Tortoise Soup (12 page)

“Wait a minute, guys. This is now going too far,” I protested.

But Deloyd chimed in, thrilled at having a hand in deciding my fate. “Hey! How about we sentence her for something like treason? What do you think? That oughta make all those big government honcho types sit up and listen.”

It certainly worked wonders on me. I slowly backed out of the circle on shaky legs toward my Blazer. I had almost reached the vehicle when the three musketeers moved in unison to stop me. Quickly jumping inside, I closed the door just as Deloyd reached for the handle. I immediately pushed the button down and locked myself in, then caught sight of Randall creeping up along the passenger side.

Picking up on my panic, Pilot bared his teeth and let loose a warning growl before hurtling himself against the car door. His massive head lunged through the open window, where he barked and snarled at the men lurking outside. For a moment, I wasn’t sure it was actually any safer in my vehicle with my demon dog. Through all the frenzy, I spotted Randall raising a gun in Pilot’s direction. I immediately pulled the SIG-Sauer from the back of my pants and took careful aim.

“Do it and you’re a dead man,” I warned.

Randall took his time, probably weighing the risks. I decided to help him along by slowly pulling back on the hammer. It took Harley to break up the standoff.

“Okay. That’s enough,” he said. “Nobody’s gonna harm you, Porter. It was just a little game. You’d better be on your way.”

I immediately turned on the engine and backed out of Harley’s drive, never taking my eyes off the three men, who stared back at me in turn. I made my way down the dirt path, past the twig, the bush, and the creek that had led me in, constantly checking my rearview mirror for any sign that the game had continued. But not a cowboy was to be seen.

I hit the main road and floored the accelerator, relieved at having made it back to the blacktop alive. Glancing over toward Pilot, I suddenly felt grateful that I hadn’t been alone. I grinned and finally relaxed.

Then, as often happens, fear was replaced by ravenous hunger. I tore through the blueberry muffin I’d picked up at the Gold Bonanza and was about to chomp down the tuna on rye when Pilot whimpered, sounding like a tiny, frail puppy. His giant paw landed on my arm, nearly knocking us off the road, and he licked my hand, his nose twitching toward the food.

“Okay, partner. Point made. It’s fifty-fifty from now on.”

Splitting the sandwich in half, I gave Pilot his due.

This seemed as good
a time as any to meet the man of the hour, County Commissioner Ed Garrett. On top of everything else that I knew about him, I’d recently heard he was pushing a proposal to have federal law enforcement agents give up their weapons—the reason being that armed-to-the-teeth ranchers, like those I’d just met, were afraid of agents like little ole me walking around with a gun. While I was supposed to travel the road with nothing more lethal than a Coke can, it was deemed all right for overzealous westerners to be festooned with everything from handguns to bazookas that could be used to blow me away. Because of all this, Garrett had become as popular as Elvis and was now the star attraction at local rallies.

The Virgin Mountains disappeared behind me as I tore down the road, my sights set on Vegas. I hadn’t been sure what to expect when I first landed in town. What I found was a sea of polyester and varicose veins. Tourism drives the city, which is dominated by the Strip, a three-and-a-half-mile runway of wall-to-wall casinos inundated with visitors in bright jogging suits and bulging fanny packs, where the only high heels are those to be found on hookers. Squadrons of senior citizens traveling via Nikes ply the Strip both night and day. Plastic cups filled with quarters in hand, they roam in bands from one glitzy hotel to the next with deadened eyes, praying for luck and a fortune as instant as a Cup O’Noodles.

Turning onto Las Vegas Boulevard, I got caught in the usual time warp as I passed the Luxor’s shimmering black pyramid and sphinx jealously standing guard. The Luxor had quickly become my home away from home whenever I needed a New York fix, with its deli offering of bagels and lox. Driving on, Egypt gave way to the Excalibur’s medieval turreted castle, which led to the Mirage Hotel, spewing fire and water from its Polynesian lagoon. I glanced up at a marquee larger than my former New York apartment, where those two immortal vampires Siegfried and Roy looked down upon me as perfectly preserved as if they’d been dipped in formaldehyde, a white tiger sitting placidly by their side. Understatement is not in this town’s vocabulary. The sky is the limit and in Vegas the sky appears to be limitless, making it the newest fast food version of the American dream.

