Holy Guacamole!

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “You’re sure it was Sunday night?” Luz asked.

  “What do you care, anyway? You act like a cop, but she don’t look like no cop.” Manny’s ex pointed at me. “Since when are cops helpin’ gringo women hire hits. Some new battered-wife protection deal? If it is, gimme your card. I had a few guys beat me up. Manny included.”

  “I’m not a cop,” said Luz.

  “And I don’t want my husband murdered,” I added. What if Jason ever heard about this? I glared at Luz.

  “So you’re both liars. You want any more information, go find Manny. He’s probably shacked up with some puta in Ciudad Chihuahua.”

  “Do you think she was misleading us?” I asked shortly thereafter as I started the car.

  Luz shrugged. “Hard to tell. Probably not. He must have had a car, and I didn’t see one in the yard. But then he could have gone straight out of Brazen Babes Saturday night, walked into Gubenko’s house, and taken him out. Be nice if we had a witness. For sure, we gotta go see Boris tonight.”

  “For sure, I’ve got to go home and get some sleep,” I said wearily. “What time do you want me to pick you up? Definitely not before ten.”

  “What we need,” said Luz, who didn’t seem to care about my state of sleep deprivation, “is a new suspect, or someone to break Boris’s alibi.” I drove, and she grumbled to herself. “You notice anything in the paper about some guy beat up in an alley downtown?”

  I didn’t remember. There were so many stories of violence in the paper and on TV then; it wasn’t likely I would. In Africa and the Middle East people were killing each other off by the thousands. A few broken bones in an El Paso alley wouldn’t be a big story. Which is a sad comment on our time. We’re becoming desensitized. I wondered about people in the Middle Ages. Those had certainly been violent times. But, with no newspapers and TV, they wouldn’t have known what was happening forty miles away, and by the time they realized what was happening in their own areas, they were either dead or running for their lives. Medieval people probably didn’t live long enough to become desensitized.

  “Hey, you’re not asleep at the wheel, are you?” Luz asked.

  “No, I was comparing violence and the public perception of it in our time to what it must have been in the Middle Ages.”

  “Terrific. That’s going to be a big help in finding out who killed the Russian opera guy. Not that I miss him. He was a real noisy SOB. Say, maybe those two students of his killed him. With one on either side of the pillow, that would work.”

  “They were taking their clothes off in public when it happened,” I replied. “They worked until four. Didn’t you hear what Marcus said?”

  “If you believe what Marcus said. Or any of these upright citizens we’ve been talking to.”

  “They are a distasteful lot, aren’t they?” We were quiet for a moment, thinking about the people we’d interviewed just lately. “Since we’re in the Lower Valley, we could visit one of the missions. That might be uplifting,” I suggested.

  “You’re kidding, right? Uplifting? The Spaniards and their priests just about killed off the Indians—took their land, turned them into slaves, made ’em wear clothes in hot weather, worked ’em to death or killed them with smallpox, cut off their hands when they rebelled. You didn’t know that with all your history reading? Now we want to put up the world’s biggest statue of Don Juan de Onate and his horse. Figure that out.”

  I sighed. “I do know about Spanish treatment of the Indians, but you evidently don’t know that Onate was born in Mexico—Zacatecas. His father was a Spaniard, but his mother was a direct descendant of Montezuma. What could be more Mexican? As for violence, both the sides were violent. The Aztecs ate their victims after cutting their hearts out.”

  “Okay. Truce. But I don’t want to visit a mission.”

  “Fine,” I agreed. “Let’s go back to El Paso and get some sleep.”

  There was silence for a mile or so as I bumped over the unpaved road, and then the pot-holed road, toward I-10. “By the way, did you know that Ysleta used to be the county seat?” I couldn’t help asking. We were passing a sign directing us to the Ysleta Mission. “The people from El Paso hired Mexicans to cross the river and vote, so El Paso won the county seat by fraud.”

  “Right. Ysleta was where the Mexican Americans lived. They got screwed by the Anglos. Again.”

  “Why, Luz,” I exclaimed. “You’re an activist.”

