Vicky Banning (14 page)

“
Horseback
riding?” Vicky exclaimed to Roger on the phone. “I haven’t been on a horse since I was a girl in merry old
England
. Tally-ho,
yoikes
, and all that sort of nonsense…never did understand what they were carrying on about.”

“Steve and I want you to join us,” Roger said. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Don’t you think people would look at us as we were a little strange?” Vicky asked.

There was a pause before Roger asked, “Why strange?”

Vicky grinned. “Two young men and a little old lady…all riding side-saddle?”

Another moment of silence passed, before a wave of laughter burst forth from Roger. “Smart ass. Well, if you prefer, we can have you outfitted with a western saddle and a ten gallon hat.”

Vicky giggled. “Western saddles are obscene, that great big horn up front. No, thank you, but I’ll tell you what. If you invite…” She was going to suggest inviting
Doris
along, but caught herself. Vicky was too fond of animals to subject one of them to endure such a heavy burden.
Doris
probably wouldn’t appreciate the position she’d find herself in as well. Accepting a challenge is one thing, but to attempt the ludicrous is just…well…ludicrous!

“What were you going to say?” Roger asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Vicky said. “Just a fleeting thought. Where are the stables you’re going to?”

“The Mount High Stables, about ten miles east of here. They’ve got some great horses, and the paths winding up through the mountains are beautiful.”

“Any chance of getting lost?”

“’
Fraid
not, ma’am,” Roger drawled. “Them
thar
trails are all clearly marked.”

“Pity,” Vicky said. “I think I’ll pass this time. It sounds much too predictable. But thanks for the invite, really.” She hung up the phone.
Horseback riding, indeed.
At her age? She did have
some
limits after all. Riding had been fun when she was younger—but just the riding. She and Gerald had been invited on a foxhunt once, when they’d visited
England
many years before. Though she was tempted (only because the red jackets and perky little caps were “darling”), they did not accept the invitation. “Killing helpless animals is not really our choice of an afternoon’s entertainment,” she told the hostess.

They were not invited back.

* * * *

“Sarah, dear,” Vicky said as the van started off toward town. She’d decided to join one of
Doris
’s shopping sojourns. “I heard of a delightful little café at the corner of Fourth and
Main
, called
Macky’s
, and I thought I’d try it for lunch. Would you care to join me?”

“Fourth and Main?” Sarah looked askance at her. “That’s not exactly a “delightful” part of town. You sure it’s a nice place?”

“It must be,” Vicky said. “A lovely young police officer mentioned it to me on my first visit here. He said that residents were of an extremely select group of people, but they keep quiet about the restaurant so that the word doesn’t spread and the place becomes too well known.”

Sarah laughed. “Well, if anyone could find a jewel in that part of town, I’m sure it would be you. Sure, I’ll try it out with you. What the heck.”

“Heck?” Vicky cried, using her best
Theda-Bara-shocked-look
. “Sarah! Shame on you. Such language!”

Sarah grinned, attempting to hide her slight embarrassment. “You see?” she said, her purple curls bouncing as she nodded. “It’s all your fault. Because of you, I’ve begun speaking like a truck driver.”

Vicky laughed. “Sarah
Carstairs
, truck driver in drag,” and laughed all the harder at Sarah’s exaggerated bulldog frown.

They decided to window-shop along
Main Street
on their way to Fourth, Vicky casing the stores for future “ventures.” As they strolled toward the lower-numbered streets, the shops became seedier and the streets grubbier. It was as if the sidewalks, because they needed repairs and cleaning more than the higher-numbered streets, were found undeserving.

The windows of
Macky’s
Café were streaked, as if on purpose to keep prying eyes from viewing what was beyond them. A mosaic-print paper covered the lower halves of the windows flanking the door, topped by twin neon
Ballantine
Beer
signs, glowing feebly pink in the sunshine.

“
Trés
chic,
” Vicky said, observing Sarah from the corners of her eyes. “How cleverly they’ve disguised the place to look like a dive. All their energies must be concentrated on the
haute cuisine
.”

“Are you kidding?” Sarah said, glancing sidelong at her. “If this place has anything more
haute
than chiliburgers, I’ll pick up the check.”

“Deal,” said Vicky and stepped with Sarah into
Macky’s
, their summery dresses crossing the threshold from the brightness into gloom. But the interior wasn’t as bad as Vicky had feared. A long, brightly polished bar extended to the rear on the left, and small tables covered with red-checkered cloths tables lined the dark paneled walls on the right. It was like entering a furnished tunnel.

A waitress in a pink outfit and with frizzy, blond hair sat at the far end of the bar, talking with the bartender and two men, presumably customers. All turned as the ladies entered, and watched as they settled themselves at a table near the front. Vicky saw the woman turn to the bartender and shrug. She swiveled on the barstool, lifted a pad from her apron pocket, and crossed to their table. Her steps were slow and tentative, as if her shoes were too tight.
Poor thing,
Vicky thought,
she probably works for low wages and hardly any tips.

“Hi,” the waitress said with half a smile, looking more curious than friendly. “Can I help you?” She seemed hesitant, uneasy before the strangers.

“Yes, Candy,” Vicky said with pleasant lightness, reading the embroidered name on the lacy handkerchief above the waitress’s breast. “We’d like to see the menu, please.”

