Reluctant Smuggler

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  “Done.”

  “Then collect the squad’s expense slips for the month and enter them in the computer.”

  Bergstrom’s shoulders drooped. “Right.” He hustled away.

  Crane shook his head. “First-station newbies.” He jerked a nod at Tony. “The kid reminds me of you.”

  “You’d better have a good reason for that remark.”

  “Hands in the pockets when he’s jittery.”

  Tony snorted. “Were all about stir-crazy around here tonight Too many of us crammed into limited floor space and nowhere to go but in each others hair.”

  “Think positive. Close quarters is giving you a chance to get the cranky boss thing down pat. I could give you a few pointers on your scowl, though. A little more with the teeth. Eyes narrower.”

  “Let’s get back to business. Are you here to tell me about the phones, or is something else bugging you?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but Max practically tossed me out into the snow.”

  “I know you too well to doubt that statement. I only have two questions: Why didn’t she do it sooner, and why didn’t you go home?”

  Crane groaned and rubbed his face with a meaty hand. “She’s got some bee under her bonnet that Desi’s in trouble.”

  Tony’s gut clenched. “How does she know?”

  “A filling. That’s it. And she won’t lay off about it, so here I am.”

  Emotions warred in Tony’s chest. Amusement at Stevo’s walleyed stare. Frustration at lack of specifics. Alarm for Desi. How seriously should he take Max’s feeling?

  Very. The knowledge came full-blown and certain. “Only one thing to do in a case like this. Wer’e going to pray.”

  Crane shifted like he was perched on an egg. “I was afraid you’d say that. Better leave me out of the deal. The Big Guy won’t have time for me.” He eased to his feet.

  “Sit down and follow along.”

  The ex-agent subsided into his seat, thick fingers fidgeting with his jacket zipper.

  “Relax, Stevo. No lightning bolts going to zap you from above.”

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  Tony closed his eyes and shoved fear into a dark corner of his mind. “Lord, there’s no situation that takes You by surprise—whether it’s phones that don’t work or loved ones alone in a tight spot. I’m not the best at trusting You with Desiree, and You keep putting me in positions where I have to do it. I ask You to defend her with Your strong arm. Give her wisdom to temper that reckless courage. And thank You that You’ve given Your children authority in Your Son’s name. In the name of Jesus, I bind the plans of the enemy against Desiree and command those operations to cease.”

  Tony fell silent and waited for assurance to come over him. He got a blank as murky as the blizzard. He could practically hear the hiss of white noise. What was going on?

  “You figure that helped?” Cranes whisper was worthy of a cathedral.

  Tony opened his eyes. “You figure it didn’t?” Wish I knew.

  “Sounded…good. Real nice. Guess I can go now.” He stood.

  “What did you drive? Your little nut-bucket wouldn’t cut through this weather, and I thought you had an accident in Max’s Yukon.”

  “Fender bender. At least as far as that monster SUV was concerned. The joker who slid into our rear end should never have been out in this weather in that tin can. Nobody hurt, though.” He nodded at Tony and tromped out.

  Tony rose and stretched, but a weight stuck to his shoulders. Good thing Crane didn’t hang around for the rest of the praying, if that little dab threw him for a loop. Something was going on with his Des, and she couldn’t contact him. He glared at the inoperative phone.

  Scowling, he went to the door and started to close it, but something was in the way. “Stevo? I thought you left.”

  His ex-partner barged in, shut the door, and leaned against it.

  Now what? Tony had business to conduct with the only One who could help Desi.

  Crane stared at the carpet. “You gonna do some more of that praying?”

  “Figured I might.”

  “I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d mention I plan to pop the question to a certain lady. If there’s anything He can do to make her say yes, I’d be grateful. I mean, if He’s inclined to help out a poor chump with no more brains than to tie the knot again. I’ll be real good to her, if she’ll have me.”

  What a loaded request. How could he turn Stevo down and hold out hope at the same time? “I know you’ll be good to lana, and she’s good for you too.”

  “You got that right. She’s saved this old buzzard.”

