“You buying this, Bennett?” Kip asked.
“Hell, no,” Bennett snorted as he filled his pipe. “Just an old Mexican wives’ tale to keep little kids from running off into the sticks at night. Every once in a while a rancher will come across a dead, mangy dog or a decomposing coyote and call it a chupacabra. Next thing you know, everyone gets worked up about why they’re finding dead livestock. Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s an idiot.”
Avery shot the doctor the “stink eye” as he stormed out of the kitchen. Muttering a barrage of expletives as he pounded up the stairs, he slammed shut the door to his room with a tremendous bang. Startled, Max jumped to his feet and barked at the sudden noise before sheepishly looking at his master as if to apologize for the outburst.
“Sorry,” Bennett said to Kip as he returned to reading his newspaper. “He was ruining my breakfast.”
• • •
The mid-morning eastbound traffic slowed to a standstill in front of El Barquero’s car. Ahead, a jackknifed semi had closed the highway down to only one lane. Impatient motorists took out their frustrations on their horns as the backed-up mass of cars and trucks fought their way over to the far right-hand lane. Half a dozen police and emergency vehicles and numerous burning road flares added to the confusion of the gridlocked road.
El Barquero didn’t need the delay. He was already behind schedule, and the trunk of his sedan contained the contents of the burlap bags he’d taken from the two men he’d killed in the desert. With all the police around, a trunk full of narcotics made El Barquero extremely cautious about drawing unwanted attention.
On the shoulder of the road, a highway patrol officer was waving the long, slow line of traffic past the jackknifed semi. As El Barquero’s car crept alongside the patrolman, the line of traffic stopped again. Ahead, one of the emergency vehicles momentarily blocked the only open lane of traffic. El Barquero stayed calm as he looked down the line of vehicles in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the serious-looking patrolman watching him. Staring at him. Staring at his car. It wouldn’t be the first time the authorities had asked El Barquero to pull over and step out of the car for no apparent reason. Having brown skin in this part of the country seemed to be good enough reason for law enforcement to question you about anything. Usually, El Barquero played along with them. One of the many advantages of working for the cartel was a ready supply of impeccably forged documents. But he wouldn’t play along with the police today, not with what his trunk contained.
El Barquero slowly slid his hand toward the passenger seat. A thin black leather jacket rested on the seat. Beneath the jacket was his pistol. He reached under the jacket and gripped the weapon. Carefully, he moved the jacket and the pistol toward his lap. Keeping the handgun concealed, he maintained his focus down the road.
“Dammit,” El Barquero hissed under his breath as the overly interested patrolman took a step toward his car. With the traffic at a standstill, the patrolman bent over and knocked on the passenger-side window. The patrolman made a circular motion with his hand to roll the window down. Beneath the jacket in his lap, El Barquero thumbed back the hammer on his pistol as he kept his attention focused down the line of traffic. The officer knocked on the window again, harder this time. El Barquero used his free hand to slowly reach for the automatic window switch. He tightened his grip on the pistol as he finally turned to look the patrolman in his eyes. El Barquero could see his own reflection in the patrolman’s mirrored sunglasses. He prepared to roll down the window.
“I’ll kick your ass, you son of a bitch!” came a loud cry from several cars back down the line of traffic. It was followed immediately by a long, piercing blast of horn. The patrolman looked away from El Barquero and back toward the sudden commotion. The driver of a sedan was refusing to let a pickup truck cut in line. The cowboy in the truck wasn’t happy. The cowboy leaned on his horn again as he inched his truck bumper barely in front of the sedan’s. This time, the man in the sedan got on his horn.
The patrolman took one last look at El Barquero. One very, very long look before turning to walk down the line of stalled traffic to diffuse the situation between the two motorists, both still blasting their horns.
In a moment, the line of traffic began to slowly move forward. Carefully watching the highway patrolman through his rearview mirror, El Barquero gently lowered the hammer on his pistol.
