Cut Throat

by Sharon Sala

  His phone was ringing as he got into his vehicle. A quick glance at the caller ID and he answered.

  “It’s me. What’s up, LaQueen?”

  The timbre of his secretary’s voice was up at least two notches when she spoke. He could tell that she was ticked about something.

  “Can you come to the office?” she asked.

  “Yes. What’s up?”

  “We got a phone call from County Jail. A repeat offender named Houston Franks just called for a bond.”

  Wilson frowned. He knew Franks by reputation.

  “What’s his bond?”

  “Two-hundred thousand.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “There is a whole list of them, including assault. He beat up his mother when she would not tell him where she had hidden her money.”

  “That’s a no-brainer for me. We don’t touch him,” Wilson said. “If he bonds out, it will have to be on somebody else’s dime.”

  LaQueen sighed, then lowered her voice.

  “That is what I knew you would say, but his brother is in the office and he is not leaving until he talks to you.”

  “I’m ten minutes away. I’ll be right there.” Then he added, “Are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  The hair rose on the back of Wilson’s neck. LaQueen was the kind of person who could handle anything and, usually, anyone.

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “More or less.”

  Her reluctance to elaborate told Wilson that the man was close by. He cursed beneath his breath. “Hang in there, honey. I’m on my way.”

  He put his vehicle in gear and stomped the accelerator, shooting out into traffic without caution. Within nine minutes of her call, he was pulling into the back of the building where his office was located. He got out at a run and then used his key to let himself in the alley door. He strode into the office just as a blond-haired man with a pockmarked face grabbed LaQueen’s arm and twisted her toward him.

  LaQueen pulled away, then slapped the man’s face just as Wilson stepped between them.

  “Get your goddamned hands off her,” Wilson snapped, then grabbed the man by the arm and in two moves slammed him belly-first against the wall and cuffed him.

  “Hey! What the hell do you—”

  “You assaulted my assistant. You’re going to jail.”

  A dark flush swept up the man’s neck all the way to his hairline.

  “I didn’t hurt her none. Hell…I’ve been sitting here for over an hour and getting the runaround. All I want is a bond for my brother.”

  “I assume you’re talking about Houston Franks?”

  “Yeah. I’m his younger brother, Jimmy.”

  “Well, Jimmy, I don’t bond out men who beat up their mothers.” He yanked at the handcuffs hard enough to make Jimmy Franks wince. “Or mess with men who try to fuck with me and mine. You shouldn’t have touched her.”

  “Come on, man…I need—”

  Wilson dragged Jimmy Franks into a chair, then turned to LaQueen, who, for once, was speechless.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath, then nodded.

  “Call the police,” Wilson said.

  Jimmy Franks started cursing as LaQueen picked up the phone.

  Wilson turned around and pointed a finger in his face.

  “Shut up,” he said softly. “Just shut the hell up.”

  Franks hushed, but the expression on his face held more than anger. There was a “get even” look in his eyes that Wilson had seen before. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last, that he and some badass had been unable to come to what might be considered a mutual understanding.

  A short while later, the second member of the Franks family was carted off to lockup. LaQueen watched until Jimmy and his police escort were out of sight before she turned to face Wilson.

  “I should have handled that better.”

  He frowned, then put his arms around her.

  “No, you should never have been put in that situation to begin with.” He gave her a quick hug, then pulled back until they were eye-to-eye. “I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

  “You can’t make that kind of promise,” she said.

  “Well, yes, I can…and will. You will not be in this office alone again.”

  LaQueen frowned. “I do not need a babysitter.”

  Wilson matched her frown for frown.

  “I’m not hiring a babysitter. I’m hiring another bounty hunter. You and I both know I could use the help. And when one of us is out, the other one will be on-site. Then, the next time some bastard like Jimmy Franks comes in, you won’t be facing him alone.”

  LaQueen sighed, then laid a hand along the side of his cheek.

  “You are a good man, Wilson McKay.”

  “Yeah…and I suspect you and my mother are the only two females to agree on that.”

  “That Cat Dupree still giving you fits?”

  “She’s not giving me anything,” he said.

  LaQueen smiled.

  “And therein lies your trouble…huh, boss?”

  Wilson shrugged. “Since I’ve never been able to lie to you and make you buy it, there’s no need to start now.”

  LaQueen shook her head.

  “I think you quit too soon.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.

  “I know what I know,” she said. “If she is worth it to you, you do not quit.”

  “There’s a difference between quitting and being fed up,” he said. “So, do we have a file with potential employees?”

  “No.”

  “Then we need to make one.”

  “Are we going to put an ad in the paper?”

  “No. I’ll make some calls.”

  “You’re the boss,” LaQueen said.

  * * *

  The sun was shining, which seemed to be a good sign to Tutuola as he entered the outskirts of Chihuahua. The city was so familiar; he was already anticipating stopping at his favorite restaurant. His belly growled as he stopped at a crossroads to let a man on a bicycle pass.

  The man eyed Solomon through the windows, then quickly looked away, as if shocked by what he’d seen.

