Author's Notes: {First printed in “Zines My Father Sold Me” circa 1984-89 - you don’t expect me to remember the exact date do you?}
“You’re gonna love it, McCormick; a real Ranch…”
Mark McCormick leaned his weight on the overstuffed Samsonite suitcase, ignoring the shirtsleeves and other articles of clothing hanging out around the edges. Knowing he’d be the one to haul the luggage around, he had decided on one case for both of them. Regardless of how it resisted his efforts to close it, he was determined to take only one suitcase.
“Oh, wow, golly, gee whiz, Judge - three whole days at the Lazy Ass Dude Ranch… Rolling tumble-bugs…” He grunted, sitting on the lid, finally able to snap the latches, “Get up at the crack of dawn, slop the pigs, feed the chickens…” He slid off the case, hefted it off the Judge’s bed. Unprepared for weight plus momentum, the heavy suitcase fell out of his grasp and onto the floor with the solid thud of a hundred-pound inert mass.
“It’s a ranch, McCormick, not a farm.”
“Okay, then,” Mark conceded, shoving the case toward the door; he’d worry about the stairs when he got there - one good push and the Samsonite would be stair-surfing. “Slop the cowboys and feed the horseys.”
Judge Hardcastle picked up the bedside phone. “Be quiet while I confirm these reservation cards.” There was a brief delay while the operator rang the Reservations Desk. “And, McCormick, these places also have cowgirls - just think of all those tight-fitting Levis…”
The young ex-con brightened considerably, “What time did you say we were leaving?”
After an uneventful plane trip, they waited in the airy, glassed in terminal for the limousine pick-up. McCormick sat on the suitcase, leaning against the wall, legs stretched out before him - a potential hazard to unwary travelers not watching where they were going.
Hardcastle kicked at his crossed ankles. “Pull ‘em up, kiddo. I don’t want to get slapped with a lawsuit when someone trips over those size 12’s of yours.”
The Judge glanced up as a maroon Cadillac limousine stopped outside the terminal. Steer’s horns fronted the grille, and a dude cowboy was driving. The driver entered, reading from a card, “Milton Hardcastle, Mark McCormick?”
“Yeah, that’s us.” He pulled McCormick to his feet. With a sigh of resignation, Mark reached down for the suitcase handle.
“I’ll get that, sir.” The driver picked up the case effortlessly with one hand, and held the glass door open as they started for the car.
Hardcastle grinned at McCormick, recalling the ex-con’s difficulty with the heavy case. “See what living in the outdoors and clean, honest work does for ya?” He slapped Mark heartily on the back, “You’ll come back a changed man, kiddo!”
“I ain’t needed changing since I was two, Hardcase…”
McCormick slid into the velour seat, enjoying the luxury and comfort; he fiddled with the stereo, turned on the color TV, and explored the well-stocked bar - with any luck, he’d be so snockered by the time they reached the Ranch he wouldn’t care about his surroundings.
Hardcastle, however, put an end to that plan before it was put into action. “Leave that stuff alone, McCormick; it’s not even noon yet.”
With a heavy sigh, Mark grabbed a Coke, turned up the volume, and slumped down in the seat. The next three days would undoubtedly be the longest three days of his life…
After a thirty-minute drive, the limo pulled off the main highway, and through an arched gateway. Rolling smoothly down the long, paved drive, they could see the main building in the distance, the upper floors just above treetop level. Through tinted windows, they viewed fenced pastures, faded red barns with pale green trim, matching bunkhouse, and several other similarly painted outbuildings.
McCormick craned his neck, looking back at the barn, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Hardcase, but did we just pass a pink barn? … and bunkhouse… and all those other buildings?” He added as the car swept by.
“’Weathered’, kid; the owner will probably have all you greenhorns re-paintin’ it.” The Judge grinned, extraordinarily pleased.
“Hell, Hardcase, I coulda stayed at Gulls-Way for that; and not hafta pay $1200 for the priviledge.”
“Part of Ranch life, kiddo; builds character and muscle and stamina. And you ain’t payin’ for it, so shut up.”
“Yeah, well, I usually end up payin’ for it one way or another.” He waved a hand at the window, indicating the deserted landscape outside, “This place looks as lively as one of your Jazz concerts. Where’s the cowboys? Where’s the horses?
“And where’s those tight Levi’s you promised me?”
“You’re wearin’ ‘em.”
“Ha.. ha,ha… ha,ha…”
The Cadillac stopped before a wide veranda, supported by rough-hewn timbers.
“Oh, God…” McCormick groaned, “The Macho-Rustic-Log-Cabin-Look. Lean against the wall and get splinters in your as-”
“Shut up and get out.”
The driver came around, opened the rear door with a flourish and a wide smile, “Welcome to the Bar B-Q, gentlemen. Go right in, I’ll have Slade take your luggage to the Reservation Desk. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
As they climbed the four steps to the plank-floored veranda, Hardcastle glanced back. “Did he say Bar B-Something? Isn’t this the Bar V?”
“Who cares, Judge? You see one Dude Ranch, you’ve seen them all. How could this one be any different from the others? Who cares if it’s the Bar V, the Bar H, or the Bar B… unless you’re Ken…” He chuckled, pushing open the double doors gunslinger style. Hardcastle shoved him inside, and they paused inside the foyer, taking in the elaborate, Hollywood Wild West décor.
McCormick paused, fingering the iridescent glass beads strung across the beamed doorway, and shook his head. “I don’t know about this, Judge… getting … strange vibes, here.”
Hardcastle snorted, “Your generation is always getting something strange.”
The large, open room they entered had several sub-divisions, all 1800’s style. The lobby was furnished in oak and leather, with fringed pillows in rainbow colors. A group of dude ranchers crossed through the lobby, toward the The Sassy Saloon, all laughing and talking at once. The five were replete in brilliant satin cowboy shirts trimmed in sequins and tinsel fringe; the felt and satin cowboy hats matched the gaudy shirts, and McCormick winced. “And I thought your wretched Hawiian shirts were an eyesore… You know, Judge, I think these… cowboyz… ride side-saddle.”
“Aw, they’re probably just the band. You know how they love to glitter and shine on stage - sorta like punk C & W. Com’on, let’s check in and unpack. Can’t wait for your first round-up.”
