“Take a run around the block and pick me up on your way back.” With her big purse looped over her left shoulder and the walking stick in her right hand, Daisy Perika was already getting out of the car. “This won’t take a minute.”
Miss M. cringed as the truck looked like it might knock her beloved automobile aside like a toy car a child had discarded on the road. “But—”
Her “but” was drowned in the roar of a diesel engine as the huge flatbed roared past her sedate sedan.
The Ute woman had already slammed the car door and was toddling away toward the driveway entrance, where she expected to find a mailbox.
Miss Muntz was all in a dither. “Oh dear—what do I do now?” The storm was darkening the sky like there would be no tomorrow, and a furious hail of sleet began to pepper her windshield. The driver decided to proceed per Daisy’s suggestion. “I’ll drive around the block and pick her up.”
Alas, in these environs there were no “blocks” to drive around, but rather a maze of meandering lanes with bewildering forks where either choice delivered the unwary tourist to an unseemly destination. And there was nary a road sign to be seen. Within three minutes flat, Miss Millicent Muntz was completely bewildered. But not discouraged. This will take a little while longer than I estimated, but if I just keep turning right I’m bound to circle around and find Sundown Avenue again. A reasonable plan. Unless one happens to turn right into a blacktop lane that, after a country mile, dead-ends at a long-abandoned cemetery.
With the chill wind at her back, Daisy quickly made her way to the driveway, where she found a mailbox post with yellow numbers painted on it. She leaned close to see the numerals. Whether you read the address from the top to the bottom or vice versa, it came out 686. This is where Chico Perez lives, all right.
But there was a minor problem, which had to do with what was missing from the post. The mailbox.
Like her friend who was piloting the Buick upon stormy seas, Mrs. Perika was not disheartened. I’ll find some other place to leave Perez’s wallet where he’s bound to find it, like in his car if it’s not locked. But she could not see a vehicle in the driveway. Daisy Perika turned her face toward the sad-looking little house and applied logic to the situation. There’s no lights on in the shack and no car so he’s not at home. Which suggested a straightforward course of action. I’ll leave his wallet on the front porch, then hurry back here to wait for Millie, who’ll be showing up any time now.
As we are apt to be when we make unwarranted assumptions, Daisy was dead wrong on four counts.
Millicent, of course, would not be returning “any time now.”
Chico Perez habitually parked his Camaro behind the low-rent house where it could not be seen from Sundown Avenue.
All the lights except the forty-watt bulb in the bathroom were turned off.
But these were minor little flea-bite errors compared to Daisy’s Number Four—i.e., her conclusion that Mr. Perez was not at home.
At this very moment, the muscular young man was stepping out of the shower stall and reaching for a towel to dry himself. How Perez sensed the unwelcome presence is unclear. He might have heard Daisy step on something in the front yard, or perhaps it was one of those inexplicable hunches. By whatever means, Chico Perez felt a sudden shiver of apprehension and the certain knowledge that…Somebody’s out there.
By the time Daisy Perika was approaching the front porch steps, Perez, with the towel tied around his waist, was watching her from one of the squalid hut’s filthy windows. Well what’s this? He recognized the hunched form. The old witch has come to pay me a visit. But why would she do that? I bet she’s come to break in and steal something.
To make her task all the easier, Perez unlatched the front door. Opened it a crack.
The chill breeze did the rest.
As Daisy was painfully climbing the front porch steps, the door was swinging back and forth. She shook her head at such carelessness. The dope didn’t even close his front door when he left. As she leaned on her sturdy oak staff, Daisy’s already wrinkled brow furrowed deeply. I could just pitch his wallet inside the house, then close the door.
Gesturing to her, as it were, the swinging door called out a squeaky-creaky invitation: Come in…come in…old friend…
From somewhere deep inside her own inner sanctum, a small voice urged Daisy not to enter therein. On the contrary—to leave this place in utmost haste.
Another (louder) voice assured her (in the vernacular of her childhood) that there was no reason to be a silly old scaredy-cat.
And that was that.
Daisy Perika stepped into the abyss.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“I’ve always wished to be laid when I died
In a little churchyard on the green hillside
By my father’s grave, there let me be,
O bury me not on the lone prairie.”
