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"This
one's guaranteed to win you the Pulitzer." This, of course, was a load of horse manure, and we both knew it. "I think you should be delighted to interview the famous, charismatic Chad Wainright. Rumor has it he's planning to run for the Senate in the next election. People want to read about him. And you do a hard-hitting interview. We already cleared it with Wainright. He's delighted to have you talk to him about his new book, It Takes A Cowboy." "I can hardly wait to read it for the insights." "No need to be sarcastic, Sara. Didn't we hire you to cover the literary scene?" I studied the light reflecting off his bald pate. "That's right. But most literary editors don't have to traipse around the country; they just review books." "Think of it as a job perk." I rolled my eyes. "Besides, you're a reporter; you're supposed to go wherever the story takes you." I gave him a look that told him exactly where I thought he should go. "Have you confused me with Geraldo Rivera by any chance?" "Of course, if you don't like it, you can feel free to discuss the matter with Mr. Andrews." Dave's voice was saccharine sweet. It was followed by one of his nasty I-got-you-now smiles. Seeing Mr. Andrews, our publisher, was the ultimate threat. Reporters like me saw him only three times: once after being hired, at which time he condescends to shake your hand, second time, if you happen to win an award, and third, if you're being fired. Well, I wasn't winning the Pulitzer as yet so Dave's suggestion made me a tad nervous. Still, I wasn't giving in yet either. The man always saved the worst assignments for me. I had a right to be wary. "Why aren't you giving this to one of the guys? Wainright is a macho man and a male chauvinist to boot. It seems to me he'd relate better to another man." "Male reporters respond to Wainright with awe. Jeff would be taken in by his good-old-boy ways and Frank would get down on his knees to grovel and worship the man like he was cast in bronze. I want a story that cuts deep." I was a little surprised by this. "So you don't want a glowing, gushing whitewash?" "Nope. This magazine stands for something. Put that irritating, brusque manner of yours to good effect, Lewin, and get us the real deal on Wainright. How much do you know about his ranch?" I shrugged. "Just that he's turned it into a private game preserve, a place where the rich and famous go to hunt exotic animals." "There's a lot of these big game hunting safari-style ranches around the country. But the buzz is that Wainright deals in animals on the endangered species list. Apparently, game like lions, tigers, bears, water buffalo and rhino can be had there for a price. You name it, he'll import it." "There are lots of shady dealings of that kind. If Wainright is importing animals captured illegally by poachers, it won't be easy to prove." "But not all the people who run these ranches are retired movie stars and wannabe politicians," Dave said, wagging a pedantic finger in my direction. "Just makes this assignment all the tougher." "The cowboy does have friends in high places," Dave agreed. "Better than friends in low places who carry knives and guns." Then again, Wainright could afford to keep those kind of people on the payroll. "So you're looking for a lot more than some fluff piece. Have I got that right? You're talking the talk. No double-speak?" "Sara, Sara," he shook his head at me disparagingly, "Trust me. Bring me something with teeth and I'll see it gets printed." "If I don't get killed first." "As far as I know, they haven't put you on the endangered list yet." Somehow the thought of myself as being hunted did not sit well. But I wasn't about to quit my job with a first-class magazine like Person. My work ethic was too ingrained in my physique, and Dave knew it. The intricacies of our tortured relationship could have filled a book--unfortunately, a very dull one. So I took the next plane out to Texas. I rented a jeep in El Paso and drove off into the rural, open country of West Texas. The day was hot and dry, the road dusty. I sang along with the Dixie Chicks bemoaning lost love on a cold day in July and forged ahead like a good, little trooper. I'd done my homework and discovered that according to the last survey, Wainright's ranch was one of 637 hunting ranches in the state. I figured Wainright was just typical of a mentality that looked to hunting as some basic divine right. The ranch was fortified like the Alamo. I had to stand outside the gatehouse until my clearance was checked. While I waited, I noticed the daunting electrified fence that was maybe twelve feet high. Was it meant to keep animals in or keep people out? A character who looked a lot like a cowboy in an old western film finally greeted me. "Howdy, Ma'am," he said with a wide grin that could have melted the hearts of old ladies and caused impressionable teenage girls to giggle. "I'm B.J. Newly, Mr. Wainright's top hand." He removed an absurdly large black Stetson, revealing hair the color of melted butter, and then he shook my hand vigorously with his large, callused paw. "We don't get many city reporters down here." "I'll just bet." As he led me through the gates, I had a sense of entering Jurassic Park. I guess he must have noticed my apprehension. "The animals won't attack you," he said. "They're not like in the wild. We feed them real good here. But just in case, I keep my gun on the ready." I could only hope he was referring to the Colt holstered on his hip. "So how big is this place?" B. J. didn't seem eager to answer my question. "More than a thousand acres?" I persisted. He shrugged. "More like 15,000 acres." I
let out a surprised gasp, but then Texans always do things in
a big way. I got into the passenger side of his SUV and studied
the scenery analytically. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a
huge animal, a massive hulk with a predominating horn. The color
was an extraordinary. I blinked and it seemed to have disappeared
just as quickly as it came. |