Charmingly Ruthless

"Well, I'm very pleased about that Chase. Thank you."

Mary led Harold into the room and went to a wall cupboard and opened a bar, asking everyone what they wanted.

There was a rap on the door and Mary went quickly and admitted the third man.

"That's all Mary, hit the road now and thanks. I'll do the drinks."

As Mary left the room Mansfield made the introductions.

"Chase, this is Pearson."

"Pearson Richards, ma'am," he said with old world courtesy. "I know who you are as I read the Evening News throughout. I don't have television."

"What, have you retired from the world?" joked Chase and a flash of very white teeth acknowledged her liveliness. He seemed very unaware of her, which suited Chase fine, although it was unusual for a man of his age -- thirty-eight to forty perhaps.

While Pearson and the other two men were chatting about the result of a rugby game, Chase took the opportunity to study this man who seemed to be in the wrong room -- almost the wrong century.

Harold and Mansfield were in business suits where as Person was in ... um ... buckskin? Never having seen buckskin, Chase couldn't be certain, but it was light brown animal skin of some sort. Was this man a Rip Van Wrinkle trapper?

Chase giggled and three pairs of eyes turned on her.

"A loss of this magnitude is not funny, Chase," Mansfield growled, "or are you a bloody Aussie supporter?"

"Oh no, it was a terrible loss, wasn't it?"

Chase really had not idea if there were talking league, rugby or even soccer, but it was better playing along rather than trying to explain her trapper joke.

"Men taking their sport so seriously tends to make me laugh," she offered. And that was true but now it was Chase who seemed to be in the wrong room, judging by the three scowls.

Pearson looked as if he needed a good scrub. His unruly brown and blond streaked hair was unruly and he had a three-day growth that would make any woman howl with pain if he...

Good heavens, thought Chase, I don't really like this scruffy man and here I go thinking about sex in his presence. She picked his age -- she'd go halfway between her earlier estimate and say thirty-nine, he was six feet six and no more than 200lbs because he's had a lean looking butt judging by the narrowness she could see at the front of his trousers under his opened jacket.

So, who was this Mr Person Richards? She giggled -- only dull-named Harold had a conventional moniker. Pearson and Mansfield and her moms must have been on something when it came to naming their babies or perhaps the names were linked to the place where they thought they became pregnant. She giggled loudly this time.

Pearson peeled off and walked the two paces to her side.

"You seem to be racked in laughter -- are you on something?"

Chase was appalled; how could he think that of her? This man was a menace.

"Certainly not."

"Sorry, sorry -- I've sort of fallen out of touch how to stroke the sensitivities of beautiful city women."

Well, fancy that, gritted Chase. If he hadn't dropped in beautiful he would have been in danger of having those stupidly white and large teeth separated by her backhander -- rings an all. Christ, she was still wearing her wedding and engagement rings and he was staring at them. Never mind, it didn't matter but she must get rid of them -- probably dropping them in a sewer would be appropriate. No, she didn't fancy big-tooth trapper at all. Well, perhaps a little bit but only because he was male.

"Right," said, Mansfield. "I've topped your glasses up so now am guaranteed of your attention. I've called this meeting to get my campaign on the road. Just before you gentlemen entered Chase accepted my invitation to join our little task force. Her head swells with ideas," Mansfield said generously. As one all three men glanced at Chase's breasts.

"This is my suggestion for loose-knit organisation: Harold - convener, legalities; Chase - deputy-convener, business strategy; Pearson -- media and campaign strategy; me -- I just do what I'm told."

Everyone agreed that sounded fine although Chase, considering herself the media expert, wondered why she hadn't got that as one of her responsibilities. She noticed Pearson looking at her, and he was probably wondering the same thing while also being puzzled why she would have responsibility for business strategy.

"Right, next item on our non-existent agenda: Where do we meet for our first full meeting early next week."

"Motel meeting room."

"Quiet corner in a bar."

"Up at Pearson's place."

"At the home of Mansfield's mother."

"Here" were the suggestions.

"Here, Chase?" asked Mansfield aghast.

"Yes, seeking re-election is not an unlawful act. The Mayor's Office is just that -- the Mayor's Office. What he does in it is his business providing it's within the law. Everyone knows that."

"No," said Mansfield and Pearson looked at Chase, apparently rather impressed." "What is your view Harold?"