• • •
Later that morning, as Avery approached his destination, he stealthily ducked between the boulevard trees that lined the neighborhood sidewalk. Looking back one last time to see if he was being followed, he made a dash for the front door. The multicolored sign out front identified the old Victorian house as The Magic Man’s Curio Shop and Bookstore.
The Magic Man was indeed a head shop, but mainly an emporium of the weird. The maroon three-story building with its rusted wrought-iron fence and quirky gothic spire could easily pass for a year-round haunted house if the tie-dyed treatments in the bay windows didn’t identify it as more of a funhouse than a lair for ghosts and ghouls.
The Magic Man was actually Ziggy, an aging hippy who never quite made it out of the sixties. He lived in the third-floor apartment and ran the two-level shop below. At least, he ran it when he remembered to unlock the front door and flip the sign to OPEN, which was only about half the time.
Avery climbed the front porch stairs, nearly tripping on the top step. Noticing the sign read CLOSED, he pounded on the heavy door.
“Ziggy, you moron!” Avery bellowed. “Wake up!” After a few minutes of banging on the door and windows and disparaging Ziggy’s name in numerous ways, Avery heard the sound of someone struggling to open a lock. Then another. Then another. After five locks and two security chains had finally been disengaged, Ziggy poked his lizard-like face out from around the half-opened door.
“Whoa, like, sorry, dude,” Ziggy stammered as he pushed the door open and flipped the sign over. “Like, what time is it, Avery?”
“Two in the afternoon. Kindly allow me in, you reptilian burnout.”
“What day is it?” Ziggy asked as Avery barged past him.
“The day before tomorrow.”
“Groovy, man,” Ziggy said as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Like, really groovy.” Ziggy scampered across the main room toward the front counter. The painfully skinny shopkeeper’s neck seemed to be losing the struggle to keep his abnormally large head upright. As he ducked behind the cash register, Ziggy chattered excitedly, “Check it out, man, check it out. I just got some really killer stuff in.” He popped back up holding up a small purple cloth bag bound at the top with twine and a mason jar of green and brown herbs. A huge grin spread across Ziggy’s face.
“Oh, please,” Avery said as he rolled his eyes. “I’m not here for your hallucinogenic poison.”
“No way, man. This is authentic Gris Gris, straight from Ghana.”
“Seriously, Ziggy, if you throw a stick in this town, you’ll hit a pot dealer. You don’t need to have it imported from West Africa.”
“It’s not weed, man. It’s, like, Gris Gris. It, like, helps draw love and, like, positive influences into your life.”
“Not interested.”
“Okay, I can dig it, man,” Ziggy said as he put the items back under the counter. “But check this out,” he said pulling out a rectangular item wrapped in white cloth. He carefully placed the item on the counter and unwrapped it. “This is so far out, man,” he said as his large eyes gleamed. “Isn’t it trippy, man?”
“It’s a Ouija board, you lunatic.”
“No way, man. It’s special. Can’t you feel the vibe? This was, like, personally owned by Elvis, man.”
“Well, you should have customers lined up around the corner for such a unique item. Have you given any thought as how to convince your clientele of its actual provenance?”
“Oh, no way, dude. I’m not selling this. This is, like, my personal bat phone to the King.”
“Well,
if you get in touch with him, ask him to look around the afterworld for Richard Nixon and punch him in the liver for me.”
“No way, man. You can’t use the King for evil,” Ziggy replied in horror. “That’ll bring down some really bummer karma, man. Really bummer karma.”
“Fine, then,” Avery said as he turned and marched purposefully toward the stairs that led to the store’s book section. “I need immediate access to your stacks.”
“Cool, man, like, no problem,” said Ziggy as he placed the Ouija board beneath the counter and ran upstairs after Avery.
The rooms on the second floor of the shop contained different categories of books. Signs above the various doors listed topics such as Occult, Voodoo, Witchcraft, Spells & Magic, and Secret Societies.
“Where are your tomes on supernatural creatures?” asked Avery.
“Like, what kind, man?” Ziggy replied. “Vampires? Werewolves? Elves?”
