Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (5 page)

My legendary peripheral vision, a gift when practicing my legendary snoopiness, had picked up a motion in the fast-fading light, and after my smuggler encounter earlier that afternoon, I was instantly on the alert, ready to make a dash into the house.

Snapping my head left, it took a moment or two to differentiate what had moved from the brown brush and red dirt where the verdant fairway ended. A dog?

Sitting up straighter, my brown eyes locked onto glowing blue ones. My heart did a little trip as my mouth cottoned up. I had chanced upon critters like this one before, in Mexico, but for the most part they were skinny, scraggly, skittish, and had yellow eyes. This coyote, easily the size of a medium German shepherd, was sleek and not at all cowed by my presence. Matter of fact, he sat very still, staring me down with those weird blue eyes.

Logically, I reasoned, he was a full six feet away, and we were separated by a three-foot high wall and a two-foot slope. Unless he could fly, there was nothing to fear, but, unnerved, I inched backward for safety behind the double French doors. Reaching behind me, opening a door, I never took my eyes from the creature. Just as I slipped into the living room—and I swear this on a stack of Texas Monthlies—he stood and wagged his tail.

I bolted the door and headed for the phone.

My friend Craig, Craigosaurus by nickname, answered on the second ring. “Noah’s Bark.”

“Yo Craig, Hetta here.”

“Hetta!” he roared. I pulled the phone from my ear about three inches. “Where are you? We miss you.”

I wondered who the
we
was. Dr. Craig Washington, a gentle giant of a veterinarian, hauls around a hundred extra pounds and wears his heart on his sleeve. Black and shy, he closely resembles his dog, a redbone hound named Coondoggie. Doc Washington is one of my best friends and confidants, and I never call him Craigosaurus to his face, even though others do. I know about weight jokes.

Craig is the only person I know who is worse at keeping a man than I am. His insecurities over his weight, and a natural good nature, make him a target for pretty boys looking for a free ride, so to speak. I’ve long hoped he’ll find a nice, fat, rich, ugly, boyfriend. Heck, I wouldn’t mind one myself.

He’d made a small fortune in canine plastic surgery, specializing in the implantation of fake balls on neutered dogs to give ‘em that macho look. Big in the gay community for some reason. His latest venture is a Global Positioning System locator implant for tracking stolen or lost pets.

He’d already co-patented the chips and, once final testing is approved, stands to make a large fortune to go with his other small fortune. As for his vet business, he operates a fleet of mobile veterinary clinics credited with saving many an animal life by bringing the operating room to the almost-roadkilled.

“I’m in Arizona,” I said, peering out the window at the critter, who wagged his tail again. “We can catch up in a minute, but first tell me what you know about coyotes.”

“
Canis latrans
. Prairie wolf. Indians called them song dogs. Native to all of the north American continent, as I remember it. Species—”

“I don’t want a biology lesson. Are they dangerous?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“In packs, they’ve been known to take down a cow. Attacks on people are rare, but they do happen. Out here in California they prey on domestic pets where we’ve built in their natural habitat, which is everywhere. Heard one story of them grabbing a baby right out of a backyard. Why?”

“One of them, the size of Coondoggie, is sitting outside my porch, staring at me with these funny blue eyes.”

“That’s not good. Can he get to you?”

“No.”

“Wait a minute, did you say blue eyes?”

“Yep.”

“Coyotes don’t have blue eyes. Throw something at him. If he doesn’t run, you might have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Rabies.”

“He’s not foaming at the mouth or anything, he’s just sitting there grinning and wagging his tail.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Really, Craig, it
is
after five. However, I am not drunk, or blind. This guy actually looks friendly. Well, except for those weird eyes.”

“Does that wagging tail have a bush at the end?”

“Yep.”

“Then it’s a coyote, or more likely a coydog. Coyote got mixed up with a dog. Can you see his paws?”

“I ain’t gonna get that close, why?”

“Real coyotes have no white on their toes. That’s the way furriers know for sure it’s a genuine pelt.”

Furriers? In all my travels I had never, ever, met anyone wearing a coyote skin. Mink, chinchilla, fox, yes. Coyote?