"Chase is quite right. Seeking re-election is a legitimate activity for a Mayor to engage in."

"Well, we'll meet here then."

"I suggest we time our arrivals and departures a minute apart, just to ensure we try to preserve our pre-election anonymity from sticky beaks."

The three men looked at Chase.

"That's prudent," nodded Harold.

Mansfield smirked: "When I realised you could play golf that well I realised you were more than just a pretty face."

Pearson was the last to avert his eyes off Chase. His expression was neutral.

They had another drink and then it was announced it was time to slip out at three-minute intervals.

"I'm sure there's no need to do this but for the first time in the run-up to three elections I'm having some fun," grinned Mansfield.

Harold went first because he had to take Helen to a Law Society dinner. Pearson followed Chase.

Chase went out smiling, wondering what the big tooth trapper drove -- a Jeep? She was thinking of a shiny big, black monster. She entered the car park and stopped, holding a mouth over her hand to deaden the near hysterical shriek. Parked alongside her vehicle was jeep looking very much like the Americans used in World War 2.

"Like it?" asked Pearson proudly.

"It's kind of cute," was all Chase could manage.

"Follow me, I'm taking you out to dinner. I understand you're not attached."

"How do you know that?"

"I just asked Mansfield and he told me."

"Oh."

"That's a truncated sentence for a journalist."

"Truncated?"

"Yes, don't you know what it means?"

"Of course I do, but somehow was surprised of your usage."

"Oh."

They laughed and Mansfield told Chase to follow him.

"I hadn't accepted the invitation."

"Oh, I think you have. Initially you looked at me as if I were someone from Outer Space but right now you are beginning to find me ever so slightly interesting and are curious to find out if there's more."

Pearson strode off, leaving Chase relieved that the car lot was quite dimly lit because of her face; was scarlet.

Chase wondered if the restaurant they were heading to would serve chilli beans topped by a foot-thick steak. They stopped just before restaurant row where a couple of parking spaces were vacant. In the distance she saw the neon sign, The Chuck House, and smiled thinking she'd better tone down her assumption.

Ye gods, big teeth in buckskin now wore a Stetson! She was appalled though had to admit he looked rather...er...interesting. She braced herself to walk down restaurant road at the sniggered stares that would come their way -- Mr Texas and his moll. Chase wondered why she'd chosen to wear her yellow dress that day -- the most conspicuous dress in her presently limited wardrobe, with its high font with shelf bra and cut-away back with cross over straps. It had slivers of bright red thought it so her shoes were bright red.

They certainly got curious looks, at least she did. The first couple that approached them, walking as if they were conjoined, smiled and called simultaneously, "Hi Pearson" and gave Chase a curious look.

Too roughies leaning against a bank building drinking beer watched them silently though nodding at Chase and then obviously mentally undressing Chase.

"Against local bylaws to drink liquor on the street, guys," smiled Chase's escort.

"Get fucked Pearson," one of them responded cheerfully.

Pearson made no effort to take her hand or to put his arm around her protectively. Passing cars tooted and Pearson waved.

Just before they reached The Chuck House Pearson paused and said, "Do you fancy French?"

Before Chase could answer a carload of hoons drove passed slowing, a rumble coming from the huge exhaust pipe. Pearson looked up, spotted who it was, and urged Chase to block her ears.

"Like the look of your fuck for tonight Pearson."

Chase grinned at Pearson and he looked relieved, a tad red in the face she thought.

"Sorry, I don't run this town," he said, in a real drawl.

Chase was hit by a fit of giggles, his arm went round her and he soothed, "There, there. Calm down."

"Could we go to The Chuck House instead?"

Pearson frowned, then sighed: "I've heard their steaks are the best in town."

It appeared that he was not a regular, as nobody seemed to know him.

As the waitress approach Pearson whispered, "I think it's customary to drink beer in places like this but perhaps they do have some wine under the bar top."

"A light beer, please," Chase ordered confidently.

"A pony or a mare?"

"The biggest glass you've got."

The waitress looked doubtfully at Chase and then at Pearson, who simply shrugged. "I'll have the same, but regular."

The beers came, and Chase gasped, to the amusement of her escort.

"These are huge," Chase said, wiping away her froth moustache with the back of her hand like guys do in Westerns. The back of her hand was now wet and she did not know the next move.