“Chupacabras.”
“Like, I don’t have one on just them,” said Ziggy as he ducked into a room. “But, like, these have some chapters on them,” he continued as he pulled three books off a shelf.
Avery flipped through the pages of the old publications. After perusing them for a few minutes, he seemed satisfied.
“I’ll take all three,” he said as he exited the room and headed down the stairs. “Put them on my account.”
“No way, man,” pleaded Ziggy as he ran to catch up with Avery. “You never pay up. Like, this ain’t no free library I’m running here.”
“Silence!” demanded Avery. “Or I’ll inform the authorities of your illegal possession of the elephant tusks and monkey paws downstairs.”
Avery bounded down the stairs of the Magic Man’s Curio Shop and Bookstore, stumbling as he reached the bottom. Looking back over his shoulder to ensure that the freaky little lizard wasn’t following him to demand payment for the books, he squeezed through the front gate.
Avery made his way down the street before cutting over a few blocks to reach the main road. Nervously, he scanned the surrounding area for spies. As he strode quickly past the various shops and storefronts that lined the boulevard, he thumbed through his newly acquired publications, further investigating the chapters regarding chupacabras.
“Not as much as I had hoped,” he mumbled to himself, “but worthwhile nonetheless.”
“Dude, watch where you’re going!” a teenage boy yelled as he bounced off the yellow tracksuit-clad pedestrian deeply immersed in his reading.
“Get back to school, you grubby street urchin pickpocket!” a startled Avery gruffly replied as he checked to see that he still had all his possessions.
“Screw you, fatty!” the boy cried as he took off running down the street.
“I’ll see you interred!” Avery shouted as he flipped the back of his hand under his chin and in the direction of the fleeing boy. “A youth of today, prisoner number 48238 of tomorrow,” he mumbled.
Passing a local flower shop, Avery noticed a local taco vendor’s truck pulled up alongside the curb. Suddenly realizing he hadn’t had anything to eat except a dozen or so Mountain Dews since last night, he decided to stop for a brief respite.
“Madame, what is the name of this establishment?” Avery inquired of the thirty-something-year-old Hispanic woman behind the counter as he approached the window.
“Consuela’s Tacos,” she replied in a mildly perturbed manner as she pointed to the two-foot-high red lettering on the side of the truck clearly announcing it as CONSUELA’S TACOS.
“Are you the owner of this mobile culinary contraption?”
“Yes, I’m Consuela,” the woman replied while wiping her hands with a white dishtowel.
“Do you have the proper documentation to operate here?”
“Yes.”
“Have the health inspectors reviewed your premise lately?”
“Yes.”
“Any recent write-ups or food critic reviews recommending your food, and if so, how many stars were you awarded?”
“No,” Consuela replied, leaning her elbows onto the counter. “But I expect the Zagat’s people here any time now. Look, do you want something to eat or not?”
“What’s the specialty of the house?”
“Pretty much tacos,” Consuela replied as she pointed to the large menu board propped against the truck. “But I sell hot chocolate and churros as well.”
“What the bloody hell is a churro?” Avery demanded.
“Fried dough. Kind of like a doughnut.”
“No, no, no,” said Avery, shaking his head. “My arduous and lengthy journey today to obtain these rare and valuable resource materials requires much more substantial sustenance that that.”
“Monster books?” she replied smugly as she reviewed the titles on the spines of the books in his hand.
“Compendiums of Cryptozoology, to be more precise. What kind of tacos do you serve?”
“Pollo, carnitas,” she said, once again pointing at the menu in front of him, “carne asada…”
“In English!” Avery demanded.
“Chicken, pork, steak,” she drolly recited, “shredded beef, chorizo—that’s sausage to you—ground beef and vegetarian.”
“I’ll have three chicken and three steak. What do they come with?”
“Onions and cilantro. Hot sauce and limes are over there.”
