Courtney Webb

Back on the trail, Yaya and Shi’ma had done a good two-hour ride. The horse, like the smart girl she was, had nudged her owner when Yaya, like a school kid out at recess, kept wanting to ride. Shi’ma gently reminded that it was time to turn around and go home.

Yaya had heard there was a natural spring out here. Always the nosey one, she wanted to investigate. Still, Shi’ma would have her way.

Finally, Yaya gave in. “Okay, girl. You’re the boss. It is probably time for some lunch for both of us.” Reluctantly, the detective turned the horse around and they were on their way home. She vowed to come back the next day and find that spring. Scooter would be with her dad until late afternoon on Sunday, so she would have the time.

At the New Life! Conference center, Hillary had left her friend Pam in her room to have a needed nap. She reasoned that the excitement of the trip, being away from her husband in a strange place, all of it, was a bit much for Pamela who was your basic housewife trying to learn to write after the kids had left home. She sighed as she closed her friend’s door and headed back to her own room.

Hillary did not feel tired. She had slept well the night before. The conference rooms were as advertised and very quiet. No, not tired, she was still a bit keyed up after the conversations with her friend and a feeling of disquiet regarding their featured writing guest speaker. There was something…

She got to her room and pulled out her laptop and keyed in the conference Wifi code. She pulled up her Google search engine.

I bet Reginald Knight isn’t even his real name, she thought ruefully to herself.

“Ha! She laughed out loud. It took a little digging, but the results were gratifying, Reginald Jones, of Derbyshire, Uk, son of a milliner and housekeeper. “There you go, Reginald, or more like Reggie when you are home. Very blue collar, ordinary background. Get out!”

She was pleased with herself and happy with the little gossipy bits of information that she would be happy to share with Pamela later that day. Hoping that the bits of information would cheer her friend up. She sort of doubted it. Still….

Thinking back to her conversation with Pam, in truth, she had never read any of Knight’s novels and he was pretty famous and well known on both sides of the pond. She had promised herself to do that before this trip. But, with her inbox always more full than her outbox, she just hadn’t had time to do it.

So, settling into her bed, bunches of pillows behind her back, computer in front and pen and paper to the side; she started doing a scroll search of Reggie’s more popular novels. As she read, her eyes got bigger and bigger. She could not believe what she was seeing.

Her head began to reel. How could he? That bastard. Her agent. That swine. She had been submitting articles and manuscripts to him for years. Always the same response.

“Sorry, darling. Just not exactly what they are looking for. But, please keep submitting.”

And she had. Now and then, here and there, one of either her short stories, poems, articles would get accepted. She would dance a jig of joy and happily buy drinks all around her local pub to celebrate her success. In addition to the women’s writer’s group, she hung out at a local pub where a bunch of sideline Hollywood writers went to drown their sorrows or cheer their successes.

But still, year after year, the big fish; the full-time writer’s job, the publishing contract seemed to elude her. After one more try and one more failure, it was back to copy editing and ghost writing for other, much better-known writers than herself. They got the glory and she got…a paycheck that paid the bills. Neither too much nor too little. Just enough to keep body and soul together and to ensure she could/would keep writing and keep those cleaned up manuscripts coming.

However, now Hillary was reading recent updates on Reginald Knight and his lengthy list of hit mystery novels. She scrolled through synopsis after synopsis and the anger that was always with her, pushed down inside, began to simmer and stir and like lava in a volcano, rise to the surface. That fucking bastard agent of hers. Willie Smythe, Willie Simpleton she called him to herself. She had sworn over and over again to get another agent but hadn’t gotten around to it. Plus, agents were really hard to get in the Hollywood area. You had to know someone who knew someone.

But here it was, novel after novel. She recognized the plot, the theme, the setting, the beginning action, the characters; all of it. These were her novels. One after another after another after another. Her novels with that bastard Reginald Knight’s name plastered all over them. That phony, that fraud. And the irony was, here she had to laugh, a dark laughter. Reginald Jones aka Knight, very probably had absolutely no idea of who she was.

Well, she was the one her agent Willie Smythe, who was also coincidently English, had sold out for thirty pieces of silver. She laughed again. “Except,” she said to the room, “it was a lot more the thirty pieces, wasn’t it. You dirty bastard.”

Hillary lived in the Echo Park area of Los Angeles. The down-in-the-heel next door neighbor of Hollywood. Not Bev Hills, not Hollywood Hills; neither. Next door neighbor to Silver Lake. Absolutely nothing glamourous going on here.

