Ben Soul

by Richard George

indictment. While the bureaucrats were preparing the paperwork, Vanna somehow got wind of what was in the wind, and disappeared. For several weeks no clues hinted at Vanna’s whereabouts, and most law officers forgot about her in the ongoing crush of Amber alerts, drive-by shootings, bank robberies, and other ordinary crimes that made up their work world.

  DiConti did not forget. In his travels up and down River Road (he often went to San Danson to visit with Notta Freed), whether on patrol or not, he kept a sharp lookout for the missing Vanna. After two and a half months of quiet observation and contacts with informants, DiConti got a call one afternoon from an anonymous tipster. When he answered his phone, a gravelly voice said, “DiConti Sharif? The Deputy?”

  “Yes,” DiConti responded.

  “The witch you want is working the Black and Blue Cowgirl Saloon in Pueblo Rio. Ask for Mistress Whippy.”

  “Mistress Whippy?” DiConti repeated, not sure he’d heard correctly. A click followed by a dial tone answered him. DiConti checked his online county map and discovered the Black and Blue Cowgirl Saloon was on an obscure cul-de-sac in Pueblo Rio. He drove to Pueblo Rio. On the way he radioed the local police chief, who promised to send backup to the bar.

  When he found the cul-de-sac, the sign marking the saloon was so small that he almost left without entering. Few establishments in Pueblo Rio were discreet; the town particularly catered to a gay and lesbian clientele, and let anything and everything hang out. Then he spotted the cowgirl logo on the door, painted in faded black and blue colors. When he reached the door, he saw a small sign that said “Women Only.” He twisted the knob and went in.

  A miasma of cigar smoke (despite the law’s ban on smoking in bars), stale beer, something unwashed, and hatred for men washed over him. A long bar ran down the left side of the room. Scars, perhaps made by big feet in steel-toed boots, marred its walnut stained pine. A half dozen bar stool occupants fell silent as if on a single cue. They all turned to stare at him with menace flaring from their eyes. The women were all weighty specimens. Every one of them wore faded and stressed denim jeans and sloppy gray and black sweatshirts. DiConti’s imagination flashed him a picture of beached killer whales waiting for prey. Beyond the bar a swinging lamp slowly played shadows over a massive pool table. One lone white ball lay off center on the green.

  A very tall and muscular woman with a flat bosom came from behind the bar and approached him. DiConti guessed she was the bouncer and bartender.

  “Not able to read, dude?” she growled at him.

  “I can read,” DiConti said. “Can you?” He presented his credentials to her. She squinted at them.

  “What do you want here?” she said. “Nobody here called a damned cop.” She put her hands on her hips and stared down at DiConti. DiConti wondered if she were a transgendered basketball player.

  “I’m here for Mistress Whippy,” he said, hoping he had heard the name correctly.

  “She don’t do men, dude.”

  “I have another kind of business with her. Is she here?”

  “Yeah, dude. That way,” the bouncer said, and jerked a thumb toward a side door. She stood aside for DiConti to pass. He walked to the door she had indicated, and knocked. The door swung outward with enough force to knock DiConti to his knees, if he hadn’t been prudently standing just out of its way. A cowgirl came out, naked except for leather chaps, her ample breasts flopping as she hurried past. Furious curses followed her through the door. DiConti saw at once that the cowgirl was not the perpetrator he wanted. He ignored her as she ran into the shadows behind the pool table. He looked through the door.

  Vanna strode out, her face contorted by rage. She had a riding crop that she snapped against the high-heeled knee-high leather boots she wore. She had piled her black hair in a high bun on top of her head, and a long switch of hair, not quite the same shade, swayed from its anchor at the top of the bun. Fluorescent pink lipstick made her mouth a slash in her heart-shaped face. She wore a leather brassiere that showed more breast tissue than it covered. Incongruously, she wore a short pink skirt, flared at the hem, with white and rose chiffon ruffles. DiConti nearly laughed.

  “Mistress Whippy?” he said, and shook his head. “Couldn’t find anything cleverer?”

  “What’s it to you, little deputy,” she snarled.