“No onions on mine. You hear me? Absolutely no onions shall touch my food. They don’t react well with my digestive system. I don’t even want the meat to be cooked on the same part of the grill used to cook the onions. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Don’t worry. The onions are raw; I put them on last with the cilantro.”
“Do the onions and cilantro share the same container?”
“No.”
“Do you use the same knife to cut them?”
“Of course not,” Consuela said in mock horror as she cupped her hands to the sides of her face. “Are you crazy?”
“Very good, then, woman. I’ll have three chicken and three steak tacos to go. Oh, and one large Mountain Dew.”
“I don’t have Mountain Dew, only Coca Cola, bottled water, or Jarritos.”
“What?” Avery exclaimed. “No Mountain Dew? What kind of backwater operation are you running here?”
“I’m running a taco truck.”
“Without Pepsi products? Are you insane?”
“Look, mister, you want something to drink with your tacos or not?”
“What were my choices again?”
“Coke, water, and Jarritos,” an exasperated Consuela repeated.
“Explain Jarritos.”
“Flavored water,” she said, pointing to a row of glass bottles filled with brightly colored liquid that lined a shelf in the window of the truck.
“Absolutely not,” a repulsed Avery replied. “Probably swarming with infectious diseases from their foreign place of origin. I’ll have a Coke, if I must.”
“Okay, then,” said Consuela as she turned and placed six tortillas on the grill to warm. “One Coke, three chicken, and three steak…all with extra onions.”
“What!” screamed Avery. “You insolent wench, didn’t you hear a word…”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Consuela laughed as she added the chicken and steak to the grill. “Don’t worry,” she smiled at Avery over her shoulder, “no onions.”
Avery leaned against the side of the truck and returned to perusing his books as Consuela prepared his order.
“You want cilantro on your tacos?” Consuela asked.
“On the side.”
“You want cilantro on the side?”
“Wrapped separately.”
“Okay,” Consuela shrugged.
When the meat and tortillas were warmed through, Consuela assembled the tacos individually in small squares of tin foil, making sure to hide a small piece of onion in the filling of each one. Wrapping them up tightly, she grabbed a plastic bottle of Coke and placed the order on
the counter.
“Your order is ready,” she called to Avery, smiling ever so slightly. “That’s six dollars for the tacos and a buck fifty for the coke. Seven fifty total.”
Avery closed his books and returned to the truck window counter. Reaching into his fanny pack, he retrieved his Diners Club card and placed it on the metal counter.
“I don’t take Diners Club,” said Consuela as she pushed the card back at Avery with her index finger. “Cash only,” she added, nodding in the direction of the large sign in the window that read CASH ONLY.
“Preposterous!” Avery exclaimed. “This isn’t Mexico City, you Teotihuacan chiseler! This is the United States of America, and Diners Club is accepted universally by all restaurants in all fifty states.”
“First of all,” Consuela snapped her fingers, “my family is from Monterrey, and second of all, no, it’s not!”
“Fine,” spat Avery. He retrieved his card and fished in his fanny pack for cash.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Consuela as Avery dumped handfuls of change and a few wadded-up bills on the counter.
“Please understand,” said Avery as he smoothed out four singles and began separating the coins into piles. “As soon as I’m back in my office, I plan on contacting the Better Business Bureau and lodging a formal complaint.”
“Knock yourself out.”
“There,” said Avery pushing the change and the bills across the counter and sweeping up the remaining coins and depositing them back in his fanny pack. “Seven fifty.”
“This one’s not a real coin,” Consuela said, flicking the offending bronze-colored coin back across the counter.
“It most certainly is. It’s a Canadian dollar coin, commonly known as the ‘Loonie.’ Come to think of it, given the current exchange rate with the U.S. dollar, it’s actually worth slightly more than one dollar. You owe me change.”
“The only ‘Loonie’ here is the one wearing the yellow tracksuit. Now give me another dollar, take your food, and leave.”
Avery dug back into the fanny pack and produced the necessary change. After slapping the coins down loudly on the metal counter, he gathered up his meal.
The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 1) Page 4