However, Hillary was not from LA. She was in fact from Tucson. Had graduated from high school here. She was even somewhat familiar with the area where they were staying, coming here as a kid and teen to girl scout camps when that was a thing. She still knew a few people from school. An old boyfriend. Her parents had long since moved to Florida to be with her sister, husband and kids. The good daughter. The one who didn’t chase ridiculous dreams of being a Hollywood writer into bankruptcy.

Hillary had been in a red rage. Now, she calmed down and the rage turned to cold, blue ice. She called an old number. A distant boyfriend she had still kept in touch with over the years.

He picked up when she called.

“Hi, it’s me. I need something.”

That night they had dinner in the cafeteria room. The conference people had actually put on a good spread, baked fish and roasted chicken with all the sides. Even Reginald Knight had agreed to dine with the little people.

Hillary sat next to Reginald. It was okay, she was younger than a lot of women in the group and by far skinnier and in better shape. She knew he had been making eyes at her throughout the conference. She had pulled out a thin, low cut red tube dress with little sparkly things on it.

She didn’t even know why she had packed it. “Just in case,” she had told her dog who gave her a funny look. “You never know!” He still looked puzzled.

She put on her only real push-up bra. She pushed her boobs up deliberately so that the nipples were almost showing at the top. She pushed in some Kleenex underneath to preserve the effect. Putting her makeup on carefully, she applied candy apple red lip gloss on her lips, light perfume, and pulled her hair up.

She made a point to not only sit next to Reginald but to laugh at all his jokes and made sure his wine glass was always full. Several times during dinner, she allowed her left hand to roam under the tablecloth to his thigh. She lightly stroked her fingers up and down his leg. It didn’t take more than a minute before he had grabbed her hand and put it firmly over his crotch.

Hillary nearly spit out a mouthful of wine but managed to swallow and still keep a smile on her face. As the dinner neared to a close, she pulled out her purse and got out the small note she had already written back in her room. “Meet me outside, by the picnic tables. 10:00 pm.” She felt sure he would show up.

After dinner, Hillary raced back to her room, ignored her friend Pam completely who was trying to say something when she had rushed by, and dashed into her room. She hurriedly pulled off the dress, keeping the push-up bra in place and gathered some things in a smaller overnight bag, changed her shoes and locked the door to her room. From the closet, she pulled out one small black box. Very carefully, she placed the box, right side up in the bottom of her bag. Additionally, she added a partially opened bottle of champagne and two plastic glasses. She had already scoped out the various hall cameras and opted for the route out the side door that she knew had the fewest cameras.

The picnic tables were conveniently located close to the parking lot. As she had expected, Reginald’s flashy baby blue jaguar with silver trim was close by. It was a convertible and the top was currently up and in place.

She sat on the top of one of the tables and waited breathlessly for her nighttime visitor. Right on time, not too early and not too late, Reginald came lumbering up to the table.

“There you are you little vixen. Man, I have been looking at you this whole time. What a mouthful!” He smiled broadly and sat down next to her. “I couldn’t believe you would really be interested.” His hand was on her arm, moving up to her shoulder.

Hillary controlled the deep feeling of revulsion she felt for the man. The smile was plastered on her face. “Well, you are a world-famous author and very, very rich,” she cooed.

“Yes, I am,” he readily agreed. “And very, very horny.” The hand moved from her shoulder right down to her right breast. He pushed back the small amount of fabric separating her nipple from the night air and started to massage it. “Oh, God,” he groaned staring at her breast.

She could see that his mouth was quickly lowering to her breast. Softly, she pushed him away. “Not here,” she whispered, “I’m married. They have cameras.”

Reginald whipped his head around to peer back at the compound. “How about my room, your room?”

“Too many cameras, don’t want to be on national TV or anything do you?”

Reginald shrugged his shoulders. Hillary was sure he wouldn’t care. Good for publicity and all that.

“No, I’ve got a great spot. Very quiet. Wonderful view of the desert, the stars and the moon. Very romantic.”

“I don’t know,” he started. Hillary stood up and rubbed herself up close to him and paid special attention to his nether regions for a full minute. She knew that after a little of that, if she had asked him to take a rocket ship to the moon, the answer would have been yes.

Quite convinced, he pulled the car keys out of his pocket, chirped the car and they both skipped lightly to the vehicle. Reginald got the car started. Once they were out of the parking lot and out a range of the cameras, Hillary insisted on the convertible top down. She had undone her hair, so it blew in the wind. She unbuttoned her top and pulled it off; then pushed her breasts up and out of the bra.

