Her Winning Ways by J.M. Bronston (14)

 

Sunny skies, gentle breezes, birds singing—the day was shaping up to be a winner all around. Bart’s face revealed nothing, but he was pretty sure the gods were smiling on him. Captain Simon’s morning assignments had just detailed his unit to the event over on Fifth Avenue, the grand opening of Galliard’s, that new store from Paris. Annie would be surprised—he’d get a chance to show off a little, and maybe have the opportunity to set up a date. As the men headed for the stables, Bart hung back, preoccupied with his good fortune.

“Hey Bart.” His buddy, Max, had been trying to get Bart’s attention. “You off in dreamland?”

“Sorry about that, Max. Just thinking. Nothing special. Just thinking it looks like it’s going to be a nice day. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well you have a funny look—like you just won the lottery.”

“Nope. Nothing like that. Just feeling like all’s right with the world. Ever have days like that, Max?”

“Not often enough,” Max said. “Anyway. We need to get going. Time to get over to Fifth Avenue.”

They were heading for the stalls to saddle up for the day, just as Captain Simon stepped out of his office.

“Hey, Bart, can I see you a minute.” It was not a question. He pointed his chin toward his office. “In here,” he said.

In his office, behind the glass-paneled door, the captain walked around his desk and sat down. His moves were quick, a busy man with a busy day ahead of him. In his hand he held a ragged piece of paper which he scanned quickly to refresh his memory, and then handed to Bart.

“Do you know what this cockamamie thing means? Someone shoved it under the door last night.”

Bart frowned at the paper.

He read the message a couple of times.

Bart put his trained eye on the paper; he fingered it expertly. Pale green paper, lined, cheap quality, torn from an ordinary spiral steno notepad, with a faint red line printed down the center. The handwriting was recognizably foreign, all in thick pencil. Irregular torn edges curled like snaggle teeth along the top of the paper. He held it up to the light looking for a watermark. He didn’t expect to find one and of course there wasn’t any. Could have come from any one of tens of thousands of cheap notebooks, easily available in any one of thousands of stores, anywhere in the country.

“The handwriting looks foreign.”

“What does it mean?” Simon repeated.

“Beats me. Sounds like some loony-toon.”

“Yeah. Well, maybe. Probably just some goofball who saw you on the TV the other day—that kind of publicity always brings out the kooks. But just so you know to keep your eyes open. And we’ll go ahead and process it anyway. Leave it with me.” He took the paper back from Bart. “Go on, now. Get out of here. I’m busy.”

Bart headed for the door.

“Hey, Bart,” the captain called after him. Bart paused as he was about the close the door behind him. “You watch yourself, you hear?”

“You bet, Captain. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Some loony-toon, he thought. They all come out in the spring.

Max was already up on Hip Hop and he waited while Bart brought Lindy out of his stall. By eight thirty on this perfect morning, the unit was headed up Twelfth Avenue, on their way to their morning assignment on the East side.

 

And while Bart was feeling pretty satisfied with the way the day was shaping up, Annie was approaching her big event with nerves she wasn’t accustomed to. There’d be cameras and TV coverage and she’d have to be the center of more attention than she’d ever faced before.

What to wear? What to wear?

“Oh, Liz. Help me. What should I wear? I don’t know what to wear.”

“Honey, I’ve never seen you so dithery. This isn’t like you.”

“I know. I didn’t expect to feel this way—sort of intimidated. Now I feel like I don’t look sophisticated enough for New York.”

“Oh, that’s silly. That blazer is very attractive and you brought a skirt, didn’t you? And what about—” The phone interrupted her and she paused to answer it. “Here, honey,” Liz said, handing her the phone. “It’s Mitzi, calling for you.”

“Oh, Mitzi. Just in time! I don’t know what to wear. Do I go casual—I have a simple sundress with me—or pants and a blazer, a little more dressy—”

Mitzi didn’t skip a beat. “Oh, jeans, Annie. Absolutely. And boots. That whole super outfit you had on yesterday. With that great leather jacket and the belt with the silver buckle. God! I would kill for that jacket. The cameras will love that western look. So authentic. Girl from Laramie dazzles the big bad city. Trust me. New Yorkers will eat it up. I’ll have the car at your hotel in half an hour. Ciao.” And there was silence.

Annie stared at the phone.