  Tony shook his head. “She’s a gift to you from Someone who cares more than any earthly person, but God doesn’t make people do things. lana will have to choose for herself. I think you’ll improve your chances if she sees you’re the sort of man who does his own praying.”

  “You’re telling me I have to join your club in order to be good enough?” His voice rose. “You can take a flying leap if you think I’m going to play the religion game to get a woman.”

  “You’re off base, Stevo. I—”

  “Forget it!” He yanked the door open. “Don’t do me any favors, okay?” He stormed up the hall, nearly ramming Bergstrom, who did a wide-eyed dodge-step.

  The kid stared after Crane, turned and blinked at Tony, and then dove into the bull pen.

  Cranky boss? Was he too hard on the new guy? Maybe. A certain amount of hazing followed a first-station agent, but Tony always thought heel be better than that, especially when he was the one with the power. His face heated. But Bergstrom wasn’t Erickson.

  Tony closed his office door and settled behind his desk. He slid his fingers through his hair. He’d alienated Stevo. Surprise! Surprise! Trying to help that guy was like sticking a hand into a wolf’s cage.

  And Desi needed backup. Not the kind that could charge in, guns blazing. Or maybe she did, and he couldn’t be there.

  “Señorita, may I speak with you?” Zapopa’s heavily accented voice carried through the closed door. “Is important.”

  The hairs on the back of Desi’s neck prickled. “A few minutes, please.”

  “I wait out here.”

  Desi closed and locked the window shutters. Long practice streamlined her makeup and clothes change into the Myra persona. Not a good idea to walk into Zapopa’s kitchen as someone the woman had never met—even if Desi was reality and Myra a handy fiction.

  Hand on the knob, Desi hesitated. She had to step out of this room sometime. Clutching her laptop case, she opened the door.

  Dressed in a baggy white nightdress, Zapopa stood by the kitchen table. Her eyes were red, face puffy. The woman pointed to the table-top.

  A hundred-dollar bill, a credit card, and a cell phone.

  Desi’s eyes widened. “You’re returning them?”

  The dark head bobbed. “I did not take.” She shook her head, and a strand loosened from the braid that hung down her front to her thick waist. “You went to see fire. Someone came. He take. I took back.”

  Zapopa drew herself up, gaze fierce despite a fresh tear that coursed down her mottled cheek.

  Desi ventured a step forward. “This thief didn’t hurt you?”

  The woman closed her eyes and bowed her head, a hand on her chest. “In here only.”

  The thief was someone this woman loved. Husband? Son? Other relative? “You are an honest woman, Zapopa.”

  Her eyes popped open. “Sí.”

  Desi’s heart softened at the statement, so simple, so proud, spoken through tears. She set her laptop on the table and wrapped the ample figure in her arms. Total impulse. Powerful response. The woman clutched Desi. Ribs creaking, Desi breathed in scents of corn flour and sweat that permeated the woman’s nightdress.

  Zapopa plopped into a chair, and a great sigh heaved from the large bosom. “You are kind. Please.” Her black stare bored into Desi. “You will not report this?”

 
; Desi took a chair across from her hostess. “You are protecting someone.”

  “You do not report, and I do not tell that Myra uses a credit card of Desiree Jacobs.”

  Desi picked up her card and money and tucked them into a pouch on her laptop case. She studied Zapopa, a woman of contrasts. Eager for gain, yet particular about how she came by it. Protective of her guest, yet equally protective of the one who preyed upon a defenseless gringa. “You let me use your phone for an international call—I’ll pay with my credit card—and then I’ll call a taxi to take me to a hotel.”

  The woman’s lips pursed. “Best you go. Maybe you make your out-of-country call from the hotel, eh?” Zapopa’s gaze darted to the back door, closed now but offering flimsy defense against a determined intruder.

  Desi stiffened. “The thief may return?”

  Zapopas cheeks went the color of paste. “Others who do not listen to me.” She leaned toward Desi. “This was a safe barrio, but then he came with the drugs. Our young people are sucked in. Some sell. Easy money, they think. Some use. Fun, they think.” Her upper lip curled. “My grandson is good boy. I am long time a widow, but I raise him from a child. Manuel will soon see the way of the pandillas is not the right one.”