Reginald nearly swerved off the road but managed to stay in control. She directed him to a little culvert and tiny road off the small asphalt road they were on. Reginald parked the car and she got her blanket out of her bag, the champagne and glasses. She poured the wine and offered him glass after glass. She had taken her bra completely off and he massaged her breasts with a glazed look in his eye.

Finally, the heavy dinner, numerous glasses of wine on top of each other and the sexual excitement was all too much and Reginald leaned back on the blanket and fell asleep.

Hillary shook him once to be sure he was asleep. The man snored loudly. She put her bra back on and her shirt, buttoning it up to the top. In the bag was a pair of leather gloves. She put these on. She unbuttoned Reginald’s pants, which was a trial as he was so fat.

She pulled them down a bit, was shocked to see his ruby red boxers in silk, emblazoned with scantily clad chorus girls dancing around. “Ass,” she mumbled to herself.

Carefully, she reached inside her bag and pulled out the black box. She shook the box a couple of times. Then, slowly, pulling the lid off the box somewhat, she pulled up Reginald’s boxers and tipped the content of the box into his shorts. Working quickly now, she pulled up his boxers and zipped up his pants. She grabbed the bottle of champagne, the two plastic glasses and placed them back in her bag.

Leaving the key in the car ignition, she pulled out her water bottle, took a big swig and started on her moonlight hike back to the conference. She was an experienced hiker, so she was sure she could cover the few miles quickly and be back at the center before sunrise and before the conference staff were up milling around.

Hillary checked her watch; she got back to the conference grounds in the early am hours. She knew which doorway to use, the one with no cameras. She had left a small sliver of bark in the door lock so that it would open from the outside. She slipped back into her room, got into her pajamas and fell into a deep and restful sleep.

The next morning, Yaya got herself up, made the coffee, washed her face and got herself ready for her ride. Since it was definitely getting hotter outside, she knew that both she and Shi’ma would appreciate the early start.

Although Yaya was not on duty this weekend, she normally kept a satellite phone with her just in case of emergencies, either from the front desk or from Vince with some problem concerning Katie. And, as always, trail ride or not, she always kept her Smith and Wesson in one saddle bag. Also, just in case.

Shi’ma and Yaya had been on the trail for maybe an hour when the satellite phone rang. Irritated, Yaya was always tempted to turn the thing off. Still, she knew she would never make captain if she acted like that, plus, it could also be Vince calling with some problem.

“Damn it,” she said. She was still looking forward to finding that free-running stream.

“Yaya,” she replied.

“Detective?” It was one of the desk sergeants from the station. Granger, she thought his name was.

“Yes, this is Yaya.”

The sergeant sounded relieved. Even with the satellite phone, the reception was a bit choppy with the close mountain range. “We’ve had a report of a missing person out in your area. Writer guy went out in his jaguar last night into the desert and hasn’t been seen since. Are you are home or out on your —–ride?”

“I am on my ride sergeant, give me the locate where he was last seen and where they think he went.”

“Texting you the info, Ma’am. It might be close to where you are.” The sergeant sounded hopeful.

Yaya looked at the pinned map when it came through on the phone. “Okay, I got it. Yes, it is somewhat close to where I am now. Where did they think he went?”

“They think he drove north as that is where the tire tracks go.”

“Okay, Sergeant. I will follow up and also,——there was some interference….You will have to tell me when I get back how you knew where I was riding…..”

“Yes—-” She disconnected.

“Okay, Shi’ma. We are on duty now, and we’s got to follow this here map. No more fooling around the rivers and ponds. Okay, girl.” Yaya pinned her current location on the map, pinned the location of the conference center and saw there was a tiny little thread running northbound from the center. That looked very much like the road the writer would have taken for his moon-light stroll. She turned Shi’ma to their left and gave her a little kick to get her into trot mode. They probably needed to hurry.

Forty-five minutes later, Yaya had found the road north of the conference center and started riding northbound. Within a few minutes, she spotted the baby blue sports car parked off the road and turned Shi’ma toward the car. Soon she spotted a very large man, lying on a blanket near the car. She couldn’t tell if he was alive or not. She approached him quickly and got down.

His eyes were closed and he was a sickly reddish color. “Sir, can you hear me. Sir!” She had put on plastic gloves and shook his shoulder gently. His eyes opened slowly and he seemed to be having trouble focusing.