"Wipe it on the bum of your Levis."

"I'm not wearing jeans," Chase whispered back.

Pearson winked and handed her his paper napkin.

"These glasses hold approximately one and a half pints -- just as well you ordered light alcohol beer."

"Oh damn, I meant low calorie beer."

"Sorry, but they don't cater for wimps in these places," Pearson said with a huge smile.

Chase decided she was beginning to like this man.

Almost ninety minutes later they left the saloon...er...restaurant.

"Are you sure you are fit to drive," he asked when they arrived back at the car, still not touching but brushing each other because they walked so closely, chatting and laughing.

"Yes, are you?"

"Yes, I think so. It's a twenty-two mile drive."

"Would you like to sleep it off at my place."

"Yes." But he made no move.

"Well?"

"But I won't, not until I'm sure you like me."

"But I dooo!" wailed Chase to the clouded sky.

"That's the alcohol talking. I'd want you to wake up in the morning still liking me."

"But...but..."

Chase said, "Let's see, at lunch you probably scoffed half a bottle of red wine, at the Mayor's Office you had three whiskies and at The Chuck House you drank two huge glasses of beer."

"But that was only light alcohol beer."

"Conceded, but the whiskies are man-sized large and powerful."

"Oh stuff."

Chase sighed: "I haven't had the company of a male for almost a month."

"Really? You ought to try a bit harder, then."

Pearson kissed her cheek, pushed her into her car and then disappeared into his vehicle He tooted and waved as he did u-turn and drove off.

Chase sat beating the steering wheel and dry sobbing.

Homebound all Pearson could think about was Chase. He'd caught his breath like a kid at the window of a confectionary shop the moment he saw her photo in the newspaper. He'd searched four continents to find a woman who looked like that -- honest!

Well, perhaps he'd been looking for a local woman configured the way he'd have her drawn, and Chase was unbelievably close to that specification.

Pearson sighed; here he was thinking about a women being like a drawing rather that with the strongly beating heart, moist lips and...oh, the frustration he felt. It had been almost a month since he'd exercised the dog as they say. Who 'they' were he wasn't sure, but 'they' hit the nail on the head with that expression.

Christ, she'd be great in bed; he was sure of that.

"Come on Pearson -- this sexy thinking is getting you nowhere -- either turn around and go back and fuck or think of tomorrow's work."

Two men were due at his cattle yards at 6:00 in the morning to help weigh and grade the in-calf or hopefully all in-calf heifers that would be loaded and carted off to auction at the Merton Sale yards the next day. There were 397 of them.

Pearson suddenly was glad he'd not turned back to rumble Chase for nookie -- he'd no idea where she lived and it was too late to call anyone, being just after midnight. He thought of her in a light blue nightdress spread out on the white sheet illuminated with moonglow and...

There was an awful crack and crunching sounds and the Jeep was bucking like a horse.

In an instant Pearson realised what had happened -- he'd run off the road while just about to imagine lifting Chase's nightgown.

Pearson inspected the Jeep -- they were tough little buggers. He could see in dent in the steel where he'd sheared off the fence post and the fresh scratches made in the dull paintwork. No damage at all, really. The Old Girl was covered in wounds like this -- her body was original late 1950s.

Driving around the paddock, Pearson checked no stock were grazing that paddock or even squashed in a corner terrified at the late-night intrusion. He returned through the hole he'd made in the fence and up a very uneven and weed-infested incline and on to the road to get his bearings.

The bend in the road was instantly recognisable -- Mick Carson's Corner. Pearson had crashed through it a few years back when three of his old work mates had come up for the weekend to sink a few bottles and shoot a few ducks. On that particular night they'd gone into the city to a strip club and was rolling home gently, knowing they were all drunk including Pearson their driver. When hitting a rousing chorus of 'White Horse Inn' they had rolled straight off the road and were cheering like idiots as they slowly crashed into the fence post and continued on, scattering a paddock full of sheep.

On that occasion, not knowing what to do, they had parked the Jeep in the gap and tied the broken fence wires to it and went to sleep in the Jeep, confident that the morning would bring the solution. It did. There had been heavy rain two weeks earlier and the next paddock was virtually a pond, full of ducks. They roared over the Mick's, gave him two dozen of beer, borrowed a wire strainer, two shotguns and two boxes of cartridges. They returned an hour later with the fence repaired, a tally of sixteen ducks and had breakfast with Mick.