The Registration Desk was across the lobby, in a small, curtained alcove. The main lobby gave way to a Victorian parlor in velvet and gilt furnishings. Hardcastle’s confident stride wavered somewhat as he noticed various couples scattered about, and some threesomes -- and none of them were co-ed. A couple glided by, and Hardcastle nodded toward them.
“There’s your tight Levi’s, McCormick.”
“Somehow, I had it pictured differently…”
The couple, arm-in-arm, flashed winning smiles at McCormick, the nearest one offering his free arm. McCormick smiled weakly, “I’m with him, guys, and he doesn’t like crowds.” Both he and Hardcastle recognized them as well-known TV stars, leading men in their respective series.
As the two continued on their way, McCormick looked over at Hardcastle, making a big show of hitching up his jeans. “Yep, Judge, I can understand the need to build up that ol’… stamina!” And did everything but laugh outright.
“We,” Hardcastle growled, as the two stars entered the dining room, “Are in the wrong hotel.”
“No kiddin’?? I thought this was your kinda place: The great outdoors, riding the range, sleepin’ under the Stars… Good, clean, hard, honest - fun!”
“There’s obviously been a computer error somewhere, and our reservations were sent to the wrong Dude Ranch. I’m goin’ over to that Registration Desk and straighten them out-”
McCormick caught his arm as he started forward, “Don’t say you’re gonna ‘straighten them out’, they’ll faint - or be scared half to death. But then, you’ll probably scare them, anyway. Maybe I should do the talkin’ here; I’m better at explainin’ screwups than you are.”
“You are at that; be my guest…”
The clerk watched with undisguised anticipation as McCormick crossed the few remaining yards to the desk. Never taking his eyes off McCormick, he didn’t notice Hardcastle standing just behind him. “Yes, dearie, something I can help you with?”
McCormick smiled in friendly fashion at the clerk, as the term ‘twit’ impressed itself on his mind. ‘Verne’ was in gold script above the pocket of his shiny green shirt, and he was somewhere between 25 and 35. Tall and rangy, with shoulder-length blond hair under the lime green cowboy hat, his lean, narrow features registered languid interest as his green eyes held McCormick’s. “Uh, yeah… I think there’s been a mistake in our reservations…”
“I’ll say there has, dearie; you should be in my room.”
“Sorry, I’m allergic to satin and sequins, buttons and bows…”
Verne raised his sharp, thin nose, miffed at the rebuff. “Well,” he sniffed, “Be that way.” Hardcastle moved toward the counter, next to McCormick. “Oh, sorry, didn’t know you were with someone.” Suddenly all business again, the welcoming smile returned; he opened a registration book and pushed it toward the Judge. “Third floor okay, sir?”
Verne winked knowingly at McCormick, Mark turned to Hardcastle. “You want to talk to this guy, Hardcase? After all, you have such a way with people.”
“Cute, McCormick; you’ve already broken three hearts and we haven’t even registered yet - not that we’re going to.” To the clerk, overly polite, “Look, here… Verne, we had reservations at the Bar V, but the computer must have scr--, er, messed up and sent us here. We’d like to change back to the Bar V, or another dude ranch, if that’s not too much trouble for you and your computer.”
“I’ll check and see what’s available.” There was a quick search as the clerk scanned several on-line storage disks. “All the other ranches are full, sir; this is the peak season.” He grinned, leered at McCormick, “Looks like you’re stuck here with us.”
“Nothing anywhere?”
“I’m connected to all the local reservation files. These are all on-line to all the ranches, hotels, motels, etc., in this state.” Verne looked at the Judge, decided the older guy probably knew nothing about computers… “If I try to put in another disk for another state, I’ll go off-line, and I don’t like pulling my disks off-line.”
“How would you like it if I pulled your disks out by the roots?” Hardcastle’s tight grin was not the least bit amused.
Verne stared at him, wide-eyed; then, “I’ll see the Manager; he’ll be here later this evening. Perhaps he can find you something.”
“Thank you. Well, I guess we’ll have to stay until then.”
“And will that be one room, sir?” Verne spoke with careful respect, and sent a sympathetic look to McCormick. At Hardcastle’s nod, he took a key from the board behind him. “Three-Six-Nine, best on the floor. I’ll have Slade take your luggage up.” He waved a slim, languid hand over his head, “Slade, dearie, front!”
Seven feet and two-hundred-eighty pounds of black leather and silver studs approached from a side room, parting the crystal beaded curtain with the sheer force of his personality. He held the single Samsonite suitcase and stood, silent and imposing, awaiting instructions.
“Slade, these gentlemen are in Three-Six-Nine; show them up, please.”
Hardcastle jabbed an elbow in McCormick’s side, murmured in a low voice, “You really want this guy to see us to our room?” He indicated that McCormick should carry the suitcase.
Mark fought to keep a straight face before the gorilla with a gold and silver patch on the black leather cowboy hat that read BELLE-BOY, and said to Verne, “That’s okay, don’t bother. My friend, here, has a great sense of direction, and there’s only the one case - he doesn’t mind carrying it, it builds up his stamina.” He turned to the bell boy, “Maybe next time, Slade, after we’ve been shopping…”
Slade’s darkly tanned, rugged features fairly beamed as he gave Hardcastle a chummy smile. “He’s cute, ain’t he?”
As the elevator opened on the third floor, Hardcastle picked up the bulky case, and shoved it in McCormick’s arms, staggering him. “Carry this, friend!”
Hardcastle stalked out before him, went to the plank door with 369 stenciled in fuchsia over the old-fashioned iron latch. The six and nine interlocked suggestively, and the Judge looked at McCormick, mortified and suspicious, as if the ex-con had somehow planned this.
“Hey, don’t look at me. None of this was my idea; I would have settled for the Holiday Inn at El Segundo.”
With a sinking feeling that this was just a portent of things to come, Hardcastle unlocked the door. Pushing it open, he went inside the small entryway; there was a slight offset of the wall, blocking most of the view of the room. Faint sunlight filtered through the closed blinds, and Hardcastle found the light switch, snapped on the light, walked around the offset, and froze.
