The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 1)

by Stephen Randel

  “I’ve been told you did very well, El Barquero,” the man said as he pulled a thin sterling silver case from the inside pocket of his expensive-looking suit coat. “Very well indeed,” he continued, offering one of the thin cigars to El Barquero.

  “No, gracias,” El Barquero said as he sat down next to the man. “It’s good to see you, Padre.”

  “Good to see you as well, my clever friend,” the Padre replied as he returned one of the thin cigars to his case.

  “Allow me, Padre,” El Barquero said as he pulled a silver Zippo lighter from his pocket and sparked the wheel.

  “Gracias,” the Padre replied as he leaned toward the flame and puffed several times to light the cigar. Pulling away from the flame, he held the cigar’s glowing end toward his face to ensure it was properly lit. “My people at the port said that you delivered everything precisely as planned.”

  “Yes, Padre, everything went smoothly.”

  “And your compatriot? The Guardsman?”

  “He’s taken care of.”

  “Good,” said the Padre as he took a long drag from the cigar. “Then I won’t need to arrange a hacienda in La Pesca for him after all. Even if his retirement would have been a short one.” The Padre placed his hand on El Barquero’s shoulder. “This was an important delivery, my friend. It will change the way we do business,” he said as he smiled and pounded El Barquero twice on his back. “Men,” he pointed around the crowded barn, “men I can get. They come to me. We used to advertise with billboards and videos, but not anymore. They know who we are. They come to me because I pay better than the army. I pay better than the police. Hell, I even give them health insurance. I give them life insurance. The best thing that can happen to some of their families financially is for them to die working for me,” he laughed. “Men, they come to me for work because I can protect them and give them money. Give them better lives. But guns, they’re the key. Men without guns are nothing but expensive bodies to feed and shelter. The weapons you have acquired will allow us to attack entire police stations if we want, mine roads into areas we control, and expand our territories even further to the west and south. No more shooting government officials and rivals with pistols in the middle of the night. Now we can attack like an army. You have made me very proud, and you will be well compensated for your work.”

  “Thank you, Padre.”

  “Do you like the roosters?” the Padre asked as he motioned down toward the ring.

  “When I was a boy, I used to watch them in the village I grew up in, at the fairs to celebrate the patron saints, but I always preferred the bullfights.”

  “The Corrida, of course you did. Look at you! You are the Toro!” the Padre replied as he laughed heartily and pounded El Barquero on the back again. “I prefer the roosters. The bull stands no chance. Only the matador carries the blade. His fate is sealed before he enters the ring. He’s nothing more than a magnificent warrior with his hands tied behind his back asked to put on a brave performance for the crowd in his death. But the roosters, the roosters are different, my friend. Each stands a chance. Each can determine its own fate. They may choose to die, but they can also choose to live. Look at this here,” the Padre said, pointing to a handler entering the pit with a black bird with white neck feathers. “See how the feathers around his neck flare out in anger. He has the spirit. He will not simply stamp and snort and vainly charge the matador while waiting for the inevitability of the blade.”

  “He’s much smaller than his opponent,” said El Barquero, noticing the large black rooster with red neck feathers now being carried into the pit by another handler.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, my friend, but the size of the fighter means nothing. Why are men afraid of you? Because they think you look dangerous? No. Men are terrified of you because you are dangerous. They know because of the strength of your will, you fear nothing. That makes you dangerous, and that’s what men fear. Sandro!” the Padre yelled to a tall, shirtless man, his chest and arms covered in tattoos, walking the perimeter of the pit. Sandro’s hands were full of money, and he was taking bets from the crowd on the upcoming fight. “What odds on Raul’s rooster?”

  “Eight to one to win,” yelled Sandro over the din as the rowdy gamblers waved stacks of bills to get his attention. “Three to one if he makes it past thirty seconds.”

  “Five thousand to win,” yelled the Padre.

  “Sí, Padre!” Sandro replied as he turned to take another bet.

  “Now you watch, my friend,” the Padre said to El Barquero as he leaned back on the railing behind the last row of bleachers and inhaled on his cigar. “Now I’ll show you why having no fear is more important than size,” he continued as he exhaled a nearly perfect ring of smoke.

  The handlers held their roosters with both hands and repeatedly shoved the birds toward each other to agitate them. Sandro finished taking the last of the bets and hopped out of the ring and into the bleachers. Several more times the handlers taunted the other’s rooster with their own. Finally, on a count of three from Sandro, they released them.

  The cockfight was a blur of motion and noise and feathers as the two black roosters leapt and attacked one another. Even with the different sizes of the birds and the uniquely colored neck feathers, it was difficult to tell them apart as they spun and jumped. Again and again the roosters flew at each other, their legs, with sharp metal gaffs attached, kicking at their opponent in fury. The crowd of raucous men had clearly bet the favorite. They lustfully cheered on the larger rooster. El Barquero looked over at the Padre, who smoked his cigar with a knowing smile on his face.

  “Just wait,” said the Padre. “The little white-necked rooster has no fear.”