“Who are you?” was all he could say.

“I am Officer Vinciflora, Tucson Police. Are you hurt, sir? What is wrong?”

The man lifted a hand and pointed down to his groin area. “A bite, I think,” he mumbled vaguely.

“Ok, sir. I am going to call for an air ambulance. You hold on.” Yaya immediately got back on the Sat phone and called back to the station. “Granger, I am sending you my coordinates. This man has been bitten by something and is extremely sick. We need to do helicopter; the ambulance will take too long.”

“Roger, Detective. Got the coordinates, making the call.”

Yaya propped the man’s head up a bit with the blanket. She got out an extra bottle of water from her pack and let him sip the water slowly.

In thirty minutes she could hear the wop-wop of the bird. She stood still and waved both arms. The pilot saw her and set the copter down close to them. Two paramedics rushed out with a stretcher and lifted the man onto it and started peppering him with questions.

Soon, the copter was back in the air and whisking the sick man to the hospital.

Yaya called back to the station. “Granger.”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

“Granger, it’s a Sunday, my day off. And I need to take this horse back to the stables. I will go by that conference center to have a few words with the guests to find out who this guy is. Could you do the follow up calls with the hospital to see how the guy is, maybe get the report started. I’ll get you more info tomorrow.”

“Yes, Maám, no problem. Will do. Over and out.”

Yaya had to laugh at the young sergeant’s eagerness. “Gosh, was I like that?” Shi’ma just whinnied. Yaya went over to the car, pulled out the keys and checked the registration. She took a picture with her cell phone. “Hum, Reginald Knight, Los Angeles, CA. What the heck are you doing way out here, Mr. Knight?”

She backtracked down the road a few miles and found the convention center. She introduced herself at the front desk and the receptionist ran to get a manager. The manager came bustling out and Yaya informed her of what had gone on.

“Oh, no. Mr. Knight. Oh, my gosh. Will he be okay, do you think?”

“Probably, so. But, the hospital will have to give us a report. Was he with anyone here?”

The manager conferred with the receptionist and looked up. “Sue Clark is our contact person. I will personally go get her for you.” She bustled away.

Yaya relaxed for a few minutes. The receptionist stared curiously out the front door to a chestnut horse tied up at the gate. “Is that your horse?” she was wide-eyed.

“Yes, that is Shi’ma Yazi. She’s a girl, seven years old.”

“Ohh, she’s beautiful. Can I pet her?”

“Sure, she’s friendly.” The girl dashed outside to make friends.

Sue Clark, the lady with big red glasses reappeared with the manager. Yaya gave her a brief rundown of what had happened. “Mr. Knight is a guest here?”

“Oh, yes. He is a well-known author and our guest for this conference. He left sometime last night, we didn’t know where and didn’t show up for breakfast. That’s when we started looking for him.”

“I see. Did he leave with anyone last night?”

Sue blinked and looked astounded at the question. “I am sorry, officer, I have literally no clue.”

Yaya nodded. “Okay, well I need to get my horse back to the stables, it has been a bit of a day for us. Were you planning on leaving soon to go home?”

“Well, the conference was supposed to be over today with all of us leaving Monday morning.” Sue looked nervous.

“Okay, well can’t be helped. Either I or one of the station officers will be out either later today or early tomorrow to get statements. Please ask your guests to not leave until we have done that.”

“Oh, okay.” Sue replied. “What do you think is wrong with Reginald?”

“Don’t know, Ms. Clark. He seemed to think something had bitten him.”

Reginald Knight recovered slowly at TMC medical center. They determined that he had been stung, not bitten, in the groin area by a small, black scorpion, known to be more dangerous for its venom. The situation was not helped by his extreme obesity, the high alcohol content in his blood stream and his high blood pressure.

Yaya got the okay to go see him later the next day. When she kept asking him again and again why he decided to drive into the desert, late at night, by himself, he kept insisting that he wanted to experience moonlight in the desert. She was sure he was full of it, but didn’t press. He finished up telling her, “Yes, I have a wife at home in England. She is very stressed by this thing happening to me. It is all I can do to not have her jump on the next plane and fly over here just to take care of me.” He gave her a sickly smile.

Yaya was sure he was hiding something, and probably another woman, but the man was not pressing charges, he wasn’t dead. He would soon be recovered and out of her patch, so she was okay with the outcome.

