Gabe glared at her for a moment. Then his face crumpled in a grin. He shook his head. "Keep them on, puss. No cunt is worth that much money. Not even yours."
They dressed hurriedly. Then they carried their skydiving equipment out back and dumped it in the well. By the time they finished this chore, it was full daylight.
Trish frowned at Gabe and said, "I hope you're good at making like a bloodhound, chum."
Gabe grunted and walked over to the slightly tilted outhouse where they had found Hank Lockridge. Bloodstains and a path of trampled bunch grass led them through a strand of cottonwoods, up to the face of a mountain. They followed a narrow deer trail that stuck to the crags like a misplaced eyebrow. It was Indian file now, with Trish bringing up the rear. Another ten minutes passed in silence before Gabe stopped suddenly, said, "Here's where he landed." He pointed toward a nearby fallen tree. "And there's what did him in."
Trish had to fight like hell to keep from puking as she sagged against Gabe and viewed the bits of flesh and blood clinging to the thick trunk of the long-ago, lightning-toppled tree.
Gabe distracted her by pointing skyward. "He must have plowed his way through the branches of this big ponderosa before he hit his head and got his ass busted into graveyard food."
Trish's stomach settled down as she looked up, then permitted her eyes to prowl the rock- and tree-studded terrain for a few moments before she said, "Let's start searching."
"Right."
Trish started hunting among the giant boulders. She found nothing. Gabe crawled into a mahogany thicket and appeared with Hank Lockridge's spent and unused parachutes. He shook his head at her. "The loot isn't here. Let's check those bushes over there."
They came up empty.
Trish cursed bitterly. "Maybe the stupid jerk lost the bag before he crashed."
Gabe shook his head. "I don't think so. He had the damn thing lashed to his belt."
"Then where the hell is it?"
Gabe shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"Fuck guessing. Let's keep looking."
Gabe gathered up the chutes and led the way back down the trail. They moved slowly, checking both sides of the deer slot. Half an hour later found them standing in front of the slightly tilted outhouse once more… without the sack of extortion money.
Fucked, Trish thought acidly. Hank Lockridge fucked us.
She sucked angrily on a cigarette while Gabe took the parachutes around back and dumped them in the well with Hank's corpse. When he returned, she dropped the butt and ground it into the hard earth with the heel of her boot, then said impatiently, "Let's go over the route again, Gabe. That goddamned bread has to be somewhere in this stinking area." Gabe shook his head. "No more hunting today, puss."
Her eyes grew large. "Why not?"
"There isn't time." He smiled grimly and pointed across the valley. "Look skyward. See the pretty helicopter? Guess what they're searching for."
"You made your point," Trish said angrily. "Let's do it your way and get the hell out of here."
Chapter 4
Trish Asher was on her third gin-and-tonic when Manny Black arrived at the Atomic Club to pick up and deposit the previous night's take at the local bank. Her eyes picked him up in the back bar mirror as he threaded his way between the tables that were presently unoccupied, and remembrance of what Gabe Penner had told her about the honky-tonk impresario caused a smile to spread across her face. Manny looked more like a long distance truck driver than most of the highway jockeys she had ever known. He was as big as a full-grown gorilla and just as ugly, with a pushed-in face and cauliflower ear. He was bald except for a fringe of black hair that hugged his skull like an unfinished halo, and he walked as though his shoes were too tight. He-was an ex-pug turned businessman, and because of his nasty disposition, he also doubled in harness on busy nights as his own bouncer. He looked mean and he was mean. According to Gabe, Manny Black had such a mean reputation that even Bad Breath Anonymous wanted nothing to do with him.
"The word is that Manny Black is a tough man to toil for," Gabe had told her, "but you should be able to stand him for two or three weeks." "Two or three weeks?" she had asked. "Why so long?"
"Use your head, puss," Gabe had said almost angrily. "That chopper we saw out at Lonesome Valley this morning wasn't just passing through the neighborhood by accident. The heat's already on in this neck of the woods, making like a couple of treasure hunters too soon would only add to it." He paused to fill his lungs with stale air, shook his head. "Nope, we're going to cool it for at least two, but no more than three weeks. Meanwhile, get this job from Manny and then play your peeling game like a good little cunt; I'll let you know when to pounce on Bruce Cord."
Trish sighed and stopped thinking about Gabe Penner. She kept her eyes on the ugly giant who had paused for a few words with the table waitress she had talked with earlier, and who now was coming toward the bench she occupied at the bar, where she was sandwiched between a loudmouthed lush who was reliving his bravery during Korea, and a dumpy blonde who was crying in her Scarlett O'Hara and telling the bored-looking bartender what a dirty bastard her husband was for breaking up her affair with a lesbian. Trish closed her ears to the probably bogus hero and dyke-hooked pig and concentrated on the man mincing up behind her.
Manny Black took a hasty look at her haunches and licked his lips before he asked, "You want to see me about something, kid?"
Trish turned slowly on the stool and smiled at the big man. "I do. Gabe Penner mentioned that you're looking for a dancer to entertain the local yokels. I'm your girl."
Manny Black licked his chops and looked her over. Trish kept smiling. She knew what he was seeing: an eighteen-year-old package of lush curves, neatly wrapped in a button-front minidress as red as her shoulder-length hair. Manny stopped using his tongue on his lips and said, "There's more to the job I have open than dancing, kid. You also have to peel like a banana."
"I know."
"You ever do this kind of work before?" Trish nodded. "In New York. Do I get the job?"
He nodded toward a door marked PRIVATE. "My office. Let's go in there and discuss it."
Trish slid from her bar perch, thinking, Casting couch, her I come!
The door opened and snicked shut behind them.
"Automatic lock," Manny explained as he lowered his hunkers to the black leather couch that dominated one wall of his private cubicle. "It will keep us from being disturbed while I check your qualifications." He chuckled at his own feeble attempt at levity, then sobered abruptly and said, "All right, kid, do your stuff."
Trish didn't pretend to misunderstand him. She took a deep breath that shook her breasts, reached for the top button on her dress. She worked her way down the row of buttons. Slowly. Teasingly. Her eyes glued to his crotch. She was almost tempted to laugh in his ugly face when she saw his cock stretch, harden and threaten to break the zipper on his fly. She sneered inwardly. Some interview.
She knifed forward to open the dress all the way, then straightened and turned aside for a moment while she shrugged free of it. The dress dropped to form into a puddle around her black-booted ankles, and for a second the material reminded her of Hank Lockridge's blood. She grimaced and whirled to face the now sweating Manny Black. "Well?"
Manny's eyes dropped to her boots, then crawled upward. He paused to study the webbing of her flame colored bikini panties, licked his lips, asked, "You always wear red?"
"Not always. Why?"
"I hate red."
She shrugged and made her breasts bounce. "I'll wear black next time."
Manny's glance jumped to her sheathed tits. He smiled crookedly. "Maybe there won't be a next time, kid. You haven't got the job yet. Gabe