Bearing left onto Bonneville, I slipped the grip of the Strip and headed for the Clark County administrative building. Like everything else in Vegas, the building is big, bold, and new—three prerequisites for success in this town. I parked the Blazer, left Pilot inside, and caught the elevator up to the county commissioner’s floor. A receptionist too old to be a showgirl but too young for retirement took my name and buzzed Ed Garrett’s office. She hung up and gave me a dazzling smile, announcing that he was indeed in and would be happy to meet with me. I followed her swaying hips down the hall and thought about trying to imitate her, but quickly shelved the idea. With my luck, I’d simply look like I’d been thrown from a horse.

Caught up in my thoughts, I nearly missed the swiveling of her feet as they pirouetted to the right and stopped in front of a large wooden door that stood open. I followed the wave of her hand, my attention drawn to the back of a massive black leather chair. Turned away from me, the chair faced a picture window that framed the sprawling Las Vegas Valley below. A ten-gallon Stetson hat was mounted on the head rising above the black leather. I stood quietly for a moment, finally clearing my throat. But the head didn’t move. I was beginning to wonder if the county commissioner had chosen to expire rather than see me when the chair circled around to reveal a man with the build of a linebacker. Ed Garrett stood up and strode over, towering above me. Dressed in an elegant black suit, his Stetson hat, bolo string tie and lizard-skin boots marked him as a buckaroo cowboy with buckaroo bucks.

Garrett grasped my hand and squeezed hard. “Glad you stopped by.”

I squeezed back as hard as I could, barely making a dent in the hydraulic press that passed for his hand.

“And why is that?” I asked.

“I wanted to see for myself what kind of woman chooses to do what you do.” His dark, severe face encased a pair of eyes with all the warmth of two shards of black ice. Obviously he wasn’t concerned about getting my vote come the next election.

“This kind of woman,” I replied, vowing to bone up on my staring technique at home.

“From what I hear, you like to rile people up, Agent Porter. You place yourself dead center in the middle of a brushfire and then you fan the flames,” Garrett informed me.

It’s always interesting to learn how other people see you. Unfortunately it’s never as flattering as I’d like it to be. I gave a firm tug until my hand popped out of his.

“You’re pretty good at that yourself,” I replied. “I paid Harley Rehrer and his friends a visit this morning. Your name came up about the time they were measuring my neck for a rope.”

Garrett pointed an impeccably manicured finger at me. “Those folks you’re talking about are my constituents. My job is to stand up for their rights.”

I considered pointing back, but I knew that mangled cuticles wouldn’t help drive my point home. “Don’t be surprised if the next visit you pay your constituents takes place in jail.”

Garrett returned to his desk and settled into the leather chair, which was molded to his contours. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a bottle of Chivas along with two small silver cups. Filling each to the brim, he slid one in my direction.

“What you’ve got to realize, Porter, is that it’s not only ranchers who are being hurt but developers as well. And when you hurt developers, then you’re hurting Las Vegas.”

“As far as I can tell, the only thing hurting Vegas is overdevelopment,” I said, pushing my untouched cup back across the desk.

Garrett sipped at his scotch, savoring the taste. “Nobody in this town ever said no to a developer before all this nonsense over turtles began. It’s damn near high time common sense was brought back into the equation. After all, we’re talking about the future of Las Vegas here.” Garrett finished his drink, then reached for mine.

“Actually, what we’re talking about is money,” I retorted. “Like it or not, development is going to have to be reined in. In case you haven’t noticed, building in the valley is impinging on the habitat of everything from endangered plants to bighorn sheep.”

Garrett leaned back in his chair, his dark suit blending in with the black leather until all that stood out was his face. “You must have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit, Porter.”

Without a doubt big development had mucho power in this county, and I was sitting across from its political hammer. They had to be paying him off big time.

“You might not give a shit, Commissioner, but I’m willing to bet a lot of voters in Nevada do.” I sweetly smiled.

