CHAPTER 2
Wednesday. Two days after the deal with the goblin box - and the day where Hollywood was due to arrive in Goldsboro…
Ten past eleven in the morning, the close-knit trio of Wynne, Blackie and Goldie found themselves on the road once more. Driving north to Goldsboro on the State Route, the mat-black Silverado had another passenger in the shape of Brenda Travers whose flashy cowboy boots, white Western dress and wide-brimmed summer hat offered a one-hundred-percent guarantee that she would draw plenty of attention wherever she went.
The German Shepherd sat so close to Wynne that it appeared her black fur had been glued to the pale-blue jeans. Breathing in a calm and even fashion, she rested her head in her owner's lap while a warm hand on her shoulder added even more homeliness to the picturesque scene. The other side of the seat was less serene: Goldie was in a happy, playful mood so her bushy tail wiggled and waggled all over the place.
Brenda had tried to get a conversation going with Wynne the entire time since they had left the trailer park, but Goldie's frantic wiggling-waggling made her let out constant streams of snickers instead. Her Western dress featured a pleated skirt, and at one point, Goldie's tail ended up on the wrong side of the fabric. "Oooooh! No tickling, Goldie!" Brenda squealed before she broke out in loud snickers as she guided the bushy tail away from her bare thigh.
Wynne let out a few chuckles but soon had to concentrate on the driving. Although the winds had at long last died down after the forty-hour onslaught, most parts of the State Route still resembled a dirt road that needed to be treated with respect by the drivers - a sedan that had performed an ungraceful nosedive into the ditch on the right-hand side of the road offered enough proof of that.
When they drove past the dented vehicle, Wynne spotted the official sticker that had been attached to the rear window of the wreck: it meant the MacLean County Sheriff's Department had already taken care of business there so passers-by did not need to report the accident.
---
The mean streets of Goldsboro were, as predicted by anyone who had spent more than five minutes there, anything but. Main Street and the connecting Second Street only saw a single truck between them, so the arrival of Wynne's Silverado doubled the amount of traffic in town - the last time a major logjam had occurred had been when the Songbirds country group had played the gig that had ended up going viral all over the Internet for all the wrong reasons.
"Holeh mackerel, wouldya look at them there dooh-nes!" Wynne said after she had driven over to the curb on the wrong wide of Main Street - red desert sand piled up everywhere they looked. The most impressive dune had been formed in front of the main entrance to Moira's Bar & Grill, but the entire sidewalk saw its fair share of dust and sand. "Lawrdie, me an ol' Ernie could'ha made a bundle he' taday… we could'ha been shovelin' sand fer ev'rehboddah. Haw! An' washed them windas, too! Yessir… them sure wus the good, ol' days…"
Selecting reverse, Wynne soon backed into the narrow alley adjacent to Moira's. The spot had become her favorite place to park as it was not only the exact center between the town's best eatery, the sheriff's office and Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports - where she parted with a good deal of her cash - but also at a safe distance from the trailers and tankers that hauled solid manure and liquid slurry at regular intervals out on Main Street.
"Have you heard from Ernie recently?" Brenda said as she tried to get herself untangled from the unruly Goldie and the seat belt.
"Naw… ol' Ernie prolleh be too bizzeh pamperin' the darlin' Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne an' that wondahful li'l gal o' theirs ta call me."
"Weeelll," Brenda said and cast a pointed look at Wynne, "a telephone's a two-way talking thing, you know."
Wynne nodded as she ran her fingers across the steering wheel's rim. "Yuh, I know. But they got a good thing goin' an' I don't wanna intrude or nuttin'. Dang, I miss ol' Ernie, tho'." The final statement was accompanied by a small thump on the wheel. "Anyhows. We be he' ta play some pool… so les'do that, yuh?"
Once Brenda had managed to liberate herself from the dog on her lap and the belt that kept her pinned down to the seat, she reached over to give Wynne's thigh a couple of quick pats. "In other words… butt out, Brenda," she said with a wink.
---
The interior of Moira's Bar & Grill looked as it always had: the shiny bar counter and its row of round stools took up most of the space at the center of the room. The industrial stoves, the two range hoods, the French-fry cooking baskets and all the tools needed for the task were just beyond the counter - the stoves were still cold as they would not be turned on until noon when Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane would come to work.
The left-hand side of the restaurant was home to the refrigerators, the pool table and several different electronic games. The video poker machine that had been smashed by Joe-Bob 'The Manbeast Of Yucky Flats' Millard in a drunken rage had been replaced by a coin-operated video keno game, but the slower, less exciting and more expensive machine was nowhere near as popular with the patrons as the old one had been.
A host of square tables with room for two or four guests took up the rest of the space. Each table was draped in a checkered tablecloth and carried reed baskets that held all the usual accessories: salt and pepper shakers, ketchup and mustard tubs, small vials of various hot sauces ranging from mild to apocalyptic, extra napkins and the ubiquitous plastic bags containing toothpicks.
Only a handful of the tables were occupied when Wynne, Brenda and the dogs stepped inside. The blue-haired, cheroot-smoking Mildred Herzberg played dominoes with her special friend Albert Rossman while Dr. Byron Gibbs, the town's veterinarian, was busy reading a newspaper, sipping a cup of coffee and eating a small, sweet pastry at another table.
Two members of Goldsboro's younger generation, Roscoe Finch and Geoffrey Wilburr, jr., shared a table as far away from Mildred's foul-smelling cheroot as possible; the juniors drank cans of soda and enjoyed sandwiches they had bought from the refrigerators. Once they spotted Wynne entered the establishment, they waved at her before grabbing their early lunch and heading over to the pool table.
Wynne looked even more like a gunslinger of yore than usual. The oblong leather bag she carried over her shoulder resembled one that would have been used to transport precision-shooting Sharps or rapid-fire Winchesters back in the day, but its contents were altogether more peaceful - except for those who ended up on the wrong side of her playing skills, of course.
Blackie and Goldie ran ahead to get to the doggy-cave that Moira had made for them underneath the pool table; it wasn't long before they snuggled up tight on the soft, comfortable blanket that was a permanent fixture in there.
Reaching the pool table, Wynne unzipped the leather bag and retrieved a pair of cues that had been built to the highest standard by a retired pro-tour player. She gave each cue a thorough visual inspection before she placed them on a foam cushion designed for the task.
Brenda chuckled at the mask of deep concentration that was etched onto Wynne's face - the Last Original Cowpoke only took a small handful of things seriously, and pool was without a doubt one of them. "Best of luck with your game… I'll just sit here and watch the master at work," she said after pulling out a chair.
"Much obliged, Brendah. Yuh, this he' gah-me be good fer me, ain't no doubt 'bout that. Yuh. Okeh… howdy, Juniah. Roscoeh. Y'all be reddeh fer a li'l ac-shun?" Wynne said as she chalked the first of her cues. The balls were already in place on the pool table, but she gave them a few nudges so they would line up in proper fashion.
"Hiya, Wynne," Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. said while Roscoe Finch just offered their co-player a wave. The two twenty-somethings were both dressed in typical gear: work boots, jeans, flannel shirts, hunting vests and baseball caps - Geoffrey's cap said Time-2-Fish! and Roscoe's was held in camouflage colors. They both tried to grow fashionable beards, but the fuzz on their cheeks just looked silly. Geoffrey Junior continued: "Would it be all right with you if Ritchie Lee joined us in about ten minutes' time? He'd like to be on the junior team."
