explained that she had been briefly detained in Customs and would be out shortly. He went off to get a limo.
By six o’clock that evening the press had begun to think that they had been hoodwinked and that Pica had slipped by them. But at 6:15 File reappeared and explained to them that Pica was still unavailable but that nothing was wrong.
“Is she ill?” one reporter asked. There was clucking speculation that her trip to the Caribbean had been to prevent a nervous breakdown. Other questions tried to narrow down what medical problem she might have.
File suggested that the reporters go home and that he would clear it all up in the morning. He went back in the Customs office, leaving the reporters to hone their own reports, which would incl
ude quotes from fellow reporters who served as unidentified sources.
Pica was alternately baffled, scared, mad, distraught, and curious. The Customs officers left File and Pica alone in a small room to talk.
“How serious is this?” asked File.
“They talked about, you know, jail, many-thousand-dollar fines. I was all, I don’t know how they got there. They told me, like, it’s probably worth $5,000! Feathers of the Y Cock! I’ve never heard of it!”
“Are you sure it was in your bag?” asked File.
“Yes! It was like, my big bag, but I didn’t smuggle that stuff, File. I don’t know, like, somebody had to be trying to sneak it into the United States. Later they’d steal my bag or whatever . . .” She began crying. File noticed she had fallen back into her Valley Girl speech habits.
“I’ll get a lawyer,” said File. “But I’ll need to call the office.”
The look on Pica’s face said it all. She looked like she had just run over her good dog.
At the headquarters of OVER THE TOP Nova Skosha was in her wreck-control mode. She was quizzing File over the phone. “When did KroAsha leave?”
“On the plane I arrived on. She’s not in the office today?” File asked.
“No, but I’ll catch up with her. So, you met Pica at the hotel. When was that?”
“Two-thirty, I guess. Maybe three. I talked to her on the phone. She was going to the beach, so I took a nap. We met for cocktails . . . I had one anyway and dinner. She was upbeat, looked good . . . she’d gotten some sun.”
Nova continued, “Have you got any idea about the contraband?”
They talked several more minutes.
“Okay,” she said, “if there is a way to keep this out of the press, that will be our first priority. You stay down there. I’ll get the lawyers on it, but they might not get there ’til tomorrow. Let’s see, it’s already 6:00 p.m. in Miami . . .
“Just do what you can, File. I’ll get with Turk and let you know. If this explodes I’m guessing Turk might want to interview again for a LIP LASTER girl.”
“Let’s just see what happens,” said File. “Maybe there’s some simple explanation, and it will blow over as quick as it started.”
Disembarking in Miami from the 7:15 p.m. flight from Nassau, a robust woman in breezy tourist clothes, floppy hat, and sunglasses passed by the four reporters still waiting for Pica to appear. She pulled the only female reporter off to the side and asked her if the police had captured the girl who was smuggling endangered species.
The reporter perked up. “What do you mean!?” she said, trying to appear nonchalant to her competing paparazzi.
“There was gossip at the airport about someone on the last flight smuggling animals or animal parts. Apparently the Customs people here in Miami were in contact with the officers in Nassau.”
“Who are you?” asked the reporter.
“Jane Doe,” answered the woman. “Gotta go!” She disappeared into the crowded concourse.
File was in the hall outside the Customs office. His cell phone rang. “Filo, folly, Filomine, baby mine! Where are you, Filomew?”
File explained what happened: that the lawyer wouldn’t get there until tomorrow, that Pica was actually being held under suspicion, and that the local police were on their way to take her down to the city jail.
“I dropped a little spark to the waiting reporters,” she said. “We should have a bonfire by morning!” She laughed loudly.
“Honey, Honey, Sweetie, Sweetlips,” cooed File, “I will be staying here overnight . . . I could find you a place to rest your weary head tonight, and we . . .”
“Oh, Filomagic, I’m so sorry. I’ve got an 8:30 flight to Denver. Besides, it is not a good idea to be fraternizing . . .”
“I promise no frater would be involved,” he pleaded.
“You’re so funny, Filofunny, but if this works and she’s dropped like a hot potato, I’ll be waiting in the wings. Oh, Filey, Filo, luscious Filo, my lips are quivering in moist anticipation of your kissy, kissy, your tender manly touch just above my knee . . . Foooey, foooey, Baby, Baby, I just can’t wait!”
“Oui Oui, you drive me crazy,” he whined.
“I’m your widdy widdy baby! See you in Denver, Smooch!”