No Way to Treat a Lady
Once inside, Daisy Perika paused to lean on her walking stick. It’s awfully dark in here. The old woman blinked. And quiet, too. But not for long.
BANG!
When the door slammed behind her, Daisy almost swallowed her tongue. When her heart started beating again, she assured herself that…it was probably just a draft. Whereupon she heard a raspy clickity-clatch. What was that? The door latch.
Uh-oh.
Then, a whispery ripping sound.
A shadowy form was pulling a window shade down.
Big uh-oh.
Chico Perez switched on a spindly brass floor lamp.
Daisy found herself standing face-to-face with a scowling savage garbed in a towel.
The man of the house was brandishing a butcher knife. He took hold of her with his free hand. “What’s your game, you sleazy old pickpocket—you come to steal the few dollars I’ve got left?”
The old woman was unable to utter a single syllable. It is difficult to speak when a muscle-bound brute of a man has your neck gripped tightly in his hand.
“I ID’d the girl who drives you around in her red pickup.” He curled his lip. “But I haven’t gotten around to learning your name.” He gave the tribal elder a shake that rattled her teeth. “So spit it out—who’n hell are you!” He gave her another, harder shake. Daisy’s purse slipped off her shoulder, thudding onto the floor.
All his victim could get past her lips was a raspy “Aaarrrk.”
Perez laughed, then spat in her face. And had a second thought. Maybe she didn’t come to swipe anything. As a terrible alternative occurred to him, the young man eased his grip on her neck. “You figured you’d catch me sound asleep and…” He fought back the sudden chill of fear. And put some kind of awful spell on me. The possibilities were horrifying. She might make a nest of tapeworms grow in my belly…or cause my eyes to dry up like prunes and fall out!
Daisy was attempting to find her voice.
“Save your lies, old witch—I’ll do all the talking. Here’s what’s going to happen next.” Perez thumped her left earlobe with the butcher knife’s cold steel blade. “First, I’ll slice off your ears and nose and make you eat ’em.” A pleased smile split his broad face. “And then you know what I’m gonna do?” Feeding on the fear in Daisy’s eyes, the sadist delighted in telling her. “I’ll cut out your tongue and stuff that down your gullet.”
Daisy gulped.
He gave her a moment to digest this horror. “After you’ve flopped around on the floor for a while, I’ll slit your throat.”
The aged woman knew he wasn’t bluffing.
“But while you’re still breathing, I want you to know what’ll happen after you’re dead.” He pricked her nose with the tip of the butcher knife. “Your friend Sarah takes an evening class over at the university. Some dark night when she’s heading for her pickup truck, I’ll be waiting for her in the parking lot. I bet she’ll be glad to see me!” As he anticipated this encounter, Perez’s face twisted into a hideous grin. “So what do you want sliced off first, granny—your pointy lit
tle rat ears or your shriveled-up pig snout?” He cocked his head. “Can’t make up your mind? Then I’ll decide for you.”
Daisy Perika closed her eyes. God help me and Sarah!
She had never uttered a more heartfelt prayer. What she wanted was for Charlie Moon to step through the door and shoot her assailant stone cold dead.
Not a chance.
What she got was a near-death vision.
From some unfathomable depth in Daisy’s memory, a recollection bubbled up of her favorite movie star. But not a jittery old black-and-white flick on a TV; we’re talking sure-enough Technicolor filling a mile-wide silver screen. And Mr. Newman (bless his sweet, blue-eyed soul) was performing one of her favorite scenes. (The one where Paul is confronted by a muscle-bound oaf about twice his size who is about to beat him to a pulp and then some.) The Newman solution had been a fine remedy for a limber-limbed movie star working from a carefully crafted script, but the aged Miss Daisy suffered from a serious handicap: I couldn’t get my foot that high if my life depended on it.
And it did.
But if the tribal elder could not manage a vicious kick, she did carry a big walking stick—and knew what to do with it.
And she did.
As is so often the case, the element of surprise was of paramount importance. That and the fact that Daisy’s oak staff caught Mr. Perez squarely in the spot where he was most vulnerable.
