by Iris Chacon
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
An hour away from tiny Minokee, the bigger town of Live Oak steamed like broccoli in a microwave: green, limp, wet, hot, and fragrant. Summer was an infant according to the calendar, but the time-and-temperature sign outside the bank said baby had grown up fast. At barely nine in the morning it was already over ninety degrees in the shade.
Of course, no shade existed (and, for the moment, no air conditioning either) inside the cramped local office of the Division of Motor Vehicles. Miranda Ogilvy might have endured the heat better than most, with her skinny physique and sleeveless cotton sundress, but she was sandwiched between a buxom big-haired Hot Mama and a barrel-bellied, sweat-stained Good Ol’ Boy. After languishing in the stagnant line of bodies for nearly an hour, Miranda’s toes had been crushed by the platform heels of Hot Mama four times. Her heels had been bruised by the sharp-toed cowboy boots of G.O.B. three times. Neither neighbor seemed aware of Miranda, though she was pillowed between them like a slipped disc in a miserable spinal column.
Silently Miranda forgave her heavy-footed line-mates; it wasn’t their fault. Nobody ever noticed Miranda.
“Next!” bleated an agent whose red face glistened between lank bangs and wrinkled shirt collar. Hot Mama peeled her backside off the front of Miranda’s sundress, lifted her platform heels off Miranda’s numb toes, and shuffled to the counter.
Oblivious to Miranda’s presence, the crowd of humanity behind her surged forward, led by G.O.B.’s pointy shit-kickers. Miranda advanced two quick steps to avoid being trampled. Now at the front of the line, she luxuriated in breathing deeply since no one was plastered against her front from toes to sternum.
Two yards down the counter to the right, the previous customer departed, and Miranda leapt like a gazelle into the vacant spot.
“Next!” an empty-eyed public servant bellowed directly into Miranda’s face. The woman was shorter and wider than Miranda and actually leaned to look around Miranda for the next victim.
“I’m here,” Miranda said with a smile and a timid wave.
The official started and then focused on the front of Miranda’s sundress. “How can I help you?”
Miranda pushed an envelope and her driver’s license across the counter. “I need to change the address on my license, please.”
“You can do that by mail or on-line, y’know.” The tone of voice said, It’s lunkheads like you that cause long lines on hellish days like this!
“I tried,” said Miranda sweetly. “They said I need a new picture taken.” She eased her driver’s license an inch closer to the official, who looked down at it and frowned.
“Where’s your face?”
“Right there in that rectangle, see?”
“That’s not your face, it’s the back of your head! You can’t have the back of your head on your driver’s license!” She angled her shoulders as if to talk over her shoulder, though she continued shouting directly into Miranda’s nose. “Freddie, they can’t have the back of their head on their driver’s license picture, right?”
The shoulders squared up toward Miranda once more. “You gotta have your face in the picture, honey.” Her eyes said, What are you trying to pull, sister?
“I know. They tried and tried. That’s the best we could get. I’m sorry. I just don’t photograph well,” said Miranda. Her eyes said, I’m a sincere, law-abiding citizen, really, truly I am, and it’s not my fault your air conditioner is broken and it’s two hundred degrees in here.
The squatty official pursed her lips, glared at the driver’s license, scowled at Miranda’s collarbone—nobody ever looked Miranda in the face—and after several deep breaths said, “You got proof of the new address? Power bill, phone bill, water bill, mail addressed to you?”
“My first power bill,” Miranda said, sliding the envelope further across the counter.
The official squinted at the address on the correspondence.
“Minokee? Does anybody still live in Minokee?” Then, over the shoulder again, “Freddie, is folks still livin’ in Minokee?” Then, to Miranda, “You really moved to Minokee?”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure did.”
“From where?”
“Miami.”
A satisfied nod at Miranda’s bodice buttons. Explains a lot, said the eyes. “Step over there in front of the blue screen,” the official ordered.
Miranda wove her way across the room to stand in front of the screen and face the digital camera.