  DiConti removed his handcuffs from his belt. “Vanna Dee, you are under arrest for the harassment of La Señora and her llamas,” he intoned formally. “You have the right to remain silent,” he continued. Before he could go on to the attorney provision, Vanna lashed her whip at him, aiming for his eyes. He saw it coming and ducked. The whip struck a beer sign on the far wall and fell harmlessly to the floor. Part of the handle remained in Vanna’s hand, a glittering triangular knife blade pointed at him. As he straightened up again Vanna lunged at him. He sidestepped her. The bar patrons cheered Vanna, and groaned when she missed DiConti.

  Vanna recovered her balance as DiConti started to draw his gun. She lunged at the deputy again, seeking to pin him to the wall with her poniard. She missed the deputy, but not the wall. The poniard, driven by her fury, buried itself in a stud behind the paneling. She tugged at it, seeking to loosen it. DiConti grasped his opportunity and clamped the open handcuff on Vanna’s free arm. Foregoing gentleness, he jerked her other arm free of the poniard. Vanna broke his grip and pounded her fist toward his temple. The blow would have knocked him out if he hadn’t jerked Vanna off balance by her one cuffed arm. When she lurched, he grabbed her other arm and locked it in the other half of the handcuffs.

  Vanna tried to turn her head and bite DiConti, but the high heels on her boots made her unsteady. She almost fell to her knees. As she was falling, she tried to kick DiConti in the groin. He jerked her upright.

  “Now march,” he ordered. “You’re bound for jail.” Vanna refused to move. DiConti pushed her. She stumbled. The bar patrons rumbled and angry murmur. They began to advance on DiConti and Vanna, as if to stop the arrest. Several brandished bottles broken against the bar. One of the largest women crunched broken glass under her boots. DiConti drew his pistol. He aimed it at the foremost woman.

  “Stand back,” he said. “Don’t interfere.” Several of the women muttered, but let DiConti push Vanna toward the door. One of Vanna’s heels broke off. DiConti kicked it toward the women who still advanced on him, though at a wary distance. He wondered where the Pueblo Rio backup was. From the back of the room the white cue ball flew past his ear and through the door. It crashed into a car window outside. DiConti hoped it wasn’t a window on his patrol car.

  Wary of the women, DiConti turned to back through the door. He wrapped one arm tight around Vanna’s waist and dragged her toward the door. He stopped backing when he ran into a solid wall of hard flesh. The bouncer/bartender filled the door.

  “Going somewhere, dude?” she said. He looked up and backwards at her. She was grinning cruelly. She put her arm around DiConti’s neck and slowly tightened her grip.

  “Yes, he is, Jen Derr,” a heavy voice said just outside the bar. “It’s a righteous collar, so let him go; get out of his way, or I’ll put a bullet in your kidney. Maybe I’ll drill the other one, just for the hell of it.”

  “All right, Anne Drozheny.” Jen let go of the doorframe and stood aside. DiConti dragged the still-struggling Vanna to his patrol car and opened the rear door. He shoved Vanna in and locked the door.

  Once he had her locked in the rear seat of his patrol car, he finished reciting her rights to her. He turned to Sergeant Drozheny.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “I thank you for your timely intervention.”

  “Don’t mention it. The gals get overheated sometimes. A threat of ventilation usually cools them down. They’re not as bad as they might be. Just protective of any woman who has trouble with a man. I’ll talk to them. You’re the first man they’ve seen in that bar in several years.” She grinned. “Not a man
friendly place,” Anne chuckled. DiConti smiled.

  “Right you are about that,” he said, and got in the car. He heard Anne, at the door, threaten prison and other vile things for the woman who had chucked the cue ball through the bar door. He thought about offering to back up Sergeant Drozheny, but decided his continued presence would only pour oil on a very hot fire. He locked all the doors with a mechanism that no one in the back seat could override, and drove as fast as conditions allowed to Las Tumbas.

  He radioed ahead for assistance, and when he got to the jail, four other deputies helped him subdue Vanna and drag her into a cell. They left her there spitting vitriolic verbal abuse at all and sundry. Even the lice and mice that ordinarily frequented that particular cell departed for quieter places. DiConti politely declined several offers of celebratory drinks, went home, freshened up, and drove to San Danson to share his successful capture with Notta and the Villagers.

  The Accused Accuses

  Vanna Dee raved for nearly twenty-four hours. She ran from side to side in her cell at first, shaking the bars on the small window in the door and pounding on the cinderblock walls with her shoes. She broke the heel on the second shoe. She sat in the center of her cell, drew invisible pentagrams on the floor and invoked demons