Homesick Blues

by Steve Brewer

  The marshal held up a badge that was clipped to a chain around his neck. Pugh realized the man had a Glock in his other hand. Down by his leg, pointed at the floor, but still.

  "U.S. Marshal Ellis McGuire. You two want to tell me what you're doing in Romeo Sandoval's apartment?"

  Chapter 66

  Joaquin Santiago turned to the police captain, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Let him make the explanations.

  The intruder, this marshal, looked to Pugh as well. The captain's face flushed even redder than usual, bright enough that Santiago briefly worried about the man's blood pressure. Be a bad time for a heart attack.

  Pugh got himself under control and said, "You know Romeo Sandoval?"

  "I know who he is," McGuire said. "I know this is his place. What are you doing here?"

  "He was involved in an incident today," Pugh said. "We want to talk to him. But he's not here."

  "I can see that. You're APD?"

  "That's right. This is a local matter. What's the federal interest here?"

  "I was on my way to the hospital, but I thought I should swing by here first."

  McGuire tilted his head toward his shoulder, and Santiago realized the wetness there was blood. So this was the marshal from the shootout, the one mentioned in the radio traffic. Santiago wondered whether he was responsible for Felipe's death, or for the others. But there was no way to ask without making the current situation worse.

  "I didn't really expect Romeo to be here after your so-called 'incident,'" the marshal said, "but I thought someone should check."

  "So we're on the same page here," Pugh said. "That's all we're doing, just making sure. We saw the door was broken and thought we'd better take a look around."

  "But there's nobody home."

  "That's right. Don't worry about it. We'll take it from here."

  McGuire hesitated, squinting at them. Why didn't he walk away? How often did a man get such an opportunity to save his own life? Surely, he could see he was in danger here.

  "Your name's Pugh?" McGuire said.

  Pugh flinched, as if he'd forgotten his name was right there on his shirt for all to see.

  "That's right. Captain Gene Pugh."

  "We talked on the phone."

  "Correct," Pugh said. "I had some manpower I was throwing your way. To help you hunt for Jackie Nolan."

  A pause. Santiago tipped his head to one side until his neck loudly cracked, releasing the tension there. The marshal frowned at him.

  "Everything's cool," Pugh said. "You should go to the hospital and have that wound seen to."

  "In a minute. Who's your friend?"

  Santiago kept his well-trained face as placid as usual, but Pugh turned scarlet.

  "Out of town visitor," the captain managed after a moment's stammering. "He's with me."

  Apparently, that was not good enough for the marshal. He said to Santiago, "You got some ID?"

  Santiago nodded and reached inside his jacket. McGuire's Glock still pointed at the floor, so Santiago had an advantage when his hand came out of the pocket with his palm-sized Ruger. He fired without aiming, hitting the marshal in the gut. The little pistol's report was no louder than a handclap.

  McGuire doubled over with the impact, his eyes wide, but his gun hand came up, seemingly on its own, and the black Glock coughed fire at them.

  Pugh hit the floor as bullets thudded into the walls. He screamed at Santiago, "No! Don't!"

  But Santiago kept firing.

  The marshal took a bullet to the chest and one to his uninjured shoulder. That one spun him halfway round as the Glock blasted holes in the plaster wall. The air of the small living room clouded with gunsmoke and white dust, making Santiago narrow his eyes as he aimed for the lawman's head.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Blood spurted out of the fresh hole in McGuire's face. He tumbled backward out the front door, sprawling onto the sidewalk, writhing for only a few seconds before going still.

  After the noise of the gunshots, the silence seemed abrupt and deafening.

  "Jesus Christ," Pugh shouted from the floor. "What have you done? That man was a federal officer!"

  Santiago scowled down at him. He realized his teeth were clenched and his shoulders were knotted, the compact gun gripped tight in his fist. It was pointed at the police captain. Santiago took a deep breath and forced himself to relax all over.

  No need to kill Pugh. Not yet anyway.

