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He was dressed the way he’d been dressed for the twenty-five years Lex had known him—baggy blue jeans, plaid cotton shirt, heavy work boots, a four-pack of the evil-looking cigars in his breast pocket.

“You need to be looking at the renovations, Mr. Able. Miss Hart spent a lot of time and money decorating the old place. Spiffy now. Flowers and all. Pink bathroom with artificial flowers, colored soap, pitchers on the wall . . . fluffy carpet on the floor. Lots of changes.”

Asa growled something indistinguishable that Lex couldn’t hear. He grinned.

“Door’s open. I saw Bernice’s car in the lot so she must have come in early. What time do you expect Miss Hart, Stan?”

“Sometime late tonight. She’s in Las Vegas. Drove up there yesterday. Thought you heered all that from them FBI fellers. She’s driving a rig back. It’s a trap.” he said importantly.

“What?” Lex bellowed.

“Shhhh. Don’t you be giving away FBI secrets. I told you in confidence. That agent, he didn’t tell me I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Seein’ as how you’re sweet on Miss Hart and all, thought you should know. Them people who got your jukebox, they come up with another set of stuff for you. We’re bringing it back on another load. Miss Hart is playing a decoy so’s your stuff gits here the way it’s supposed to. Bet that makes you real happy, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah. Jesus, what’s she hauling?”

“Them two FBI agents in the back. Told you it was a trap.” Stan slapped his leg as he cackled in glee.

Lex’s voice was full of outrage. “They’re using a woman as bait! I goddamn well don’t believe this.”

“Two women and the dog.” Stan cackled some more.

“Everything’s pink and green! Seashells! My spittoon is gone! So’s Teddy!” Asa sputtered.

“Get in the truck, Asa! We’re going to Las Vegas! Give me the route, Stan, and don’t even think about telling me you don’t have it,” Lex said. He shoved the slip of paper Stan handed him into Asa’s gnarled hand.

“Vegas! Hot damn!” Asa said as he settled himself into the truck and buckled up. “Burn rubber, boy. I have money to spend, and these old eyes want to look at some purty girls. ’Course, I’ll tell my wife all about it when I get home.”

“She won’t care, Asa.”

“Now, ain’t that the truth! Why are we going to Vegas?”

Lex told him.

Asa rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “I’d never have allowed that if I still owned this company. Women are not supposed to be used as bait to trap a crook.” His voice was so virtuous, Lex almost choked.

“I’m going to ask her to marry me. Soon. One of these days. Maybe over the weekend. Maybe later on, when all this business with the workers is settled. Maybe I won’t. I might not have anything left to offer her. How could they do that, Asa? How is it that she agreed? She doesn’t look stupid. They probably gave her some of that patriotic crap they dish out. Hung a guilt trip on her.”

“Maybe she did it for you. Women do all kinds of silly things when they love a man. Men do silly things, too, like right now. You could get us killed if you try and stop that truck, and don’t tell me that isn’t your plan. You’re gonna pull that truck over and then me and you are gonna get in it and them women and dog are going to get in this here truck.”

“Zip it up, Asa. That isn’t my plan at all.”

“Then what is your plan?”

“Goddamn it, I don’t have a plan. Well, maybe I do. We’ll follow behind her. You got a better idea?” Lex growled. “Why didn’t she call and tell me what she was doing?”

“Them FBI fellows swear everyone to secrecy. Seen that in a movie. Miss Hart made lots of movies. She knows the drill. Stan, now, he never could keep anything to himself. She’s doing it for you, son, and we both know that.”

“I don’t want her doing stuff like that for me. I want her home safe and sound.”

“This is the 90’s, son. Women don’t want to stay home safe and sound. My wife is making seashell jewelry and she peddles it on the sidewalk. Now, don’t that beat all hell? She’s making money, too. We have one whole room full of nothing but flowered clothes.”

In spite of himself, Lex burst out laughing. “What would be even funnier would be you telling me you help her make the jewelry.”

“Just once in awhile. Got four cabinets full of pineapple. I hate it. I hate Hawaii. I hate all that sun, all them mirrors. Everything is yellow and green. The furniture, I mean. Do you think Miss Hart will sell me back the business?”

“After this is all over and if she agrees to marry me, your chances are looking pretty good. What about your wife?”