"Ritchie? Yuh, okeh… whah not? I didden even know he wus int'rested."
"Well, his dad threatened to cut his allowance if he didn't find a healthier pastime than online computer games, so…"
"Yuh. Ain't nuttin' lack a li'l finan-shu-al pres-shure ta move on in lih-fe. Okeh, les'go fer a few frames he'. Them folks from the North Greenville Pool Club we be playin' in a couple-a weeks' tih-me be perdeh dog-gone good handlin' them cues. Which one o' ya fellas wanna go first?"
When she realized Geoffrey Junior and Roscoe had yet to reply despite the fact they were both right next to her, she looked up to see what was going on. "Juniah? Wake up, son! We be playin' pool he'… this sure ain't no tih-me fer sleepin' or nuttin'…" she said before her voice trailed off.
Geoffrey Junior and Roscoe had stuck their heads together and were engaged in a snickering, whispering conversation where the main object of their little chat seemed to be Brenda's pleated skirt and the toned, tanned legs that were only semi-covered by the breezy fabric - the lady in question browsed through the Bar & Grill's menu so she had yet to notice she was being stared at.
Wynne chewed on her cheek as she followed the glances of her fellow players. Action had always spoken louder than words, so she leaned forward and lined up the cue. An expert thrust followed: the cue ball took off at the speed of sound, jumped clear over the boundary and thumped hard against Geoffrey's jeans five inches below his belt buckle.
It was inevitable that such an action would lead to a reaction of equal proportion. Not only did he let out a braying "Boahh-hh-hh-hh-hh," he doubled over and needed to put one hand on the edge of the pool table and the other on his crotch.
"Lawrdie, son! Ah do beg yer pardon an' all!" Wynne said as she took a step back from the pool table. The cue ball she had used for the sneak attack had rolled across the floor, so she leaned down to pick it up and put it back on the table. "Whah, that there gosh-darned cue jus' slipped outta mah hand at the worst moment. Y'all reddeh ta play now?"
"Uh-huh," Geoffrey croaked in a voice that seemed an octave higher than usual; Roscoe nodded hard and made sure to have his eyes on the green felt. He bent his knees a little to keep his vital components below the edge of the pool table so he wouldn't suffer the same fate as his friend.
Brenda looked at all three players before she let out a short chuckle, crossed her legs the other way and returned to the menu.
-*-*-*-
Forty minutes later, Moira's Bar & Grill bustled with activity as a dozen ranch hands and other manual laborers from around the county used their lunch break to feast in Goldsboro's number one eating spot. A.J. Lane worked flat-out flipping burgers, minding the French-fry baskets and frying greasy sausages for the impatient crowd, but variations of "Come on, Slow Lane… we ain't got all day!" was still heard several times from the burly men sitting on the row of stools at the bar counter.
The pool table continued to see plenty of action as well. Wynne, Roscoe and Geoffrey Junior stood back chalking their cues while the gangly, spotty seventeen-year-old Richard 'Ritchie' Lee tried in vain to line up a shot that even the rawest of rookies should be able to do in their sleep.
His white basketball boots matched the paleness of his skin, but his blue jeans, green T-shirt and red mullet created such a severe color clash that Wynne and the other players almost needed to protect their eyes.
The jeans were of a modern, drooping cut which made him no friends in the small and somewhat conservative community, especially not when he leaned forward to take the shot. The denim jacket he had worn when showing up had been put over the backrest of the nearest chair. Although ragged and threadbare, it was by design rather than through hard work, and that was seen as an even worse offense among the blue-collar group.
When his shot came at long last, it was pitiful and failed to get the ball halfway across the table. Ritchie stood up straight, scratched his hair and moved over to the other side to try again.
"Naw, friend," Wynne said and put her hand on Ritchie's shoulder. "I be real sorreh an' all, but this he' jus' ain't gonn' work. Y'all ain't even good enuff ta play in that there kiddie league or nuttin'. Naw. It plum ain't gonn' work. C'mon, lemme get y'all a soda pop… yuh?"
"Yeah, all right," Ritchie said and broke out in a shrug. After putting the rental cue back into the proper rack, he took his denim jacket and turned back to his fellow pool players. "Uh… how about making it a beer instead?"
"How ol' ya say ya wus, son?"
"Seventeen…" Ritchie said in a mumble.
Wynne chuckled and gave the youngling a pat on the shoulder. "Naw, we can't make it a beah instead. G'wan, grab a pop from the refri-cha-ratahs. I'mma-gonn' pay fer it latah."
Ritchie shrugged again. "Okay… thanks. Uh… and thanks for the try-out."
"Ya sure be welcome an' all, son," Wynne said as she tracked Ritchie Lee shuffling over to the refrigerators. "Okeh… Roscoe, back ta-"
'Howdy, Wynne! Brenda! Hiya, fellas!' a male voice shouted from over at the main entrance. Diego Benitez moved backwards into Moira's Bar & Grill after opening the door with his knee and then his rear end - the reason for the unusual approach was soon explained by the square Styrofoam box he carried.
The passionate hunter still wore his desert combat fatigues that he had bought from a Marine Corps surplus store - thus, his entire outfit from the marching boots up to his floppy sun hat was held in various shades of sandy which enabled him to blend in to the point of disappearing from view while prowling the desert.
"Howdy, Diegoh! Y'all need a hand with that box there?"
"Nope! It's big but it doesn't weigh anything. I bagged and salted a couple of jackrabbits for Moira," Diego said as he inched his way through the tables to get to the counter.
Wynne responded with a wide grin and a big thumbs-up before she turned back to the pool table. "Okeh… Roscoe, y'all need-a practice a li'l mo' when the table's full, so les' do some test runs, yuh?"
Roscoe Finch had only just made his first shot when a pair of strangers entered the restaurant. One by one, the patrons fell quiet and turned to stare at the man and woman who stared back like they couldn't believe what they were seeing.
Ninety-seven-and-a-half percent of all residents of Goldsboro and the surrounding rural areas wore rugged outdoors fatigues of some kind: sturdy boots, baseball caps, flannel shirts, hunting vests and acres of denim were, and had always been, the order of the day - the town's various uniformed personnel accounted for most of the remaining two-and-a-half percentage points.
The new people who had just caused Moira's Bar & Grill to come to a dead stop wore a black, three-piece business suit and a charcoal-gray pant-suit, respectively. Both wore white shirts, very dark shades and handcrafted shoes with thin soles. The man - who was in hid mid-forties - wore a striped tie and silver cufflinks while a large brooch shaped like a daisy graced the lapel of the late-thirty-something woman. Their hair sat picture-perfect, and it was obvious the woman's makeup had been applied by a professional.
Wynne let out a long groan after she had clapped eyes on the strangers. "Haw, fer cryin' out loud… it's them Virgin Towah folks. They fih-nalleh gone an' done it… they fih-nalleh entah'd the lion's den… ain't no escapin' 'em, dag-nabbit…"
"I don't think so, Wynne," Brenda said while she studied the well-dressed people. "Look, they're both wearing jewelry. And the lady's using blush and lipstick…"
"Haw… y'all mi'te be onta som'tin there, Brendah… Lawrdie, I bettah go intra-doo-se mahself befo' any o' them friendleh folks he' decide ta throw 'em outta he' or som'tin."