  Yes, he was a witness. Yes, he was a weak man who couldn't be trusted. But Santiago might still have uses for him.

  He pocketed his gun. "Perhaps we should be on our way."

  Chapter 67

  Jackie Nolan gradually relaxed. She and Romeo ate roast beef sandwiches and tortilla chips, washed down with lemonade Nancy Ames had stored in her fridge. Romeo checked the perimeter again, and all was quiet. They sat together on the sofa in the living room, their shoeless feet propped up on the coffee table, their guns within reach on the end tables.

  Finally, they had a moment to themselves.

  Three o'clock in the afternoon, but it was dim in the living room with all the drapes drawn, so it seemed later. Jackie felt she could drop off to sleep if she let herself sit still for very long. Romeo seemed pooped, too, his eyelids at half-staff.

  "Hey," she said.

  "Yeah?"

  "You were pretty great today. At The Coffee Shop and afterward. You're a brave man."

  "I don't know how brave it was," he said. "We pretty much ambushed those guys."

  "What do you want? A showdown in the street? 'High Noon?'"

  "No, but—"

  "Some guys show up with guns and evil intent," she said, "then they're fair game. That's the way I see it."

  "'Evil intent,' huh? Is that what they had? Does that make us the good guys? Because our intentions are good?"

  "You think they wouldn't have shot us, if we'd given them the chance? What do you think they were there for, rolling up with guns drawn?"

  "Still," he said. "The lines have gotten blurry. When I was a marshal, we had a set of rules to follow. Out here in the wider world, anything goes. How can we be sure we're doing the right thing?"

  "Survival is always the right thing," she said. "Everything else is hindsight. Once you survive, you can sit around and ponder your navel and wonder if you're going to hell."

  They sat in silence for a minute. She noted that they were slumping ever lower on sofa. Fatigue. And maybe something else. A desire to be horizontal?

  "Nobody knows we're here," she said. "This may be the first moment that we're not looking over our shoulders."

  "Yeah. So now what?"

  She smiled at him. "So kiss me, you fool."

  He laughed, then turned toward her. They embraced awkwardly, half-lying on the lumpy sofa, but they found a fit and he kissed her long and deep.

  "Oh, my," she said when they came up for air.

  He smiled. "I've been practicing."

  They kissed again, and it was even better the second time. He ran his hands up and down her back, feeling for knotted muscles and giving them little massages with his fingertips.

  "I'll give you two hours to stop that."

  "I charge by the kiss."

  "Perfect."

  How could the third kiss be even better? But it was. Jackie felt heat surging through her limbs, and an old familiar tingle low in her belly. He moved to her neck, kissing his way gently, slowly, along her collarbone. Jackie thought she might lose her mind.

  "Hey, Romeo," she said, her voice husky with desire. "There's a bed in the next room."

  "Yes, there is," he said into her neck. His breath was hot against her skin.

  "Let's go there."

  He clambered to his feet, favoring his gimpy knee, then extended a hand to her. He pulled her to her feet in one swift motion, his arms suddenly around her, their noses nearly touching.

  "I've been thinking about this moment for two years," he said.

  "Don't think. Just do."


  "Yes, ma'am."

  They hurried to the bedroom and stripped off their clothes. By the time they were on opposite sides of Nancy Ames' narrow bed, they were both naked. His body was exactly as she'd pictured it, muscular and tawny and nearly hairless. The surgical scars around his knee looked like the stitching on a baseball, but otherwise he was absolutely perfect.

  He was looking at her, too, which made her giggle with nervousness. She jumped into the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. He slid in beside her, scooting across the sheets until their skin met. He felt hot against her.

  More kissing, so deep and breathless that it left her trembling with desire.

  "It's been a long time," she whispered into his ear.

  "For me, too."

  He rolled on top of her, propped on his elbows, looking into her eyes. "We could be gentle."

  He slid inside her, filling her up, a perfect fit.

  "Oh, God," she said.

  "You okay? Gentle enough?"

