“Got references?”
I gave him my business card and the Trob’s phone number, not his private one, but the main switchboard that routes calls to the big wigs through a long line of minions at Baxter Brothers. These folks’ jobs seem to be weeding out unworthy callers, so I figured the agent would be duly impressed. He was, but also exasperated with being switched through line after front line. I could have cut through all the crap for him, but wasn’t about to give him the Trob’s private number, and my own American cell was not activated as yet.
I took the phone from him and gave the next annoying foot soldier Wontrobski’s direct extension. My mentor clinched the deal for me by giving the property manager a name and number in Bisbee, assuring him that within ten minutes I’d be vouched for. Sure enough, a word from the local office of one of the biggest mining companies in the world, and quicker than one can say greased wheels I was no longer homeless.
Because I am a single woman, a non-smoker with no pets, and had corporate backing, they’d settled for a month-to-month rental, plus a thousand dollar deposit. The Trob even agreed to foot the grand, and thanks to the wonders of electronic age banking, the deal was done, I had a key, and was left to unpack. Hot damn.
Unloading my meager belongings into what seemed palatial digs after living on a boat took only a few minutes. I set up my computer, connected to the home’s high speed Internet service, added five hundred minutes to my old prepay cell phone, emailed the marina office with that number, and called the Trob back to thank him.
“Blue,” he said.
Sigh. “Like to elaborate on that?”
“Bisbee blue. You can send me some for my rock collection.”
“They have blue rocks here?”
“Bisbee blue turquoise. Has chocolate brown veining.”
“You’ve got it. Thanks again for the job, and the neat house. Bye.”
“Bye.”
My new home, although built in the middle of a cow pasture bordering a golf course, had everything I could ask for. Unlike most golfing community tract homes, this one sat alone, on a private, unpaved road. Peace and quiet reigned.
Five miles up the main highway, at a small shopping plaza, I opened a bank account, then headed for Safeway. Gawking like a starving cat in a seafood store, I cruised the aisles. So many choices. More than one brand of bread; what a concept. My cart soon runnethed over, crammed to the gunwales with stuff I didn’t realize I’d missed in Mexico.
Feta cheese, sourdough bread still warm from the oven, ice cream, and several other items that would not meet the approval of my diet conscious friend, Ms. Jan. However, my best friend, with her meddlesome calorie counting ways, was still in the Baja and I was here, surrounded by a king’s ransom of refined sugar, processed foods, and empty calories. Yippee.
Anxious to get home and tear into my cornucopia of goodies, I was at first puzzled, then annoyed, to find the little dirt road leading to my new abode blocked by a large black van. Although facing me, its darkly tinted windows prevented my seeing the interior, so I sat a minute or two before my patience, never on the long side, ran out. Backing up a few feet, I was cutting through the desert, around the annoying vehicle when, out of a deep arroyo fifty feet to my left, at least a dozen people, dressed in dark clothes and holding hands, bolted in front of me.
Jamming on my brakes, I barely avoided colliding with the group. They ran past me toward the van. In my rearview mirror I watched as the back doors of the vehicle sprang open and runners leaped in. The last one was pulled roughly inside, the doors slammed shut and the truck took off, hell bent for leather, toward the main highway.
I sat, taken aback by what I’d witnessed.
On one hand, I am sympathetic to people who are so desperate for work they risk all to get it. On the other, when that van’s rear doors flew open, I caught a brief glimpse of a large automatic weapon. It happened in a flash, but I was convinced there was a moment, just before the doors closed, when that barrel was aimed directly at me.
Had I just escaped becoming collateral damage in the drug and human smuggling war plaguing both sides of the border?
I dialed 9-1-1.
Welcome to Arizona, I told myself as I unpacked my groceries.
Here only one day and I’d had a close encounter with a dozen obvious illegals, and a gun-toting smuggler. When reading reports of the border struggles, I hadn’t envisioned myself as being affected, but how wrong I was.
By late afternoon, despite a chill in the air, I sat on the verandah, sipping a rum and coke and wondering where that van was by now. And how in the hell had those illegals crossed the border, right here, not in some isolated no man’s land?
A golf cart swished by, clubs clanking. The driver waved.
As the sun set behind the snow-capped Huachuca—pronounced Wah-choo-kah—Mountains to the west, another hilly range to my north glowed pink and orange.
The San Jose Mountains, in Mexico to the south, and between me and Cananea, took on deep purple tones. The only sour note was a rusted iron, butt-ugly, evidently ineffectual, fence running as far as I could see in both directions. Behind it, a huge Mexican flag flapped in the breeze.
Sounds from Mexico wafted north. A loudspeaker-equipped car announced either a carnival coming to town, or a sale on chicken, by the few words I caught. Dogs on both sides barked sporadically at each other, probably discussing how much noise they could generate by teaming up around midnight.
Soaring over the snowcapped Huachucas, the blimpy thing I’d seen from Cananea glowed white in a coloring sky. My view was a panorama of sand, yuccas, cactus, and mountains, all contrasting with the vivid green of the golf course.
I mixed another rum and coke and threw on sweats and a heavy sweater, determined to stay outside until the cold drove me in. Tomorrow night, I decided, I’d fire up the outdoor fireplace to kill the chill. I’d already learned that my new digs were at near five thousand feet and air temps dropped into the thirties almost every night in February, even sometimes diving into the teens. As I’d witnessed at lunch, though, by noon snowbirds in shorts chased that little white ball, and their dream of shooting their age. Later in the afternoon, locals in tee shirts and baseball caps and even cowboy hats showed up, getting in a few holes after work. Evidently they never heard of a dress code down here. Good.
Tired but content, I watched a sky streaked with ever more intense peach, that fleeting beauty of an Arizona sunset. The tranquility of the late afternoon was occasionally broken by the distant whack of a golf ball, followed by a cheer or curse.
Then, something out there moved.
And it wasn’t a golf cart.
Chapter 8
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 s
econd 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.”
Chapter 9
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.”
Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4)) Page 5