McCormick, fighting a losing battle with the heavy suitcase, bumped into Hardcastle just inside the entryway, as the Judge slowly backed out of the room. McCormick dropped the case, and shoved Hardcastle back inside. “Will you get outta the way?! How you expect me to…” He hefted the case again, and at the Judge’s continued silence and glassy-eyed stare, he grew concerned, “What’s the matter with-” He squeezed between the Judge and the wall, and stopped as he got a good look at the room’s interior.
The vivid red plush carpet with furry pink throw rugs, as well as the red and gold flocked wallpaper, receded into the background; all was overwhelmed by the white and antique-gilt delicacy of the furnishings, complemented - or insulted as the case may be - by lavender brocade upholstery and curtains. That by itself would have been marginally bearable, if circumstances dictated; however, it didn’t end there - it was barely a beginning…
McCormick stepped past Hardcastle, surveyed the room with amazed disbelief. Divided into sitting room and sleeping area, lavishly draped French doors led from the sitting room to a balcony. The sleeping area was dominated - or diminuated, depending on how you looked at it - by a round, King-sized bed, complete with mirrored canopy, positioned prominently on a raised platform. The lavender Moiré wall curved in a semi-circle around the head of the bed, forming an alcove; it was all nicely snug and cozy… if you were a pink French poodle…
As for the sitting room, no one could be expected to sit in such surroundings. Run screaming in the opposite direction, perhaps, but not sit. A Louis XIV settee was placed before the ornate fireplace, flanked by matching wing chairs. Centered between the sofa and the hearth was a gold and glass accent table; Atlas himself, life-sized, completely nude, and very gilded, reclined on his back, supporting the heavy, oval glass top on up-raised knees and hands.
On the floor between the accent table and fireplace was laid out a quite large, and quite pink, bearskin rug. McCormick walked over to it, looked down at it, “I wonder if he died of embarrassment before or after they dragged him in here…”
Over the black marble mantel, spanning a good six feet, was an oil painting of a young blond cowboy wearing Stetson, boots, and six-guns; and was hung in every sense of the word.
Intricately carved side tables held Tiffany lamps and unabashed statuary. Intertwined with pearl strands, crystal and gold chandeliers sparkled brilliantly, accented by smaller wall chandeliers.
Aside from the bed and Atlas, everything was French Victorian in style and motif, with a touch of Baroque here and there. The drapery was bouffant and ruffled; large floor pillows were everywhere, as if attesting to the uncomfortable appearance of the furniture.
Double doors opened into the bath, and McCormick caught the reflection of a red, heart-shaped tub in the mirrored walls. The pink, lavender, and red color scheme was maintained throughout with nauseating consistency.
For long, paralyzed seconds, neither said anything. Then McCormick glanced back at Hardcastle. The Judge’s gaze darted about the room, unwilling, or unable, to rest on any one item for any length of time.
The initial shock wearing off, Hardcastle finally spoke first, “I wouldn’t subject my worst enemy to a place like this, much less a…a…” he faltered, unable to continue.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. At the worst, it’s a New Orleans Whorehouse; at the best, it looks like a reject from that fancy hotel in San Luis Obispo.”
Hardcastle looked at him; even McCormick was preferable than having to look any more than necessary at the room’s interior. “What the hell do you know about the Madonna Inn?”
“Girl I used to date worked there. I hafta admit, when I first drove up that long drive with the pink lamp posts, and stopped at that awful pink and white building masquerading as a classy hotel, I had more than a few second thoughts. But once inside - Man! Every room a fantasy! But this… this is more like a bad dream, and a tacky one at that.”
With no other recourse, they entered the room, looked about gingerly. McCormick dragged the suitcase toward the round bed, and, with concentrated effort, plopped it down. The mattress undulated, the case sliding on the pink satin comforter, heading for the floor again. McCormick caught it, slid it back. “Hey, Judge, check this out - a round waterbed!”
“I’d like to just plain check out.” He gave their surroundings a grimace of distaste. “They expect people to sleep in here?”
“Noooo… I don’t think so…” Mark looked over the various controls, switches, and buttons on the curved headboard. He had no idea what half of them were for, and wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. “Well, in case that manager doesn’t show up tonight, I think I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“I’ll take the tub.” Hardcastle stepped into the bathroom, then back out, in almost the same movement. “Hell, I’m not sleepin’ in that; feel like somebody’s damn Valentine!”
“That’s okay, I’ll share the floor with you… but only if you promise to stay on your side of the room.”
“You know, Judge,” McCormick commented as they took the elevator back to the lobby, unable to bear another minute in That Room, “Considering the atmosphere around here, I wonder what the B-Q stands for? Beauty Queens? Bent and Queer? Or maybe-” The doors opened on the second floor, and he broke off, as five guests joined them.
Greeted by smiles and open interest, the Judge and Mark unconsciously moved closer together, an action not lost on the newcomers. The last one to enter leaned across, touching the heat-sensitive button lightly, the “B” lighting up under the “L”. Then he joined his companions at the back of the elevator, with a broad grin and nod at the city slickers.
When the doors slid open to the Lobby, McCormick exited with alacrity; Hardcastle had to increase his pace to keep up with him.
“Com’on, kiddo,” he steered them toward the front doors, with no resistance or questions from Mark, “Let’s have a look around outside. Maybe ride some horses or something.”
McCormick rubbed his backside, “Yeah, or something…”
By-passing a crowded tennis court, Hardcastle found the markers pointing to the stables. Following the Bridle Path, and stepping aside for occasional riders, they came to the Archery Range.
McCormick snapped his fingers suddenly, “Aha, got it! Bridal & Quiver!”
“People have died for less than that, kiddo.”
“Speaking of initials-”
“We weren’t.”
“Speaking of initials, what does the ‘C’ in Milton C. stand for? Must be pret-ty bad for you to choose to go by ‘Milton’.”
“None of yer business.”
“Carlyle? Calvin? Chadwick, Chauncy? Cornelius, Carlin?” Getting no response, he smirked, “Cyrano, right? With that nose…?”
“Tell me, smart guy, what does the ‘J’ in Mark J. stand for? Jackass, right? With that face…”
“I know, Cicero - called ya ‘Cissy’ for short, didn’t they?”