“You are kidding me about their fur, right?”

“Nope. Actually, they make really nice warm coats, but it just ain’t PC anymore.” There was a momentary silence, then he repeated, “Throw something at him.”

“Like what? A rock?”

“Anything. See how he reacts.”

I looked around the kitchen for ammo, but all I found was a glass decanter filled with cookies. I wasn’t about to start launching the family crystal, so I grabbed a handful of the cookies.

Opening a French door enough to stick my arm out, I lobbed a cookie. The coyote snagged it in mid-air like a Frisbee, finished it off in two bites, sat down, and waited for seconds. Laughing, I tossed another to him and went back to the phone. Craig’s voice crackled from the receiver. “Hetta? Hetta? Where are you?”

“I’m back. And guess what?” my eyes lit on the glass container’s label: Blue. “Not only did the coyote, whose name seems to be Blue, catch the treats I threw at him, he is evidently a regular.” I told him about the jar and what I now suspected were actually dog biscuits.

“As a veterinarian, I have to advise you that feeding the wildlife is a really bad idea. Where in Arizona are you?”

“It depends on who you talk to.”

“What does that mean? Don’t you know where you are?”

“I thought I was in Naco, but I’m actually in Bisbee. I’m on a golf course that is half in Naco and half in Bisbee, so someone said, and I’m on the Bisbee end.”

“But you are close to Naco?”

“Yes. There’s a Naco, Arizona, and a Naco, Sonora.”

“I know. Want company? I’d like to check on Pancho Villa.”

“Er, didn’t he like bump into several speeding bullets a while back?”

“I meant, do research on the whole Pancho Villa thing. You see, my great grandfather, Jedediah Washington, was eighteen when he was wounded in the Battle of Naco in 1914. My parents have a photo taken there when he was a buffalo soldier. Story goes the Villa forces clashed with federal troops led by General Benjamin Hill on the Sonora side, and our guys were in trenches, making sure the battle didn’t spill over into the States.”

“Neat. I love family history. I haven’t been there yet, but I saw on the Internet that there’s a museum at Fort Huachuca in Sierra Vista, thirty or so miles from me, dedicated to the buffalo soldiers. But if your grandpa wasn’t fighting, how was he wounded?”

“Once in awhile, the two Mexican armies got tired of fighting each other and lobbed a shell at our guys. And during the battle, people came from all over the county, brought picnic lunches and watched the action like some play. He was trying to move them away from harm when a shell exploded nearby and he got nailed by shrapnel. My mother remembers him showing her the scars.”

I am a big history buff, and this kind of thing is something I can sink my teeth into. I had studied, as well I could, all nine generations of my Texas heritage, along with the political events that made them who they were, so this was right up my alley. “You want me to check this out for you?”

“Maybe. You know, I’ve also heard of Bisbee. Matter of fact, several of my friends have moved there recently.”

“Artsy types, I presume?”

“Yes, and Bisbee’s supposed to be the new Lesbian and gay hot spot. What are you doing there? You’re straight.”

I told him about my job.

“You found a place to stay? If not, I can make a couple of calls.”

“Oh, I have a house already. After living on the boat for so long, I feel like I’m in the Taj Majal.”

“You live in a mausoleum?”

“Smart assed banter, my man. Craig, you are not going to believe this, but that four legged creature ain’t the only coyote I ran into today.” I told him about the van.

“You’ve been in Arizona one day and you’re already profiling?” he teased.

“Oh, golly gee, I must have jumped to conclusions,” I drawled. “They’re probably just a bunch of innocent legal citizens who hide in draws, and run, holding hands, to jump into dark vans manned by gun-toting goons. Surely some sort of local ritual I misread. Silly me, what was I thinking?”

He laughed. “According to some here in Oakland, your thinking makes you a racist. What did Jenks say?”

“Well, uh, he’s not exactly here.”

“Uh-oh. I think I need to get out of California weirdness for awhile, so maybe I’ll trade it in for some Arizona weirdness. Want company?”

“Oh, yes,” I practically yelled.