  Solomon saw the man’s reaction, then cursed and frowned. He was used to people being shocked by his appearance. The tattoos were fierce. In the past, he’d used them to elevate his badass image. But now, with the burn scars and only half a head of hair, there was an air of pity that came with the shock. That, he didn’t like. Along with a new home, he was going to have to think about some kind of makeover.

  When the man on the bike was through the intersection, Solomon accelerated past him. The first thing on his agenda was breakfast, then a Realtor. There were always places for sale to anyone holding enough money. And this being the off-season for tourists, he might get himself a deal. It was about time something started working in his favor.

  By his watch, it was almost noon, but he hadn’t reset it since he’d left Texas, and had no idea what time zone he was in or what time it really was. However, he would deal with that later. Whatever time it was, he was still hungry.

  As he headed for Abuela’s, he kept checking out places he saw for sale, along with areas that were more remote than others. He had no desire to mix with the population. His requirements were no neighbors, no neighborhood, no lawn to care for. He wanted a place apart, and he had the money to buy it.

  American dollars went a long way in Mexico, compared to other countries. The way he figured it, he could live comfortably down here for the rest of his life. Finally he tired of shopping for real estate and began looking for a place that served food. Abuela’s was on the other side of the city, and he was too hungry to drive that far. By the time he found a place to eat, he was beginning to hurt. He was going to have to squeeze in a visit to a doctor between food and a Realtor.

  He wheeled into a parking area beside a small, single-story buil
ding and parked. As he exited the car, the scent of tortillas cooking made his stomach growl. When he entered, he had to duck to miss strings of drying red chili peppers hanging from the rafters. He grunted with satisfaction as he noticed there was also a small bar in the corner of the room. A half-dozen posters advertising different beers had been tacked to the walls, and opposite the bar there was an old woman bent over a small fire, slapping raw, uncooked tortillas from hand to hand until they were the desired size and thickness. At that point she flopped them down on an old griddle, letting them cook briefly on one side, then the other, before adding them to a growing stack of freshly cooked tortillas on a small platter beside her.

  “Hola,” Solomon said.

  The old woman didn’t look up. He frowned and, this time, yelled.

  “Hey! Old woman!”

  “Don’t yell at her. She cannot hear you.”

  Solomon turned around just as a heavyset man came out from a back room.

  Solomon frowned, then shrugged. No need to make an enemy in the place he intended to live. At least, not yet.

  “No offense meant.”

  The man stared at Solomon long and hard, making no effort to hide his curiosity at Solomon’s appearance. Finally he nodded.

  “None taken,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  “Bring me a plate of tortillas and beans.”

  “You maybe want some carne asada, too?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Solomon muttered, and sat down, then pointed toward the bar.

  “And a beer.”

  The heavyset man eyed Solomon again, as if trying to decide if it was wise to turn his back to him, then finally nodded before moving toward the bar.

  Solomon stretched wearily, then sighed as he kicked back in the chair. Things were finally looking up.

  * * *

  Cat flew past the skeletal remains of the gas station and took the left fork, confident she was still on the right road. As she passed, a roosting turkey buzzard took flight.

  By now the sun was directly overhead. She glanced at the gas gauge, then frowned. She had a five-gallon can of extra fuel in the back. It wouldn’t be enough to get her back to Dominguez and the baby. She’d have to find more fuel. As isolated as Adobe Blanco was, they must have a gas station for the locals.

  As she took a curve in the road, her cell phone slid over and bumped into the console. Several hours ago it had begun beeping at her, signaling unanswered voice mail, so she’d turned it off. There would be time later to check her messages—after she’d located Pilar’s family. She picked up the phone and dropped it into a cup holder. When she looked back up, she saw the rooftops of a small village on the horizon.

  “Finally,” she muttered and, while she wasn’t into depending on anyone else for help, she couldn’t help but add, “Please, God, help me find that baby’s family.”

  A few minutes later she pulled into the village. As she did, her hopes dropped. Adobe Blanco consisted of less than two dozen houses, all of which were single-story, flat-roofed adobe. Less than half had ever been whitewashed. An emaciated dog wagged its tail as she passed by the doorstep where it was lying. A pair of scrawny chickens pecked in the dirt, while nearby, a woman walked past, balancing a large basket on her head. Cat couldn’t tell what was in it but admired her ability. If she could balance her life as well as that woman balanced her load, things would be a lot simpler.

  The little village square consisted of a large communal water well. Without electricity, the water was drawn from its depths the old-fashioned way, with a rope and bucket. Cat’s frown deepened as she drove even slower. There were no obvious businesses that would give her a stopping point to begin her search. All she could do was get out and hope to God someone here spoke English.

  Two women and a young boy who appeared to be in his early teens emerged from the back of one of the houses as Cat pulled to a stop. By the time she got out of her car, the women had stopped, as well, and were staring, obviously surprised by her unexpected appearance.

  Cat could tell they were uneasy, but there was no time for delicacy.

  “Habla inglés?”