They approached the stables, a long, low ‘weathered’ red rambling structure housing fifty or so horses. Fenced paddocks - the boards painted peach and mint green - lined the wide drive to the main barn; the center part of the barn had been set up for a barn dance. Hardcastle turned toward the paddocks, pointedly ignoring McCormick.
“Catatonic, Cheap, Completedonkey…” Then he laughed, “Coccyx - talk about prophetic…”
Hardcastle stopped, turned abruptly, Mark nearly walking into him. “McCormick, if you want to continue to live in the manner to which you are accustomed - that is, ambulatory - then shut up. Now.”
The ex-con grinned, but knew when to leave well-enough alone. When they got back to Gulls-Way, he’d ask Sara. “Okay, Judge, truce.”
Several horses grazed in a large paddock, and McCormick leaned on the peach tinted top board of the fence. “Might’ve known they’d all be Palominos. Beautiful, though, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, damn shame to cover them up with all that silver crap.” Hardcastle watched as a stablehand saddled up mounts for two guests.
“Almost as bad as a donkey ridin’ a horse.”
“You know anything about horseback riding, kiddo?”
“Hey, I’m from Jersey, remember? The only horses we see there are the sawhorses used by construction crews. And, of course, the horse’s asses I’ve been forced to associate with for the past few years…”
“You could use a lesson or two. I think I’ll ask Slade to teach you everything he knows.”
“You really would, wouldn’t you? Judge, why the hell should I climb four or five feet off the ground just to end up there again a few seconds later? Not to mention the fact that I don’t want to end up walkin’ like most of the guys around here.”
“That has nothing to do with riding horses. You do it right, you’ll walk right; just like John Wayne.”
“My life’s ambition, Judge.”
Another group walked by, and McCormick felt their passing presence in more ways than one. He straightened, grabbed Hardcastle’s arm. “Com’on, Tex, let’s go back to the lobby. I think I saw some shops and stuff; let’s see what they’ve got.” As Hardcastle followed, he grumbled, “They already know what I’ve got…”
Returning to the Ranch House, they found the entire first floor was half Lobby-Registration; the other half was subdivisions consisting of coffee shop, dining room, and specialty shops. More guests were checking in, keeping Slade busy with luggage - lots of luggage. They chose the shop that had the fewest customers.
Verne greeted them with a wide smile and the usual leer as they entered the Western Wear shop. It was next to the hair stylist, which was considerably crowded, and several heads turned in their direction as they walked past.
Ignoring Verne and the others, Mark and the Judge browsed aimlessly; the shop held a wide selection ranging from totally tasteless to somberly forbidding. Their backs to the entrance, neither noticed as Verne unobtrusively intercepted an elderly gentleman headed in McCormick’s direction, and spoke briefly to him; with a sad shake of his head, the man departed. Verne was never far from his unwilling guests, and watched as Hardcastle headed for the boot display, while McCormick looked over the Western style shirts and jeans.
A T-shirt rack lined one wall, and McCormick picked through them curiously, reading the logos, chuckling at most, groaning at some, and blushing at a few. A florescent chartreuse with blue rhinestones caught his eye, and he pulled it off the the rack. It was the worst thing he’d ever seen, and bright pink letters announced: VACANCY - INQUIRE WITHIN ….The Bar B-Q
Holding it behind his back, he went to the boot section, nudged Hardcastle. Stepping back out of reach, he held the shirt against him, “Hey, Milt, whaddya think? Neat, huh?”
The Judge’s cold look clearly stated his opinion of McCormick’s mental state. “I’d kill for a shirt like that, McCormick; you wanna try it on?”
Verne, quietly replacing stock nearby, gave a tremulous sigh, “OoooOooooOooo…”
At Hardcastle’s reddening features and grinding teeth, Mark threw an arm around him, spoke confidentially to the twit. “He’s really a sweetie when you get to know him.”
A rock-solid fist thudded into McCormick’s midsection, followed by, “You were saying?”
“…Nu-nuthin’…”
“Good. Keep it that way.” Hardcastle pushed him aside.
Western hats were stacked in rows a few aisles away, and Mark followed him quietly. Most of the cowboy hats were incredibly tasteless, but there were a few run-of-the-mill Stetsons scattered about. McCormick picked up a purple velvet 10-gallon hat with a peacock feather on the high crown. Taking off the Judge’s well-worn tan Western hat, he plopped the eyesore on Hardcastle’s head. “This is you, Judge. Perfect fit.”
“You’re gonna be a perfect fit for a coffin in about two seconds!” The high-crowned hat was tossed back on the shelf.
Chuckling to himself, McCormick returned to the clothing section, replaced the T-shirt. Cowboy shirts glittered and gleamed on the three racks, and he went through them, shaking his head. He wondered if there was a satin shortage in the state, as it all seemed to be here. Some were silk, some leather, and a rare few were actually cotton. The one thing they all seemed to have in common was outlandish designs and decorations.
He finally pulled out a vivid blue, with no decoration at all, aside from darker blue yoke and cuffs, and silver piping. Fastening the navy blue imitation Mother-of-Pearl snaps over his T-shirt, the smooth, shiny material was tailored to fit close and snug. It was so close-fitting that heavy breathing would cause the snaps to part company - which, when you thought about it, was a great time-saver. Going back to the hats, he picked out a dark blue with silver concho hatband. He slid his hands along the deep brim, curling it just so, angling it just right. Turning three-quarter before the mirror, he caught sight of Verne watching with wide-eyed approval.
Hardcastle was thumbing through some hunting shirts, and turned at McCormick’s approach. He rubbed a hand over his face, wondering what was next. “Don’t go native on me, kid; not here.”
“So, how do I look?”
“You really want to know?”
“Nah, not really.” McCormick unsnapped the cuffs.
“Real men wouldn’t wear something like that, anyway - and real women would laugh in their face if they did.”
The shirt slid off with a silken sound, “Real men, Judge, can wear anything; but real women don’t want us to.”
“I think you’ve been in here long enough. It’s getting near suppertime, and I left the Traveler’s Checks in the suitcase. Let’s go up and get ‘em. Maybe after dinner the manager will be back, and we can get out of here.”
As they walked across the crowded Lobby, McCormick jumped twice. Hardcastle frowned at him. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Dammit, somebody - or somebodies - keeps pinching me.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“I’m not about to turn around and acknowledge it. Give me some credit here, okay?”
