Her Winning Ways

by J. M. Bronston

“I’m not a horse’s ass!”

  “You are, too.” She licked the sauce from her fingers. “Sometimes.”

  They ate in silence. Bart thought things over. And she wondered if she’d gone too far.

  When the ribs were done, the apprentice waiter arrived with a tiny tray of hot, moist terry cloths, which he handed to them, one by one, with small tongs. They cleaned up, they handed the little towels back, and he disappeared. The next course hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Annie?”

  He was looking at her so seriously.

  She tilted her head, attentive.

  “Annie, I don’t want to be a horse’s ass with you.”

  She felt a thump in her heart, touched by this sudden exposure of his very honest vulnerability, and she had to take a couple of breaths. She was glad that their dinner arrived just then, because she needed a little diversion.

  And what a diversion it was. There were sea scallops served in their own shells, and a chicken soong. A plate of dumplings, light and savory. And a platter of dried, steamed green beans, bright and aromatic. With her chopsticks, she lifted a scallop from its shell where it seemed to float in a light-as-air creamy sauce. One taste and she thought it must have been whipped up by culinary wizards.

  How are they able to make them so delicate and so rich at the same time?

  “These are wonderful,” she said.

  “I knew you’d like them,” he said. He beamed as though he’d prepared them himself. “And how about that soong dish? You’ve got to try that.” The bowl of finely diced vegetables and chicken between them was surrounded by a fan of a romaine lettuce leaves, fresh and crisp and just waiting to be filled with the chopped mix.

  The exotic food, the perfect service, and the elegant ambience cast a seductive spell over them, and by the time they were ready to leave, there was no longer a shred of tension between them.

  It must have rained a little while they were having dinner; it seemed everything had been washed clean and the light mist that hung in the air seemed scented with flowers. The rain had stopped but the pavements were still wet; vehicles made a soft swishing sound, like brushstrokes on a snare drum, and the street was all activity, people coming and going all around them, the nighttime traffic different from the daytime, a rush of taxis, black town cars everywhere, no delivery trucks, and the dark obliterated by the illuminated storefronts, the street lamps above, and the light from thousands of windows looking down at them. If the skies had cleared and if there were stars above, it would not have been possible to see them, and if, by chance, the moon should ride by, high above the skyscrapers, it would have been indistinguishable from the surrounding multitude of lights that made daytime of all hours in this city that never sleeps.

  Bart took Annie’s hand and, in the manner of an old-fashioned gentleman, slipped it through his arm so that, with her hand on his arm, he was truly escorting her, in a formal manner, through the lively clatter and bustle, back to her hotel. The Riesling had left her with a little buzz, the pavement was a bit uneven, and she seldom wore really high heels, so she was glad of his steadying presence, glad to rely on him to get her safely back home. Glad to relax and allow herself to be unaware of her surroundings, to let Bart guide her. No surprise then, that she didn’t notice that Bart was alert to something—to an unnameable something that his instinct told him to pay attention to—that same instinct that had alerted him in the park, when he knew they were being watched, that something in his environment was not right.

  Careful not to alarm her, Bart checked his surroundings, checked the throngs of people moving around them, the dog walkers, the doormen, ordinary pedestrians on their way here and there, folks getting into and out of taxis, diners eating at outdoor tables, but he couldn’t find the source of his concern. They arrived at her hotel with no danger surfacing, and he allowed himself to let his guard down.

  He brought her into the lobby and it was time to say good night. Time, perhaps, for a good night kiss? But in such a public place, right there, in the midst of strangers?

  They were both quiet. The unasked questions lay between them. Bart said nothing, waiting, as though trying to read her mind. Waiting until she did make up her mind.

  “If you’d like to come up—”

  No more words were needed between them.

  They rode up silently in the elevator. People got on. People got off. Annie saw their reflection in the elevator’s mirrored wall. Bart was watching her intently, as though he was memorizing every feature, every curve and plane of her face, every wave of her hair.

  In the room, she turned on a light. She slipped off her light jacket. She turned toward him, and he was waiting for her. She moved right into his arms. His hand was in her hair, and she felt his intake of breath, as though his pleasure was too much. She glanced toward the door.

  “My sister—”she whispered.

  “It’s only nine. The show won’t end for another hour.” His hand stroked through her hair. He held her still closer. “They’ll go out for a drink after. We have time—”

  And now, in the quiet, he kissed her. And yes, they had time. He kissed her again. She felt his heart beating. She felt her own heart beating.

  Annie knew. This man was different. There’d never been this sense of comfort and completeness, this sense of safety.

  He held her a little bit away from him, as though he wanted to study her.

  “We have time,” he repeated. “And I’ve got to catch my breath.” He shook his head, as though to clear it. “You take my breath away.”

  Annie laughed. “That’s supposed to be the girl’s line.”

  “Whatever.”

  She was glad he wasn’t rushing things.

  “How about a drink,” she said. “There’s a mini bar—” She pointed toward it.

  “Good idea.”

  He went with her.

  “There’s vodka,” she said. “And some juice.”

  “That’ll do it.”