  After less than a minute, it was over. The losing handler had tried to revive the larger rooster several times. He even put his mouth over the bird’s beak and sucked the blood from its throat in an attempt to get the bird back on its feet. Raul held the smaller rooster with the white neck feathers high into the air. Its white neck plumage was splattered with blood. Only a few men in the crowd stood and cheered the unexpected winner; most grumbled as they passed around shared bottles of tequila to drown their temporary sorrows. The handlers took their roosters from the pit as another pair climbed in with a fresh match-up of competitors. Sandro jumped into the pit and paid the few winners and assuaged the many losers by promising he would give them special odds on the next match.

  “And that, my friend,” said the Padre as he ground out his cigar on the bleacher in front of him, “is why I prefer the roosters to the bulls. You’ve had a long night and a long day. I want you to stay here tonight as my guest. I’ll have a room prepared for you in the farmhouse. I have business in Nuevo Laredo tomorrow. I’ll be leaving in the morning. You can leave then.”

  “Thank you, Padre.”

  “Come with me,” the Padre said as he rose to his feet. “I’ve grown tired of this game. Walk with me to the house.”

  The two men descended the bleachers and headed toward the barn door while the yelling and shouting of the gamblers surrounding the pit reached a fever pitch as the next bout prepared to begin. As they approached the door, young Miguel again gazed in awe at El Barquero as he past.

  “I was wondering,” the Padre began as they crossed the compound toward the farmhouse. “Have you heard anything about bandits robbing cartel mules across the border around Juarez?”

  “No, Padre.”

  “It seems several cartels have been losing shipments after they cross the border in that area. They’re both very upset.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Some of their leaders seem to think we could be involved. I’d hate to think someone in my employment would operate behind my back.”

  “No one would be that crazy, Padre.”

  “No, not crazy. It would take someone with no fear. Hey!” the Padre said, laughing. “Maybe it’s that white-necked rooster of Raul’s!” The Padre roared in laughter as he pounded El Barquero on the back again
. “That stupid double-crossing bird! I’ll have his head!” He laughed until they reached the porch of the farmhouse before calming down. “Seriously, though, Barquero,” the Padre said as he turned to look the big man in his eyes. “If you hear of anything, you let me know. Nothing a thief despises more than another thief. We have enough problems without the other cartels coming after us because they lost a few bundles of product in the desert.”

  “Sí, Padre.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Spherical Bastards

  To: International Board of Directors

  Mensa International Limited

  Dear Losers:

  Upon hearing that I have been denied acceptance into your pathetic little club, I’m writing to inform you that none of you are smarter than me. I aced the test. There is absolutely, positively, no conceivably possible way I didn’t smoke that ridiculous quiz. According to Occam’s razor, which I’m sure you’re not familiar with, look it up, my test scores must have been manipulated, most likely by jealous Mensa members who don’t want me to make them look bad at your Annual Gathering. Positing a preposterous assumption like I couldn’t achieve a qualifying score is ridiculous in that it adds no explanatory power to your argument. Replacing it for the simple truth that your resentful gatekeepers cheated me clearly violates the law of parsimony. You’re nothing but little spherical bastards. Spherical because when viewed from any angle, you’re still bastards! In response to your vindictive decision, I have decided to create my own organization. It’s an organization exclusively for the “Uber-Intelligent,” a phrase I plan to copyright for my club’s jackets, although I’m also considering “Ninja-Uber-Intelligent,” so don’t try to steal that one, either. My organization for the super smart will be known as STEAM. It stands for “Smarter than Everyone at Mensa.” That makes it an acronym, in case you were wondering about the coincidence of how the first letter of each word in “Smarter than Everyone at Mensa” spells STEAM. Since your petty little club allows admission to any riffraff who can score in the top two percent of the population in intelligence, my standards will be much more restrictive. Acceptance for STEAM will require intelligence in the top two percent of the top two percent. Ninety-eight percent of your members won’t be eligible to join STEAM. Please send me the contact information for the most intelligent two percent of your envious clique; I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic to hang out with colleagues who’re actually brilliant. Of course, they’ll have to pass the entrance examination first. Acceptance into STEAM will consist of a two-hour oral assessment of overall intelligence. Assessments will be held in my office in Austin, Texas, on the first day of every third month, beginning in February. Assessments will not begin until after three o’clock in the afternoon. Smart people are too smart to get up early if they don’t have to. Candidates are required to bring two forms of picture identification and four two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew with them to the assessment, no Diet and no Code Red. If the candidate sitting for the exam can convince me of their intelligence in the allotted time, they will be granted admission and receive their club jacket once their annual dues of one thousand U.S. dollars have been paid. STEAM’s annual conference will be held in Rio de Janeiro. Jealous? Of course you are. I fully expect STEAM to be contracted by think tanks, governments, universities, and powerful and wealthy Washington lobbyists to develop whitepapers and research documents for topics of critical concern. Sorry, losers, my club is cooler.

  You suck,

  Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

  President and Founder, STEAM International Limited

  • • •

  Kip laughed to himself as he thought about the old days with Jackie as his long stride carried him away from the bingo parlor and through the streets of downtown Austin to meet her. Kip had known Jackie since kindergarten. By the time they were in high school, everyone thought the two were dating, including their parents, but they were just great friends.