  “Nah,” she said. “Just a woman short on sleep and long on bum knees. That smelly goop of your husband’s isn’t half as good at killing pain as my hot-chile salve, and don’t, for Christ’s sake, start telling me about the Aztecs and chile.”

  I grinned at her. “They did have some interesting uses for it in the old days, but I’ll save that information for later.”

  Luz groaned and closed her eyes.

  34

  Boris Loses It

  Luz

  Of course she didn’t show up on time. I had to call her and roust her out of bed. How much sleep can one woman need? I wondered as I waited. She was probably showering, dressing, and eating. By the time we got to Brazen Babes, Ignatenko would have picked his Friday night lay, and we’d be locked out until he came up for air. It wasn’t that I thought he’d killed Vladik. His alibi seemed pretty solid. I just wanted to know why he sent us after Salvador Barrientos, who’d ended up in jail. Maybe that was just what Boris wanted. Maybe Vladik and Barrientos wouldn’t cut him in on the border smuggling route, so he got even. Like he got even with the poor slob who had been taking bets and selling dope at Brazen Babes without giving Boris his cut. Nice guy.

  Well, finally. She pulled up in front, and I headed out. Tonight I was carrying a gun. The cane was good, and I had that too. The dog was good, and I put her on the leash and took her with me. You couldn’t have too much back up when your partner thought biting a drug dealer’s finger was a big deal. Of course, she’d broken it first. Poor Barrientos. If he ever got out of jail, he’d be the laughing stock of the trade, kidnapped by two women in his own house. Of course, if he ratted out his bosses, he’d be a dead laughing stock. His future didn’t look rosy. Maybe we could do the same for Boris, although I didn’t see how at the moment. Unless this Carmen said, “Hey, you think I did the dirty with Boris. No way. Why would I?” Or something helpful like that.

  “Hey, Caro. Think you can find your way to the strip club without directions?”

  “Maybe,” she replied. “I feel much better after a decent night’s sleep, even if I got it at the wrong time. Why is Smack going with us?”

  “Backup,” I replied, closing the door behind the dog, which settled down for a nice snooze. When I first got her, she used to want to stick her head out the window, and she liked it when I drove fast. Now she’d rather take a nap. Wouldn’t you know old age would catch up with her when I was finally starting to get back on my feet. Smack wasn’t going to be up to much bounty hunting in the future. Last night had been hard on her. I think her jaw was hurting after staying clamped on Barrientos for so long.

  “Well, you’re quiet tonight,” Carolyn said to me. She was actually taking the right turns on her own. So far, anyway. Feeling pretty frisky after all that sleep. I don’t sleep that much myself, so my time drags most days. I have to say, since Carolyn showed up at my door, with her improbable take on crime, things had been looking up. She was a pain in the ass, but she provided a few laughs and a lot of surprises.

  “We’ll talk to Carmen first,” I said.

  “I wonder if that’s her real name. And if she knows she’s named for the heroine of a fabulous opera. Have you ever seen it?”

  I hadn’t, so she hummed some music, which, for a wonder, sounded kind of familiar. Then she wanted to tell me the story. Jesus, that was a lot of fun.

  “Doesn’t sound like good stripping music to me,” I remarked.

  “Oh, you’re wrong. It’s very sexy music. Maybe I’ll recommend it to Mr. Ignatenko. Some music by Bizet might add a little class to h
is establishment.”

  “Class isn’t what he’s after. Take my word for it. And I doubt if she thinks of herself as named after an opera character she’s probably never heard of. In fact, most of those girls use fake names.”

  “I can understand that,” said Carolyn. “One wouldn’t want one’s mother to see her daughter’s name in the paper and say, ‘I can’t believe it. Could that be my Dora advertised as an exotic dancer?’ ”

  “Dora?” I had to laugh. We pulled into the parking lot, which was packed with the cars of randy Friday-night guys, and whisked right by Marcus, who said we couldn’t bring the dog in.

  “We’re just going to see Boris, man,” I replied. “We’re not going to sic the dog on your customers.”

  “What about Carmen?” Carolyn whispered.

  “Right. Carmen. We want to talk to Carmen first, Marcus.” Smack had been sniffing him, and the poor guy looked terrified. “Sit, Smack,” I ordered. “Our friend here has to bring Carmen out.”