Nodding to herself, Wynne put her expensive cue onto its foam cushion before she donned her battered cowboy hat, screwed a smile on her face and stepped forward with her thumbs hooked inside her belt loops. "Howdy, folks. New in town? Lookin' fer somebodda?"
The guests both lowered their dark shades to take in the sight of the tall, attractive and above all rural-looking lady. They exchanged a quick glance before the man stepped forward with his hand stretched out ahead of him. "That's right, Ma'am-"
"Huh… which part?" Wynne said as she shook his hand, but she was unable to complete the question before the man had gone on:
"I'm Aidan Carlson and this is my associate Miss Penny Richter. We work for Padded Cell Productions, the company behind such fine and indeed award-winning genre films such as Mind Murders, The Creeper Stalks and Freakazoids. I'm sure you've heard of them."
"Naw-"
Once again Wynne found herself ignored by the well-dressed fellow who carried on where he had left off: "Miss Richter and I are in your charming, little town to inform you of the filming of vital scenes for a motion picture scheduled for a nationwide release later this year. It's a horror Western with the working title Cowpokes versus The Undead Vampyre Ghouls," he said with a straight face before he took a theatrical step back to heighten the tension.
The desired effect came almost at once as an excited murmur rippled among the patrons of the Bar & Grill. Aidan Carlson smiled before he continued: "I'm one of the producers of the motion picture and Miss Richter is the primary casting agent. She has the full blessing of the director, the Intergalactica Award-winning Stephen Markham, to offer special background roles for those of the town's residents who may be interested!"
The news made the rippling murmur blossom into an excited tide among the patrons - it seemed that most would be interested in participating even before hearing any details as to the nature of the movie.
Most, but not all: Wynne's lips drew back into a grimace as the horrific images of her own, failed film project flashed before her mind's eye. She and Mandy had been contacted by the Shlock Channel not long after the details surrounding the alien invasion had become public. Slick shysters had blown hot air in their ears for so long they had agreed to get involved by investing some of their own money in what was supposed to have been a major science-fiction movie. When the finished product aired on Shlock a few months later, the movie turned out to be so downright unwatchable that it only entered the past-midnight rerun loop long after its premiere - the money they had invested was all gone along with the shysters, but the legal bills remained.
She only returned to the present when she realized Penny Richter was in the process of asking her a question. "Huh? Whazzat?" she said and pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow. Mr. Carlson had vanished while Wynne had zoned out, but she found him up at the bar where he showed the row of burly men a hi-gloss, promotional portfolio filled with glittery pictures and posters of Padded Cell Productions' previous works.
The casting agent cocked her head and offered Wynne a very Hollywood-like smile as she ran her eyes up and down the statuesque presence from the boots to the battered hat. "I said, you would be perfect for a very special role as a cowboy… well, cowgirl. Oh, the camera would just love you! I can't get over your luminance and charisma… not to mention your exquisite stance! And those cheekbones, gosh! Your entire appearance just screams true-blue ruggedness and authenticity. Indeed, with a little effort, you could become an icon of the wild frontier! An All-American icon!"
"Lawrdie, I ain't got no clue whaddindahell half o' them there hi-falootin' words mean or nuttin'…"
"Oh, I just love your dialect," Penny said and slapped her hands together. "Where are you from?"
"Shallow Pond, Texas."
"Oh God, that's so perfect!" Penny said and slapped her hands together in absolute, insincere glee for a second time in as many seconds. "Is there somewhere private where we can sit and chat? I'd love to show you some on-set stills that our photographers have taken of the studio shoots in L.A.-"
"Naw, we ain't gonn' sit an' chat," Wynne said and held up her hands. "Sorreh there, li'l ladeh, but it jus' ain't gonn' happen. I done heard all this bull dung befo' an' it sure don't smell no bettah than the las' tih-me… y'all bettah find some othah suckah ta sweet-talk, Miss Penneh."
With that as her parting salute, Wynne spun around on her heel and stomped back to the pool table. Once she got there, she let out a grunt as everyone else in the Bar & Grill - including her two co-players and Brenda Travers - was either crowding Aidan Carlson up at the bar to look at the hi-gloss photos, or the casting agent in the hope of getting even the tiniest background part.
Her enthusiasm for the game had flown out of the window with the arrival of the movie people, but she took a few shots on her own in the hope the slick producer and the gushing casting agent would leave before long. The excited buzz that rolled back and forth among the patrons proved that would not be the case.
Grumbling hard though keeping most of it under her breath, she stored her expensive cues in the leather bag. A final look yielded nothing but hubbub so she let out a short whistle to summon her dogs.
Blackie and Goldie soon popped their heads out from the doggy-cave underneath the pool table. When they saw their owner pat her thigh and point at the door, they yapped a couple of times and followed her out of the noisy restaurant.
---
Wynne stomped north on Main Street with no clear goal apart from a vague notion of seeing how far the mechanics at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop had come with the restoration of Joe-Bob Millard's original 1976 Cadillac Eldorado she and Diego had rescued from the desert north of Goldsboro.
Blackie and Goldie stayed in close formation and acted as wing-dogs to their owner. As the trio reached 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun shop, Wynne stopped to look at the various firearms on display behind the inch-thick armored panes.
McCabe's right-hand man J.D. Burdette was a genius when it came to dioramas, and the one he had made depicting Goldsboro's Wild West origins left nothing to be desired: A classic Colt Frontier Six revolver and a Winchester 1873 rifle were placed side by side next to a handful of spent .44-40 casings, a couple of flat rocks and plenty of the familiar red sand. A foot-long, life-like model of an iguana rested on the rocks as did an old, battered Stetson that looked as if it had already survived several cavalry charges.
Down on the sidewalk, Goldie rubbed her golden fur against her owner's legs for a while. Blackie had run ahead but came back to look at the dioramas. She let out a Woof? that could be interpreted as 'Why is that so exciting?' before she made herself comfortable on the flagstones.
"Aw, hell…" Wynne said and removed her hat to give her scalp a good scratching. "Whadda-y'all reckon, girls? Ya think I oughttah go back there an' see if anehthin' would come outta it? I mean… bein' in a Westurhn could be kinda fun… I guess. Even if I'm nuttin' mo' than a blink-an'-ya-miss-me kinda extra or som'tin."
Woof! - Yap!
"Haw, ya reckon?"
Woof!
"Yuh, I done figgah'd y'all wus gonn' say som'tin lack that, Blackie. Goldie?"
Yap…
"Aw, ya don't lack it? Yuh, I deffa-net-leh see that there point as well, yessir. Lawrdie, when I think back ta them there sons-a-bees who done lied through their dang-blasted pearleh whites ta me an' Mandeh 'bout that there mooh-vie they wus gonn' make… I be tellin' y'all, it still makes mah stomach churn! An' ain't in no good sense, neithah, nosirree."
'Miss Donohue! Hello, Miss Donohue!' a female voice cried some distance off to Wynne's left.