  Both women shook their heads. Cat frowned but wasn’t ready to give up. Her gaze slid to the boy.

  He shrugged.

  “Un poquito,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger together to indicate his meaning.

  “Is there anyone else here who speaks English?”

  “Padre Francisco.”

  “Where is he?” Cat asked.

  The boy pointed down the road. “The…how you say…temple.”

  “You mean…church?”

  The boy smiled and nodded. “Sí. Sí. Church.”

  “How far?” Cat asked.

  “Maybe five minutes if you walk.”

  Cat nodded. “Gracias.”

  “De nada, señorita,” he said.

  Cat got back in the car and drove in the direction the boy had indicated. Within a couple of minutes, she saw the church in the distance.

  “Okay, God…please let this work.”

  * * *

  Padre Francisco was sitting on a bench beneath a Joshua tree in back of the church, deep in prayer for a sick child in the village, when he heard the sound of an approaching car. The smooth, high-pitched whine of the engine told him it would be a stranger, because no one in this part of the country owned a car that ran as smoothly. He stood, dusted off his robes, then headed for the front of the church. Although the day was sunny, it was cold. In fact, the older Padre Francisco grew, the colder his winters became. He shivered slightly, then poked his hands inside the sleeves of his robes, curious as to who was coming.

  Adobe Blanco had been Padre Francisco’s first church. He’d arrived in this dusty little no-place over thirty years ago, confident that, once he’d paid his dues to God and the church, he would be assigned to a place more befitting his goals.

  The chances had come, but Padre Francisco hadn’t gone. He’d been unable to tear himself away from the combination of people and poverty. In truth, he’d learned true humility here, where the only thing people had of any value were their good names.

  And so, when he came around the corner of the building and saw the dark, dusty vehicle pulling up at the church, he knew he’d been right. It was a stranger.

  To his surprise, the stranger was a lone woman, and when she got out of the vehicle, his first impression was that her beauty was striking but she was far too thin. No one came to Adobe Blanco on purpose, so most likely she was just lost. But when she got closer, and he saw the set of her jaw and the fiery gleam in her eyes, he reassessed his opinion. She might still be lost, but there was an anger in this woman the likes of which he’d never seen.

  * * *

  Cat was looking toward the front door of the church when she realized the man she’d come looking for was already outside. She paused as the priest came toward her and thought to herself that he was taller than most Latinos she knew. His stride was slow but measured, and his face was lined and leathery from the years and the chill of the season. By the time they were face-to-face, she had to look up to meet his gaze.

  “Padre Francisco?”

  He only nodded.

  “You are American?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you lost, señorita?”

  She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite make it to her lips.

  “I’ve been lost most of my life,” she said. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  The odd, husky quality of her voice was explained once he saw the ugly scar on her neck. He sighed. Life was hard, no matter who you were or where you came from.

  “Then how can I help you?” he asked.

  “Do you know a young woman named Pilar Mendoza? She would have a baby girl less than a year old.”

  Cat was more than slightly surprised by the smile that spread across his face. It drastically changed the somberness of his expression.

  “Sí! Sí! The little mother.”

  Cat flinched. The
isolation of her life had not prepared her for being the bearer of bad news to anyone but bail jumpers. Still, it was why she’d come.

  “It is cold today,” the priest said. “Please…we will talk more inside…okay?”

  The priest’s smile, as well as his gentle touch, was almost painful to Cat. Still, she let him lead her inside the small one-room church.

  Once inside, it was obvious that the priest’s life was no better or worse than the other people of Adobe Blanco. The normal ornamentation one expected to see in Catholic churches was absent here. Behind a pulpit there was a single wooden cross hanging on the wall, bearing the crucified figure of Jesus, and there was a small figurine of the Virgin Mary in a niche by the doorway.

  The priest dipped his fingers in a small metal bowl of holy water, made the sign of the cross, then genuflected, before leading the way down the center aisle to the pews in the front.

  “Please…sit,” he said.

  Cat sat down as the priest moved to a small potbellied stove near the wall and stirred the coals before adding a small stick of wood. When he was done, he sat down beside her.

  “Now then, you mentioned Pilar. Are you a friend?”

  Cat took a deep breath. God, help me do this right.

  “No, Padre. I never met her. Does she have family here?”

  Padre Francisco frowned. It seemed strange that this woman would ask about a woman she didn’t know, then inquire about a family.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Maybe if you explained your true reason for—”

  Cat swallowed nervously. “She’s dead.”

  The priest reeled as if he’d been slapped. Again he made the sign of the cross as he whispered some prayer Cat didn’t understand.

  “Dear God…what happened? How do you know this?”

  Unaware than her fingers were curled into fists, Cat started talking, wanting to get it all said without coming undone.

  “I found her and the baby in the desert last night.”

  Tears rolled down the old priest’s face as he reached for Cat’s hands and held them firmly in his own.

  “She left only two days ago to meet a man who would take her to her husband, Jorge, who is working for a vegetable grower in the San Fernando valley in California.”