Minutes passed. Miranda’s official approached the camera from the other side of the counter, carrying Miranda’s papers, then stood looking about the room. “Ogilvy!” she shrieked. “Miriam Ogilvy!”
From three feet in front of the camera Miranda waved and smiled. “Right here. It’s Miranda. Miranda Ogilvy.”
“Whatever,” said the official. “Look right here.” She tapped a spot on the front of the camera. With her other hand she swatted at a fly trying to roost on the camera lens.
The fly buzzed straight at Miranda’s face, Miranda reacted instinctively, and the result was a high-tech digital photograph of the top of Miranda’s head with her two hands flailing above it like moose antlers.
“Crap,” said the official when the new license rolled out of the laminator. She showed the moose photo to Miranda.
“It’s better than the old one,” Miranda said encouragingly.
The harried official looked at the photo and at the melting masses still waiting in the long, long, long line of customers.
“You’re right,” she said, handing Miranda the new license together with the supporting papers. “Have a nice day.”
“Thank—” Miranda almost said.
“Next!” the woman blared as if nobody was standing right in front of her.
I guess nobody is, thought Miranda and murmured a “Thank you” that nobody heard.
End of Sample Chapter
of
FINDING MIRANDA
by
Iris Chacon
Enjoy these
sample chapters
of
SYLVIE'S COWBOY
Sparks fly – often literally – when a Penthouse Princess is forced to move to the rustic ranch of a Crabby Cowboy. They clash in every way over everything, sometimes hilariously.
It would be funnier, however, if they weren’t in danger from unknown murderous thieves.
Will they live long enough to learn to live together?
CHAPTER ONE – THE RANCH
Rural Florida, Outside Clewiston
Two Days Before the Explosion
A dove gray Mercedes Benz limousine bumped along a winding, rutted dirt road through palmetto bushes, spindly pines, and scrub oaks to stop at an open gate with a rusty cattle gap. On a plank above the gate someone had burned "McGurk Ranch" in simple block letters.
Harry Pace, lean, tanned, and dark-haired with silvering temples, slid out of the limo’s back seat. He gestured to the driver to stay put, and walked over the cattle gap, through the gate.
Harry had walked farther than any sane person wanted to in the sticky Florida heat when at last he soundlessly approached the front door of the ranch’s modest house. He gripped the doorknob. It was locked. He sidled to his left and peered in a window. Nobody inside. From behind the house, he heard someone whistling "Your Cheatin' Heart." Harry smiled to himself and moved in the direction of the music.
In the second-story loft of a hay barn, Walter McGurk was forking hay out the open hay door, sailing it into a battered red pickup truck parked below. The truck's doors were inexplicably yellow. Walt whistled as he worked.
Walt made a heavy job look easy with his strong, athletic build. Sweaty shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealed ropes of muscle undulating in his sun-darkened forearms as he lifted and tossed the hay. His jeans were tight and faded from many washings. His tooled leather belt held a large hunting knife in a weathered cowhide sheath. He wore battered, scuffed cowboy boots.
Harry approached the barn, shieldin
g himself from view beneath a huge avocado tree. When he eased around the tree, a big, ugly dog growled from beneath the red-and-yellow pickup. In the loft overhead, Walt jerked toward the sound and spotted Harry instantly.
"What do you want?" Walt growled, echoing the dog.
"What does any man want when his partners are stealing him blind?" asked Harry, stepping out from beneath the avocado shade.
Walt spun and hurled his pitchfork like a javelin. It thwacked into the ground a hair's breadth from Harry's boots. Only Harry's eyes moved.
"You ain't stupid enough to be talkin' about me," said Walt. "I ain’t a thief. Fact, I'm the only half of this partnership that ever does an honest day's work. So, what do you want?"
Walt used the hayloft's rope and pulley to swing Tarzan-like to the ground. He paced to the truck, drying his face and wiping perspiration out of his hat with a bandana from his pocket. Walt opened the truck’s passenger door and helped himself to water from an Igloo cooler.
