Sylvie's Cowboy
his
ministrations. “Right now I’m counting your ribs, if you have any
left. How could you let Stern pull a stunt like that?”
    Walt gasped in pain when the polo shirt was
wrenched over his head. “I’d have taught him a stunt or two of my
own if they had let me back in that match.”
    Harry prodded at Walt’s ribcage, where
picturesque bruises were already blooming. “No dice, son. You were
colder than a mackerel for a minute there. You don’t get to finish
the match after you take a hit that puts your lights out like
that.”
    Without warning, Harry pounded Walt on the
back in a congratulatory manner, nearly knocking him off the table.
“Nothing serious, kiddo. You’ll bruise up some. Better see Clarice
on the way home, let her tape you up.”
    After that unexpected clout, Walt didn’t stop
seeing stars until Harry was gone. “Thanks a million,” Walt said to
the empty room.
    ...
    The two-hour drive from Palm Beach to
Clewiston nearly killed Walt. Every dip in the road nauseated him
with pain. The upside was that the bruised ribs kept him awake
enough to drive when all he wanted to do was slump into oblivion
and sleep for weeks.
    He took Harry’s advice and, instead of
driving directly to the ranch, stopped outside the doublewide
mobile home that belonged to Clarice.
    Through the window, he could see that she was
watching Wheel of Fortune on her kitchen portable while shelling
peas into a bowl. On her kitchen counter he saw jars of preserves
and vegetables exactly like the ones in his own refrigerator. He
knocked on her front door.
    “Come on in, it’s open!” Clarice called from
the kitchen. She heard the door open and close. She heard footsteps
approach through the living room. When he got to the kitchen door,
she looked up. “Oh, lordy, he’s back.”
    Walt slumped into the nearest kitchen chair.
“I sincerely hope you got somethin’ stronger than aspirin in the
house.”
    “You look like an ugly old tomcat I had once.
Always huntin’ a fight and comin’ home chewed up. Stupid cat.” She
turned her eyes from him back to her peas and television. “Go take
a shower. Then I’ll see what I can do.”
    Walt hauled himself out of the chair and off
to the bathroom. He didn’t have to ask directions.
    …
    Walt came out of the bathroom wearing jeans
and no shirt. Clarice was waiting for him and motioned for him to
sit on the edge of the bed. Since she was fully dressed, and he
would have to improve in order to die, there was no question of
hanky panky in that bedroom this night.
    Walt settled himself on the edge of the bed,
and Clarice began applying tape around his injured ribs. Walt
explained what had happened on the polo field that day, leaving out
his desire to murder Dan Stern if the opportunity presented
itself.
    “Dang!” he said, partly because she had
jostled a painful rib and partly on general principles. “It’s a
crying shame to kill a smart, sweet pony like that one. Breaks my
heart. But at least—Ah! Careful!—at least I guess I made Sylvie
happy. I paid for the horse I shot.”
    Clarice looked at him in disbelief. “You paid
her for a dead horse. And did anybody remind you that,
incidentally, you owned that horse.”
    “Technically, I only owned half of it.”
    “Uh-huh. Do I have to tell you which end was
yours?”
    “How about a little sym—Ouch! —sympathy,
Clarice? I’ve been injured in the line of duty, after all.”
    “I thought you had better sense. Why don’t
you let Harry Pace do his own dirty work? Why do you have to get
yourself killed keeping an eye on her?”
    Walt kept his face blank and his voice
neutral. “Haven’t you heard? Harry Pace is dead.”
    Clarice finished her taping and stood back to
give him a look. “As we say in Spain, toro poopoo.”
    Walt stood and eased into a clean shirt she
handed him from a nearby laundry basket. He took a stab at tucking
the shirttail in, but quickly gave up the idea and left it hanging
out. Maybe tomorrow. He

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