Turning around, she spotted Penny Richter hurrying along the sidewalk waving the glossy ad-folder used by the producer earlier on to lure in the unsuspecting, but excited, masses.
Goldie uttered a long string of yaps that meant 'please don't listen to those people… they'll only make false promises and take up all your time so you can't pour real food or those yummy treats into my eating bowl!' but nobody seemed to listen - even Blackie grew excited by the prospects of a little action.
"Miss Donohue!" the casting agent said once more when she had come far closer. "Thank you for stopping. I must tell you that you're just theee perfect actor for the part we have in mind. It was originally written as a male character, but I have just been on the phone with the screenwriter and he agreed to change it to a female character. Only, and I stress only, if we could get someone like you, however. You would be appearing in two scenes… one here tomorrow and one down in Silver Creek on Friday. You would even have few lines of dialogue! Wouldn't that be a wonderful story to tell the grandchildren? Please, please, please, Miss Donohue… please say yes so I can sleep soundly tonight."
Wynne pushed her hat back from her brow to create enough room between her ears for the stream of information that had just been flung at her. "Lawwwwwr-die… y'all sure be tawkin' a mile a minnit. Them be a whole lotta words in no tih-me flat, there, ladeh. How ya catch mah nah-me, anyhows?"
"Oh, Mr. Wilburr Jr. told me."
"Yuh? Mebbe I oughtta slam another cue ball right inta Juniah's-"
Penny Richter held up the glossy portfolio and flicked through it to get to the promotional stills. "I'm sure you'll change your mind when you look at these photographs. Look, isn't this costume simply magnificent?" the casting agent said as she held up one of the photos.
Wynne craned her neck to look at it, but it was pulled back before she was able to see more than a blur of someone who could have been wearing cowboy fatigues. "Whoa! I didden getta see-" she said, but was cut off at once:
"The care and sublime attention to detail that our costume designer and set decorator have brought to this production are just astounding. Indeed, they're positively mesmerizing! See for yourself, Miss Donohue," Penny said and shoved the whole thing into Wynne's hands.
Sighing, Wynne took the portfolio to study the hi-gloss photos. She let out a few grunts along the way before she handed it back. "Yuh, I gotta admit it be lookin' perdeh dog-gone neat. Some o' them there actah folks y'all got fer them parts ain't rugged enuff, tho'. Hell, that ain't no fault o' yers… seems ta me the entiah mooh-vie industreh done moved away from real-lookin' fellas an' wimmenfolk in favahr o' them college kids who need-a have them beards glued on 'cos they ain't even shavin' yet."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Miss Donohue! That's why you're perfect for the part we have in mind for you!" Penny said and stuffed the portfolio under her arm so she could slap her hands together in put-upon amazement. "Oh, I wish you would say yes."
Goldie let out a prolonged, downcast Yap! down on the sidewalk, but the comment fell on deaf ears. When the Golden Retriever realized she was being ignored by her owner, she let out another Yap! directed at Blackie in the hope her black- furred companion would come to her rescue with regards to the important message. A few silent doggy-seconds went by before Goldie gave up and resigned herself to a couple of busy days.
"Haw, tell ya what, there, Miss… Penneh, wussen it?"
"That's right. Penny Richter."
"Miss Penneh, lemme back up fer a sec he'… where y'all be stayin' them nights while ya he' in li'l, ol' Goldsborah?"
The casting agent narrowed her eyes at she parsed the question. After a few moments of chewing on her cheek, the proverbial light bulb came on: "Oh! We're staying at Mrs. Peabody's boarding house."
"Yuh, 's whut I done figgah'd," Wynne said and pushed her hat forward once more now that her hands were back on the proverbial steering wheel. "Okeh, if y'all can organih-ze with them produc-shun folks o' yers ta spend them two nights right he' in Moira's li'l bed an' breakfast hoah-tel instead o' ovah yondah at Missus Bizzeh-boddehs, y'all gotcha'self a deal that includes mah good self fer that there part in that there Westurhn mooh-vie o' yers, yes Ma'am," she continued before she hooked her thumbs inside her belt loops and offered the casting agent an unwavering, but not unfriendly, look.
Penny needed a moment to translate the soliloquy into basic English, but when she had arrived at the core of the statement, she whipped up her smartphone at once and stepped away from Wynne and the dogs to obtain some privacy for the call. The talk ebbed and flowed for a short while before she closed the connection and put away the phone. "Deal!" she said and thrust out her hand. "Welcome to the team, Miss Donohue! Oh, I can't tell you how happy I am right now! I'm positively glowing inside!"
"Lawrdie, that sure ain't no strange feelin' fer me, neithah. No, Ma'am!" Wynne said as she shook the lady's hand. "Whah, it done happened most offen aftah mah deah, deah friend Ernie done whipped up them brand new recipes o' his. Yuh, fer one o' his wondahful hawt sawces that he wanted me ta trah. Dag-nabbit, I be tellin' ya, mah poah guts done spewed fiah mo' than once!"
Penny blinked several times; a nervous tic developed on her left cheek. "That… that's not exactly what I meant…"
"Haw… it wussen? Okeh. Mah bad," The two women - who were polar opposites in everything from looks to mannerisms - remained in a hand-shaking position a couple of moments longer while they tried to work out if the other was being sincere or mocking them. "Yuh… so…" Wynne said to kill the awkward pause; her hand soon became available once more, so she stuck it into her rear pocket.
Down on the sidewalk, Blackie and Goldie looked at each other as well. The doggy-looks they shared were far less confused than those that flew back and forth between the humans. Nothing had changed: Blackie was still excited and Goldie was still anything but.
"Please, Miss Donohue," Penny said and hooked her arm inside Wynne's to stop the taller woman from escaping all over again. "Let's go back to the restaurant. You have some important documents to sign. I also believe Mrs. Travers wishes to speak with you. Uh… there was a little confrontation between her and Mr. Carlson about… oh, perhaps she should tell you herself."
Wynne looked at the casting agent's arm but made no effort to remove it so she wouldn't make a scene so early in the partnership. "Yuh… okeh. C'mon, gals," she said before she whistled, patted her thigh and pointed at the Bar & Grill.
---
Back inside, Wynne almost found herself bowled over by a round of applause that rose to greet her from most everyone there. "Whaddindahell? Did somebodda elect me mayah or som'tin? Thank ye, thank ye… tho' I ain't got no clue wotcha be clappin' fer, anyhows."
Blackie and Goldie let out a few woofs and yaps before they went straight for their doggy-cave underneath the pool table.
Diego Benitez - whose sandy combat fatigues stood out among all the denim and flannel around him - leaned against the shiny counter while holding a can of H.E. Fenwyck Dark Lager high in the air. "You're gonna be a star, Wynne!" he cried before he downed half the beer in one go. The other burly fellows at the bar stools all cheered and followed suit with their own beers.
Most of the latter group had neither the time nor the inclination to be involved in any kind of movie project, so they took their hard hats or work gloves and filed out of Moira's to return to their various ranches and storage facilities.
"Aw, ya think, Diegoh?" Wynne said with a grin. The grin only broadened when she looked around the restaurant and noticed that the majority of her friends and acquaintances held onto a bundle of papers that carried a colorful logo - pretty much the only one who didn't was a grumpy-looking Brenda Travers.