The butcher knife slipped from Perez’s hand. The brutal bully went down with a groan, hitting the filthy oak floor like an ox felled by a nine-pound sledgehammer.
Knowing that felled oxen are apt to get up and gore a person, Daisy got a good two-handed grip on her walking stick. I’ll give him such a whack…
Then…fade to black.
Daisy blinked. Oh no—I’ve gone blind!
Not so.
Chico Perez had yanked the lamp cord from the wall socket.
On Daisy’s second blink, the young man made a grab for her leg. As Perez’s fingers touched her ankle, the startled tribal elder shrieked like a banshee prodded with a hot poker—and began to flail wildly with her oak staff. There was a yelp from Perez as the club struck a glancing blow to his skull. The stunned man began to mumble incoherently.
The sensible part of Daisy’s mind screamed, Run!
The other 99 percent was inclined to disagree. Don’t leave till you’ve finished the bastard off.
Sensible never had a chance.
Her eyes now partially adjusted to the twilight in Perez’s parlor, the crusty old woman raised her wooden club and laid into the task with gusto.
Wap! (Another one on the noggin.)
Being old-fashioned, Daisy Perika was not one to leave a job half done.
Wap! (Across the back of his neck.)
Wap! (Noggin again.)
This exercise went on for quite some time, but the seemingly excessive violence was not unwarranted. Daisy knew that if the young man ever got onto his feet again while she was within his reach, she would be done for. Which is not to suggest that the club wielder did not enjoy her work. When she eventually ceased wapping her victim (because she was out of breath), Daisy leaned on her stick to rest from her exertions. While getting her wind back, the tribal elder evaluated the results of her work. There’s no need to hit him another lick.
She bent over with a painful grunt to pick up her purse, and was about to loop it over her shoulder when a potential difficulty occurred to her. Maybe I ought to leave his wallet here. A lady never knew when a nosy cop might show up and tap her on the shoulder and…I don’t want to get caught with a dead man’s property. On the other hand…My fingerprints are all over his wallet and I don’t have time to clean them off. After weighing these pros and cons for about two seconds, she decided to take the late Chico Perez’s property with her. And would have left straightaway, except for the fact that she was no longer afraid. Moreover, as her fear had gradually subsided, a white-hot fury had filled the vacated space. As she considered the dead man’s dreadful threat against Sarah Frank, Daisy fairly burned with righteous anger. The scared old woman had been transformed into something truly frightful—a bloodthirsty victim bent on vengeance. I almost wish he wasn’t quite dead yet, so I could kill him all over again—this time with his own butcher knife!
Which deadly instrument was on the floor by her feet.
Which circumstance gave her a fine notion.
In addition to his wallet, the furious old soul decided to take some additional items. And so she did.
In the interest of delicacy, the personal property purloined from Mr. Perez shall be designated as keepsakes. Or, if you prefer—mementos.
A Ute warrior would call them battle trophies.
Daisy Perika departed in the comfortable certainty that Chico Perez was dead, and with the cheerful expectation that his rotting corpse would not be discovered before swarms of rats had gnawed all the flesh from his bones.
Tough old lady.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hard Work Makes Hearty Appetites
When Miss Muntz eventually found her way back to the spot where she had left Daisy Perika, the sleet-spitting storm clouds had drifted away. The tribal elder was waiting beside the road, her hunched form bathed in silvery moonlight. As soon as the flustered white woman pulled her Buick to a stop, the Indian opened the door and grunted her way into the passenger seat.
“I’m terribly sorry to be so long in getting back, Daisy—I realize you must’ve wondered what happened to me. Well, you would not believe the adventure I’ve had.” Miss M. proceeded to give an account of her unnerving journey along unmarked and sinister rural roads and how she had ended up at a “horrid cemetery all grown over with weeds” where she had heard “a whole pack of feral dogs howling for blood—or perhaps it was wolves—they all sound much the same to me!” On and on, her story went by mile and by minute until every detail was duly recited for her silent passenger. Eventually, the talkative lady remembered the original purpose of the night’s mission. “Oh, I’m so sorry—I almost forgot to ask—did you manage to take care of your little task?”
