He leaned back in the booth and frowned.
“What?’’
“It’s a rare day when you’re more cynical than I am. Who’s Miami here and who’s Himmarshee?’’
“Can’t help it. I don’t trust these Hollywood people. I can’t tell their real emotions from their fake.’’
Across the room, Jesse was trying to pull one of the biggest cowboys up on the bar to dance with her. Instead, he lifted her into the air like she was a fluff of dust. He had one hand on her butt, and the other on a breast as he spun her onto the dance floor. Jesse made no effort to remove either hand.
“My daddy would have whipped me like a mule if I ever acted like that.’’
“Toby looks like he’s considering doing just that,’’ Carlos said.
The young star’s eyes were slits. His fists were clenched. Before we could react, he sprang out of the booth, raced across the floor and jumped onto the big cowboy. He looked like a Yorkie going after a Great Dane.
“Get your hands off her!’’ Toby hung on, pounding one wimpy fist against the cowpoke’s broad back.
Jesse wriggled free of the fight, just as Carlos and I rushed the dance floor. We weren’t fast enough to stop the cowboy from plucking Toby off his back like an annoying bug. He dangled him two feet off the floor, with Toby squirming like a puppy held by the scruff.
“Don’t hit him in the face,’’ Jesse yelled, backing away. “Not in the face!’’
Carlos pulled out his detective’s gold badge just as the bartender rushed in, hoisting a baseball bat. The cowboy wasn’t too drunk to weigh the consequences of going up against either the badge or the bat. He swung Toby a couple of times, then tossed him to the floor. Raising his hands in the air, he stepped away backwards. His friends tightened into a knot around him. I saw Carlos wade in, holding his badge high and shuffling the cowboy toward the door like a calf cut from the herd.
Toby, stunned, was flat on his back like a plopped-over turtle. I offered him my hand. He gathered his breath, and then moaned as I helped him off the dirty floor.
“You’re lucky that bulldogger didn’t pound you into dirt,’’ I said. “He’s a big ol’ boy.’’
“What’s a bulldogger?’’
“A rodeo cowboy who specializes in wrestling 500-pound steers to the ground.’’
His mouth dropped open as he stared after the departing cowpoke.
“The Eight Seconds Bar is a rodeo hang-out,’’ I said. “Eight seconds is how long a rider has to stay on a bull or a bronc to qualify.’’
“That doesn’t seem like very long.’’
“Try it sometime. It feels like an eternity.’’ I supported him as he limped to a seat. “Speaking of getting hurt, how are you?’’
He rubbed gingerly at his right elbow, and then leaned down to touch his knee.
I signaled the bartender. “Can we get some ice?’’
Toby slowly raised his right arm. “I must have hit the floor on this side of my body.’’
“What were you thinking?’’
His eyes darted toward Jesse. My gaze followed his to find her in the crowd, flirting with a new cowboy. Seemingly forgotten: the fight and Toby’s close call with the bulldogger.
“She’s not worth it.’’
I immediately regretted my words, as Toby’s head snapped back toward me. His face reddened. “You don’t even know her!’’
“I know what I see. She’s playing you, Toby.’’
His eyes got round. “She is not! She cares about me. We’re in love.’’
No wonder Carlos went easy on him. He was like a lamb, gamboling innocently to slaughter. Just as I was wishing I had my sister Marty here to help me find some sensitive, soothing words, the bartender delivered a beer bucket of ice. I divided it into three bar towels, and gave them to Toby.
“Rest those where it hurts.’’
His beautiful lips curved into half a smile. “I don’t think the bar has enough ice for that. I wonder if this is how the bulldogged steer feels?’’
I laughed, and felt the tension between us fade. We sat for a few moments. Toby shifted the icy towels to their best advantage, while I checked out the bar scene. I was watching for Carlos to return when the door swung open. Barbara stepped through. Toby saw her, too. His face brightened, and he sat up straighter. He yelled to her and waved. She didn’t notice. Paul Watkins was right behind her, and she turned, crooking a finger into his collar to pull him inside.
Paul threw an arm around Barbara’s shoulders. She turned to press every inch of her body to his: breast to chest, groin to groin, thigh to thigh. They broke apart, and then beelined to a corner booth.
At our table, a few moments passed in awkward silence. “She must not have seen you,’’ I finally said to Toby. “And the music’s really loud in here.’’
He shrugged. “Barbara’s laydar is up.’’
“Laydar?’’
“Yeah, like radar, except it detects the prospects of her getting laid.’’
I turned my head. Barbara straddled Paul’s lap; his hands were under her blouse. Their shared kiss was hot enough to singe the red leather seats in their corner booth.
“It looks to me like her prospects are pretty good,’’ I said.
I tossed the keys to my Jeep into the gaping mouth of Al, my combination coffee table art and conversation piece.
“Nice dunk,’’ Carlos said.
“Thanks.’’
“That still kills me.’’
“What? That I’m such an incredible shot?’’
He grinned. “No, that you keep a dead alligator’s head in your living room like a sculpture. Who does that?’’
Before Al was a taxidermy exhibit, he was a nuisance gator, which basically means too many people moved into what used to be Al’s Florida domain. My state-trapper cousin and I wrestled the ten-footer out of the swimming pool of a newcomer—who loved the notion of living in a natural setting, until nature came to call.
“Hey, don’t they say art is in the eye of the beholder?’’ I asked.
“I think that’s ‘beauty’ that’s in the eye, niña.’’
“Well, Al was beautiful, in his way. It’s not his fault he crashed some guy’s pool party.’’
Carlos shuddered. “¡Dios mío! Lucky no one was killed.’’
I looked over at Al, in profile. As always, I imagined that beady glass eye of his judging me. Murderer, it said.
A plaintive yowl issued from the bedroom. It was followed by another, even louder.
“Hush, Wila!” I made the Shhhh sound, to no avail.
Carlos nodded toward the room, where my foster cat was pouting under a pile of dirty clothes. “Is she going to speak to me tonight?’’
“Oh, she’ll speak, but more likely she’ll speak about you rather than to you.’’
Wila’s Siamese nose was out of joint because the two of us normally had my little cottage to ourselves. Tonight we had company. Carlos and I usually used his apartment in town when we got together. But he was renovating, and his one bathroom was out of commission. I didn’t think his landlord would appreciate me peeing in the backyard.
I still couldn’t believe I shared my living space with a noisy cat. I’m a dog person. Wila came my way the summer Mama discovered a dead man in her turquoise convertible. With everything else going on back then, it seemed too complicated to try to find the cat a real home. She turned out to be smart and funny, with a personality all her own. Truth is, Wila’s grown on me. She’s pretty cool, for a cat.
Meowrrrrr.
Well, except for that. Siamese love to hear the sound of their own voices. Kind of like Mama, come to think of it.
Carlos covered his ears.
“She’ll settle down after I feed her,’’ I said. “Then she’ll get used to you being here. Just don’t try to approach her before she’s ready.’’
MEOWRRRRR.