Resuming his lonely drive home Pearson decided he'd phone Mick in the morning to tell him about his mishap and go down that evening, fix the fence and take two dozens of beer over to the old bugger who'd probably invite him for a beer and Mick would probably invite him to stay on for a meal because he also lacked company. But instead he turned back and drove in to ask Mick for the wire-strainer and wire cutters.

The next morning Pearson woke a 5:00 feeling groggy; the explanation for that was he was still full of grog. Last night he and Mick had made a large hole in the two dozen!

The trucks would be arriving at 7:00 to take the heifers to the yards twenty-four miles away. That thought cheered him; he loved going to cattle sales and wondered if Chase would like to accompany him one day.

At that moment a light aircraft flew very low over the roof of his ranch house. It truly was a ranch house built from plans from the American mid-west in the 1960s. He rushed out and waved at the circling aircraft. As it passed over something was tossed out and floated down in his general direction.

Pearson rushed over and retrieved a canvas bag. Inside was a big piece of white canvas and written on it with a small paintbrush was a message:

"I REALLY like you. My place dinner Saturday night? Mary has address."

Pearson grinned. This lady had class: she knew a simple phone call might leave him still unconvinced, but if she did something stylish she knew he'd be suckered. Too damn right.

He jumped into the Jeep and headed for his own stockyards, as the heifers would have to be penned off their night paddock before those scary trucks arrived.

The joy of the moment suddenly dissipated: "Who the fuck's Mary?" Soon he was shouting the question, unsettling the huge mob of heifers a little but fortunately his dogs took no notice, they were used to Pearson sounding off.

Shutting the gate after the last heifer to go through, Pearson jammed his finger and saw red. He also saw an image of Mary. So he knew a Mary after all: Mary of the Mayor's Office!"

Pearson's father Jake, son of Americans who immigrated to New Zealand in 1919, went to war in 1940 along with his 19-year-old sister Irene. Sadly Irene was killing in London during a bombing raid while Jake the airman returned home without a scratch.

His widowed father, who'd grown wealthy running a leather business, wanted Jake to look after him in old age. Jake agreed providing his father purchased a farm, which he did, and the 18,000-acre property remained in the family. The Wild West depicted in movies symbolised America for Jake, who'd never been there, not even when going and returning home from war. That's why after his father's death and he inherited the farm he built the ranch house and married Ethel, a mail-order bride from Wyoming. They had two daughters and Pearson.

Pearson's sisters both went overseas and married well, so Jake willed his entire estate to his son and died in mid-1999.

As he helped load heifers into the transporters, Pearson remembered his father fondly, a true cowboy who'd never been on the range. Pearson turned out to have some odd skills -- he was a self-taught artist, beginning to draw horses when he was five and at school art teachers developed his skills. His eye for colour was extraordinary and even as a fourteen-year-old would correct his mother's friends when they erred in describing the colour of flowers or coverings of cushions. No one figured out how that skill could be used.

Young Pearson was also musical, though unable to stick at learning to play any instrument. But he could remember tunes and was particular fond of ditties, remembered from his bedside radio when listening to advertisements.

No one really knew what Pearson was going to be when he grew up, not even Pearson though he didn't want to be a farmer -- at least not initially.

So Jake sent him down to an old mate in Wellington to see if he could find something that would interest the boy, now eighteen. Pearson amused the family with his ditties and one afternoon the fourteen-year-old daughter and Pearson where left alone in the house, with the daughter complaining she was bored.

When the parents returned home their excited looking daughter met them at the door crying, "Look what Pearson's done to me." Her father thought the worse while her mother hoped not, and they were gob-smacked. There on the entire height of a white dinning room wall was an almost perfectly executed drawing of their daughter, in a swimsuit.

"I wanted Pearson to do me nude, but he insisted I pose at least in my swimsuit," Wendy said proudly.

The neighbours were invited in to look, one of them took the father aside and next morning Pearson started work in an advertising agency as a junior concept artist. Three years later Pearson bought the agency and each year purchased another until he was one of the largest advertising agencies in the country. But not a happy boss as the pressures of running the business was wearing -- and two divorces were evidence of that.