  “Pandillas?”

  “You call them in United States gangs. With the fire, the pandillas have come out.”

  Desi swallowed a hard lump. “Let me call a taxi.”

  “Sí.” Zapopa heaved to her feet. “The phone is—”

  A crash and splinter of breaking wood sounded from Desi’s bedroom. Zapopa squealed. Desi snatched her laptop and dashed for the front room. She spotted the phone on a table next to a threadbare sofa. Grabbing the handset, she slid the laptop behind the sofa. The dial tone buzzed in her ear. What should she punch in? Nine-one-one didn’t work in Mexico.

  The front door burst open. Three shaggy-haired young men trooped inside, dressed in dirty short-sleeved shirts and filthy jeans. Desi’s gaze fixed on the objects in their hands. One thick length of chain. One crowbar. One gun that looked more homemade than manufactured.

  No matter. Any of the weapons could kill.

  Six

  Get out of my house!” Zapopa screeched a few descriptive terms for the home invaders.

  Chain Man rattled the links. “Shut up, old woman. Nobody gets hurt if that one gives us her money and credit cards.” He shook the chain at Desi.

  Crowbar Dude smacked the length of metal against his palm.

  If Desi shivered as hard on the outside as she did on the inside, she’d shake the house.

  “Gringa, your money.” Chain Man spoke in English, while Gun Guy lifted his weapon.

  Desi moistened her lips. How should she answer? Tony would say give them whatever they wanted to make them leave. Her laptop case was hidden behind the end of the sofa. If these punks saw it, they’d snatch it to pawn for drug money. The case contained secrets worth more to the Mexican government than a few dollars and cancelable credit cards. What would Señor Corona want her to do? Did it matter? Her life was at stake.

  She shot a look at her hostess. The woman was staring at Desi’s empty hands. Empty. Yes! Desi held out those hands toward the intruders. “You’re too late. I’ve already been robbed.”

  Chain Man glared at Zapopa. “This is true?” He reverted to Spanish.

  “¡Sí!” Her eyes spat fire. “You pandillas think you can go where you want, take what you want, but you destroy your own barrio. The place you should protect.”

  Gun Guy stepped forward, teeth bared, his pupils dilated chunks of midnight. Chain Man barked a rebuke, and Gun Guy halted, muscles twitching.

  “We take care of our own.” The spokesman wrapped his chain around his fist. “The gringa is not one of us.”

  “She is my guest. You have forgotten the old ways of hospitality.”

  Chain Man snorted. “She is a turista. You want her money, as we do. Give us half of what she gave you, and we will go. If you run a guesthouse, you must pay the tax for protection.”

  “Half! You take only fifteen percent from the shops and the buses.”

  The spokesman shrugged. “You did not ask permission before you took in the gringa.”

  “¡Ay-yeee!” The woman clutched the sides of her head. “And who has put himself in charge now? You? Or should I go to El Jaguar? He would not even know your name. You are not the Fraternidad. Just little boys playing at being tough.”

  What was this spooky Brotherhood? The comparison drew a snarl from Gun Guy. He lifted his weapon, and thunder clapped. Zapopa cried out and crumpled forward.

  Desi smacked a palm over her mouth, absorbing a scream.

  “¡Abuelo!” The cry of “grandmother” came from a male voice in the kitchen. A skinny young man with a fuzzy goatee raced into the room and knelt by Zapopa, who sprawled facedown and still. Manuel, no doubt. He must be the person who crashed into Desi’s guest room at the same time his buddies burst through the front door. The young man glared at the gang members and unleashed a torrent of filthy language.

  “Shut up!” Chain Man barked.

  A feral growl came from Gun Guy, who stepped forward, gun muzzle descending. Chain Man and Crowbar pulled him toward the door. The shooter struggled, and then let his friends shove him into the night.

  Desi stepped toward her downed hostess and the slimy grandson. A red stain crept from under the woman’s head. “Is she breathing?” Desi spoke in Spanish.

  The wild-eyed youth looked up at her. “Sí.”