Before Penny Richter could add her two cents to the conversation and present Wynne with her contract, her hard-working telephone rang and she hurried outside to answer it.
'Hey, Mister Fancy Pants,' somebody shouted from somewhere in the background, 'how about giving us a few hard facts about the movie instead of all that public relations baloney you've been feeding us?'
The way Aidan Carlson's cheeks turned cherry-red proved he wasn't too pleased with the unexpected hostility, but his slick nature - honed to perfection after working in Hollywood for the better part of two decades - soon took over and he broke out in a wide smile that was almost genuine. "So you want the low-down, eh? All right. The budget is one million two. The stars are Simon DeLane that I'm sure the younger people here know-"
A loud cheer made him break out in a nod and a grin, "- and for the older… sorry, less young… among you, Mr. Roger Kennedy is on hand to add his special brand of silver screen magic that I'll bet you've been following since the glorious decade of the nineteen-eighties. Remember when he starred as Sergeant Randolph Harvey in the award-winning, multi-year police drama Harvey's Beat? He earned himself several Emmys for that portrayal and he's lost none of his skills or camera presence since then."
Even Wynne remembered that show from the old days, and she had to admit that it was exciting to be on the same project as the veteran actor with the chiseled chin and steel-blue eyes - even if he had grown thirty-five years older in the mean time.
"Most of the scenes have already been filmed on sound stages and a movie ranch near Los Angeles," Aidan Carlson continued, "but the main reason for coming here is the desert and the unique opportunity it provides to get some on-location filming in the can… well, on the chip since this film is made using digital cameras. Also, the ghost town of Silver Creek will give us access to real derelict buildings which in turn will save us a bundle in construction costs. Is there anything else you'd like to know?"
Brenda Travers thrust her hand in the air - her natural smile had been replaced by a sour note that hadn't been there earlier in the day. "I'd really, really like to know what your scriptwriter was thinking. Hell, I'd like to know what you were thinking when you greenlit it? How is it even possible in this day and age to write a movie script that doesn't contain any female characters?! I mean, other than frickin' saloon girls and other semi-prostitutes. I believe those were the roles you offered me when I queried for a part, right?"
"Ah… ah, yes, Mrs. Travers. I'm afraid I still can't answer your questions," Aidan Carlson said; he even had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Oh, look at the time. Well. Miss Richter will get in touch with those of you who have signed our contracts for Thursday's scenes here and Friday's down in Silver Creek. There are a few additional clauses, articles and similar legal matters to agree upon. Thank you! Thank you very much… and have a nice day!"
Brenda let out a few grumbles as she watched the producer hurry out of the door - it was clear he wanted to be at a safe distance in case some of the rural barflies began questioning what 'clauses, articles and similar legal matters' might contain.
Far too much time had gone by without Wynne having her whistle wetted, so she made a beeline for the refrigerators and the shelves that held the H.E. Fenwyck products. After much internal deliberation, she went for a can of Dark Lager. She already held it in her hand when she reconsidered and put it back. Another round of internal deliberation came and went before she settled for a Double Zero instead. The non-alcoholic beer was soon cracked open and gulped down.
Returning to the pool table, she was joined by Geoffrey Junior, Roscoe, Diego and Brenda whose face continued to hold an expression similar to that of a lady grizzly bear who had been disturbed in her winter hibernation by some fool who had the IQ of Elmer Fudd. "Howdy ag'in, guys an' gal. Did y'all get one o' them there background roles?"
Geoffrey and Roscoe both nodded and held up their part of the signed documents; Diego stepped forward holding a can of beer instead which was just as important, only in a different manner. "We sure did, Wynne. Well, not all of us…" Diego said, casting a sideways glance at the lady in the Western dress.
Brenda just grumbled.
"Naw, I guessed as much," Wynne said and scratched her neck as she looked as her miffed neighbor. "Whaddindahell's wrong with them folks? I been a Westurhn fan all mah dang life, an' lemme tell ya som'tin, Brenda, I ain't nevah seen no Westurhn that didden have no fee-male folks in 'em. Nosirree. Well, mebbe John Wayne's The Alamoh… haw. Ain't sure 'bout that. But anyhows."
"Yeah, well," Diego continued, "they did have a teeny-tiny problem with racial stereotypes as well. They offered me a part as the token Mexican… you know, the lazy-ass, drunken, barely literate fella wearin' a burlap sack and a straw basket on his head? Yeah, the type who's waitin' outside the saloon hopin' to get a handout from some rich, white guy."
"Holeh shittt…"
Diego downed a large swig of his beer before he continued: "Exactly. I told them to F off. Well, they came around and suggested that I could be either a vaquero or a caballero instead. Eh. I chose the latter 'cos they wanted me to shave off my 'stache for the other part."
"Vaquero is Spanish fer cowboy, yuh?"
"Yup. The grunts… those who get all the shitty jobs."
"So whazza cabba-yero?"
"They're kinda like master horse wranglers. Professionals who work for the big ranchers and those types of people… maybe as foremen or ridin' instructors or things like that."
"Okeh… fits ya bodeh type much bettah, anyhows," Wynne said before she drained her Double Zero down to the last drop - the empty can was soon replaced by one just like it. Before she had time to open it, Penny Richter came back inside holding a wad of papers identical to those already signed by a good deal of the town's residents.
After the casting agent had scanned the Bar & Grill for the unmistakable figure known as The Last Original Cowpoke, she made her way over to the entertainment section. "Miss Donohue, I've been in touch with Distant Horizons-"
"Ya whut?"
"Our parent company…"
"Aw. Okeh," Wynne said and scratched her neck. When she realized Penny was under intense scrutiny by Brenda Travers, she offered the agent a smile. "Go on, there, Miss Penneh."
"And they've approved your offer of relocating our people to the bed-and-breakfast under the condition that you sign the contract here and now," Penny said and held up the documents.
Wynne grinned as she put out her hand. "Lemme have 'it… an' I also need som'tin ta write with 'cos I ain't even got no goose feathah or nuttin'." The grin faded a great deal when she studied the densely written paragraphs of text - although the letters and words used were familiar, the language didn't appear to be English. "Uh… yuh. Okeh. I guess it checks out 'cos all y'all folks do this he' bizz the whole dang tih-me, yuh? Where that dotted line be?"
"Back page, Miss Donohue."
"Haw, clevah!" Wynne said and turned the pile over so she had easy access to the last page. The correct field was soon found; a signature was added with a ball point pen that she handed back to the agent once she had used it. "An' there ya got it, Miss Penneh. Signed an' delivah'd."
"Excellent! Someone will bring you up to speed regarding all the details. See you tomorrow evening, Miss Donohue," Penny Richter said and put out her hand for the traditional shaking before she left once more.
As Wynne returned from the small business meeting, she placed her left buttock on the pool table and cracked open the can of Double Zero with a psshhhhht! "Brendah, I jus' ain't connected enuff in mah noggin ta undahstand whah in the flyin' friggadoo them folks didden jump at da chance ta get y'all on camerah!"
"Oh, I guess I could have been in the movie had I wanted to," Brenda said and toyed with a loose thread on her Western dress. "But those offensive, outdated roles they offered me… no thanks."
