Tortoise Soup by Jessica Speart

friend. Besides, he’d be company. And given my lousy sense of direction, maybe he’d even be smart enough to point me the right way.
    I christened my new companion Pilot.
    I soon discovered that Pilot and I had something in common: we both like Bonnie Raitt. I blasted the radio, singing at the top of my lungs, and Pilot joined in, wailing the chorus. I felt good enough this morning to take a chance on stopping by the Gold Bonanza Cafe.
    “What the hell is that massive mutt doing in here?” Lureen immediately complained.
    This morning she was dressed to kill in lime-green spandex pedal pushers, the calves of her legs resembling desiccated twigs. A bright-red midriff top showcased a bare stomach with as many wrinkles as a retread tire. But my eyes were drawn to the glare coming off her gold sandals, which were decorated with an array of dime-store gems.
    “Meet my new partner, Lureen.”
    Lureen scrutinized Pilot through her rhinestone glasses. “Well, if you think he’s going to help get you a table, the aliens must have gone and sucked out your brain, girl.”
    Looking at Lureen, I seriously wondered if she’d ever had a close encounter of the third kind. I was about to head over for takeout when I froze in my tracks. Pilot had begun to lick the back of Lureen’s withered hand, his body leaning firmly against her. I waited for the storm to erupt, only to be surprised yet again. Lureen looked straight ahead, never blinking an eye, as her fingers slowly crept up along Pilot’s mane and began to stroke his fur. After a moment she cleared her throat.
    “If you sit over there at the counter, I might have some scraps for your dog,” she said gruffly.
    I looked at the woman, too stunned to speak.
    “Oh, all right,” she grudgingly sighed. “I suppose we can dig something up for you, too.”
    Turning on her heels, Lureen headed into the kitchen.
    I gazed at Pilot in amazement. He’d made more inroads in five minutes than I’d been able to make in three months.
    I moved toward the bar with Pilot closely in tow, only to be pushed aside by a tour group of senior citizens sporting air-tight perms and polyester knits. Elbowing me with their canes, they took over the bar stools, ordering rounds of popcorn and beer to tide them over before reboarding the bus for Vegas. I grabbed the last seat as Lureen presented Pilot with an overflowing bowl of scraps that looked better than what I usually ate.
    She placed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me as well, though her eyes remained focused on Pilot. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll give him some good, meaty bones,” she commanded.
    I was dwelling on the joys of having a pet when I heard a voice behind me.
    “Looks like you finally caught yourself a man, Porter.”
    I swiveled around to find Clayton Hayes poking his gums with a toothpick.
    “Why, by golly, I was wrong. That’s a dog you got there. But then, I guess that’s better than nothing, ain’t that right, Porter?” Clayton bantered.
    I looked Hayes up and down. “In your case, Clayton, I’d stick with a dog any day.” I glanced behind him, surprised to see Clayton alone. “Where’s Sundance?” I asked, referring to his sidekick, Rolly Luntz.
    “Why, he’s out gathering tortoises for our barbecue. Still coming, ain’t ya?” Clayton sucked on his toothpick, sliding it in and out between his lips.
    I silently placed a bet on whether or not he’d swallow it and choke. I doubted if any of the crowd at the bar would be able to move fast enough to apply the Heimlich maneuver—which would leave Clayton at my mercy. Maybe we’d negotiate about the fate of tortoises then.
    “Or maybe you’re too scared to come.” Clayton grinned. “Maybe you heard who one of our speakers is gonna be.”
    “Who’s that?” I inquired, digging into my food.
    “None other than Shoot-’em-up Harley Rehrer,” Clayton crowed.
    Harley had recently gained added status by refusing to pay the government for grazing