James Burke - In the Moon of Red Ponies

The restaurant’s main dining area and the bar across the foyer were crowded. Outside, on the terrace, a jazz combo played under a striped canopy, the sun a soft orange ball above the hills behind the railroad tracks.

“I’m glad you got reservations,” Darrel said.

“You have to. On Saturday night university types take over everything,” she said.

“It’s that kind of town, all right,” he said.

She ordered wine and he a glass of seltzer with a slice of lime.

“You don’t drink?” she said.

“Not too often. But I can if I want to,” he replied.

“When do you want to?” she said, and smiled when she said it.

“When I feel like it. I just never had the taste for it.”

“Give me the sirloin, well done, sour cream and chives on the baked potato. No butter,” she told the waiter.

“Yeah, same for me,” Darrel said.

During dinner he realized she spoke to no one at the other tables, although her eyes seemed to take note, without personal interest, of everyone in the room. She had firm arms, square shoulders, a small cleft in her chin, and medium-size hands with clipped, pink nails. She ate with a good appetite and midway through the meal ordered another glass of wine. “Sure you won’t join me?” she said.

“Why not?” he said, nodding to the waiter.

Later, she had Bavarian cake for dessert, and when the waiter brought coffee, she looked sated, happy, her face a bit flushed. She didn’t order anything else to drink and he knew she wasn’t a real boozer. “I always like the food here,” she said.

“I’ve been looking into that guy Dixon’s background. You know, the rodeo guy?” he said casually.

She picked up her spoon from her coffee saucer and looked at it and put it back down. “I think I already told you I strayed into a dalliance with Wyatt. It was my fault, not his. But I’m not really interested in hearing any more about him,” she said.

“The Feds say he writes letters to the President. He’s a definite head case.”

He looked out the window, waiting for her reaction. “Is this why you asked me out?” she said.

“I shouldn’t have brought this guy up. Cops have a hard time getting off the clock. That’s why they hang out together. Lot of times in late night bars. I’m glad you wanted to go to dinner tonight.”

She let her eyes rove around the dining room, her thoughts veiled. “Ever been married?” she asked.

“For a little while. I was in the Army, moving around from place to place.”

“You seem like a frank man. What do you think of me?”

“You’re a classy lady. I got a feeling we’re a lot alike,” Darrel said.

“Who knows?” she said.

“Want to take a walk down by the river? There’s a concert in the park tonight. Actually, my apartment is across the river from the park. Sometimes I listen to the music on my balcony,” he said.

“You saying you want to go to the concert or to your apartment?”

“Whatever,” he replied.

She rested her chin on her fist and looked directly into his face again. “You go to Vegas or Reno very much?” she said.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Because I go there, too. Know why?” she said.

“ ’Cause you never know what’s going to happen next. Twenty-four hours a day, you can have any kind of adventure you want,” he replied.

She kept her eyes on his and kissed the air with her lips.

A few minutes later, he and Greta were sitting on a grass embankment by the river and listening to a band pound out “The Eight-Thirty Blues.” The park was crowded with college kids, young couples with children, Frisbee throwers, skateboarders, hobos who slept in the willows along the riverbank, and punked-out street people who dealt drugs in the shadows by the public restrooms and looked as if they had been shot out of a cannon.

But Darrel had little interest in street dealers or the strips of maroon cloud on the mountains in the west or the yellow light that filled the sky or the breeze that blew off the water and smelled of fern and wet stone. Instead, his entire attentions were now focused on two people dancing on the clipped lawn in front of the bandstand-Amber Finley and Johnny American Horse.

Amber wore a knee-length black spaghetti-strap dress and Mexican cowboy boots, and danced with her fists held in the air, swinging her hips from side to side, kicking one booted foot when she made a turn, totally indifferent to the impression she made on anyone else. By contrast, Johnny American Horse looked like a post, his face shaded by a light-colored Stetson, his skin dark, his black jeans and tight-fitting silver shirt stretched to splitting on the leanness of his body.

Greta’s eyes followed Darrel’s line of vision.

“A penny for your thoughts,” she said.

“The country’s turning into a toilet,” he replied.

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

He picked a blade of glass off his shoe and flicked it into the breeze. “I guess not,” he said.

“You want to go?” she asked.

“I’ll go get us a couple of snow cones, then we’ll see,” he said.

He worked his way through the crowd to the concession stands that had been set up under a huge canvas awning. The band had stopped playing and he could see Amber and Johnny by the bandstand, talking to the musicians, Johnny’s arm draped across her shoulder. Darrel felt his jaw tighten, the fingernails of his right hand rake across the heel of his palm.

Then Amber left the lawn area and walked directly toward him, the black fringe on her dress swishing on her knees, the yellow light in the sky reflecting on her shoulders.

“Your snow cones, sir,” the kid at the concession stand said.

“What?” Darrel replied.

“Your snow cones? You want them?”

Darrel took one in each hand and found himself standing in Amber’s path, awkward, stupid-looking, like a giant clod just arrived from Nebraska, grains of colored ice sliding down his hands and wrists. Why was she bearing down on him? What had he done wrong this time? “Hi, Amber,” he said.

She turned, her blue eyes searching for the voice that had called her name. Then he realized she had been completely unaware of his presence in the crowd.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“Checking out the music,” he said, trying to smile.

“ What is your problem? Are you following me again?”

“No.”

“You peek through my windows, you come to my house uninvited, you beat up my boyfriend with a blackjack, and now you trail your BO into the concert I’m attending. Do you see a pattern here?”

People were turning to stare now. His face was burning, his armpits sweating inside his coat. He tried to find words to speak but couldn’t. He shoved his way through the crowd back toward the grass embankment where Greta waited for him. Behind him he thought he heard people laughing.

Greta pulled the snow cones out of his hands. “You look terrible. Sit down. What happened over there?” she said.

“Senator Finley’s daughter holds a grudge. It’s no big deal,” he said.

“Who cares? She’s a brat who should have had her butt pounded a long time ago,” Greta said. She got up from the grass and threw the snow cones in a trash barrel. “Come on, big fellow. Show me where you live.”

She walked a few steps toward the parking lot, then turned and waited for him to follow.

They drove across the bridge and turned into a shady side street that bordered the river. But he couldn’t concentrate. He had started out the evening convinced he was investigating both ecoterrorists and a rogue intelligence operation. Now he’d been made a public fool and he was in the company of a woman whose complexities and motivations he couldn’t begin to guess at. He felt like a man being pushed into a fistfight after his arms had been torn off.