The next week in Los Angeles, California: Hillary Jane was on Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles and she was mad. She marched into Willie Smythe’s office at 9 am the very next Tuesday.

“I am here to see Mr. Smythe,” she told the secretary walking swiftly toward his office.

“No, no, Ms. Jane! You can’t go in without an appointment! Mr. Smythe is a very busy man.”

Hillary turned and looked at the woman. “Don’t I just know it,” she replied calmly.

She walked into Smythe’s office, he was on the phone.

“You slimy, double crossing English turd,” she announced.

The secretary hovered uncertainly at the door.

Willie looked hard at Hillary and then spoke into the phone, “Call you back.”

“What’s this all about, Hillary? Didn’t you get your last contract check?” he replied innocently.

Hillary pulled out her leather messenger bag. She began dropping printouts of Knight’s book covers on his desk, stapled to her original typed manuscript copies. Willie glanced down at the stack. “Gladys, you can go. Please close the door.”

He casually thumbed through the stack. “Okay, so what?” he said in his most blasé fashion.

“They are the same,” she replied.

“Ok, so maybe a little similar. In concept.” He picked up his teacup and took a careful sip.

“They are not similar, you Limey bastard, they are the same, exactly the same. You took my manuscripts, gave or sold them to this ass,” she pointed to Knight’s name. And used my work for his books. Books for which he has received thousands and thousands of dollars in royalties.”

“Are you going to be able to prove any of this, this…” he waved a hand in the air, “…stuff?”

“Me, prove it?” Hillary replied with a laugh. “How about we take this to a Superior Court judge and let him decide. Hum? Just how many plagiarism cases go through the courts in this town, successfully?” She glared at him.

“Hillary, will you please sit down and stop looming over me.” Willie gave an exasperated wave of his hand to the chair in front of his desk. She sat. “If I were to entertain, entertain, the notion that perhaps…perhaps, some ideas,” he stressed the word, “some ideas were floated over to an already fully established writer, with a successful sales track record, then, perhaps….there might be some compensation for said ideas.”

Hillary sat in the chair, bag in hand and stared at her agent. “20% of all future royalties and a percentage of all royalties already garnered from the sales of these books,” she pointed to the titles on Willie’s desk.

The man started to raise his hands in a defensive manner. “If not, I go to The Guardian, The Sun, the Daily Mirror for starters and tell them all about it. And that is in addition to suing both of you in Los Angeles Superior Court.” She crossed her arms over her chest in a mulish fashion.

Willie sighed a very big sigh. “I need to make a phone call.” He got on the speaker phone and dialed a number. It rang several times. He put it through his computer, so a screen popped up on the computer.

“Reggie here. What’s up Willie?”

“Reg, I have that young woman I talked to you about before. Hillary, Hillary Jane. You remember the name, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course. What’s this about, Willie? You know I am still in hospital in this horrible state after being attacked by some monstrous ….”

Willie turned the computer screen around so Reginald could see Hillary.

“It’s you! That girl at the conference, you!” Reginald declared, pointing a fat finger. “What the hell did you do to me, young woman? I have the mind to call the police and…”

“Reggie, shut up.” Willie picked up the book covers and the manuscripts and waved them at Reginald. The man looked shocked. “Yeah, well that’s what I thought. I told you Reggie.”

Reginald Knight uttered something that sounded a bit like “blowfishwhistle.’’

“Right, Reggie. Be getting back to you. Later.” Willie hit the disconnect number and the screen went blank. “So, Hillary…”

“It’s Ms. Jane to you, Willie.”

“Okay, then, Ms. Jane. We can have our attorneys contact you and work something out. Something satisfactory.”

“That would be great, Willie.” Hillary stood up suddenly. “I expect to hear back very, very soon.”

Willie did a small bow of his head as Hillary approached the closed door to leave. “And last thing, Willie,” the man looked up, “you are quite definitely not my agent anymore.”

With that Hillary Jane left the office. She walked quickly past the stunned Gladys and out into the California sunshine. Only when she was at the side of her small, used Toyota Corolla sedan, did she let out a whoop! that startled the passerbys. She didn’t care.

It was a very, very good day in Los Angeles and a great day for Hillary Jane, scriptwriter.

The end, Cew   6/26

Courtney E. Webb

The trail was quiet this time of the morning, the sky a hazy blue, giving a hint of rain but surely promising upper 90s heat by late morning.