Harry walked around the grounded pitchfork to join Walt at the truck. Walt filled a paper cup with water from the Igloo, but when Harry reached for it, Walt offered it instead to the ill-tempered dog lying under the truck. Unperturbed, Harry got his own cup of water. Then he turned his back on Walt and toyed with a heavy avocado drooping from a branch.
"Spit it out, will ya?" said Walt, helping himself to water from the paper cup he had shared with the dog. "Butch and me got things to do."
Harry didn't turn around. "I was gonna ask you to help me when I make my play to get back what they stole," Harry said to the avocado. "But it occurs to me you're probably gettin' too old and too slow."
Behind Harry, Walt bent to reach beneath his jeans and pull a pistol out of an ankle holster.
"I’m twenty years younger than you, old timer, and I can still chop my own guacamole," said Walt.
Harry snapped the avocado from the tree. The branch recoiled, bucking and swinging. Harry feinted one way, then reversed direction, turned, and threw the avocado high. It soared like a miniature green football far over Walt's head.
Walt fired three quick shots, each one chopping a piece off the airborne avocado.
Avocado chunks rained down and littered the grass. Harry walked through them, turning them over with the toe of his boot. Walt slid the pistol back into his own boot. Harry gave him a satisfied nod.
"I want you to take care of Sylvie," Harry said.
Walt shook his head. "I ain't up to spoiling your daughter for ya. You done too well already on that, if ya ask me."
Harry gave him a hard look. "Don't spoil her," he said. "Take care of her."
"You take care of her. Ain’t seen her in nearly ten years. You and I both know she’d be happy if she never saw me again.”
"I’ll be busy,” said Harry. “Gonna give some big city thieves a dose of their own medicine."
"And if they don't want to swallow it?"
Harry turned to leave, speaking almost to himself as he retraced the route to the limo. "Then we'll find out whether I'm gettin' too old and too slow."
Butch rose from beneath the truck, and Walt absently rubbed the dog's ears as he watched Harry go. Walt's brow furrowed, and there was both anger and worry in his voice when he shouted, "I got a good life here, Harry. Don't you mess it up for me, y'hear?! Harry?! I mean it, now."
Harry kept walking. He never looked back.
"Shoot!" said Walt in disgust. He splattered a hunk of avocado with a kick and snatched up the pitchfork to return to work. Harry was gone. Whatever would happen, would happen.
A cellular phone rang inside the truck. Walt walked over, leaned in, and plucked the phone from its holster on the dashboard.
"McGurk," he said into the phone. He listened, then responded, "Was that tonight? ... No, no problem. I just forgot is all. ... Clarice, people forget. It don't mean they don't love people. They just forget. I'll pick you up at seven. ... Fine. 'Bye."
He slammed the phone back into its holster and gave Butch an exasperated look. "I think what we need is one more fancy-planning, crazy-talkin', lipstick-wearin' tower of estrogen in our lives right now, don't you?"
"Woof!" said Butch.
CHAPTER TWO – THE OFFICE
Downtown Miami
One Day Before the Explosion
Leslye Larrimore was a 50-ish, elegantly coiffed woman who sported designer business attire and balanced effortlessly on five-inch stiletto heels. Leslye's office at Pace-Larrimore, Incorporated, was an expansive, opulent room with a stunning city view. Mahogany and brass shone everywhere around her as she read her mail at a desk the size of an aircraft carrier.
Harry Pace entered without knocking and sprawled in one of the elegant, upholstered guest chairs across from the desk. Leslye set her mail aside.
"Missed you at Sylvie's last Saturday," she said.
"I doubt if my daughter would agree with you," said Harry. "Surely Dan Stern was there to fill the void."
"Jealous? Harry, really."
"I'm not jealous, Les. I'm her father."
"And he's your business partner," said Leslye. "I should think you'd be pleased that they like each other. She's not daddy's little girl any longer, Harry. She's going to have other men in her life."
"Fine. Let her have other men. Les, can't you get Stern to lay off?"
"You want him to lay off, you tell him. Why are you so against Danny all of a sudden?"