  Marcus pointed a finger with deformed knuckles over at a woman with purple-red hair and big boobs. She was waggling them at a leathery-looking dude in a three-sizes-too-big polyester jacket with string tie hung under the gaping neck of his shirt. “Carmen,” Marcus croaked.

  Carolyn, Smack, and I went over to interrupt Carmen’s chat with her admirer. Of course, she told us to get lost. Carolyn looked the john straight in the eye and said, “You’re HIV positive, aren’t you?” The poor guy tried to deny it, but Carolyn said, “Oh yes, you are. I’ve seen you at the Tillman Clinic on AIDS day. Are you trying to seduce this young woman without telling her the risks? Shame on you!”

  Carmen got up so fast, she knocked her chair over. Carolyn then took her arm and said, “Come along, my dear. You can’t be too careful about sexual partners. I’m so glad I was here to rescue you,” all the time dragging Carmen toward the side of the room.

  The stripper finally dug in her heels and said, “Hey, all my johns gotta use a rubber.”

  “One in ten AIDS cases occur even after the use of a condom,” Carolyn told her. “Did you know that there’s a city in France, in Gascony, I believe, named Condom? You have to wonder whether the place was named after the prophylactic or vice versa.”

  Carmen was gaping at her. I may have been doing a bit of gaping myself. Had Carolyn really seen that guy at the Tillman Clinic, and if so, what had she been doing there? And what about the city in France? Condom, for God’s sake? Someone asks you where you’re from and you have to say Condom?

  “We did have a question for you, my dear,” said Carolyn. “Were you in Boris’s office last Saturday night and Sunday morning?”

  “Jesus, you gonna tell me he’s got AIDS too?” asked Carmen, looking seriously alarmed.

  “Can I take that as a yes?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, me and Boris got it on Saturday. I dunno. Three or four times. That SOB! He claims his dong—”

  “Dong?”

  “Penis,” I translated.

  “Yeah. He says it’s too long for a rubber,” said the indignant Carmen. “If he—”

  “I have no information on Boris’s health,” said Carolyn, “but it wouldn’t hurt to get tested as a precaution. Ladies of the evening can’t be too careful in these perilous times.”

  Carmen was still trying to decipher Carolyn’s last remarks while we sailed toward Boris’s office, Smack in tow, Marcus lumbering after us, but not too close. My guess was that he’s terrified of dogs—and him the guy who watched 1001 Dalmatians with his kids. Go figure. “What were you doing in the Tillman Clinic?” I asked Carolyn.

  “I’ve never been there in my life, but I do read the newspapers.” Then she stopped dead to study the lighting, after which she said to Marcus, “Those lights are dangerous.”

  He looked perplexed. I barged right into the office without knocking. “How come you sent me after Barrientos?” I asked. I sounded mean, so Smack growled.

  “Get that damn dog outa here,” Boris shouted. “Marcus, get hold of that dog.” Instead of obeying, Marcus backed up.

  “Barrientos didn’t kill your pal Vladik,” I said. “They had a nice alien-smuggling deal set up together. And Barrientos was singing mariachi and ranchero numbers in Juarez while Vladik was taking his last gasp, which was probably more puke than air.”

  “Barrientos lying,” said Boris. “Why you bothering me again? I not inviting you.” Then he caught sight of Carolyn. “You. Why you taking my dancers away?” he shouted. “Giving ideas about being good girls.”

  “Slave labor is against the law in this country, Mr. Ignatenko,” she said calmly.

  “My girls is none of your business.”

  “Did you realize that those pulsing lights you have on the stage could cause seizures? Epileptics, people prone to migraines—you could find yourself fighting an expensive lawsuit if one of your customers is affected.”

  “Shut up. No one getting sick my club.”

  “What if an epileptic swallowed his tongue and died? And in such a sleazy situation. The family would be furious.”

  “Trouble-making bitch,” he snarled.

  Now this is fun, I thought, not quite sure whether she was being dumb or gutsy. Boris looked like he was about to have a seizure.

  “I imagine they’d call the police and write to the newspaper, not to mention hiring a lawyer to sue your socks off.”