Daisy nodded.
Miss M., who was an ever-so-careful driver, turned her face briefly to beam on her friend. “Now that you’ve done the right thing, don’t you feel much better?”
The woman with the trophies in her purse admitted that she did.
“Good for you! Even though I merely played a supportive role, I suggest that we celebrate our mutual accomplishment.” She pondered the possibilities. “Shall we stop someplace for an evening snack?”
Famished by her exertions, Daisy suggested that they take their business to Sunburst Pizza. “I’ll get me one with pork sausage and double cheese and green chili.”
“An excellent choice, my dear. I shall order a medium calzone with Italian sausage. No bell peppers, if you please.”
This reference to calzone was a private joke, and both women laughed. Just like old times.
Not Everyone is Having a Pleasant Evening
Chico Perez had never been a fan of Paul Newman and he had no taste whatever for Westerns. The brutal fellow’s favorite movie was the original Terminator—and like that remarkably resilient android, Perez was hard to kill. At the very moment when Daisy Perika and Millicent Muntz were about to chow down on greasy pizza and succulent calzone, the severely injured fellow uttered a low, painful groan.
Mr. Perez was flat on his back—staring dumbly at the cobwebbed ceiling. What the hell happened to me—I feel like I was run over by a truck. Even in his stupefied state, he realized that such an event was unlikely to have occurred inside his living room. He strained to come up with a better explanation. Somebody must’ve beat me up. But the man who’d never been bested in a fight also dismissed that explanation as improbable. Gradually, in bits and snatches, the events of the evening began to come back to him. It was that mean old woman—the pickpocket witch. Perez concluded that the thief had cast some kind of spell on him. Maybe she called down lightning an
d I got struck. Rubbing a hand over his face, he felt sticky blood on his forehead.
Groaning pitifully, the muscleman got to his knees. Grasping the brass floor lamp, Perez pulled himself erect. After staggering, tripping over the lamp cord, and tumbling over a coffee table, he got up again, stumbled into the bathroom—and switched on the light to see what damage had been done.
Several of Chico Perez’s neighbors—two of them almost a quarter mile away—heard the mutilated man’s horrified screams. Not one of them thought of calling the police.
It was that kind of neighborhood.
Miles away, in a corner booth at the Sunburst Pizza Restaurant, Miss Millicent Muntz tapped a paper napkin at her lips. “The calzone was very tasty.”
“My pizza’s awfully greasy.” Daisy belched. “But that’s the way I like it.” One small piece remained on her plate. I’m full, but I’ll wash this last bite down with some coffee.
Pleased with her success in reforming the aged sinner, Miss M. waved at the waiter. “This meal is on me, Daisy.”
The words Oh no, I’ll pay for what I ate were almost out of Daisy’s mouth, and her fingers were already unsnapping her purse—when she remembered what was inside it. The Ute elder withdrew her hand and smiled sweetly at her matukach friend. “Why thank you, Millie—that’s very kind of you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hard Times Blues
There was no pretty way to put it: the Columbine Ranch was going under.
Charlie Moon had seen this black day coming for weeks, but the steely-eyed man who’d faced down snarling mountain lions, gun-toting hardcases—and even his aunt Daisy—had managed to find all manner of semiplausible reasons and farfetched excuses to avoid doing what had to be done. His most recent hope had been Samuel Reed’s forecast of an increase in the price of beef. But even if the successful investor’s insider information about a hoof-and-mouth outbreak in Argentina was right on the mark—and Moon figured that was a hundred-yard shot at a gnat’s eye with a slingshot—there were bills and wages that had to be paid today. After he attended to that grim task, there would be about enough left in his account at the Cattleman’s Bank to buy groceries and gasoline for a few weeks. The compulsive gambler was feeling like the village idiot for having bet his county back pay on the wager Reed had proposed to Scott Parris, but ten-to-one odds had been too enticing to pass up. And it seemed highly unlikely that Professor Reed would be dead or all bunged up when the sun came up on June 5. Problem was, by the time the rancher collected his hoped-for winnings, the Columbine cattle operation would be history.
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