Yaya could hear the cry and titter of the desert birds. She tried hard to recognize them and to tell the difference between their cries. The small cactus wren and the curved bill thrasher had similar tit-tit cries. The quail she could easily tell as the mother bird scurried across the path trailing a clutch of smaller birds behind her. The owl she knew she would never hear; it was a night predator and the hawk she could mostly see, circling high in the sky above her. It, she knew, was looking for lunch.

Tis the way, she thought to herself. Shi’ma Yazhi, (little mother in Apache,) her chestnut mare plodded along the trail in her quiet, unassuming way. Yaya knew her quarter horse knew the trail better than she did. The police detective knew the horse would instinctively lead her out so far on the trail and then almost knowing it was time, turn around and head back.

Yaya had learned to trust and rely on her horse’s instincts. Shi’ma was a seven-year-old quarter horse, brought by its owner from a cattle ranch in Oklahoma. Smart, capable and extremely calm, she was the perfect ride for Yaya who, admittedly, was an advanced beginner to intermediate rider.

The Tucson police detective had taken up riding a couple of years ago, something she had always wanted to do and never had the time or money for. Now that her little girl, Katie, was seven, and was consistently spending every other weekend with her dad, attorney Vince Vinciflora, Yaya could count on some more time for herself. She had tried to get Katie, or Scooter as she was called, to ride with her. The little girl thought the horses “Big, scary and smelly!”

“Ah, well,” Yaya said to the large saguaro as she passed. “I guess we can’t do everything together.” The saguaro with its big arms held out to the side, seemed of course, to nod agreement.

It was a little past spring in the Tucson desert area and the flowers were fading. Summer had not quite hit yet but Yaya was trying hard to respond to the alarm clock to get out of the house early enough to avoid the heat. It was good in other ways too; she avoided Sunday traffic and the zillion yuppies that appeared with their various very perfect children in tow.

This morning she had done a little walking on the trail to stretch the muscles out before riding. She was annoyed to hear a perfectly blond couple chastising their perfectly blond three-year old for ‘whining’ as they marched on briskly ahead of her. As the child fought to keep up on her two-wheel scooter, the dad proclaimed, “We can rest at the bridge.”

Yaya gawked, knowing full well the ‘bridge’ was a good two miles away and uphill.

If I had my baton with me, I could give ‘em both a little rap on the head, she thought to herself. “Parents!” She huffed out, “Never learn.”

It was only a short walk for her as she was ready to get to the stables; she stopped by the birders table to reacquaint herself with local bird names. She saw the same parents, with the two children in tow, checking out the same table.

Ha, Yaya laughed ruefully to herself, maybe the hike was too much for them too. She thoroughly hoped so.

Yaya got to ZZZ stables and unpacked her gear: water bottle, nut snacks and proper low-heeled riding boots. Her horse-owner partner, Pricilla was already out in the yard getting Shi’ma Yazhi saddled up.

Pricilla was a tall, thin young woman of about twenty-eight or twenty- nine years. Dressed as usual in tight blue jeans, cotton T-shirt, sunglasses and a short, rimmed cowboy hat; Pricilla was country all the way down to her dusty, hand-tooled cowboy boots.

Hailing from Oklahoma, she had sunflower blue eyes, freckles, a dirty blond plait down the center of her back and a warm welcoming smile.  Pricilla had driven from the mid-west with her quarter-horse behind her in an individual horse trailer. Something about following a husband out here who had been stationed at the air base.

The young woman didn’t share a lot of details. Long experience dealing with the public as a police officer, Yaya knew not to press for information. Good or bad, the facts would eventually come out.

Yaya had started at the stables taking lessons. She very quickly gravitated to Shi’ma with her calm manner. Other of the stable horses could be cranky and bad mannered. Over a period of time, chatting with Pricilla, it became evident the young woman did not make enough income to live in what was rapidly becoming upwardly mobile Tucson, even on the outskirts. With a series of short conversations and thinly veiled offers to help, the two women agreed to a plan. As ‘co-owners’ of Shi’ma, Pricilla would ride her during the week and take care the food and water. Yaya would ride one to two days on the weekend and they would split costs. The split was more like 60-40% with Yaya paying the lions share; she didn’t care. She loved the horse and figured Pricilla was doing most of the heavy work anyway.

So, the relationship between the two women solidified and Yaya’s riding skills steadily improved as well as her personal relationship with Shi’ma. It was as though the horse began to understand that this was someone different, not just another rider. She would nuzzle Yaya when they came together and Yaya always remembered to bring a small apple or carrots for her equine friend.