  “Get out my place,” he said, taking a threatening step in her direction.

  “I would certainly try to get even if I were in their shoes,” said Carolyn. “You should change the lighting as soon as possible.”

  I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t.

  “I show you getting even,” said Boris, and he hit her right in the eye with a round-house punch.

  Without a word, Carolyn collapsed on the floor, which was none too clean. She’d be upset when she came to. I drew my gun and assumed a two-handed stance, aiming for his nose.

  “Get gun, Fats,” said Boris to his bouncer, who had been watching the drama with an anxious look on his face.

  “You make a move, Marcus, and I’ll sic the dog on you.” I didn’t need to deal with two guys at once, one extra tall ghoul and his extra fat bouncer. Marcus swallowed hard and nodded his head. The dog, having been directed to do so, was looking at him. Marcus started to sweat.

  “I fire you,” Boris threatened.

  “You didn’t say nothing about fightin’ dogs, Boris. I’m afraid of dogs.”

  I’d fished my cell phone out, one handed, and called 911. “I’m at Brazen Babes,” I told the operator. “It’s a strip club off . . . Good, I’m glad you’ve heard of it. I got a woman who’s had her lights punched out.” Since I couldn’t hold both phone and gun in the same hand, I couldn’t check to see that Carolyn was breathing, but her color was okay, except for the eye. That was going to be something else. “I want the police here to pick up the guy who punched her. They’ll need backup. This isn’t the YMCA. This place got an address, Marcus?”

  Marcus didn’t know, and Boris wouldn’t say, so we stood around until we heard the sirens. Boris then muttered, “You’re being real sorry you do this.”

  “Not as sorry as you, Boris. You shouldn’t have sent me on that wild goose chase, not that I mind putting Barrientos in jail, but he got real fresh with my friend there. And you sure shouldn’t have hit her. She’s a food columnist, a professor’s wife, and a member of Opera at the Pass. You don’t go around hitting women like that.”

  “If she so good lady, what she doing my club?” he responded sullenly. He’d started to sweat too.

  “And then there’s the deal you made with Manny. Remember? The guy you had him kick half to death in an alley downtown? The cops are going to look into that. Hell, Boris, you’ll be lucky if they deport you. Or maybe that won’t be so lucky. Didn’t you say you deserted from the Russian army? What do they do to deserters? Shoot ’em?”

  Boris’s fists were clenching. He was probably mad enough to jump me, and I was b
eing a dumb shit for baiting him, but it was fun. Fortunately, reinforcements showed up before I had to shoot the sucker. Having a grand jury asking me questions about a shooting would have been a royal pain. I’d been there.

  35

  First Black Eye

  Carolyn

  I regained consciousness quite rapidly—at least I think so. What I didn’t do was move a muscle or open my eyes. My whole head ached dreadfully, and I had to wonder if he’d given me a concussion or fractured my skull. What an amazing thing. That a man would punch me in the eye. Even if I had been making irritating remarks. Occasionally I make irritating remarks to Jason. He never punches me. And of course, I should have risen to lend assistance to Luz. I could tell by the conversation that she was holding two large, unfriendly men at bay with one gun and a dog. And she was baiting Mr. Ignatenko. Obviously neither one of us had an ounce of sense. Look what baiting him had gotten me.

  Once the sirens wailed into our area and then fell silent, once I could hear the voices of the policemen who had responded to Luz’s call, once someone laid fingers on my neck to determine whether or not I had died, I did open my eyes. “I thought you were playing possum,” said Luz. She was the person taking my pulse. “Thank God you had enough sense to stay that way. A couple more remarks from you and Boris would have killed us both.”

  “You should talk,” I retorted. I tried to raise myself on one elbow, but immediately felt dizzy and edged back down.

  “That’s right, ma’am,” said a young policeman, who was standing beside Luz. “You just stay right where you are. You’re gonna have some shiner there. You wanna press assault charges against the man who hit you?”

  “I do, and I want to testify at his trial and see him led away in handcuffs.”

  “Well, you’ll get to see that last in just a few minutes. What about the fat guy? Did he hurt you too?”