"Lawrdie, there be so maneh parts y'all coudda played. Jus' offa the top o' mah head, y'all coudda been one o' them gals who minded them telegraph lih-nes… or a school marm… or a nurse or nun, or mebbe ya coudda been one o' them there med'cin mixahs in da drugstore or jus' a reg'lar cowgal, or… shoot, there ain't no end ta wotcha coudda been! Whah not a baddie lack in that there classic Da Hawk O' Powdah Rivah? Ya evah done seen that?"
"No."
"I be tellin' ya, that there feeh-male bandit wus the best charactah, yes Ma'am!"
Shrugging, Brenda continued to grumble.
Wynne eyed her guy friends who all wore embarrassed looks. A mocking cheer rose from the row of patrons up at the counter when A.J. 'Slow' Lane dropped someone's cheeseburger on the floor; it signaled it was time to move on. "Haw, there ain't nuttin' li'l ol' me can do 'bout that, anyhows. Okeh… catch y'all latah, friends. If y'all need me fer som'tin, I'mma-gonn' be across the street ta see whut mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandeh be up ta. Yuh?"
Diego, Roscoe and Geoffrey Junior waved or let out noises that meant goodbye and see you later - Brenda just grumbled a little more.
"Yuh," Wynne said before she let out a whistle and patted her thigh. When she had Blackie and Goldie's attention, she whistled again and pointed at the main entrance.
-*-*-*-
Wynne's legendary rotten luck when it came to being in the wrong place at the wrong time soon struck once more as she and the dogs needed to wait for a slow tractor to drive north on Main Street before they could cross it.
That wasn't the problem - the slurry tanker pulled by the tractor was. Not only did it reek bad enough for her to pinch her nostrils, the drain faucet installed on the back leaked which left a five-inch-wide wet line all the way up the street.
"Aw, fer cryin' out loud…" she mumbled as she hopped over the disgusting residue so she wouldn't ruin her cowboy boots. Blackie and Goldie both performed artistic doggy-jumps before they ran ahead to protect their sensitive noses.
The stench was strong enough to peel the gray off the Hoover Dam, so Wynne barged into the sheriff's office without knocking or announcing herself through other means. What happened next was inevitable: Beatrice Reilly, who had been sitting at the watch desk, jerked to her feet and reached for her sidearm with the speed of a striking rattlesnake.
"Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa," Wynne cried as she spread her arms out wide, "an' anothah whoa, Quick Draw! Lawrdie, Bea! All y'all sure don't need no pitbull fer protec-shun or nuttin'! Jeebus, how maneh tih-mes a day d'y'all do that?!"
Beatrice narrowed her eyes and secured the little button that held her firearm in place. "Everyone else knows to knock by now…" she mumbled before she sat down and tried to restore some semblance of order to the watch desk.
Goldie whimpered; Blackie growled. Wynne just sighed and took off her cowboy hat to wipe her brow. "Yuh, well… it ain't nevah been no problem befo'. Where the Sheriff at?"
Barry Simms looked up from his paperwork at the back of the office to offer Wynne a wave. Though he was still under the weather from his throat condition, he had shown up to escape his aunt Mildred whose idea of nursing him back to full health was on the old-fashioned side of things and involved all sorts of semi-disgusting potions and chunky soups.
The deputy with the waxen skin, yellowish eyes and amber fingers had lost most of his voice - it had been quite gravelly to begin with as a result of smoking sixty or more low-grade, home-rolled cigarettes a day - so he had been assigned to sit at the smallest of the three desks to sort old case files.
"She's… on… the… can…" he croaked.
"Whazzat, Barreh?"
"The… can…" Barry said, pointing over his shoulder.
"Oh… awright. Yuh, gotta take care o' bizzness, that sure ain't no lie," Wynne said and placed a buttock on the corner of the sheriff's desk.
Blackie continued to growl at Beatrice while Goldie preferred to pretend the bad scare involving the quick-drawing deputy had never happened. With a happy yap, she moved over to a spot near one of the windows where the linoleum was less cracked than elsewhere in the tired, old office. Once she had made herself comfortable, she yapped again to invite Blackie over for a little snuggle - the German Shepherd performed a doggy-shrug and shuffled over to lie down.
To kill time while she waited for Mandy to appear, Wynne studied the outdated maps of the town and the surrounding territory, the disconnected strip light in the ceiling, the 1950s-era Bakelite telephone on the watch desk, and the passageway to the adjacent jail house that had been rusted shut since Ronald Reagan resided in the White House. None of it could hold her interest for more than a few seconds, so she moved on to look at the deputies instead.
"Lawrdie, Barreh… y'all don't look too hawt, there, son. Ya sure ya be fit fer work?"
"Oh… sure…" Barry said and lit his next cigarette with the dying embers of the old one like he always did. As expected, the ashtray on the smallest desk already had the look of an ash-making production plant after a bad industrial accident. "My… throat's… a… lot… better… today."
"Izzat a fact? Sure don't sound lack it or nuttin'… but if y'all say so, who am I ta argue with ya."
The conversation with Barry Simms was pushed aside when Mandy appeared from the restroom at the back of the office. The sheriff wiped her hands on a paper towel that ended its days in one of the trash cans; she smiled at the sight of The Last Original Cowpoke.
"Hello, Miss Donohue," she said with a wink.
"Howdy there, Sheriff Mandeh. Lawrdie, this he' ol' gal got some excitin' news fer y'all!"
"And what would that be?" Mandy said as she walked up to her partner and placed a quick kiss on the enticing lips. Once the most important part had been taken care of, she moved around the desk and wheeled out her swivel-chair.
"I'mma-gonn' be one o' them there actahs! Or actresses, or whichevah way y'all wanna put it. Yes Ma'am, I be given a speakin' part in that there mooh-vie! Ain't that coo'?"
"Wow!" Beatrice said from the watch desk. "You even have dialogue? I mean, for real?"
Wynne broke out in a wide grin and straightened her denim jacket in a rare display of crowing - it wasn't often she had anything to crow about, so she wanted to get the most out of the moment while it was there. "Haw, sure do, de-per-teh! Them folks say I be in two scenes an' all… he' an' down at that there Silvah Creek minin' camp."
Smiling, Beatrice offered Wynne a big thumbs-up. "That's it… I'm officially envious! When I was about ten or eleven, I made a movie with some of my friends from the neighborhood. We wrote a real script and everything… and we used my Dad's video camera. Man, that was the best summer of my childhood."
"I bet it wus. Sounds awesome, Bea."
It was obvious by the apprehensive look on Mandy's face that she didn't share the excitement shown by either Beatrice or Wynne. Furrowing her brow, she tapped her fingers on the desk's writing pad. "Is that such a good idea, Wynne?" she said in a quiet voice. "Remember the last time…"
"Yuh, I know… but ain't no moneh involved this tih-me. This gig jus' gonn' be a simple stand-there-an'-say-yer-lih-ne kinda deal. Cross mah heart, hope ta choke on a pea-nit."
Mandy and Wynne shared a long look; the sheriff nodded and leaned back on the chair. "Deputy Reilly and I are scheduled to go over to the film set as soon as Senior Deputy Gonzalez returns from his patrol. They've already begun to set up their equipment. According to the permits, they'll be filming one or more exterior scenes tomorrow evening."