“Well, if it’s the same guy who’s been bothering me, we’ll both deck him.”
They hesitated at the open elevator, as four pairs of eyes from within looked out at them.
McCormick turned toward the stairway. “Let’s take the stairs, okay?”
“Sure. Getting tired of them starin’ at me.”
“You? Why would they be lookin’ at you??”
Hardcastle shoved the door open on the third floor landing, gave the smiling ex-con a sharp look. “Despite everything, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Don’t you find it… annoying, and, well… aggravating, that all those guys keep on… well, you know…”
“Yeah, I know.” McCormick paused outside the door, the smile fading, a coldness in his eyes. ”I had two years to get used to it.”
Then he walked on down the hallway, waited for Hardcastle at their room. He smiled wryly, “What I’m not used to is their being nice about it, and understanding what the word ‘no’ means. I don’t hafta pound their heads into the wall to convince ‘em I’m not interested.”
Hardcastle opened the door without comment, physically steeling himself before going in. Closing the door, McCormick noticed for the first time the imprinted message framed and bolted to the door. “Get this, Hardcase,” he chuckled, reading aloud, “ ‘Darlings: In the interests of continued harmony and peaceful inter-personal relationships, please refrain from intruding upon any twosome, threesome, or whatever. Unless, of course, such action is agreeable to all concerned parties. Thank you so very much, darlings. The Management.’ And this is the guy who’s gonna get us out of here?”
Hardcastle sat down heavily on the uncomfortable wing chair. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, kiddo. This is way outside of my experience.”
“Don’t worry about it, Judgey-Wudgey; I’ll protect you from the big, friendly mens.”
“Hell, I’m doomed…”
McCormick opened the suitcase. He took out a long-sleeved shirt, then rummaged around until he found the Traveler’s Checks. He pulled on the shirt, then tossed the checks to Hardcastle, who made no move to rise.
“Let’s wait a bit. I’m not up to goin’ down there just yet.”
Mark nodded absently, walking around the bed as he buttoned the shirt. There were six posts, three at the head, three at the foot; all covered with some velour type of fabric. The wood and brass-trimmed headboard had various built-in items -- some recognizable, some not - complete with a fascinating array of switches, buttons, and digitals. It was too much for him; he had to know what all those controls were for. Sitting carefully on the edge, he scooted over to the center of the headboard. Legs crossed, elbows on his knees, chin propped in his hands, he looked over the color-coded switches. Controls for the stereo radio-cassette player, speakers, reading light, and temperature control were easy to figure out.
There was a small control panel set off to itself, with toggle switches and buttons. One row of three buttons read “Lights”, “Camera”, “Action”, respectively. He pressed “Lights”, and six miniature strobe lights oscillated on the six posts; tiny, Christmas-tree lights twinkled on the posts and around the canopy, blinking and flashing in concentric circles - the lights on the posts were white; the canopy mirror reflected back glints of red, pink, and white. With considerable constraint, he by-passed “Camera” and went straight to “Action.”
At first, nothing happened; then there was a low rumble, and the bed began to move.
“What the hell--!” McCormick grabbed the nearest post as the bed began to revolve, and “Love is a Many Splendored Thing” wafted softly through concealed speakers. The twinkling lights adjusted to pulse in time with the melody. After the first shocked seconds, he fell back on the rolling comforter, howling with laughter.
“For God’s sake, McCormick,” Hardcastle yelled at him from across the room, “Turn that thing off, and get off, before you hurt yourself! You could get electrocuted, all that water and electricity. And if you think I’m gonna tell the paramedics how you ‘Got fried on a revolving waterbed’, then you’re crazier than you look - or act!” The Judge heartily hated it when McCormick was in his nine-year-old mood, thinking it was unbecoming behavior from someone who would be thirty in three months.
“Hell, Hardcase, there’s three more switches here I haven’t even tried yet. Anyway, it’s kinda fun … wonder if it’ll go faster…?” He looked for a speed control.
“If one of those three switches brings that mirrored top down on you, then by all means, try it.”
McCormick turned off the “Lights” and “Action”, waited as the bed rumbled slowly to a halt, the water still sloshing in waves. Good thing he didn’t get seasick… Under close scrutiny, he discovered that the toggle switches had small key locks, with a message instructing ‘Keys can be obtained at Front Desk’. Somehow, asking Verne for the ‘Keys to the bed’ dampened his enthusiasm - and curiosity - considerably. “Well,” he chuckled, sliding off the bed, “Guess I’ll just have to live in ignorance.”
“You should be used to it by now.” Hardcastle tried to shift position. “Take a look in that wardrobe over there, kid; see if there’s a TV in it.”
McCormick opened the doors of a white and gold French Provincial armoire; inside was wide-screen TV with a video recorder attached. “Hey, a VCR; maybe there’s some tapes around here…” The first drawer held four tapes, and he read the titles, “’Gay Rancheros’, ‘Loverboys’, ‘Bob and Ted and Cary and Alex’, and, always a personal favorite, ‘Ballbusters’.”
Before the Judge could comment, there was a knock on the door. Hardcastle rose wearily, and opened it to admit Slade. The Belle-boy was carrying two fairly large boxes.
“I was told to deliver these.”
The Judge looked over to McCormick. “You buy something?”
“Here? No.”
“It’s already paid for, sir.” Slade glanced around the room with admiration. “You were lucky to get this room, it’s the most popular - and my favorite in the whole place.” He placed the boxes on a side table, continuing, “Have you tried the bed yet?”
He looked willing to demonstrate its use, much to Hardcastle’s dismay. “…Uh, no, we haven’t…” He jerked his thumb at McCormick, “But he has.”
Mark glanced up guiltily, then realized he was still holding the X-rated tapes. Blushing deeply, he returned them to the drawer, avoiding Slade’s searching gaze. “Yeah,” he turned to Hardcastle, “But you watched.”
Slade looked from one to the other, at the thunderheads in Hardcastle’s icy blue eyes, to the fiery steel in McCormick’s darker blue, and decided they had had an argument of some kind. He smiled warmly at both, suggesting helpfully, “It’s more fun with two.”
