The Mexican woman who’d greeted them at the door watched quietly as Richards hauled his bags up the wide staircase to the second level, Frank following behind with his head on a swivel checking out the photos and paintings.
There were several pictures of the Mexican construction crew and the early stages of the ranch house, interspersed with romanticized oil paintings of western scenes of cow roping and cattle drives.
Of course these assholes would have Mexican servants, Frank thought as he walked down the dark wood upstairs hallway. There were doors on both sides opened to simple but plush bedrooms.
“This one is mine,” Richards proclaimed as he entered a dark-paneled room with a skylight and a view of the mountains and the sun-spangled desert,
Richards dropped his bags down on the floor by the queen-size four poster bed, stretched and looked around, taking it all in with a grin.
“Which room is mine?” Frank asked.
“I’m thinking we should set you up in one of the cabins, Frank. They’re pretty cool. They have everything you’ll need: AC, TV, a wet bar—fully stocked, I might add.”
“I see,” Frank said. “Servants’ quarters.”
“Not at all, Frank, not at all. It’s just that all the bedrooms in the main house have been spoken for. Consortium members glommed onto them eons ago. Some of the douchebags even wanted to have brass nameplates put on the doors. But Bryce, for a change, showed a little restraint and put the kibosh on that one. Nevertheless, I don’t want to overstep my bounds and risk having one of the entitled ones get his shorts in a twist.”
“I hear you, man. No problem.”
Frank shook off what he felt was a slight—nothing unusual in this type of a set-up. And he was leaving for California, anyway, soon as he got himself recharged.
“Come on, Frank,” Richards said, “I’ll show you the fun area.”
They went back downstairs and clicked across the hardwood floor of a large dining room on their way to the back of the house, where they entered another room of leather and wood and head mounts of dead animals. Also more old black-and-white photos, a fireplace on one side and a pool table and a circular poker table in the middle, and what looked to be the latest in stereo equipment along the back wall. Off to the right was one of those giant screen projection TVs, a semi-circle of overstuffed chairs in front of it.
Through a large pair of glass French doors, Frank could see the sunlight dancing on the blue-green water of a huge, Lima bean-shaped swimming pool. Just beyond the pool were two tennis courts of green and red asphalt enclosed in a chain-link fence with light stanchions rising above the courts.
“They use those tennis courts much this time of year, Larry?”
“Only at night, thus the lights. But really, they’re not used much at all these days.”
“Bring your racket?”
“I didn’t. But there are plenty here if you want to play.”
“No thanks, man. I never did go in for white bread sports like tennis and golf.”
“You are such a real man, Frank, it makes my heart flutter.”
“Fuck you. Besides, I don’t have a white sweater to tie around my shoulders.”
“You are sadly lacking in the important things of life, Mr. Ford.”
“True. You still play much?”
“Not in a long while. Too long, really.” He grabbed a hunk of fat on his waistline and shook it between his fingers.
“Love handles, Larry,” Frank said.
“Yeah, right,” Richards said. “I’ll get the keys and we’ll get you set up in your cabin.”
They went outside and, man, was it hot. Like lasers to the top of Frank’s head.
Were things getting thin up there?
They got in the wagon and Richards directed him down to the third and last dome in the row.
Frank swung in alongside it.
Richards got out and stuck a key from a large fob into the cabin door while Frank dug out a small suitcase and his shaving kit.
Frank was starting to slow down, fatigue crawling up his legs now, but the water of the swimming pool had looked so inviting he was determined to stay awake long enough for a dip.
“All right if I use the pool?” he asked. Richards was standing at the door of the dome like a maître d at a fine restaurant.
“Of course, man. Facilities are open to all guests at Rancho Deluxe. But I thought you were famished.”
Frank had forgotten his hunger—excited by entering the lavish grounds—but now he remembered. “Yeah, I could eat,” he said, walking past Richards into the dome.
“I’ll get Maria to rustle us up some huevos rancheros, maybe some fresh Arizona grapefruit. The pantry is always well stocked here.”
“You don’t have to trouble the staff, Larry, just show me the way to the kitchen and I can fix something up. I’m used to fending for myself.”
“The staff here is well paid, Frank. And they don’t do much when there’s nobody here. We’ll have a nice breakfast and then I may join you for a dip. I think they keep the water around eighty degrees. Got a suit? There’s a bunch for guests to use in the cabana at the end of the pool, if you need one.”
Richards stepped inside the dome and flipped a switch on the air conditioning unit.
Frank said, “I picked up a pair of trunks before I left Zenith. Going to California and all that shit, you know?”
“I do. So let’s go eat.”
“Man, I really need to shower first. My pits smell like old garbage cans.”
“I was going to say something,” Richards said, laughing as he walked back out into the heat.
(End of Chapter 11)
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