"I do bah-lieve that's whut that there slick Mistah Carlson done tole us as well. Yuh. I'mma-gonn' be in that scene, yes Ma'am. Speakin' a lih-ne an' ev'rythin'. Yuh… I ack-chew-leh be gettin' a li'l ner-vuss in mah gut jus' thinkin' 'bout it…"
"I'd love to help you get the line right if that's-"
"Naw, they didden lemme see that there script yet. Is that weird or som'tin? Mebbe it is… I didden think offit befo' now. I dunno," Wynne said and scratched her neck.
Mandy shrugged. "I have no idea."
The glass door opened to reveal Rodolfo Gonzalez back from his foot patrol of Goldsboro's mean streets - and that was to be taken more literal than normal. "Dios mio, what a disgusting mess out there," he said the moment he had closed the door behind him.
As soon as he had his hands free, he whipped off his Mountie hat to fan his nose that had suffered severe abuse from the air pollution. "The stink is just brutal! A slurry tanker must have been leaking or something… there's a trail of you-know-what all the way up to the northern city limits sign…"
"Lemme shed a li'l li'te on that there situa-shun, Rodolfo… it went bah jus' as me an' them dawggies came in he', oh 'bout ten minutes ago. The drain faucet was drippin' som'tin fierce, sure ain't no lie," Wynne said and nodded hard.
"Wynne," Mandy said, "did it have the name of the ranch on the side? Polluting a public space in such a fashion is a finable offense."
Wynne scratched her neck, her chin and her nose in that order as she tried to remember the look of the vehicle in question. "Naw, I don't reckon it did… or mebbe I jus' didden see none. But it wus an ol' tankah… way filhteh. Aw-yuh, the left-hand wheel wus smallah than the othah one so it ran kinda crooked as it went along. Didden get a good look at the tractah or the fella doin' the drivin', tho'."
"I think I saw it in town the other day!" Beatrice said from her spot at the watch desk - she grabbed her notepad at once and flipped a few pages back. "I made a note of it because its angle struck me as being dangerous… and I did see a logo on it… ah… okay, here it is. If it's the same one I saw, it belongs to the Bar-X ranch three miles north of Goldsboro."
Nodding, Mandy got up from her desk to check out the obsolete map on the wall behind her. Although the map had been printed in the mid-1960s, the advanced age played less of a role than usual since the Bar-X ranch had already existed then. "Very well. Deputy Simms…"
"Yes… Sheriff…?" Barry croaked.
Mandy chewed on her cheek for a brief moment before she went on: "Never mind. Deputy Gonzalez, Deputy Reilly and I are on our way over to the film set to verify their permits, so I need you to get in touch with the foreman at Bar-X and lay down the law. All right?"
"Yes, Ma'am!"
"All right. Wynne-"
A sudden coughing fit exploded from the smallest of the three desks. Though Barry grabbed hold of the edge so he wouldn't be rocked clean off his chair by the racking coughs, he had a hard time staying erect. A sneeze that came as a bolt from the blue scored a direct hit on the overfilled ashtray which sent cigarette residue all over the files, the desk, the floor and Barry's black uniform.
Wynne, Mandy, Beatrice and Rodolfo all shared a long look - The Last Original Cowpoke was the first to move as she executed a swift escape with Blackie and Goldie in close company. Beatrice snatched her Mountie hat and followed a moment later. Mandy slammed her hands onto her hips as Barry was about to turn an unhealthy shade of bluish-red, but her blood pressure was spared when Rodolfo winked and shuffled over to help his colleague.
-*-*-*-
The time spent in transit was less than usual for the hard-working sheriff and her colorful entourage. One minute and thirty-four seconds after driving away from the curb on Main Street, Mandy brought the Durango to a halt at the outer perimeter of the film set at the far end of Second Street. "What a waste of gas… it's going to take me longer than that to update the consumption and mileage stats," she mumbled as she turned off the engine.
Beatrice Reilly sat on the passenger-side seat while Wynne and the dogs occupied the back seat. As in most law enforcement vehicles around the world, the windows couldn't be rolled down back there nor could the doors be opened from the inside - thus, the black, golden and denim-blue trio needed external assistance to enjoy freedom once more.
Mandy took a moment to step up onto the doorsill to inspect the visible areas of the film set. Although there were plenty of people milling about, there was little to see. Shrugging, she stepped down and went back to open the rear door. "Well, we're here," she said as she helped Goldie off the seat and onto the ground.
Blackie made her own way down and soon ran around in circles with her teeth bared and her tongue hanging out in excitement. She and Goldie exchanged several upbeat woofs and downcast yaps that offered good insights into what they felt at that moment in time.
"Yuh, we sure is," Wynne said and craned her neck to take in as much as she could of the new, fascinating world they were visiting. When she realized it was nothing more than a disorganized mess with people running left and right carrying various items while a woman holding an electronic bullhorn tried to get everyone to stick to the plan, she scratched her neck and let out a "Haw… I wus expectin' som'tin dif'rent… not sure what that wus, but… cert'inleh wussen this. Look at 'em… them folks ovah yondah be all ovah the dang place."
"Mmmm," Mandy said as she closed the Durango's doors. "Let's find out what's what. Deputy Reilly, remember we're only here to verify they're adhering to the various stipulations in the filming permits."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"That said," Mandy continued in a more sly tone of voice, "I want you to take Blackie for a little tour of the premises. She can sniff out if there's any cannabis or other light recreational drugs present. If you find any, contact me and we'll take it from there. All right?"
"Yes, Sheriff," Beatrice said and offered her superior a quick salute. "C'mon, Blackie. You're a real K-nine officer now!" she said and rubbed the black dog's fur.
Blackie seemed a little miffed at first for needing to spend time with the quick-drawing deputy, but the promise of a little champing on bad guys persuaded her to come along. She responded with a Woof! before she ran ahead to begin her duties at once.
While Beatrice and Blackie turned right and went over to a tent as soon as they had entered the movie compound, Wynne, Mandy and Goldie went straight ahead to intercept the person they had spotted holding the bullhorn.
On their way there, Wynne noted with a rising degree of interest that several tents and awnings had been erected not even a hundred feet from the end of Second Street. One of the larger tents housed several power generators that had yet to be turned on. Thick cables ran from the tent, across the desert floor and over to a pair of tall scaffolds that each carried a multitude of LED lamps. To her left, a collection of white, two-axled trailers had been lined up in such close proximity that the passageways that had been created between them were covered by sheets of tarpaulin to block out the merciless sun.
A bearded fellow walked from a medium-sized tent to an awning with some kind of strange-looking apparatus attached to his body by way of shoulder-clamps and a wide belt around his waist - it took Wynne a moment to realize it was in fact a camera.
Even as she watched the operator move the camera around to test its - and his - mobility, another fellow entered the awning and plugged several data cables into the back of the apparatus. The men looked at a row of laptops and larger computers that were lined up behind them. "Holeh shittt… this he' mooh-vie sure ain't no crappeh produc-shun like them there Shlock folks wus doin' back in the day…"
"Beg' pardon?" Mandy said.
"Haw… wus nuttin', Sheriff Mandeh. Didden even notice I wus tawkin' out loud," Wynne said with a grin.