CHAPTER 33
September 8, Thursday
Moses Lake, Washington, On the Road
Straight pulled off Interstate 90 into Moses Lake, Washington. Since the Rancho Mission Viejo Rodeo ten days before our heroes had made Walla Walla, Ellensburg, and Dillon. Both were riding well and making a little money. Today they were on the way to Puyallup, Washington, where both were up tomorrow in the saddle bronc.
Cooney was filling the gas tank when Straight strode out to the truck carrying a newspaper. On the front page, above the headline, in the top right-hand corner was a head shot of Pica D’TroiT. The caption read, “Lip Chick up Crick! See Sports Section B1.”
Straight handed it to Cooney, pointing at the picture.
Cooney’s jaw dropped. He let go of the gas nozzle. Straight grasped it as it wobbled.
Cooney flipped to section B.
In the unflattering photo, Pica was holding her hand up to ward off paparazzi. The shirt she was wearing was wrinkled, and her hair was flattened in back. A stern-faced policewoman accompanied her in the photograph.
The two-column article described Pica as an overnight sensation, firebrand for women’s rights, bronc-riding cowgirl, atypical beauty, LIP LASTER girl, and smuggler of endangered species contraband.
It said that she was being held in the Miami-Dade County jail until bail could be arranged. Because she was Canadian she was a strong flight risk.
The article continued outlining the whirlwind tour she had been on and the charges against her.
An accompanying article described the Glandular Y Cock, a tropical version of the magpie, that had been imported to the Caribbean in the ’30s by fans of Ernest Hemingway all the way from his Idaho home.
The article took all of the wind out of Cooney. For several days he had been making progress putting Pica behind him. He turned to Straight and asked, “Do you know anything about this?”
“Nothin’, Cooney,” he said. “She was supposed to be on this big PR tour. I didn’t know she was in the Caribbean. Last I heard of her was an interview last week on Public Radio, I think.
“I’m sorry, Cooney. But it’s better to learn this kind of stuff about her now than if you ever got involved.”
Cooney squinted his eyes. “You don’t really think she did this, do you? I mean, how could you?! You don’t even know her!”
Straight looked Cooney squarely in the eye. “You don’t either, partner. You don’t either.”
That gave Cooney a moment of pause. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. I don’t believe it. She just wouldn’t do it. It’s a mistake or, worse, she’s being framed.”
“By who? And why? She’s not rich . . .” said Straight.
“Do you think you could call OTT and find out where she is?” asked Cooney, “Maybe find out what’s going on.”
“I’ll try, but I’m gonna see File tomorrow. He’ll be setting up the booth in Puyallup. You ready to go?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
In the ensuing hours Straight got through to Nova Skosha, the OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS celebrity recruiter. All she could tell Straight was that Pica was still in custody and that OTT had sent a lawyer to Florida to protect its interests. Charges were being prepared by the U.S. Customs Service.
Cooney was beside himself. That night he e-mailed Pica five times offering to help. He received no response. He tried to reach Lick to talk. Not home.
“Settle down, Cooney,” Straight said with some sympathy. “This kinda stuff takes time. I didn’t mean to be
so hard on her. I’d be real surprised if she really did that smuggling, but the truth is I don’t know either. That’s some serious criminal activity. But I can’t think of any reason somebody would try to trap her. Or maybe the smuggler just slipped the stuff in her luggage and planned to steal it from her when they got through Customs.
“I’ll keep trying from my end. File will be here tomorrow. He was with her when she was arrested. He might give us a better picture.
“And . . . maybe it would be better if you stayed in the background. If you get to bugging File he might clam up, you not being with the company and all.”
“Okay,” said Cooney, taking a deep breath. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a good day.”
“That’s right,” said Straight. “We got horses to ride.”
As for Pica, the next three weeks of her life were a nightmare. Turk Manniquin of OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS put up a $500,000 bond, and, in an unusual international agreement, Juneau D’TroiT, Pica’s father, gave the U.S. government a lien on his ranch and property as collateral to allow Pica to come back home to Pincher Creek, Alberta.
Oui Oui Reese was offered the position that Pica had held with OTT. Within ten days she began working the LIP LASTER booth at rodeos with Straight. File was still the front man.
Cooney was confounded. His crush on Pica, his absolute belief that she was innocent, his intense desire to help her, and her refusal to even answer his e-mails kept him roiling inside.
Straight was keeping his eye on the ball. He did his job in the booth and rode broncs like his life depended on it.
CHAPTER 34
September 26, Monday
Oklahoma City Airport, Cooney Goes to
Alberta; Straight Goes to Denver
Straight drove up to the second-level departing passengers area at the Oklahoma City airport and parked. He and Cooney had competed in the rodeos at the Amarillo Tri-State Fair and the Oklahoma State Fair. Both placed in the saddle broncs at Amarillo and got skunked in OKC.