  “Get a rag and press it to the wound. I’ll call for help.”

  The grandsons attention flew toward the open door.

  Desi put her hands on her hips. “Do you want your grandmother to live?”

  Manuels mouth hardened. He darted into the kitchen.

  Desi retreated to the phone, her palm clammy around the handset. She dialed the operator and asked to be put through to the policía. A brief conversation elicited a promise of help, but not how soon it would come. Mouth dry, stomach sour, Desi returned to the pair of figures on the floor. Manuel held his abuela’s head in his lap, pressing a semiclean rag to the side of her head.

  “Still alive?”

  “Sí.” His hoarse tone hinted at leashed tears. “So much blood.”

  “Head wounds are like that. Maybe it’s just a crease.”

  His gaze met hers, a spark of hope in muddy brown eyes. Then his stare flattened. “This was not supposed to happen. She should do as she is told. Stubborn woman. And you! This is your fault.” The youth rocked his grandmother in his arms.

  “Zapopa is right. The pandillas hurt the ones they should help. They are no good. She stood up against them for your sake, not mine.”

  Manuel hung his head. A siren sounded in the distance. Thank You, God, “They’re coming, and I will leave with them.”

  The grandson shifted, glancing at the door. “You hold her. I need to go.”

  Desi stabbed a finger at him. “You will stay until help arrives, and you will take care of your grandmother when she returns from the hospital.” Please, God, heal Zapopa, so that her grandson can find a reason to live an honorable life.

  The young man squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving.

  Desi held her breath. Would he defy her and run off? Or would her impulsive words reach him?

  His chin bobbed, but he didn’t make eye contact. “Sí.”

  Desi grabbed her laptop and went to her room. She scooped her cosmetics into her travel kit then threw it into her large bag.

  A knock sounded at the front door. Manuel yelled for them to come in. “¡Apúrate!” Calm, professional voices filled the front room. Desi grabbed her things. While the rescue workers prepared his grandmother for transport, the young man leaned against the wall, blood staining his ragged T-shirt and jeans. He stared at his red-streaked hands.

  Desi approached a uniformed officer who had come in with the emergency personnel. “Por favor, I would like to ride with you to your station and use your teleph
one.”

  The man examined her, flat-eyed. “We need to take your statement. And this pandillero—” he pointed to the young man, who paled a shade whiter—“will give an account.” He reached for the cuffs on his belt.

  “Not necessary, officer.” Desi lifted a hand. Forget staying in character. Right now, she was Desiree Jacobs in a Myra wig and makeup. “This is the woman’s grandson. He came to save her from the armed pandillas who invaded this home. I will describe them for you.”

  Manuel eyes widened, and then he looked down, rubbing his hands on his pants.

  The officer shrugged Hulk Hogan shoulders. “When we get to the station, we will see who has done what.”

  Stretcher rattling, the ambulance workers pulled Zapopa out the door. Her eyes were closed, the top of her head swathed in bandages. Desi winced. She’d seen better color on the face of a corpse.

  The officer shoved Manuel outside. Desi followed, tugging her case, laptop slung over her shoulder. Emergency lights flickered. A miniature version of the fire-gazing crowd stood around. Voices murmured, and words carried to her—“pandillas,” “El Jaguar,” and “Fraternidad.”

  There was that Brotherhood again. What was it?

  The officer stuffed Zapopas grandson into the rear of his vehicle. Then he popped his trunk and stowed Desi’s suitcase. Desi nodded her thanks, and the officer cracked a smile as he opened his passenger door for her. A little bit of macho gallantry. A whole lot of don’t offend the turista. This government worker knew which side of the tortilla held the filling. Unfortunately, the inside of his vehicle stank like stale cigarette smoke.

  Siren off but lights whirling, the police car dashed through traffic. Cantina lights blazed, music blared, and knots of people took up the sidewalks and parts of the streets. Typical Mérida in festival. The partiere scattered for the police car.

  Desi prayed silently for wisdom for the medical team and for Zapopas recovery. The woman’s grandson sat sullen in the back. That young man needed a good shake, maybe a slap or two, to knock some sense into him.