  The two enjoyed going to movies, usually obscure, subtitled foreign films in rickety, old, out-of-the-way theaters, the kind that still had velvet curtains lining the walls and a separate upstairs balcony. The two would sit in the back of the upper balcony, away from the other patrons, and take turns making up their own ridiculous dialogue for the foreign actors.

  “My succulent lotus flower,” Kip said in a silly Japanese voice while they watched the black and white Kurosawa film on the screen. “You must take my sack of eels and protect them from the ninjas while I travel to Kyoto to cash this winning scratch-off lottery ticket.”

  “No, my powerful love gorilla,” Jackie replied in an equally awful Asian accent, as the female character projected on the screen knelt at the feet of the stoic samurai. “Without your eels, how will you protect yourself from the Emperor’s flaming pigs?” she said while they both tried in vain to keep from giggling loud enough to draw attention from the usher. They had been kicked out of another theater the previous week for using cartoon character voices to create dialogue for the 1920s silent film Metropolis. Jackie’s Olive Oyl impersonation had gotten way out of hand.

  At the end of their senior year, they went to the prom together. Kip never really asked her; they just both knew they would. It felt a little awkward as they slow danced with the band, but not as awkward as when he dropped her off following the after-parties and stole a timid kiss as they said goodnight on her parent’s front steps. Things could have been different between them, but they both knew they were going off in separate directions for college. They stayed in touch while in school and saw each other over the holiday breaks. Unfortunately, each time they got together, she was dating someone and he wasn’t, or vice versa.

  After graduating from college, Kip accepted a job as a runner in a New York bond house that the father of one of his fraternity brothers helped him land. It didn’t take long before he climbed the ranks and became a full-time fixed-income trader. He loved the frantic pace and excitement of the trading floor, and the streets of New York were so different from the town he grew up in.

  Once Jackie graduated, she didn’t really know what she wanted to do. Eventually, she decided to move to Colorado to try her hand at being a ski bum. Ultimately, she landed in Vail. Of course, the only problem with being a twenty-two-year-old ski bum in Vail with no practical work experience save waiting a few tables in high school was actually making a living so you could afford rent and lift tickets.

  For almost three weeks, she went door to door looking for work. She was willing to do any job, but so was just about every other twenty-something looking to put off the real world for a few years who filled the village. Finally, she found work in one of the large hotels in Beaver Creek. She started in the kitchen, delivering room service. Pretty soon she suspected the kitchen was only giving her orders requested by gross old men just out of the shower. She remembered how embarrassing it was to sit and wait for lecherous-looking old men in half-closed bathrobes struggle to fill out a room service bill because they were too busy trying to check her out without her noticing and without completely exposing themselves. Seriously, Father Time, slap fifteen percent on it and sign the damn thing, she would think. I need to go vomit.

  One day, one of the kitchen prep cooks badly cut his hand and left for the day. The head chef told her to grab a knife and an apron, and he showed her what to do. The next day he offered her a permanent job in the kitchen. Jackie jumped at the chance.

  The head chef liked her. She was smart and enthusiastic, and didn’t put up with any crap from the guys in the kitchen. He started her in food prep, but over time began to move her up the line. He knew she had talent, and when an opening became available at the best Italian restaurant in Vail, he called his friend who owned the place and enthusiastically recommended her for the job. Jackie was ecstatic.

  The executive chef at the restaurant took her under his wing and taught her amazing techniques. She loved it. One day, Jackie approached him with the idea of attending culinary school. He was a native of Italy and told her that if she
really wanted to learn to cook, she needed to work in kitchens instead of classrooms. He was from the Italian town of Trieste and spent a few weeks finding a restaurant that would take her in as an apprentice. Initially, she was hesitant. She had never been to Europe and certainly didn’t speak Italian.

  “Don’t worry about talking,” he assured her. “Learn with your eyes, your nose, and your hands. Any school can teach you the correct measurement of ingredients for making fresh pasta, but until you’ve stood at the hip of someone who has made it every day for thirty years, you’ll never really know what real pasta is.”

  Ultimately, she agreed, and off to far northeastern Italy she went. She spent six months in Trieste, then a year in a Michelin-starred restaurant in Venice. After that, she spent a year in Florence and another in Palermo. She could have continued her culinary odyssey in a kitchen in Turin, but she was homesick. So she packed up her knives and moved back home.

  After two weeks of kicking around town and gorging herself on the cheese enchiladas and the chile rellenos she so desperately missed overseas, she bravely scraped up all her savings, wrote a detailed business plan, and found a small restaurant space and a banker crazy enough to loan her the money to open her own place.

  Austin was a barbecue and fried chicken town served with a side of fajitas and margaritas. Her traditional Italian restaurant serving authentic cuisine struggled at first. It made her cringe, but she finally got used to customers asking for spaghetti and meatballs, so she put them on the menu. It made her furious and slightly disappointed in herself, but it was the best damn Spaghetti e Polpette di Carne in Austin. Once a local food critic found her place and proclaimed her a “feisty, blonde-headed culinary genius,” business exploded. Soon she moved to a bigger location downtown, and “Ristorante di Jacqueline” became an Austin institution.