“Hey, Yaya,” Pricilla called out. “Good?”

“All good, Prissy, and ready to go,” Yaya responded as Pricilla handed the reins over to her. The two women exchanged smiles as Yaya mounted up.

Out on the trail, Yaya could feel the cares and worries of the week fall off her shoulders. It was one place she felt she could really relax. What a great feeling!

A few miles away, at The Writer’s Retreat Group, held at a small desert conference center, things were not so relaxed.

Reginald Knight noted and oft praised author/scriptwriter from Hollywood was holding forth with his groupies. A collection of some very fat to some very skinny women were clustered around Reginald, sitting on white folding chairs in a large room usually reserved for meals.

Reginald was pontificating about the ‘Writing Process’ and the women were scribbling furiously.

“Yes, yes,” he put up a well-manicured, tanned and pudgy hand, “you have to feel the character, feel it. In here,” he lightly punched his rounded gut. “Feel it, feel the character, get into the emotions and then,” he waved a hand in the air like he was holding a magic wand, “take all that and put it down on paper.”

The women nodded rapidly; mesmerized.

“Tell me Pamela, how is your character feeling?” he asked one of the women, his English accent subtly coming through.

“Well,” Pamela one of the thin women of about forty or fifty years of age, with wispy indifferent hair and a baggy, floral dress about two sizes two big for her replied in a timid voice. “Well, the character is really me and some events that happened to me when I was a teenager.” She trailed off looking hopeful at the great writer.

“Ah, memoir, your genre. I see.” Reginald tapped one pudgy finger against his chin.

“That’s alright, isn’t it?” Pamela responded to the silence nervously.

There was a pause. “Oh, yes. Quite alright. Many of the best writers out there do memoirs. It can be a very popular genre.” There was another pause. The blue eyes stared at the thin woman. “You do know what a genre is, don’t you, Pamela?” It was like the school master addressing a naughty student.

The woman blushed deep pink. “Yes, yes. I think so,” She looked around desperately, silently begging for help.

One of the other women, a short, stocky lady with spiky white hair and big red glasses spoke. “Of course, Reginald, the ladies in our group all know that. A genre represents the different styles of books, like mystery, romance, thriller and so on.” She shifted her gaze to Pamela and gave her a meaningful stare.

“Oh, right, right,” Pamela tittered, “different styles of writing and books.” She stopped and looked down at her writing pad, the pink flush fading to a dark red. She looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her.

“Of course, of course,” Reginald smiled.

He faintly resembles a desert lizard when he smiles, thought the older woman in the red glasses. She got a faint ‘ick’ feeling.

Sue, the older woman and group leader, took charge of the meeting and announced, “Well girls, I think we have annoyed Reginald long enough and I for one vote for a recess for lunch!”

There was a generalized chorus of agreement. Chairs got shuffled backwards and like on cue, the center staff showed up to move long white tables into place. Behind the long-raised countertop at the side of the room, kitchen helpers could be seen to pull out large containers of sandwiches, chips, pickles and cold sodas to put in place.

Most of the women excused themselves for a few minutes to wash up before lunch.

Sue latched onto Reginald before the group broke up. He was heading toward a side door.

“Joining us for lunch, Reginald?” Sue asked gaily.

Reginald turned a gimlet eye to the lunch fare. With the slightest grimace and shrug of the shoulders he told her, “Thanks, Sue. Appreciate it. There’s an Italian place just over the hill I have been wanting to try. Think I’ll jog over there for lunch.”

Jog was a euphemism of course. Reginald or Reggie, as most of his friends called him, never jogged anywhere if he could help it. Walking from his jaguar to the door of a restaurant was about as much exercise as he could stand.

Sue nodded with a frozen smile. Reginald had been paid a nice sum to come and be their speaker at this two-day conference. Dining with the guests was generally considered de-regur for their other speakers. Of course, she thought to herself, this jerk has to be the different one.

Not saying what was actually on her mind, instead she said, “No problem, Reginald. I guess we start up again at 3:30 to go until an early dinner. Yes?” She smiled with determination.

Reginald glanced at his Rolex watch, considered it a moment and said, “Yes, I think I can do that.” He smiled beatifically at Sue, and she did have to admire the incredibly well-done veneers on his front teeth.

The man turned and left. Sue unclenched her hands and walked stiffly back to the lunchroom and plopped down on a fold out chair. Her buddy, Louise, sat down next to her.