“I’ll visit,” Asa guffawed. “Relax, son. There’s not much you can do right now. If she’s taking off at noon, we’ll be about two hours from Vegas. I say we sit and wait for her to come rolling by. I don’t have a bad feeling about this, Lex. I think the feds made a mistake on this one. A trap only works if you have someone ready to step into it. Chet is not going to bite. Trust me and my years of knowing that scum. He’s frying other fish right now.”

They drove in silence. Occasionally, Lex turned the radio on, listened for a while, and then turned it off. In between he smoked and coughed as Asa enjoyed his obnoxious cigars. He heaved a sigh of relief when the older man dozed off. He drove steadily, his eye going occasionally to the speedometer, careful to stay at sixty-five. The radar detector was a single eye, glaring at him like a Cyclops.

Lex did everything he could think of so he wouldn’t think about what was happening back at his ranch. He ate peanuts, chewed gum, chain-smoked, hummed under his breath, and stuck his head out the window to draw in deep breaths. But it wasn’t until he was into his third hour on the road that he settled down.

Forty minutes into the fourth hour, two things happened: Asa woke, and he blew two back tires simultaneously. “And what the hell are the odds of that happening?” He snorted his disgust because he knew he only had one spare in the back of the truck.

“Things seem to be going from bad to worse, son. You got any kind of patch kit in the back? Best get on the horn and call Triple A, but first you gotta get off at the next exit. This shoulder is too narrow.”

Lex did as instructed—and missed Ariel by fifteen minutes. He spent the thirty minutes he waited for Triple A kicking the back tires, cursing in two languages, kicking the front tires, smoking, and banging the hood of the truck. Seventy minutes later he was southbound, knowing full well Ariel had passed him.

“This is a goddamn exercise in futility,” Lex muttered. “Asa, call Stan and see if there’s a way to get in touch with the agents or Ariel. Stan can get on the CB and report back to us. At least we can get a location, and then I can speed up or slow down if it turns out they’re behind us. They’ve got to be ahead of us. I’d bet the ranch on it. Jesus, Asa, if Ariel weighs 110 pounds it’s a lot. I still can’t believe she can drive that eighteen-wheeler.”

“And I can’t believe she decorated my offices in pink and green and has seashells all over the damn place. I left Hawaii to get away from seashells and those damn sunset colors. It’s not . . . manly.”

“That’s because Ariel is not a man. When you buy it back you can hang zebra wallpaper. Call Stan! ”

“He’s gonna call us back. He hasn’t heard a thing. All he knows is Ariel took to the road at noon. You’re probably right that she passed us when we were having our repairs done. Patience, son. If anything went wrong, Stan would have heard.”

“She’s got four hours to go. A lot can happen in four hours. Hang on, Asa. I’m going to floor this baby. I’ll decorate my Christmas tree this year with the tickets I get.”

The truck phone buzzed. Asa growled a greeting, listened, nodded, and replaced the phone. “So far so good. Stan told her Big Daddy, that’s me, and Junior, that’s you, were having car trouble and would meet her for supper. He was afraid to say too much. If she’s as smart as you say she is, she’ll figure it out. She’s an hour ahead of us. You’re going eighty, son. I wonder what it’s like to go a hundred miles an hour or as fast as the speed of light, or is that sound? You got twelve cylinders, son, let’s go for it!” Asa cackled gleefully.

“Jesus, Asa, when did you get so daring?”

“When I started making seashell necklaces.”

Twenty minutes later, the radar detector squealed at the same moment a state trooper’s siren went off. “Shit!” Lex said succinctly. He slowed down and pulled over to the narrow shoulder. “Pretend you’re sick, Asa. You look kind of green. Guess high speeds aren’t what you thought they were. Stringing seashells might be your forte after all.”

Lex stared at the trooper’s spit and polish uniform, his black, mirrored sunglasses, and his chiseled features as he handed over his license, registration, and insurance card.

“It’s not his fault, officer. I’m having a gallbladder attack and my boy here was just trying to get me home because I ain’t goin’ to no hospital to die. Want to die in my own bed. Give us our ticket so I can get home to my missus and my bed. Ohhh, sweet Jesus, this hurts.” He threw his head back against the headrest and clutched his gut, having no idea where his gall bladder was.

“Okay. These are your options—I can escort you to the hospital or you can drive at a safe speed. I clocked you at 97 miles an hour. I’m not giving you a ticket this time because my own father is just as ornery as yours is, and I understand. I’m going to radio ahead so take it easy. Don’t suppose you take your medicine, either.”

“Makes me sicker,” Asa growled.