Harry pursed his lips and clinched his fists. He bounced one fist on his knee. "He'll get his tail in a crack someday and do something desperate to get himself out of it. Heck, he may have done it already. I don't want Sylvie to be caught in a crossfire."
Leslye smiled and used her most soothing tones. "I really think you're overreacting," she said. "I don't see any of that happening. Really I don't."
Harry pushed himself up from the chair like a much older man. "I'll pass on dinner tonight, Les, if you don't mind," he told her. "Think I'll go out to the boat and spend the weekend alone. Try to get my perspective back. Chill out. Okay?"
Leslye couldn't quite hide her disappointment, but she tried. "Sure, Harry," she said. "You take care of yourself. It'll all look better Monday morning. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."
"Yeah, maybe not," said Harry. He left her office, closing the door behind him.
Immediately, Leslye dialed a number on her desk phone. She was irritated when she reached an electronic device instead of a human.
"Stupid machine," she said beneath her breath. Then, into the phone, she said, "Yeah, it's me. Call me at home when you get in, no matter how late."
Then she hung up the phone and chewed at the edges of her expensive manicure.
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
It was 2:45 a.m. by the digital bedside clock when Leslye’s cellphone vibrated with a loud clatter on the nightstand and she writhed across silk sheets to answer it.
"Hello," she said, and looked at the clock while listening to the caller. "Well, it's about time. Listen, I think we'd better pay Harry a visit first thing in the morning. This thing could blow up in our faces if we're not careful. Meet me at the marina at nine thirty."
Without giving the other party a chance to argue, Leslye hung up and went back to sleep.
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
Dinner Key Marina, Coconut Grove, Florida
The Day of the Explosion
A silver Bentley pulled in and parked beside the black Jaguar sedan in the yacht basin parking lot. The Jaguar disgorged Leslye Larrimore, who immediately approached a younger man, in Ostrich-skin boots, who angled out of the Bentley.
Attorney Larrimore slung her Louis Vuitton briefcase over her shoulder and extended her hand to the man. He shook her hand perfunctorily before shoving his soft, manicured hands into his pockets, ruining the perfect drape of his linen Euro-style slacks. “Where’s Pace? It’s hot out here,” he said. Leslye focused her practiced charm at him and assured, “It’ll be cooler on the boat.”
“It would be cooler in your office,” he m
uttered. “This is what I get for kowtowing to Harry Pace. I know you like him, Leslye, but let’s face it, Harry is a certifiable kook.”
Leslye touched the man’s elbow and steered him toward the nearby pier.
“Where are we meeting him?” he asked, scanning the yachts lining both sides of the long, floating pier.
“Out there,” Leslye pointed to a sailing vessel moored a hundred yards out into the bay.
“Of course we are,” the man sighed.
Together they walked to the end of the central pier, where Leslye flagged down a marina employee in a Zodiac pontoon runabout. In moments the Zodiac had pulled up directly before the couple, and it’s pilot helped them board the twelve-foot inflatable.
Leslye negotiated the pier-to-craft transfer with amazing poise even in a pencil skirt and high heels. The man in Ostrich boots removed his suit jacket and loosened his collar; he produced a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his head and face.
“Can we hurry this along, please,” he said, commanding rather than asking.
Leslye’s smile never faltered. She gestured to the pilot, and the Zodiac putt-putted away from the pier.
Minutes later the runabout, with its company of three, was about halfway between the shore and an out-moored sailing yacht with "Helen" in florid gold lettering on the stern. Leslye delved into her briefcase and lifted her cellphone.
"I'll just let Harry know we're here," she said.
Seconds later, the faint ring of a telephone could be heard coming from the Helen – and a deafening blast vaporized the yacht in a cloud of fire and debris.
Concussion from the explosion rocked the Zodiac. Leslye, her companion, and the marina employee hid their faces from the glaring flames and covered their heads from falling debris. The marina employee shouted “Mister Pace!” and moved as if to dive overboard and attempt a rescue.