“Liz, these people are so weird. What is it about the jeans and leather jacket? What they call the ‘western look’? They all wear black, like it’s a uniform, and they want me to dress up like a cartoon character? Honestly! I’ll feel like a cardboard cutout.”

But Mitzi’s advice helped calm her down. Jeans and the leather jacket were everyday wear for Annie, so for sure she’d feel more comfortable.

And Liz reminded her that this day was the climax of the whole trip—the interviews, the TV coverage—and the sweep! And the clothes! She had to be at maximum energy.

By the time Mitzi arrived, they were dressed and ready to leave for the Galliard’s opening, the speeches, the cameras—and the shopping spree!

 

Nine thirty a.m., and they were perched on folding chairs out in front of Galliard’s, just behind a podium that was banked with media mics. Annie squeezed Liz’s hand.

“Just don’t let me make a fool of myself.”

Annie was giddy with the realization that she was the center of all this fuss and she was doing her best to keep a lid on the excitement that kept bubbling up from her toes, totally unaware that the nervous energy that was bursting out of her made her an even more radiant and attractive target for the cameras. Liz, at her side, was practically crouched in her seat. She held on to Annie’s hand as if to keep herself from sailing uncontrollably up into the blue sky. Poor Liz, she was totally overwhelmed by the noisy commotion that surrounded them: busy traffic continued to shoot down Fifth Avenue, completely inattentive to the big event in front of Galliard’s; towering buildings, with their thousands of sun-flashing windows, marched up and down the avenue, shouldering up against each other like a horde of enormous egos, each trying to be the main one; and a vista of glittering storefronts, all brass and glass and high society, showed off their wares—diamonds at Harry Winston, crystal at Baccarat, emeralds and sapphires at Cartier, leather at Mark Cross.

The morning was perfect for a ribbon-cutting. A light breeze was fluttering the flags outside Galliard’s; the sky was bright blue and totally cloudless. Mitzi, in a simple suit and her usual stiletto heels, her hair in a slick French braid, and wearing a chunky gold bracelet that must have weighed three pounds, was there to guide Annie through the day. Greta Pena, Lady Fair’s events director, was there. Mayor Gideon and assorted dignitaries had turned out to make speeches and get their pictures taken. Galliard’s president, Jean-Claude Aumont, had flown in from Paris to preside over the event. A crowd of passersby gathered on the sidewalk and camera crews from all the local TV stations were pressing around, getting in everyone’s way.

And there were mounted police on hand to keep the event under control.

She took a quick look and sure enough, there he was. Involuntarily, she brushed a stray buttercup-colored wisp out of her eyes, smoothing it into place.

And Bart, who’d seen the gesture, caught her eye, tipped a quick little salute to her from the saddle, and put Lindy through his snappiest paces, making him look good for this special audience of one. Lindy, who always knew when he was being displayed, tossed his mane as though it were a flag in the breeze and flaunted his special, rakish charm.

She felt a rush of reassurance. Not only were Bart and Lindy familiar faces, they also represented law and order. Their presence seemed to make the surrounding racket and commotion calm down a couple of notches, and she felt a little more secure that maybe she wouldn’t trip all over herself, after all. And as her usual self-confidence began to return, a song started to play in her head. That same song she’d whistled to Lindy last night. Her alma mater’s fight song. The melody of “Cowboy Joe” came to her now like an answer to her prayers.

She imagined she heard the roar of a crowd; the team was running out onto the field, and Pistol Pete, their mascot, was whipping up the spectators. She actually glanced down, expecting to see the yellow and brown of her cheerleading uniform.

The butterflies in her stomach settled down a little. She could stop being nervous and just go ahead and focus on all the fun this once-ina-lifetime day was supposed to bring.

She nodded a little smile at Bart. And for his part, with Annie smiling at him, he couldn’t help showing off a little, so he had Lindy do a couple of the sidestepping moves that always made them both look snazzy.

And while they were being snazzy, they didn’t notice the three men who were standing off a little way from the crowd. Three men who were clumped together; three men who whispered to each other behind their hands, and who would, every now and then, point surreptitiously at Lindy, keeping their heads low and their hands as unobtrusive as they could manage. Three men—one skinny, one short and fat, the third tall and totally bald. All with thick mustaches. And the tallest and baldest one of the three was intently taking notes on a scruffy steno pad.