  "Forget gentle." She wrapped her legs around his hips. "Give it to me hard."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Chapter 68

  Grant Sheridan was in a bad mood. Not only was he still down a hundred thousand dollars, but he'd just gotten off the phone with Omar West after placing a rather sizeable bet on Cleveland in Sunday's National Football League game. The bookie had laughed at him, coming back for a bet so soon after he'd said he was swearing off. But Grant had a good feeling about the lowly Browns this week. He couldn't seem to resist.

  "Hey," Grant had said when Omar West was done laughing, "did you put out the word about that woman I'm looking for?"

  "I mentioned it to a couple of guys," Omar said. "But I ain't heard nothing back from 'em so far. Sounds like this gal of yours has hidden herself real good."

  "I'll find her," Grant said tightly.

  "If I were you, I wouldn't bet on it."

  More derisive laughter, which served to remind Grant that he was dealing with uncouth redneck scum, placing these bets, giving in to his own weakness. That point was driven home as he was getting off the phone. Before he could punch the button to disconnect, he heard Omar yelling for his snaggle-toothed girlfriend.

  "Ronnette, get in here! This dick ain't gonna suck itself!"

  Two seconds of her cackling laughter followed before the phone clicked to dial tone.

  Grant felt like he needed a shower.

  Seconds later, in walks Joe Dog, Mr. Piss-Pants Mongrel himself, wearing fresh jeans and his stupid mirrored sunglasses indoors. Further proof that Grant should be associating with a better class of people.

  Joe Dog sat in one of the guest chairs without being invited, crossing one leg over the other so he could reach the pointed toe of his black cowboy boot and brush away a speck of dust. The bruises on his face had deepened to a dark purple, hairline to jawline, and the sunglasses didn't do much to hide them.

  It annoyed Grant when Joe Dog insisted on playing the strong, silent type. He couldn't just come into the office and say what was on his mind. He'd sit and wait until he was asked direct questions, as if he could only parcel out the news a little at a time.

  Grant sighed.

  "You have something for me?"

  "You heard about the shootout?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "That woman in the red truck who came to see you? Gwen Rogers? She and her boyfriend got into a big gunfight at this coffee shop over by UNM."

  "Jesus, when was this?"

  "Lunchtime. I heard about it and stopped by there. Lot of cops."

  "You just walked up to the crime scene?"

  "Sure. A bystander, you know? Listening to people gossip and speculate. You can hear a lot of stuff that way."

  "Like what?"

  "Like three Mexicans were shot dead. A fed was wounded. And that red truck disappeared from the scene."

  "Goddamn, what is going on with her?"

  "I don't know, boss. Something more than Nancy Ames and your missing money, that's for sure."

  Grant thought about it for a few seconds. "You think they were shooting each other over my money?"

  Joe Dog shrugged. "I didn't hear anybody mention any money."

  "I don't suppose you're any closer to finding that hundred grand?"

  "I'm working on it."

  "When you're not busy being tied up."

  Joe Dog's lips pressed together a moment, then he changed the subject.

  "I went over to that rental car place. I couldn't get them to tell me what kind of car she got with Nancy's card."

  "Did you offer a bribe?"

  "Yeah, but the counter girl seemed sort of, I don't know, stupid? Something was wrong with her? It's like, if I wasn't there to rent a car, she didn't know how to talk to me."

  "You wave money in front of her?"

  "I did. But she didn't seem to understand. She started asking to see my badge and shit like that, and she was getting loud, so I left."

  Grant frowned at him, a well-practiced frown that usually sent his employees skittering away. Joe Dog just sat there like the inert lump he was.

  "You're really racking up one failure after another, aren't you? Tell me again why I pay you?"

  Joe Dog sat up straighter, his chin jutting, and he whipped off the sunglasses. His eyes were black as onyx and shiny with heat.

  "You pay me to do the dirty work. You don't want to get your own hands dirty, so you pay me."

  "I pay you," Grant said calmly, "for your street smarts. Some problems need to be resolved at the street level. You've proven to be valuable in that way. But as a manhunter, you leave something to be desired."