“Trouble, dear?”

Sue poured herself a large glass of ice-water from the carafe. A recovered alcoholic, she downed a large mouthful of the cold liquid before speaking. “I don’t know, Louise. I am not sure this guy was worth the money we put out for him.”

Louise looked concerned. “Well, honey. He is a very well-known writer, and he does really seem to know his stuff….” She trailed off looking hopeful at her friend.

“I know all that, hell, I was the one who did the research and found him. It’s just…I don’t know. There is just something about him.” She shook her head and sipped her water.

Louise shrugged and poured some water for herself. They both stared out at the beautiful blue skies seen through the huge plate glass windows of the kitchen area.

On the backside of the conference grounds, in one of the guest rooms, a different scene played out.

“I felt so stupid. I just felt so stupid.” Pamela cried into a small handkerchief.

Her friend, Hillary Jane, a forty something lady, held her around the shoulders.

“Come on, Pam. It’s alright. No one will even remember by tomorrow. It will be forgotten,” she said soothingly.

“I knew the answer, I knew the answer to the question. I just froze!” Pam wailed into the soggy scrap of linen.

“Pam, how long has it been since you’ve been in school? You forget stuff like that you know. Happens all the time.”

“I haven’t been in college for twenty years,” Pam sniffed. “I’ve been married and had kids.”

“See,” reasoned Hillary, “perfectly understandable.”

“But he is so well known and written so many books. I don’t know. I don’t think I can go back this afternoon. I’m too embarrassed.”

“Well, I am a copy editor and read a lot of stuff and I have never read anything of Mr. Reginal Knight. So, he can’t be all that great.”

“Well…” Pam was running out of objections.

“Look,” Hillary got up and pulled Pam up with her, “let’s go have some lunch and then maybe a little nap. We’ll both be good as new for the next meeting. Then, if you don’t want to come, I’ll just make your excuses, and we’ll meet up again for dinner. I hear some of the girls want to try a Mexican food restaurant just over the hill. Maybe have a margarita. It will be fun!”

Pam nodded miserably and allowed herself to be led out of the room for lunch.

This guy is a regular asshole, Hillary thought to herself as she led the way to the lunchroom. Absolutely no call for him to act like that. She grimaced and put it out of her mind for the moment.

In truth, Hillary was herself a bit more than she appeared to be, or just another member of a woman’s writing club. Tall, willowy, with long light brown hair with some silver showing through, Hillary was a bit pass forty but had not yet hit the fifty mark. She was still attractive and made careful use of cosmetics and hairstyles to accentuate her features.

Hillary Jane was in truth more than a copyeditor for magazines. She was a ghost writer for the Hollywood scene. Her specialty was scripts and script repair for some of the bigger writers in the movie biz who were in too much of a hurry to be careful with their writing or too lazy to take the time anymore to clean things up before submitting. Somehow, once scriptwriters attained a name for themselves, some of the hard work of editing and revising seemed to be a bit beneath them.

Hillary had disclosed to Sue, but not the others that she had been variously: Zane Grey, Samatha Cartwright, Lillian DePlonsebury, Rex Mananoff, Sweet Sister Sue, amongst others.

“You are kidding,” Sue breathed out in sheer disbelief.

“Nope,” Hillary shook her head. She sipped her iced tea. They were having lunch.

“So why, I don’t understand, don’t you tell everyone? Tell us, the girls? They would be astounded, I know.” Sue plucked an olive from her plate and started chewing.

“Non-disclosure agreements,” Hillary replied. “Iron-clad. Attorneys and everything, signed in blood. Multiple threats of death and dismemberment if I talk.” Hillary bit into her whole-grain tuna sandwich.

“Wow,” Sue replied, “that seems so…so…”

“Unfair?” Hillary replied. She shook her head in the affirmative. “I know. But those are the rules and you got to play by the rules you want to make the money.”

“Still…” Sue shook her head and popped another olive in her mouth. She swallowed. “They pay you well?” she wanted to know.

Hillary nodded. “It’s a living. I’m not making what the big-name screenwriters make, of course, but I get by.”

Sue nodded thoughtfully. “So, just how much do the big names make?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hillary thought a moment. “Maybe two, two hundred fifty thousand a year.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand! Wow! I never knew. That’s as much as some doctors and lawyers make. Jeeze. And then you…?”

“A whole lot less than that,” Hillary replied and laughed. She chased the tuna bite with some potato chips and sipped her tea.

continued part II