“Uh, well, thanks…” Hardcastle dug out a fiver, trying to get rid of Slade. He glared at McCormick and if looks could kill, the ex-con would have been dead and buried ten seconds ago.
“Thank you, sir; anything else you require?”
“No, thank you, Slade; everything’s just… fine.”
Slade tipped his hat and departed. They looked warily at the fancy wrapped boxes on the small table; then McCormick picked one up, and shook it. “There’s a card with your name on it, Judge; the other’s for me.” He tossed the box over, and took the card off the second one. “Now, who would be…” He opened the card, which read, “From a distant admirer”.
They looked at each other, both speaking at once.
“The twit!”
“Verne.”
“Open yours first.” Mark leaned against the flocked wall, arms crossed.
Hardcastle tore off the bouffant bow and three-inch wide ribbon, and opened the box with narrow-eyed suspicion. Then he pulled out a black Stetson and a tan hunting shirt.
“Okay,” McCormick conceded, “That’s not too bad.” His box held the blue shirt and hat he’d tried on earlier. Not taking them out, he replaced the lid and tossed the box on a chair. “We can’t keep these, Judge; he’d get the wrong idea…”
“Yeah, I know; but-”
“’But’…who wants to face him when we return them?”
McCormick suddenly noticed something different about the room, an addition that hadn’t been there when they had first checked in. “Judge, these flowers… They weren’t here before, were they?”
“No.” Hardcastle’s gaze swept the room, and he counted six cut-flower arrangements displayed on various surfaces. A multi-colored assortment of carnations took up most of the dresser top, and he caught a metallic glint. On closer inspection, he found a silver ice bucket and a magnum of champagne - one of the very best labels. He held it up. “Neither was this.”
“You get the feelin’ we’re bein’ courted?”
The Judge slammed the bottle back into the melting ice. “Com’on, we’re going back downstairs.”
Finding the elevator empty, they started for the Lobby, but McCormick wanted to see what was in the basement, or whatever the “B” button stood for. Against his better judgment, Hardcastle pressed the “B”, and the doors opened into a luxurious anteroom with receptionist. The lower level was a combination health spa and gym, with brightly polished brass letters on the far wall brazenly proclaiming: THE BAR BELLE ROOM.
The young receptionist rose gracefully to his full six-foot-four, greeted them with a smile. “Yes, can I help you? Or are you familiar with our… facilities?” His dark eyes surveyed McCormick from unbuttoned shirt collar to partially laced Nikes.
Mark smiled slightly, holding the door open, “No, we’re just… looking, thanks.” He released the doors, and as they slid together, he heard the sighing response.
“Same here…”
As the elevator ascended, the Judge glared at him, “Are you satisfied now? Or do you want me to get Slade or Verne to give you the Grand Tour?”
Once in the Lobby, they decided on the main dining room. Hoping to avoid the crowd by getting an early supper, McCormick nevertheless had to nearly drag his reluctant companion inside after seeing the nameplate over the wide entry to the combination dining room/bar/dance floor, which stated cheerfully: THE BIG BALLROOM.
Verne met them with menus and a smile, led them to a secluded table next to a tropical fish tank. As Hardcastle seated himself, Verne held a chair out for McCormick. Giving him a look, Mark pulled out another chair and sat down. Unperturbed, Verne handed them the menus, and, with a graceful bow, left.
The ex-con watched him leave. “Does that guy have a dozen clones or what? He’s everywhere.”
Hardcastle opened his menu, then lowered his head, “Lord, what next? I can’t take any more of this, McCormick - where’s my gun?”
“Don’t be silly; they wouldn’t let you on the plane with it, remember?” Curious, the younger man opened his menu. Attached to the upper right-hand corner was a card stating: ‘Dudes: If you want, or see, something not on the menu, just fill out this card and drop it in the blue box at the Cashiers. Please include Room Number. Cordially, Room Service.’
“Ya gotta admit, Judge, they think of everything.”
Both looked up as a tall, leanly built man approached their table. He was dressed in a dark gray Western cut suit with silver-gray shirt and red string tie. He looked like a Dallas oil man.
Hardcastle rubbed his hand over his eyes, groaning, “Not again…”
“Hello, I’m Ryan Safford. Verne tells me this is your first time… here,” he added with just enough of a pause to be significant.
“That’s right. I’m Mark McCormick; this is Judge Milton C. Hardcastle.”
Safford nodded to the Judge, eyes on McCormick. “They take forever to serve here, but it’s well worth the wait. In the meantime, would you care to dance?”
McCormick glanced over at the dance floor; there were a dozen or so couples, and the band - dressed in tuxes - was playing something slow and close. “Thanks, but I don’t know the new dances, and I hate slow waltzes.”
“Take my word for it, Ryan, the kid can’t dance.”
Safford turned his charming smile on Hardcastle. “Then perhaps you’d care to join me, Milt?”
At that mental picture, Mark nearly choked on his suppressed laughter. “Yeah, the Judge loves slow, cheek-to-cheek dances, don’cha, Milt?”
Hardcastle’s expression left no doubt whatsoever that McCormick’s life, as he knew it (and enjoyed it) was over. “Shut. Up.” With a tight smile to Safford, “No, I don’t care to.”
Pulling out the chair Verne had held for McCormick, Safford joined them. He had barely seated himself, however, before Slade came striding with clear intent across the room. Obviously looking for someone, he halted at their table, and tapped Safford on the shoulder.
He nodded pleasantly, “Mark, Milt.” Then his features became stern and businesslike. “Ryan, Mr. Torrance wants to talk to you; and,” he added ominously, “So do I.”
Acknowledging the message with a curt nod, Safford waved him off and stood up. “Tell him I’ll be right there.” As Slade left, he continued, sliding a card with a hastily written room number on it toward them, “Don’t mind Slade, he’s the jealous type - thinks he owns everyone. See you later… maybe.” He winked, and left as the waiter came to take their orders.
“Hell, this ain’t so bad, Judge.”
“Yep, best thing that’s happened to us since we got here.”
Finishing up the meal, they sat back as the waiter cleared the table and took their dessert orders.
As the waiter left with the orders, another distinguished looking gentleman come purposefully toward them.
Hardcastle gave McCormick a dark look. “Next time, I’m leaving you in the room; you draw them like a magnet.”