  Together, they took out a couple of mini bottles and mixed a couple of drinks.

  “And pretzels?” she asked.

  He nodded. He loosened his tie. He took off his jacket and dropped it on a chair. He took the glasses from her hand and put them on the coffee table. “Come here,” he whispered. He led her to the sofa. Again, he pulled her gently into his arms.

  “You do, Annie. You take my breath away.”

  In the light from the entryway—the only light there was—his eyes were darker, his face was shadowed and so serious. As he drew her closer still, she forgot all those others, from another time in her life, and she forgot why she was here, and what she’d been doing these last days, and—

  —and just then, in that very moment, Bart’s cell phone rang.

  “God dammit!”

  His jacket was across the room, on the chair where he dropped it. He left Annie, who was suddenly thrown back into reality, abruptly trying to remember where she was.

  Bart crossed the room, in a fury, and he fished the damned phone out of his jacket pocket. He looked at the screen.

  “I have to take this.”

  He glared at the phone’s screen.

  “Hardin here.”

  She saw his eyes widen, all focused attention now. His face turned grim.

  “I’m on my way!” And to Annie, almost as though she’d disappeared from his world, he said, “I have to go.”

  Reflexively, he pulled on his jacket. And without another word, he was up and gone and she was alone. Staring at the door—which he had not fully closed. Thoughtfully, she got up, went to the door. Closed it.

  “So what happened?” Liz said. “He just suddenly left? Without a word, not even a good-bye?”

  “Exactly. Not even a word.”

  “Do you know who called?”

  “I just saw his face go all fierce and he said, ‘I’m on my way,’ like it was obviously some sort of emergency, and then he said, ‘I have to go,’ and he was out of here like a shot. Didn’t even close the
door.”

  “Well, at least you know it wasn’t anything you did.”

  “Of course not. We were getting along just fine.” She paused and her expression turned sort of dreamy. “Just fine—”

  “Oh?” Liz’s expression said it all. “I’ll just bet you were.”

  Annie chose to change the subject quickly.

  “So how was the show?”

  Liz let Annie off the hook. She knew she’d get the whole story eventually.

  “The show was wonderful,” she said. “Great music, great dancing. And hilariously funny. The whole audience was screaming with laughter. I see what they mean about a Broadway musical. Such incredible talent. It surely is not the Laramie High School drama club.”

  “Oh, Liz, not you, too. If I hear one more word about how wonderful this city is, I’m going to chuck everything and get the next plane out of here.”

  Liz was unimpressed by Annie’s outburst. She took a handful of pretzels.

  “You can’t. You signed a contract.”

  “I know. I know. But honestly. I’m just so tired of the way this city toots its own horn.”

  “I thought you were having a good time.”

  “I’m having a wonderful time. And everyone’s been very nice to me. But dammit, this city is not the center of the whole universe.”

  ‘Well, something’s bugging you. Did that cop do something to upset you?”

  “No, Liz. He really didn’t. Not at all.” Her eyes went dreamy. “Not at all,” she repeated softly.

  Liz gave her sister one sharp look.

  “Hmm,” she said. She took another couple of pretzels. “Well, I’m going to bed. This has been a full day.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Morning News

  Thursday – Early

  The morning newspaper lay on the carpet outside the door. Liz, still sleepy and bleary-eyed, barely awake, pulled her robe close around her, glanced up and down the hall to be sure no one could see her.

  Before she could pick up the paper, she saw the headline. She paused, she bent down, and she read:

  Lindy Hopped?

  A Times Square Favorite Is Missing

  “Lindy?” She whispered the question into the empty hallway. “I recognize that name.”

  She carried the paper into Annie’s bedroom, reading as she went.

  “Wake up, honey.” She poked a bump in the blanket that was probably Annie’s shoulder. “There’s something here in the morning paper you should see.”

  A muffled voice came from the folds of the pillow.

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven. You said to wake you at seven. And there’s something here you should see.”

  Annie rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.

  Through the door, Liz read to her:

  The mounted police unit on New York’s West Side was broken into last night, and Lindy, a Times Square favorite among New Yorkers and tourists alike for almost fifteen years, was taken from the stables at Troop B Headquarters. The officer on duty, Jess Yardley, reports that he was held at gunpoint by two masked men while a third man, also masked, mounted Lindy bareback and rode him out of the building and up 12th Avenue.

  Annie came out of the bathroom. She was wide awake. “Let me see that,” she said. She took the paper out of Liz’s hand.

  “Isn’t that your guy’s horse?” Liz said.

  Annie nodded and kept reading.

  Officer Antony Biello, who arrived to take over the next shift, found the officer in the stable, handcuffed to one of the steel posts that enclose Lindy’s stall. No other horse was taken and a source close to the investigation says a printed leaflet associated with a dissident group was found in Lindy’s stall. It is believed that the horse-napping may be the work of this group, which has been conducting protests outside the United Nations building. The group’s leader was arrested on Sunday and the police are not discounting the possibility that the horse is being held for ransom.

  Annie looked up from the paper. “For ransom!”

  “Is it your bunch? From Sunday?”