“We don’t got no menus,” Candy said. “All we got is burgers and chili. You wanna beer or
somethin
’ first?”

Vicky avoided looking at Sarah. “I think a beer would be lovely,” she said. “Thank you.”

“And you, lady?” Candy asked Sarah, without looking up.

“Just a ginger ale for me, please.”

“
Haute
cuisine, huh?” Sarah said as Candy hobbled off, writing intently in her pad. “I hope the tab doesn’t break you.”

“Well, think of it this way. We’re experiencing a taste of rural
America
. Good old American chow.”

“Chili?” Sarah said, not suppressing a smile.

“After all,
Mexico
is in
America
,” Vicky explained. “
North America
,
Latin America
,
n’est
pas
?”

Sarah laughed out loud, covering her mouth with a hand, embarrassed at her own outburst. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll let you have the last word. What are you going to have,
le
hamburgeur
or
el chili
,
Julia Child, honey
?”

“Maybe I’ll have the Steak
Tartare
,” Vicky said haughtily.

“I’ll bet you won’t,” said Sarah.

“And why not?”

“Because your dentures would crack on the ice, that’s why not. They’re sure to be frozen.”

Vicky frowned. “
Touché.
”

After Candy brought the drinks, she took their orders and left. Vicky said, “I want to speak to the bartender for a minute. I’ll be right back.” Before Sarah could protest, she rushed to the bar and waved to the man who was wearing a long, white apron that was hard pressed to cover his generous belly.

“In the back to the right, lady,” he called, strolling toward her and waving.

“Thanks,” Vicky called back, “but that’s not what I want right now. I want to get in touch with a guy named Gene.” She watched his face turn wary, his close-set eyes narrow with suspicion.

“There’s
lotsa
Genes,” he said. “
Whatcha
want ‘
im
for?”

“Business,” Vicky replied, lowering her voice. “
Our
business. Is he here?” She gestured with her head at the men seated at the far end.

“Maybe,” he said gruffly and waited, facing her squarely. Vicky stared back at him until he moved. “I’ll find out,” he said finally.

She watched him form a huddle with the two men, faced them as they looked along the stretch of bar at her with surprise and a touch of curiosity. One of the men, a gaunt individual dressed in jeans and a soiled T-shirt, cocked his head as he stared at her, studying, as if trying to decide if he’d ever seen her before. He shrugged, backed off the barstool, and strolled toward Vicky with an angular swagger, as if trying to look imposing—but failing miserably.

“My name’s Gene, ma’am,” he said. “You want me?”

Not on my worst day
, thought Vicky, but smiled as she studied his triangular-shaped face. His eyebrow, one, ran from temple to temple above gray eyes that shone as if oiled. His voice was reedy, forced out through pale lips from his clarinet-thin body.

“I’m Sophie
LaTour
,” she said, “and I’m looking for some
stuff
for my girls.” She extended a limp-wristed hand, hoping he wouldn’t take it.

He didn’t, but looked down at it as if he didn’t know what it was for, then peered up at her from under his brow. “What kinda
stuff
you
talkin
’ about, lady? ” He asked. “I’m in the construction business.”

“Then construct me some grass,” she said with a smirk, thinking that he’d do well to construct himself a new body. “I don’t allow my girls to drink while they’re on duty, but they do need something to keep up their spirits. Get my meaning?”

“Girls?” Gene queried, his brow dipping in the center. “You
lookin
’ for
somethin
’ for your daughters?”

Vicky sniggered, shaking her head. “Not my
daughters
, sonny, my
girls
, my
workin
’ girls. I run a ‘house’ in the next town, a very special kinda house, if you know what I mean.” She winked at him and motioned toward Sarah, who was taking a tentative bite of her
hamburgeur
. “Honey, there, is my chief money-maker.”

Gene turned to look, then gape. A high-pitched cackle broke from between his lips, making them disappear altogether. “Her?” he squawked. “The one with the purple fright wig and the clown-white makeup? You gotta be
kiddin
’! She’s old enough to be—”

“Watch it, sonny,” Vicky warned. “She’s younger than I am and has plenty of hidden talent. We cater only to an older clientele with plenty of money, who want discreet relationships with women who no one would ever suspect of working ‘under cover,’ if you get my drift. You’ve probably never heard of them, but there are
lotsa
men who prefer women their own age and not ‘
Twiggies
.” So cool it and let’s get down to business.”

Gene narrowed his eyes and smirked. “I don’t believe you, lady. Where’s your so-called house located? I ain’t never heard of anything like that around here.”

Vicky glared. “That’s none of your business,” she spat. “I’m not asking where you get your supplies from, so don’t nose into where I make my money. You couldn’t afford the rates my girls charge anyway, so you don’t need the location. Now, what stuff you got, what quality, and how much is it?”

“My customers come recommended,” Gene said. “Who told you about me?”

“The
heat
,” said Vicky, figuring that the truth would allay some of his suspicions that she was a “plant.” “It was easy. I just asked a helpful young officer where I shouldn’t go if I wanted to avoid ‘
pot’
dealers. This place was the one place he mentioned. You guys must have quite a reputation. I’d think about moving on if I were you…after you deliver my goods.”

“What ‘heat?’” Gene exclaimed. “You sound like an old TV cop show. Nobody knows I’m here.”