“Let’s see, one day to Laughlin…this Friday okay?”

“You can up and leave, just like that? What about your patients?”

“Actually, I’ve lightened my load. I have a new partner. Business, that is. As usual, my love life is in the dumper.”

“Misery loves company, so come on down.  Sorry though, Coondoggie ain’t on the invite list. My lease says no pets. I guess Blue doesn’t count.”

“No problem. Coondoggie hates traveling anyway.”

“If I overnight a key to Jenks’s apartment in Oakland, can you pick up a few things for me? I’ll send a list of stuff I’d like to have, and where to find them.”

“I’ll do ‘er, and be there by the end of the week. Weekend at the latest. Stay away from that Blue feller until we can figure out exactly what he is. No petting, no matter how friendly he seems, or how much you drink. And Hetta, be careful. It sounds like you’re in bad guy territory.”

I hung up after my talk with Craig, and tossed Blue another cookie before locking up for the evening. Setting the security system, I made a mental note not to open any doors or windows during the night lest I scare the crap out of myself with a raucous alarm.

Flipping on the TV I learned that little had changed in the five months I’d been without television. Threats of gang killings, dope deals, political unrest, weirded-out celebs, and that was just in Tucson. No mention of a dark van full of illegals being stopped in Cochise County. I wondered if that kind of news was even newsworthy here.

A touch on a nifty remote,
et voila
, flames sprang to life in the fireplace. Channel surfing, I landed on a shark feeding frenzy on Animal Planet. Not to be outdone by a bunch of toothy critters, I harpooned an entire round of creamy French Brie, backed up with a loaf of San Francisco sourdough bread, and a bottle of cold, crisp, Pinot Grigio. Life doesn’t get much better for a dry-docked damsel.

Dinner done, I snuggled down into the big couch and called Jenks in Kuwait City.

Already at work, he answered on the second ring. “Jenkins.”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi, honey, it’s good to hear your voice this morning.”

“Evening here. I’m sitting on a big old cushy couch, in front of a blazing fire, getting ready to watch a movie on my forty-two inch high def.”

“I take it you are not on the boat, unless you’ve upgraded.”

“Nope, I’m in Arizona.”

“Now, there’s some good news for Mexico,” he teased, then added, “and for me. I’ve heard some disturbing news about the escalating violence south of the border.”

And north of the border, I thought, but I said, “You know how the press is. They exaggerate.”

“So you say. Does this move mean you’ll stay in Arizona until I get back?”

“Uh, not exactly.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

Evidently the Trob hadn’t shared my latest with him, so I told Jenks about my job, and that I would be commuting into Mexico on a daily basis. He didn’t like the sound of the commute part and said so.

“Jenks, it’s only thirty-five miles to the mine, and the road is good.” I didn’t mention that it is also pretty much deserted. However, since I was on my own clock, I hoped to find a bus that ran in the mornings, drive ahead of it all the way to Cananea so it covered my backside, and do the reverse each afternoon.  When I told him of my plan, he seemed to relax. He also liked it that Craig was coming to stay with me.

“You rented a house right on the border?”

“Practically. In Bisbee, and it is a beauty.”

“Bisbee is a beauty?”

“Depends on where you look, according to the locals. There’s historic Bisbee, where Jan and I stayed last December. It’s chock full of what I call New Age cliff dwellers, who, according to Doctor Craig, consist of a big gay population. Old mining town turned artsy. I love it, you would hate it.

“Then there is Warren, where old miners retired, and worker types find affordable housing. Lots of cottage style homes in need of beautification, only a few really brought into this century, but pretty cool in a blue collar kind of way. The house I’ve rented is new, and according to my mailing address, is in Bisbee, so I call it cowboy Bisbee. Whatever, it’s built in a cow pasture, but smack dab on an eighteen-hole golf course. Go figure.”

“You’re on a golf course?” He sounded intrigued, so I tossed a lure.

Picking up a brochure I read the course’s bragging points. “They have a par six, which means nothing to me, but it’s called the Rattler, and is the longest golf hole in the Southwest.”

