Рита Браун - Pay Dirt

He opened the door and Little Marilyn greeted him. "Welcome to the home of James and Elizabeth Monroe. Unfortunately our hours are ten to five during the summer and it's five-thirty now. I'm terribly sorry, but you'll have to come back tomorrow."

"I'm not going anywhere." He brushed right by her.

Laura heard this exchange from the parlor and joined Marilyn. Harry and Blair remained in the living room. Aysha was downstairs in the summer kitchen and Kerry was closing up the slave quarters.

"You'll have to leave." Little Marilyn pursed her lips.

"Where's Malibu?" His guttural voice added to his visual menace.

"In California." Blair strode into the front hall.

The biker sized him up and down. Blair was a tall man, broad-shouldered, and in splendid condition. This was no push-over.

"You the resident comedian?" The biker reached into his vest and pulled out a little switchblade. He expertly flipped it open with one hand and began to pick his teeth.

"I am for today." Blair folded his arms across his chest. Harry, too, stepped into the hall behind Blair. "These ladies have informed you that Ash Lawn will be open tomorrow morning. Come back then."

"I don't give a frig about this pile. I want Malibu. I know she's here."

"Who's Malibu?" Harry wedged forward. It occurred to her that the biker's pupils were most likely dilated or the reverse, and he wore sunglasses to cover that fact. He was on something and it wasn't aspirin.

"A thieving slut!" the biker exploded. "I've tracked her down and I know she's here."

"She couldn't possibly be here," Marilyn replied. "All of us who work here know one another and we've never heard of a Malibu."

"Lady, you just never heard die name. She's cunning. She'll hypnotize you, take what she wants, and then strike like a snake!" He pointed his two front fingers at her like fangs and made a striking motion.

Out of the corner of her eye Harry saw Aysha enter through the back door. She could see Kerry out back also on her way to the main house. The biker didn't see them. Harry backtracked, her hands behind her, holding them up in a stop signal. Blair by now had his hand on the biker's shoulder and was gently turning him around toward the front door.

"Come on. You won't find her today. Half the staff's already gone home." Blair's voice oozed reassurance. "I know what you mean, some women are like cobras."

The two men walked outside. Mrs. Murphy stared up at them. The biker smelled like cocaine sweat and grease. She put great store by smell.

The gruff man's voice quivered a touch. "This one, man, this one, oh, you don't know the things she can do to you. She plays with your body and messes with your mind. The only thing she ever really loved was the dollar."

Blair realized he would have to walk this fellow with the stoned expression all the way to his bike because he wasn't budging off the front porch. "Show me your bike."

Mrs. Murphy darted from bush to bush, keeping the men in sight and hearing every word. Tucker dashed ahead of her.

"Tucker, stay behind them."

"You're always telling me what to do!"

"Because you act first and think later. Stay behind That way if Blair needs help this guy won't know you're there. The element of surprise."

" Well —"The dog realized the cat had a point.

"She wanted to make enough money to sit home, to be a lady." He laughed derisively. "I thought she was joking. A lady ?"

Blair arrived at the sleek machine, resting on its kickstand. "Bet she hums."

"Yeah, power to burn."

Blair ran his hand over the gas tank. "Had a Triumph Bonneville once. Leaked oil, but she could sing, you know?"

"Good bike." The fellow's lower lip protruded, a sign of agreement, approval.

"Started out with a Norton. How 'bout you?"

"liked those English bikes, huh?" He leaned against the motorcycle. "Harleys. Always Harieys with me. Started out with a 1960 Hog, 750cc, in pieces. Put her back together. Then I put together a Ducati for a buddy of mine, and before I knew it, I had more work than I could handle."

"BMWs?"

The biker shook his head. "Not for me. Great machines but no soul. And that piston instead of a chain drive—you shift gears on one of those things and it's a lurch. Kill your crotch." He laughed, revealing strong, straight teeth. " 'Course there's no more chains, you know. They use Kevlar." He pointed to the space-age material that had replaced the chain.

"My dad had an Indian." Blair's eyes glazed. "What I wouldn't give for that bike today."

"An Indian. No shit. Hey, man, let me buy you a beer. We've got some serious talking to do."

"Thanks, but my date is waiting for me back at the house. Take a raincheck though." Blair inclined his head back toward Ash Lawn, where Harry stood at the end of the entrance walk. She wanted to make sure Blair was okay.

"I'm staying at the Best Western."

"Okay, thanks." Blair smiled.

"I'm not going anywhere until I find that bitch."

"You seem determined. I'm sure you will."

The biker tapped his head with his fist. "Box of rocks, man, box of rocks, but I never give up. Until then, buddy." He hopped on his machine, turned the key, a velvet purr filling the air. Then he slowly rolled down the driveway.

Mrs. Murphy watched him recede. " Motorcycles were invented to thin out the male herd ."

Tucker laughed as they fell in with Blair.

"What were you doing out there?" Harry asked as the other women came out of the house and crowded around Blair.

"Talking about motorcycles."

"With that certain?" Marilyn was incredulous.

"Oh, he's not so bad. He's searching for his girlfriend and he's staying at the Best Western until he finds her. I might even have a beer with the guy. He's kind of interesting."

Both Kerry and Aysha had been informed of the search for Malibu.

Laura said, "You're not afraid of him?"

"No. He's harmless. Just a little loaded, that's all."

"Long as you're not Malibu, maybe he is harmless." Harry laughed.

"Can you imagine anyone named Malibu?" Aysha's frosty tone was drenched in social superiority.

"Think my life would improve if I rechristened myself Chattanooga?" Kerry joked for the others' benefit. She wanted to smash in Aysha's face.

"Intercourse. Change your name to Intercourse and you'll see some sizzle." Harry giggled.

"Ah, yes." Laura Freeley's patrician voice, its perfect cadence, added weight to her every utterance. "If I recall my Pennsylvania geography, Intercourse isn't far from Blue Ball."

"Ladies"—Blair bowed his head—"how you talk."

3

The John Deere dealership, a low brick building on Route 250, parked its new tractors by the roadside. These green and yellow enticements made Harry's mouth water. Probably a thousand motorists passed the tractors each day on their way into Char-lottesville. The county was filling with new people, service people who bought enormous houses squeezed on five acres—riding mowers were their speed. They probably didn't lust after these machines sitting in a neat row. But country people, they'd drive by at dusk, stop the car, and walk around the latest equipment.

Harry's tractor, a 1958 John Deere 420S row crop tractor, hauled a manure spreader, pulled a small bushhog, and felt like a friend. Her father had bought the tractor new and lovingly cared for it. Harry's service manual, a big book, was filled with his notations now crowded by her own. The smaller operator's manual, ragged and thumbed, was protected in a plastic cover.

Johnny Pop, as Doug Minor dubbed his machine, still popped and chugged. Last year Harry bought a new set of rear tires. The originals had finally succumbed. Given this proven reliability, Harry wanted another John Deere, the Rolls-Royce of tractors. Not that she planned to retire Johnny Pop, but a tractor in the seventy-five-horsepower range with a front end loader and special weights for the rear wheels could accomplish many of the larger, more difficult tasks on her farm that were beyond Johnny Pops modest horsepower. The base price of what she needed ran about $29,000 sans attachments. Her heart sank each time she remembered the cost, quite impossible on a postmistress's wage.