This one’s attitude was one of authority and pride of ownership. “Good evening, Judge, Mr. McCormick; I’m Blaine Torrance, part-owner and manager of the Bar B-Q. I understand there’s been a mix-up in your reservations, and Verne wasn’t able to help you. May I join you?”
Hardcastle nodded, shaking Torrance’s proffered hand. “Yes, of course. And I hope you have some good news for us.”
Torrance seated himself, motioned to the waiter at the bar, holding up three fingers; three glasses of dark Scotch - straight - was placed on a tray. He waited until the drinks were served before continuing the conversation. “First of all, I must apologize for Verne’s rather… odd sense of humor. When he realized that you weren’t, uh, one of us, I’m afraid he and few friends had a little fun at your expense.”
“Yeah, well,” McCormick gave conditional acceptance of the apology, “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Torrance, if maybe you could pass the word to tone down their ‘fun’ from ‘a little’ to ‘not at all’.”
“Already done. Verne also made it a point not to let you too far out of his sight, and instructed the other guests of your… status. And the guests he missed, Slade managed to intercept; as head bellboy, he sees all the guests, and was able to inform them that you weren’t to be bothered.” He sipped the Scotch, and frowned slightly, “Somehow, Safford slipped by both of them.”
“No one bothered us,” Hardcastle hastened to assure him.
“I’m proud of my staff; they do their job well. And as long as you’re our guests, you’ll be treated the same here as you would be any where else.”
McCormick smiled wryly, “I think I liked it better before, considering how other people treat me.” He looked pointedly at the Judge.
“At any rate, I regret any inconvenience caused you; the least I can do is not charge for your room and meals. You are more than welcome to remain the rest of the weekend as my personal guests.”
“Thank you. And as for staying over…” Hardcastle paused thoughtfully, as if giving serious consideration to the offer.
McCormick responded with the expected reaction: Total panic. “Judge, no! You promised me!!”
Torrance looked from one to the other, curious. “What did you promise him?”
“Tight jeans.”
His expression one of awed amazement, Torrance’s tone was disbelieving, “Tighter than those?”
McCormick grinned, nodded, “Yeah, with any luck.”
“When will we be able to make arrangements for the Bar V?” Hardcastle brought them back to the business at hand.
“I contacted the manager of the Bar V a few minutes ago. Seems they have our guests, and are somewhat eager to be rid of them. I was informed that it would be no trouble at all for them to fly out and exchange guests. They’re scheduled to arrive at 10 P.M.” Torrance rose to leave.
“Until then, please feel free to use the facilities of the Ranch to the fullest.”
On the way back to the room, Hardcastle paused at the desk. Verne glanced up from his computer, then turned, placing himself between the machine and Grumpy Old Man… “Yes, Judge, what can I do for you?”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you have some John Wayne tapes?”
“J.W.? Oh, he’s just delicious. I adore the way he walks; so… so swaggeringly sexy…” Mark earned a cold glare from Hardcastle at his muffled laughter, as Verne pulled a list from under the counter. “Of course, we have several…”
Hardcastle took it, scanned it quickly. Choosing “McClintock” and “War Wagon”, he thanked Verne and left as quickly as possible. Pausing at the coffee shop to buy (actually, gratis to their room number) chips, pretzels, etc., he and McCormick finally faced the inevitable: Returning to That Room.
As the Judge tried unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position on the wing chair, McCormick went around the room, turning the lights down to a dim glow.
“Wattadaya turning the lights down for, McCormick?”
“You wanna look at this stuff?”
“For once, you’re right. Turn them off.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll leave one light on.” He paused at a polished brass lamp on the end table next to the empty wing chair. He looked it over, then tilted the shade, looking inside. “Where’s the switch? How do you turn this on?”
“It’s a Touch-Lite, kiddo; ya touch it, it turns on.”
“Sorta like everyone else around here, huh?” He touched the base and the lamp glowed faintly at 25 watts.
Seeing Hardcastle’s difficulty with the chair, he pulled the pink satin comforter off the bed; the reverse was maroon velour, and he decided he could live with that - or at least sit on it. Gathering several floor pillows, he spread the quilt over them, maroon side up. Propping a few more pillows against the curved leg and lower frame of the settee, he glanced up at Hardcastle. “Care to join me?”
The Judge grimaced, but got out of the torturous chair. “While you’re at it, find something to cover that up with.” He indicated Atlas reclining in close proximity.
Finding a blanket in the closet (it was too dark to see what color it was) McCormick draped it over the table. Hardcastle tossed him one of the tapes, and he crossed to the TV. By the time he got the TV on and the tape started, he turned back to find that the Judge had made himself quite comfortable on the pillows, not leaving any room for him. Shaking his head, he took another blanket from the closet, rounded up some more pillows, dumped them on the floor in front of the wing chair next to Hardcastle. The Judge munched silently, waiting for the tape to reach the movie; there was about two feet separating them, and he placed the munchies in the open space.
“Open that champagne, kiddo; no sense wasting it.”
Finally settled in with Fritos, Chez-Its, Chips, and Dom Perignon, McCormick resigned himself to three or four hours of John Wayne.
“Can you believe the nerve of that little twit, talking about John Wayne like that?”
The Judge spoke with moral outrage, and Mark stared at him. “Great. A simple, off-hand comment, and you take it as a deadly insult to The Greatest Actor That Ever Lived. And here I am - a guy who just happened to have saved your ass five or six times this year alone - so black and blue I can hardly sit down, and it’s: ‘Quit yer complainin’, kiddo, and get-this, do-that-‘”
“McCormick?”
“Yeah?”
“Quit yer complainin’ and turn up the TV.”
“Ah, man, don’t tell me ol’ Straight’n’Narrow J.W. is an ex-con in this?!”
“He’s innocent, kiddo; it was a frame-up.”
“So was I, but it didn’t make any difference.”
“McCormick, you were never innocent in your life. You were born guilty.”
He had said it in a teasing tone, but the ensuing silence was so intense, that Hardcastle glanced over at McCormick, to find him staring straight ahead, not seeing the screen. The greenish-blue light flickered over taut features and a clenched jaw; suppressed anger, and an obvious effort not to let it escape. The Judge would never get used to Mark’s mercurial mood changes: Laughing his fool head off one minute, and coldly distant the next. He wasn’t sure what he had said to cause this inward retreat; nevertheless, he filed his last comment away. Someday, he’d open that mental file, put all the random bits and pieces together, and find out why McCormick was so reticent… and sensitive… about his background.