“That’s what my father says. Ask the doctor to change it.”

“We’ll do that, won’t we . . . Dad?”

“Darn tootin.’,” Asa growled again. “Want my own bed. That’s all I want.”

Lex slipped the truck into gear. “Thanks, officer.” He offered up a roguish wink, but couldn’t see if the officer returned it with the sun glaring off his sunglasses.

“Should have been an actor. Maybe Miss Hart can get me a part in a movie.”

“I thought you wanted to buy back the company,” Lex said, his eyes going to the rearview mirror.

“That, too.”

Lex drove at sixty-five, his eyes constantly checking his side mirror and the rearview mirror for signs of trooper patrols. Ninety minutes later he was satisfied there were no police, so he pressed down hard on the accelerator. Asa’s head snapped backward. “A warning would have been nice,” he bellowed.

Thirty miles down the road, Lex slowed. “I think that’s her up ahead. Call Stan and see if I’m right. Describe the car behind her. I think it’s a white Ford Mustang, New Jersey license plate AWA-397. On her left, slightly ahead, is a Chevy Blazer, Arizona plate, but I can’t make it out. I’d say the Blazer is riding shotgun and the Mustang is backup. I can’t see what’s directly in front of the truck. What they usually do in the movies is switch up. Probably another car or truck up ahead and one behind us. Then, when the time is right, they all converge. Lots of manpower and lots of bucks involved. We’re gonna coast now.”

“We’re coming up to the Pine Valley exit. If anything is going to happen, it’ll be soon.” Ariel swiped at the perspiration beading on her forehead. “Snookie is calm—I don’t see anything strange. I think this was a bum idea, if you want my opinion. And I wouldn’t bet the rent on it, but I think that’s Lex Sanders about three vehicles back. If something happens, his presence won’t help matters. Everyone around here knows Lex and his truck. Asa probably sticks out like pink skin on an elephant. This is a bust, I can feel it.”

“Thank God,” Dolly said. She fed Snookie a dog bone, but not before she took a bite of it. “These things are awful.”

“Dolly, I have this . . . this bad feeling suddenly. You aren’t going to like or believe what I’m thinking. I could be wrong, but somehow, I don’t think so. It all hit me when I got up this morning. I started to equate this whole thing to a movie script. Dolly, if this was a script, do you know what the kicker would be?”

“I don’t have the foggiest, Ariel.”

“Well, I do. Scripts, like stories, have a beginning, a middle, and an end. There’s a bad guy and a good guy. Usually you know what the klinker is by the middle. We thought it was Chet Andrews. Actually, it is Chet Andrews. But there’s another one. I don’t think those men in the back of the truck are FBI agents at all. I think they’re men in the employ of Drew Marino. I think Marino is out to destroy Lex Sanders as well as the other ranchers so he can become the big gentleman rancher the way he was that famous Wall Street tycoon. Those guys, there was something about them from the beginning. They were slick, but they weren’t polished. They knew a little bit, but not enough. I never personally looked at their badges up close. I didn’t like Navaro’s eyes from the gitgo. You said there was something about Harry that made you uneasy. They asked a lot of questions that had nothing to do with business. There were twenty different ways they didn’t compute. I don’t think I’m wrong, Dolly.”

“What’s it mean, Ariel?”

“God, I wish I knew. I would imagine Lex’s second set of collectibles is being hijacked as we speak. And we unknowingly helped it to happen. I don’t know what to do. When we get back, they’ll climb out, apologize, say something to appease us, and go their merry way. Our insurance will be cancelled for sure, as will Lex’s. Those collectibles are things, and Lex can get by without them. We’re down to basics now—his livelihood. The avocados. If this was a script, and I turned the page, I’d see a fire in progress. Now, they don’t know Hollywood is coming to the rescue. Then again, maybe they do. If they had someone listening to our phone calls last night, they know. What that means is, between now and Thursday, they burn him out or drop poison from planes over his trees . . . something to destroy his crops. The other ranchers, too. The next page in the script is blank. What’s the answer, Dolly?”

“Oh, Ariel, I don’t know. I can’t comprehend people being so vicious. We have to call the real FBI. Alert all the fire departments. What can we do about planes with poison?”

“We can’t do anything, but the real FBI can alert all the airfields, even the small, private ones. There has to be a way to put an end to this. Am I crazy, Dolly?”

“No. It all makes sense. We fell for it, too. They must be snickering up their sleeves as we speak. I hate that.”