“I definitely gotta play that one.”

“How about, say, next week?”

“Sorry, I would love to, but no can do. Craig’ll keep you company.”

“Not like you do,” I purred, trying to sound sexy instead of downright desperate.

“I hope to hell not. Honey, I hate to do this, but I’ve got to get going. Already late for a meeting. I’m really glad you’re living in Arizona and found a nice house. I know how rentals can be. I’ll call you tomor— You know what? I have this old friend, Ted Burns, who lives south of you somewhere, in Mexico. Guy I worked with in Desert Storm. He married a Mexican and moved down there to farm. I’ll email him, find out exactly where they are. Maybe you can visit them.”

“A farm? What do they grow, cactus?”

“Her family has been farming that land for several generations, so they must have some kind of cash crop. He’s retired Navy, so I guess they can live pretty good south of the border. Might be a fun trip for you and Craig if they’re nearby.”

“You know me, have car, will travel.”

He chuckled. “Boy, are you easy.”

“Come home, and I’ll show you how incredibly easy I can be.”

“Promises, promises. Sorry Hetta, you know I have to stay here until we wrap this thing up, and this time I don’t want anything to interfere.”

I almost sniped,
Anything, meaning me
? but bit that back.  Instead I tried inveiglement. “Oh, did I mention that this house is on the sixteenth green, and a golf cart comes with the rental?”

“Why didn’t you say so? Screw the project, I’ll be right there.”

“Talk about easy.”

“Golf course or no, I wish I was there with you, right this moment, but it can’t be. Only a couple of months longer. Sorry.”

I sighed. “Me, too.”

We said our goodbyes and I checked out my email before crashing for the night.

According to my inbox, I’d won the lottery in three countries, someone from Liberia wanted to deposit several million dollars into my bank account, and my penis is too small. I deleted everything but the one from the marina office in San Carlos.

I read it once, sucked air, read it again. A man came looking for me, they said, but when the office people wouldn’t give him my email address or phone number, he left a message: Mind your own business and stay away! Lamont.

“Lamont?” I yelled into the empty house. “That’s Nacho!”

A rush of fear, mixed with excitement and, okay, call me fickle, a slight shiver of lust, sent me scrambling for wine. I hadn’t seen Nacho since Christmas eve on that Baja beach, when he shot at me. I’m a sentimentalist, I guess.

I returned with a large glass of red, and reread the message. Mind my own business? That’ll be the day, but what does he mean. Stay away? From where? The boat, or him? Both? He’d used his a.k.a.: Lamont, as in, Lamont Cranston, The Shadow.

Answering the email, I instructed the marina office personnel not to, under any circumstances, tell anyone where I was, hoping I wasn’t too late. Okay, that felt better, but who had I told about the job in Cananea? Only half the regulars at Barracuda Bob’s, and the guys on the dock. Hell, why hadn’t I just taken out an ad during the Super Bowl?

Thinking about it some more, though, I realized not any of them knew I was living in Arizona. Not even the harbormaster knew. All they had was my email address and my prepaid cell number. Relieved, I double-checked the door locks, and found a romantic  comedy on STARZ. Of course, I promptly fell asleep on the couch, finally dragged myself to bed after midnight, where I tossed and turned in restless frustration.

Flashbacks of what I call Fun With Nacho and the Thugs came flooding back. I first saw him in a panga, a small fishing skiff, in the company of Paco, who turned out to be a member of one of the most dangerous gangs in the world, Mara Salvatrucha 13, commonly known as MS-13. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Paco was not only a  methhead, but a deranged psychopath who preyed on just about anyone who got in his way.

What I didn’t know, until much later, was that Nacho probably saved Jenks and me that day, when he prevented Paco from killing us on the spot, for a can of gas.

Thanks to Nacho, Paco was no more. I figured Nacho, who vanished after the shootout on the beach, was long gone from my life, but evidently not. What on earth, though, did his message to stay away
mean
? From what? Whom? Where? Crap.

I was, at long last, soundly sleeping when my alarm clock chirped "The Yellow Rose of Texas".

Doble
crap.