  Joe Dog put his sunglasses back in place. Grant could see himself reflected in the lenses, two matching Grants with imperious, scolding faces. He forced himself to soften his expression and his voice.

  "I want that hundred grand back. If it means finding these people who go around getting into shootouts, then find them. Do whatever you've got to do, but get me that money."

  "Yes, boss."

  "And if it turns out that Nancy's friends have been yanking us around all this time, make them pay."

  "Oh, I will."

  Grant checked his silver wristwatch. "I'll call my friend at the bank one more time before closing. If I get anything new, I'll call you. What are you going to do?"

  "I thought I'd drive past Nancy's house. I don't think they'd be crazy enough to hole up there again, but it's worth checking. It's on my way home anyway."

  "Maybe you'll get lucky." Grant smiled. "This time, don't let them get the jump on you."

  Joe Dog's face closed up. He stood, gave Grant a single nod, then marched out of the office like a man with something to prove.

  Chapter 69

  As soon as Romeo was softly snoring beside her, Jackie slipped out of the narrow bed. She'd had a thought, a spark of memory, while they were lying in each other's arms, and she had to check it out. No rest for her until she knew.

  She plucked her clothes off the floor and carried them into the hall. She closed the bedroom door and paused a second, listening, making sure the house was still silent. Satisfied that they were safe for the moment, she padded down the hall to the bathroom, where she cleaned up and quickly got dressed. Her hair was mashed flat on one side, and she brushed at it with her fingers, but only for a moment. She was in a hurry to get to the living room.

  Their guns still sat on the end tables by the sofa. The sight of them made Jackie smile. They'd been in such a hurry to get to the bedroom, they'd forgotten – for a moment – about the dangers they faced.

  Jackie still felt rubber-legged from the lovemaking, but she made the extra steps over to the end table to get the snub-nose revolver. She stuck it in the back of her belt. She was beginning to get accustomed to having a gun there. How weird was that?

  The thought that had sprung her up out of her afterglow was Nancy's mail. When Jackie set it on the table by the door, there had definitely been a flimsy yellow slip of paper in the mi
x, the kind from the U.S. Postal Service, some sort of notice that didn't come in an envelope.

  Had Nancy mailed the missing money somewhere?

  Jackie quickly went through the stack of mail – gas bill, light bill, ad, ad, ad – until she found the yellow slip. Too dim in here to read the fine print with all the curtains closed, so she risked turning on a lamp. She held the yellow paper under the glow and gave it the once-over.

  Nancy Ames, it seems, rented a P.O. box at a post office branch on Prospect Avenue. The yellow slip was to alert her that she'd received a package too big to fit into the box, and the package was being held for her at the post office.

  Jackie checked the postmark on the slip. It had been mailed from the post office the day before, one day after Nancy's death. Fast service. Granted, the post office branch was only two or three miles from here, but still.

  Could that package possibly be the money? Too big for her post office box. How large would a hundred thousand dollars be?

  She checked a daisy-shaped clock on the wall. The post office should still be open, at least for twenty more minutes. She could zip over there, use Nancy's ID and pick up this package.

  Jackie hesitated. Should she wake Romeo? Take him with her? She decided to let him sleep. She'd only be gone a few minutes.

  Maybe when she returned, she'd have a big surprise for him.

  Chapter 70

  Joaquin Santiago was growing weary of the police captain's complaining. Ever since Santiago shot the marshal, Pugh had been crying over the heat to come. The carping grew ever more bitter as they reached the executive aviation facility near the Albuquerque International Sunport.

  "Yeah, this is just great," Pugh concluded. "You get on your fancy airplane and fly off to Mexico, and leave me to clean up the mess. The feds will bring manpower and fervor to solving that marshal's homicide. How long do you think it'll take them to connect me to that killing?"

  "They won't," Santiago said. "They'll think Jackie Nolan killed the marshal. She's already on the run. They'll blame her."