  Annie nodded. “Probably. Wait. There’s more.”

  On Sunday, Lindy was part of the mounted unit that conducted crowd control at the demonstration at the UN and was identified by name in TV coverage of the event. “We’ll find those men,” said Sergeant Bartlett Hardin, who is Lindy’s assigned rider. “But if they hurt that horse, if they do any harm to him at all, they’re going to be very, very sorry.”

  Sergeant Hardin has a special attachment to Lindy. The horse’s previous rider was the sergeant’s father, Lieutenant Des Hardin, who was killed five years ago when gunfire broke out during a street demonstration, similar to the one last Sunday at the UN.

  Police horses must meet very special specifications and are therefore generally acquired by Police Department purchase, but Lindy had originally belonged to the Hardin family, which owns the ranch in Wyoming that bred the Lindy strain. Although title to Lindy was transferred to the department, Lindy has always been regarded as the property of the Hardin family. Lieutenant Hardin’s son, Bartlett, had just completed training at the police academy at the time of his father’s death, so the department allowed Sergeant Hardin to replace his father as Lindy’s rider.

  Annie folded the paper and put it on the bed.

  “What time is it?”

  “You just asked me. Now it’s 7:06.”

  “Call room service. I need some coffee.” She went back into the bathroom. She called back to Liz as she turned on the shower, “Maybe there’s something I can do—I don’t know—something. I have to think.” She closed the door behind her.

  By the time she came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a huge bath towel, with her wet hair turbaned in a smaller one, room service had already rolled in a cart with their breakfast.

  “Lord, I could get used to this,” Liz said. She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Annie. “Any ideas?”

  Annie shook her head.

  “Still thinking. Bart must be out of his mind right now. No wonder he ran out of here like that last night.”

  “Will you call him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure he has enough to think about without my bothering him. But I feel so bad for him. I know how he’s feeling right now.” She sipped at her coffee, put it down absentmindedly. She walked to the window, and looked out for a minute, then came back and sat on the bed. “Remember when my Paddywhack turned up missing?”

  “I remember. That sweet little filly. Took us two days to find her.”

  Annie was silent for a moment, staring at the floor. Then she said, “And all you found was what the cougar left.”

  “Yes, I remember that, too. You were only eight years old then, just a little kid, and you tried to take Daddy’s rifle to go hunt down that animal yourself.”

  “That’s how Bart is feeling now.”

  Liz sat next to Annie on the bed and put an arm around her.

  “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.” Liz saw the beginning of tears in Annie’s eyes and she hugged her more closely. “Don’t cry, Annie, sweetie. Please don’t cry. They’ll find him. It’s going to be all right. Here.” She reached for the basket of hot muffins on the breakfast cart. “Have a muffin.”

  “I don’t want a muffin. And I’m not crying.” She blinked her eyes to clear them and straightened up defiantly. “And of course it’s going to be all right. Bart will get those guys—whoever it was took Lindy. And I pity them when he does!” She picked up the paper and pointed to the story. “But think what this must mean to him? Lindy isn’t just Bart’s horse. He’s Bart’s dad’s horse. The paper said Bart’s dad was killed during a street demonstration, so he had to have been riding Lindy when he was killed. Bart didn’t tell me any of that. He just said his dad had died a few years ago. And that’s how Lindy came to be Bart’s horse. Like he was entrusted with this special animal—and look what happened. Along with everything else, he must be feeling such guilt—that Lindy wa
s stolen on his watch!”

  She picked up the phone. “I won’t call. I’ll just text him. If he’s too busy, he just won’t answer.” With thumbs working, Annie wrote:

  I saw the paper. Is there anything I can do?

  And an answer came back instantly.

  I wish there were. It’s probably that Buljornia crowd. Forensics is working on it. I’ll call later. Too busy here.

  “They think it’s that Buljornia group. The ones that mobbed me on Sunday.”

  She walked to the window, drew the curtains aside, and looked out over the view, at the crowded mass of buildings, the tall stacks of human habitation jammed up against each other with the morning sun shining off the thousands of windows, and a separate life going on behind each window.

  Eight million people out there. I wonder how many of them care that Sergeant Bart Hardin’s horse has been stolen.

  And I wonder why I care so much.

  “Honey, there isn’t anything you can do. This is a police problem. And we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves on this trip. So let’s finish breakfast, get ourselves dressed, and let’s go out and enjoy ourselves. We could do that sightseeing boat tour around Manhattan.”

  Annie said nothing for a minute or two—just kept staring out at the city.

  She turned away from the window. “No, Liz. I’ve decided. I don’t have to be totally helpless. There is something I can do.”

  “Uh oh.” Liz made a face. “I know that look. Here comes that stubborn streak of yours.”

  “Number one. Only a few blocks from here is one of the greatest libraries in the world. A resource like no other. I’d planned to see it anyway during this trip—I wouldn’t come here and miss that, of all things. So here’s my perfect opportunity. I could find out something not forensic, something different from what the police would be looking for. I could make a different kind of search.”

  She was back in the bathroom, brushing her hair.