They soon stepped off the edge of the street and onto the desert floor. Beyond the point where the blacktop ended, there was nothing but wide open desert for more than seventy miles. The nearest settlement toward the west was six miles away out by Oswald Creek, and that was nothing more than a cluster of nineteenth-century mining barracks that had been occupied by a semi-militant vegan collective.
When Mandy, Wynne and Goldie reached the woman with the bullhorn, Wynne put out her hand at once in the hope of getting a traditional handshake in return. "Howdy, there, nih-ce ladeh. We be Wynne Donnah-hew an' Sheriff Mandeh an' this he' foah-legged darlin' be mah li'l Goldie, yes Ma'am-"
"I don't have time for you now," the woman said without worthying Wynne or the others a second glance. She had already begun to move away when Mandy stepped forward and grabbed hold of her arm.
"The MacLean County Sheriff's Department is here to inspect that you adhere to your filming permits. If we are prevented from carrying out the inspection, we'll shut you down right here and now. Your choice."
As expected, Goldie whimpered from the amount of hostility that had popped up out of nowhere. Wynne settled for pushing her cowboy hat back from her brow, shoving her hands into her rear pockets and breaking out in a cheesy grin.
The woman with the electronic bullhorn mouthed a few choice curses but came to her senses before uttering any of them out loud. "All right. The paperwork is over here. Watch your step, there are cables everywhere."
---
Standing inside one of the larger tents to be out of the way of the bustling activity, Mandy went through the same legal documents she had already verified on Monday when John Bernard Carter had paid her a visit over in the sheriff's office on Main Street.
The film crew and technical personnel seemed experienced enough not to breach any of the stipulations by accident, so there was in effect little she had to do. The main item on the permits revolved around limiting the number of hours where the crew could ship their equipment through Goldsboro and thus disrupt traffic, but even that was moot - one, there was never any traffic to disrupt, and two, the trucks and vans had already arrived without anyone noticing.
The signatures of Mary-Lou Skinner and Bonnie Saunders graced the final page proving everything was in good order. The only thing that continued to bother Mandy was the apparent lack of on-set security. A quick look at the unguarded entrance to the set suggested that anyone would be able to gain access to the compound unhindered. Theft or harassment could not be ruled out, but the open gates would at least allow a quick response in case of a fire.
Those objections aside, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with any of it; the paperwork was soon handed back to the grumbling woman. "Thank you. I didn't catch your name, Miss?"
"Alison Gardner. I'm the film's production manager. Look, can we wrap this up? We're very busy right now." To underscore her words, Alison looked at the time on her telephone.
"Yes. You may go about your business," Mandy said in a no-nonsense voice to prove she was still in charge despite the other woman's position on the film set. "Wynne, I'm going to see if Deputy Reilly has found anything. Then I'll wait for you in the Durango."
"Yes, Ma'am!" Wynne said with a grin.
Once Mandy had left the tent, Wynne thrust out her hand for another attempt at the traditional shaking before it was too late. "Howdy, Alison. I be Wynne Donnah-hew."
Alison Gardner stared at the hand like she had no idea what to do with it. After a moment, she shook it but soon returned to her own affairs.
Wynne scratched her neck as the woman turned her back on her; Goldie just whimpered. "Okeh, he' the deal. I done signed one o' them there actin' contract things eahliah taday fer a li'l part in them scenes y'all gonn' be shootin' he' tamorrah an' on Frah-deh down yondah in Silvah Creek. Now I be wonderin' when I'mma-gonn' mebbe trah on a costume or som'tin… oh, an' when I'mma-gonn' see that there script there so I can learn mah lih-nes?"
Alison narrowed her eyes while Wynne spoke to show she had already run out of patience with the intruding elements. "Really, I have no idea what you said. We don't even start filming until tomorrow so you can dump that phony dialect of yours. Are you one of those method actors?"
"Lawrdie… phoneh diah-lect, wotcha tawkin' 'bout? This he' iz how Ah-"
"Be at the wardrobe trailer at no later than six tomorrow evening for your costume fitting. You'll go into makeup after that. If you're late, you're shit out of luck, lady. Now stop bothering me!" With that, the location manager spun around on her heel and stomped out of the tent to get back to work.
Down on the ground, Goldie looked up at her owner before letting out a couple of yaps that were followed by a string of short woofs - the woofs sounded just like she was saying 'I told you so…'
Wynne just scratched her neck. "Okeh… the wardrobe trailah. At no latah than six tamorrah evenin'. Hell, that ain't gonn' pose no trubbel. Whaddaya say ta that, Goldie?"
Yap!
"Yuh… no problemo. 'Cept… which one o' them trailahs is the one with the wardrobe folks? They ain't got no signs on 'em or nuttin'," Wynne said as she looked at the collection of identical white trailers that had been parked a short two-hundred feet off to her left.
A persistent honking made Wynne look back at the Durango they had arrived in. Mandy and Beatrice were both there; the latter was in the process of helping Blackie onto the rear seat. While that went on, Mandy had jumped up onto the doorsill and waved her Mountie hat to show Wynne that they had to leave in a hurry.
Wynne waved back and watched the Durango perform a quick U and take off in a cloud of dust - all the emergency lights were soon turned on. Once the vehicle reached Main Street, it drove left and went out of sight.
"Lawrdie… mah sweet, li'l Mandeh an' Quick Draw Bea be headin' out ta wrangle them bad folks, huh? Or mebbe somebodda done hadda wreck out yondah on da State Route or som'tin. Haw, I bet ou-ah darlin' Blackie be jumpin' up an' down hopin' fer a li'l ac-shun. Cantcha jus' see her?"
Yap!
"Yuh, sure ain't no lie, Goldie-girl! Aw, we prolleh gonn' find out soon enuff whut that wus all 'bout. Anyhows, les'go back ta Moira's. Mah whissel's gettin' mi'teh drah all ovah ag'in… an' I sure do hate it when that happens, yes Ma'am!"
Wynne cast a final glance at the film set before she and Goldie shuffled off back toward Goldsboro. "Haw, there be plentah o' tih-me fer some fuh-n an' games tamorrah befo' I need-a be back he' at six. Mebbe we's gonn' be playin' a li'l tag in da desuhrt, whaddaya say?"
Yap-yap-yap-yap!
"Ya know, I hadda hunch y'all wus gonn' say som'tin lack that…" Wynne said with a grin. "There be plentah o' tih-me, yessir. Plentah o' tih-me fer a beah or two… or fih-ve. Or som'tin. An' then tamorrah when I get he', mebbe shoot some pool an' mebbe even get that there Slow Lane ta fix me a burgah or som'tin so I don't gotta have an em'teh stomach when I be filmin' mah scene. Yuh."
Yap?
"Aw sure, there gonn' be beef jerkeh fer all y'all, too." The Last Original Cowpoke shuffled on in silence before she smacked a fist into her palm all of a sudden. "Lawrdie, if that don't gimme one helluva good ideah! I'mma-gonn' get behind them stoves mahself an' put a joo-ceh T-bone steak onna fryin' pan ta celebrate this he' actin' gig! Whaddaya say ta that, Goldie?"
Yap!
"Las'one there is a stinkeh egg-" - Goldie took off in a sprint even before the words had left Wynne's mouth. "Haw… whah, I guess I'mma stinkeh egg, then…" she said and broke out in a loud laugh.
*
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