"These guys get nasty," the Chamber maiden whispered, and I took her word for it, the crowd continuing to howl.

"But now I'm gonna clear out and make room for some real talent," the emcee promised, though I had serious doubts as to his ability to deliver. "Tonight, the Bar-J Ranch is home again to one of the West's longest-running lit'rary tray-ditions. And tonight I have the personal privilege of introducing four decorated cowboy poets, who will regale you with their visions of home on the range, as it were: all the way from Elko, Nevada, we have Curly Spencer. From Rock Springs comes Miss Sandra Lytle, who has just published her fifth collection of verse which we'll have for sale at the break for the bargain price of $4.95," he said proudly. "Carl Smolden is with us from Laramie, where he teaches English at the U of W to feed his family. Keep your day job, that's what they say in this racket. And finally . . .finally!" he said, raising his voice above a rising volley of boos, "from somewhere on the outskirts of Jackson - may you never cross his path – the ever-controversial Jean-Louis Lebris de 'Black Jack' Laroue. Laroue."

The booing drowned out all semblance of understanding on my part; I could barely hear the Chamber hostess, as she tried to explain such a shocking reaction. "It's a love/hate thing," she yelled into my ear. "He refuses to rhyme his verse. It's like a big `fuck-you' to the rest of these yokels. Jack Laroue's famous," she insisted. "He was a Rhodes scholar out of Yale in the late sixties. He's been appointed to task forces in the Arts under Reagan and Bush. But he's crazy."

I nodded distractedly. It was hard to get worked up over a man whose legend was built on a refusal to employ iambic pentameter in his bullshit prairie limericks. But she wouldn't let it rest.

She grabbed my forearm and looked into my eyes. "My name's Marlene, but everyone calls me Marnie. I wouldn't lie to you. He's a psychopath."

Suddenly, the booing revved louder and a towering, swarthy man in a lustrous, full-length black mink coat walked slowly to the microphone. His eyes were concealed behind curved green Ray-Bans, and it appeared that he was smiling in the manner of a mollified sadist.

"He'll leave as soon as he finishes reading. The others say he makes them nervous," Marnie said. "I think he's interested in talking to you."

"Whu? Why?" I said derisively, staring at this figure who would have looked entirely comfortable on the saddle of a shovel-nosed Harley and with a four-color Hell's Angels tattoo splayed across his back. "What on God's frozen earth would we have to say to each other? And why me?"

Marnie pulled a denim jacket over her bare shoulders. "Let's just say he and I used to know each other," she smiled, sadly. "But he's deteriorated. You'll see. He wants someone to tell his story. He feels abandoned."

I shrugged. Searching the angles, I supposed I could see some merit in the interview - a uniquely famous poet's view of a pair of Republican administrations castigated for their decade-long neglect of the arts. Salt Lake City might even want such a thing. The idea of an objective to this free-floating trip became strangely calming. "Sure," I whispered finally. "What the hell, I'll talk with him."

(to be continued . . .)

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