To change the mood, and subject, Hardcastle held up an empty cellophane bag, crumpled it. “Out of pretzels and chips; make yourself useful - go down and get some more.”
Mark looked at him, smiled slightly. “You’d send me down there alone?”
“McCormick, no man is ever alone.”
“Why don’t you go get ‘em, then?”
“Don’t wanna miss the movie - it’s getting to the best part.”
“You’ve seen it a hundred times already.” They had discovered earlier that the ‘Pause’ button on the remote didn’t work; the letters had been worn off from constant use…
“That’s what’s great about the Classics, you never get tired of them.”
McCormick got to his feet in disgust. “Okay, okay… Geez, for be it far me to come between you and J.W.”
McCormick paused outside the door, shifting the sack and checking his pockets for the room key. Not finding it, he was about to yell for Hardcastle, when he noticed the door was slightly ajar - and he knew he had closed it. Uneasy, he pushed it open silently, stood in the small, dark entry. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, he heard Hardcastle’s voice.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one this long before. But then, I really haven’t seen that many to be able to make comparisons.”
Mark was about to ask the Judge who he was talking to, when he heard Slade’s deep voice. “Well, modesty forces me to say that it’s about average; a bit thicker than normal, but still average.”
Startled, the ex-con remained where he was, his vision blocked by the offset of the wall; but not his hearing… unfortunately.
“Hardly average. You’re something, Slade.”
“It’s okay for you? I’ve been getting complaints that it’s too heavy and unwieldy…” His tone was both defensive and apologetic, “It would be great to find someone who knew what he was doing, even if he’s a novice.”
“That’s ‘cause most guys don’t know how to handle it; they get too anxious, and just grab it and flop it around like a length of hose or something. Even a ‘novice’ like me knows it’s all in the wrist action… controlled finesse…”
McCormick was in something of a quandary, not wanting to leave, not wanting to stay, and certainly not wanting to make his presence known. All that was changed, however, by a sudden, sharp CRRRAACCCK!! McCormick flipped on the light, ready for just about anything. Charging into the sitting room, he stopped abruptly when he saw Hardcastle and Slade. The Judge held the biggest bullwhip he’d ever seen, and glanced up with a questioning look at his somewhat unorthodox entrance.
“What are you standing around gawking for, McCormick? Get in here; sure took you long enough. By the way,” he nodded toward their visitor, “Slade came by while you were gone. He does all the leatherwork here; makes all the saddles, bridles, and stuff. Pretty damn good with bullwhips, too.”
“The Judge is too kind. I’ve only just started. This is the third one I’ve made; it’s my own design.” He added proudly.
“I know talent when I see it.”
“Then I want you to keep this one. You handle it well.”
McCormick looked at both of them, nonplussed; Hardcastle with a bullwhip - just what he freakin’ needed…
The Judge was uncertain. “Well, uh, I don’t know if I should…”
“I insist. So far, this is the best one I’ve done. And I can see you prefer it to the other things I sent.” He smiled at their surprised looks. “And the first thing I noticed about you right off was that you’re a person of exceptional ability and discerning taste.” He looked steadily at the Judge as he spoke, much to Mark’s delight and amusement. Delight at Hardcastle’s discomfort; amusement that the Judge really couldn’t do anything about it. Slade turned to leave, then hesitated at the door. “I want to apologize for what I said earlier, when you first arrived. I didn’t know then that you were straight; I hope you don’t think I was being too… forward.”
“No, not at all,” McCormick spoke up for the first time, grinning broadly, “That never entered our heads, did it, Milt?” His smile wavered, then faded at Hardcastle’s deadly cold stare.
“Thanks, Slade; I’m sure I’ll find good use for this.”
And the whip snapped… loudly.
Settled in before the TV once again, cold beer replacing the champagne, McCormick was feeling mellow to the point of actually enjoying “McClintock”.
Hardcastle dug into the pretzels, commenting off-handedly. “Found out what the ‘Q’ stands for.”
“Yeah? What?”
“Slade’s first name is Quentin.”
“You mean… he and Torrance…?”
“Looks that way.”
“Well, how ‘bout that. And I thought Quint only had eyes for you.”
That got him a narrow-eyed, sideways look, which Mark ignored. “Wonder what that Safford guy meant, when he said that Slade thought he owned everybody?”
“Aw, he was just a shallow, light-weight trouble-maker. Did you notice how quickly, and smoothly, he went from you to me?
”Safford was tryin’ to break us up?” McCormick leaned across the short distance between them and patted the Judge’s shoulder reassuringly. “Hardcase, don’t you know that no one could ever take your place…?” He smirked, “Not that anyone would want to.”
Hardcastle grinned this time. “I think you just insulted yourself, kiddo.”
Mark thought for a moment, and then sank back on the pillows with a disgusted look. “Shit…”
The credits were beginning to roll over the closing scenes of “McClintock” when there was a ‘whump, whump, whump’ outside the French doors. McCormick got to his feet, went to investigate. Opening the doors and avoiding the bouffant curtains with distaste, he gazed out at the lighted yard from the small balcony.
“Hey, Hardcase, they sent Airwolf after us…!” His voice trailed off, and, with a groan, he leaned against the doorframe. “I thought that when we got out of here, it would be over. But it’s never going to end, is it? We’re trapped in the Twilight Zone…”
“What the hell are you carryin’ on about? What is it?” Hardcastle came up behind him.
McCormick stepped aside. “Take a look.”
A modern, sleek-lined Bell jet-helicopter had landed on the yard, and two passengers were disembarking. The pilot remained aboard, as the newcomers were escorted to the Ranch House; another figure leaned in the door to talk to the pilot - probably Torrance. The light gleamed on the metallic brown finish, with one broad and two narrow gold stripes down the side. The owner’s name was printed on the door in brilliant gilt letters:
Arms crossed, Hardcastle grinned at McCormick. “Awww, Tinker’s Bell…”
Fini…msr J 10/22/01
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