Garrett cracked his knuckles one at a time, giving it some thought. “Extinction is a natural process, Porter. That’s just the way life is. Of course, you’ll have to find a new job. Maybe something in the line of receptionist here? By the way, I require all my female help to wear skirts. Preferably short.” Garrett grinned. “Now I have a meeting to attend.”

I planted my elbows on his desk, making it clear that the interview wasn’t yet over.

“One more thing, Ed. You’ve been spreading a rumor that Fish and Wildlife hired environmentalists to break into the conservation center and steal tortoises that were then dumped on ranchers’ land.”

Garrett’s eyes narrowed as he stood and approached my chair. “What am I supposed to think, Porter? After all, you’ve already met with those paranoids in the ark: an angry former Fish and Wildlife biologist, an illegal wildlife trapper, and a deranged nut who was fired for trying to sabotage the Department of Energy. Those three are the perfect blueprint for terrorist material. I, on the other hand, am involved with a group of defenseless ranchers working hard to feed their families.”

“Why, Ed, have you been following me?” The fact that he knew my whereabouts caught me off guard.

“I know about everything that takes place in this county.” Garrett’s eyes focused in hard on me. “Don’t ever forget that.”

He placed his hand against the small of my back as I got up. Quickly turning around, I pushed it away.

“Good. Then you won’t mind telling your troika to back off. I don’t take well to threats,” I snapped.

Garrett leaned up against the doorjamb so that I’d have to brush past him as I walked by. “People get mad, Porter. And when that happens, if I were you, I’d get out of their way.”

“In that case, Commissioner, I’d suggest you get out of mine.”

Garrett laughed and stepped aside. But as I started to leave, he suddenly placed a hand on either side of the door frame, blocking my exit. “We ought to go hunting together sometime, Porter. It could prove to be fun.”

I didn’t bother to tell him that I’m not a hunter. I’ve never shot an animal. But I have killed a man. It’s just one of the things that sets me apart from other federal wildlife agents. That and the fact that I’m a woman. Most consider the combination to be lethal.

I shook my head. “Commissioner, I have the feeling we’d be aiming at two entirely different things.”

Garrett quietly studied me a moment before removing his hands. “Should I take that as a threat, Agent Porter?”

“Not at all, Ed,” I assured him. “But maybe you should consider wearing something bright the next time you’re out on a hunt. I’d hate for those constituents of yours to think they had some honest, hardworking official lined up in their sights and end up shooting you by mistake.”

Since I was already in the building, I decided to pop down a few floors and pay a visit to my neighbor, Lizzie Burke, who worked as a computer programming whiz for the county. Lizzie had befriended me the day I moved in, introducing herself by bringing over a bag of tortilla chips, guacamole dip, and a bottle of tequila. I could always tell when Lizzie was home by the music blaring out her windows.

Determined to become a star, Lizzie’s obsession was tap dancing. I had to give her credit. She practiced every spare moment she had, which was usually when I was asleep. It had reached the point where I now couldn’t doze off unless the strains of
42nd Street
were bouncing off my walls along with the pitter-patter of Lizzie’s tap shoes. In its own way, the din was as lulling as the sound of garbage trucks had been in New York. I had suggested she give her dream a shot by moving to New York or Los Angeles, where there was more work than in the Glitter Gulch strip clubs or the casinos. But Lizzie insisted she wasn’t yet ready for the big time. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that at twenty-eight years of age, her star was already on the wane for breaking into show business.

Lizzie jumped up from her desk upon seeing me, her mass of short dark curls bouncing with a beat all their own.

“Hey, Rachel! What are you doing here? Things slow today?”

All I was slamming into were dead-ends and angry ranchers, but I’d have my tongue cut out before I’d admit it.

“I was just here to meet with one of our county commissioners, Ed Garrett,” I told her.

“That prick,” Lizzie replied. “The slimeball is always trying to cop a feel anytime I pass by his direction.”

Standing at five feet two, Lizzie must have seemed like easy pickings to a man of Garrett’s size.

“Someday I’m gonna punch his lights out for him,” she added.

Hailing from New Jersey, Lizzie probably could. Just the fact that she entertained the thought made me feel all warm inside.

“If you’ve got time, let’s get some lunch. There’s someone I want you to meet,” I said.