 

Mayor Gideon was at the mic and was grandly proclaiming his own cleverness at bringing yet another major enterprise to the city. He acknowledged Monsieur Aumont, with thanks for bringing a major French label to New York, reminding everyone that when it comes to panache, New York and Paris are sister cities. He invited Monsieur Aumont to make a few additional remarks of welcome. And then, with a great flourish, he took up the ceremonial scissors, about three feet long, and invited Annie to say a few words and join in on cutting the broad blue ribbon that stretched across the front of Galliard’s gleaming door.

She took one deep breath. Then, one more.

With a little toss of her hair—and a little nudge from Liz—Annie stepped up to the podium. Greta Pena now materialized and whispered into Annie’s ear.

“Go ahead, dear. You look wonderful. Just say a quick thank you to the crowd. And smile!”

Annie waved, a little timidly at first, with butterflies doing a couple of gentle flips inside her. Then, picking up steam, she was able to give it her full cheerleader all. The crowd waved back eagerly, enjoying the pretty scene. She took a deep breath.

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor.” She nodded once at him and he glowed. “Thank you, Monsieur Aumont, and thank you for bringing Galliard’s to New York. And thank you to all the wonderful people at Lady Fair.” She turned and smiled at Mitzi and at Greta. “You’ve done so much to make us feel welcome. And by the way, I want to introduce my big sis. Liz, stand up, honey.” And Liz did a half-rise from her chair, managed a weak, self-conscious smile, made a half-wave of her hand, and gave Annie a look that said, I’ll get you for this! Liz sat down quickly, while Annie went on. “And thank you, thank you, New York!” She tossed a quick smile at Bart. “This really must be the most exciting day of my life. And when I get back to Laramie, I’m going to tell everyone, New York really is Fun City!” The spectators clapped enthusiastically.

And Bart smiled, as though he was the one who’d won the prize.

And Mitzi and Greta also beamed as though they had single-handedly given birth to a brilliant prodigy, especially because Lady Fair had gotten a proper plug.

“Now,” Greta whispered, “keep smiling and put your hand on the scissors while the mayor does the cutting. Look at the camera.”

Annie did as she was told, the mayor made the ceremonial cut, the crowd cheered happily. Liz applauded madly. All the dignitaries crowded around, pushing their faces into camera range. And then it was Greta’s turn. She planted herself in front of the bank of microphones and invited the gathered crowd to attend to her.

She introduced herself, and then said, “Now listen up, folks. Galliard’s is inviting you all to watch us on national television while our lucky Sweeps-Spree winner from Laramie, Wyoming, Annie Cornell, sweeps fifty thousand dollars’ worth of fabulous, fresh-from-France, fantastic furs—faux or real, as she prefers—shoes, evening dresses, whatever she chooses, all the latest Paris fashions, right here in Manhattan’s newest, brightest, glitziest, seven-most-wonderful fashion floors, the fashion floors of Galliard’s.”

Applause, applause.

“And we’re not putting any pressure on her,” here she turned and smiled at Annie, then back again, wickedly to the cameras, “are we, folks?”

Laughter from the crowd.

“We’re going to give Annie a full two hours to make her selections. And we’ll be checking every step of the way while she gets to live out the dream, a free prowl through all the fashion goodies a girl could want. So stay with us, America, as our cameras check in on Annie’s progress. We’ll be there every half-hour, just after the regular news breaks with our very own tally-man keeping score. And be sure to be tuned in to the runway show on Friday morning, when Annie will show her selections to everyone out there, all across the country. That’s fifty thousand dollars, folks. So be sure to be with us.”

And she was done.

The ribbon-cutting came to its end, the milling crowd broke up in all directions to continue on to their interrupted errands, camera crews organized their gear, and dignitaries pulled out their cell phones to check their messages, make their calls, and return to their heavily scheduled days.

Bart moved Lindy through the confusion to lean close to her. He had to lift his voice as she was being delivered to Galliard’s front door.

“Dinner tonight. I’ll call you.”

She could do no more than stare, openmouthed, as he rode away.

But her astonishment got no further, for Mitzi was chattering in her ear and practically prancing as she led Annie toward Galliard’s threshold, and she had to concentrate on the big event of this big day. For wasn’t it supposed to be, indeed, the biggest day of her life?

 

And off to the edge of the crowd, the tall, bald man with the mustache watched them closely. He had already noted the interest Lindy’s rider was showing in the winner of the contest. And he saw the smile that passed between them.

“Very interesting,” he murmured.

He licked the tip of his pencil, stroked his mustache once, and made another note on his pad.