Coyote

by Linda Barnes

  “I see the bastard all the time.”

  “I seen him, lady.”

  There were at least ten of them circling, four blocking us from the cab. Another bottle broke and this time it was no accident. The jagged lip of a beer bottle caught the sleeve of Dee’s shirt. She gasped. I struck out with my pipe and heard an answering growl of surprise and pain.

  “Toss your bag over their heads,” I ordered Dee, “and run for the cab. I’ll hold them off.”

  She grabbed at her arm and I wondered if the glass had cut her badly. The handbag fell in front of her, its broken strap snaking toward the crowd. Her beads got another tug and broke, spilling on the patchy grass. I kept her from diving after them. I was afraid if I knelt to retrieve the handbag, the pack would pile on top of me.

  I swung the pipe in a circle to clear some space. A bottle glanced off my shoulder and I whirled to face a nonexistent antagonist.

  I was breathing hard. With effort, I slowed it down.

  “Okay,” I said loudly, using my cop voice. “Clear a path. Me and the lady are walking away. Whatever you find on the ground, you keep. Fair deal, okay?” I had Dee by the wrist. She struggled feebly. I had forgotten how small she was. My right hand clutched the chunk of pipe. It had felt cool when I’d first grabbed it; now it felt as sticky and damp as my palm.

  “What about my ten bucks?” the drunk leaning on the trash can said loudly.

  “On the ground,” I said. “Party’s over.”

  “Don’t let ’em go till you see money,” somebody advised with sodden wisdom. “They got jewelry? Diamonds?”

  “You been watching too much TV,” I said, edging closer to the cab, waving the pipe. “Everybody’s rich on TV. Me, I drive a hack.”

  “Yeah, what about rich bitch here?”

  “She dropped her jewelry. You’re stepping on it.”

  A couple of the truly stoned sank to all fours, but the rest weren’t fooled. I ran my tongue over my dry upper lip. I wasn’t sure I could talk my way out without cracking somebody hard with the pipe—and I didn’t know who might have a knife, or a cheap gun. I was scanning the crowd at hand level, looking for the flash of metal, when the cruiser turned the corner.

  There’s a time for self-reliance and a time to yell for help.

  I screamed my lungs out, and the siren’s answering wail never sounded so good.

  Two

  Dee hadn’t been afraid of the gang, but she was terrified of the cops. Now she grabbed my arm and tried to yank me toward the cab. The pack dispersed in the direction of the basketball court. The chunk of lead pipe suddenly felt heavy, so I lowered my arm and concentrated on breathing. The back of my shirt was soaked with sweat. Dee tugged at my sleeve again, but I shook her off.

  A cop so young he had to be a rookie burst out of the charging unit and collared a drunk—definitely not one of the ringleaders, who all seemed to have melted into the misty heat. The cop pretzeled his captive into a choke hold and marched him close enough that I could smell him.

  “This guy rob you girls, or what?” he yelled, adrenaline raising his voice a hundred decibels.

  Calling me “girl” while I had a length of pipe in my hand was a dumb move. His second dumb move was presuming he knew the score. Never anticipate, they taught me at the academy. No assumptions. Your opening line is always What’s going on?

  “Let’s get out of here,” Dee muttered. She tried to whisper, but the words blared.

  “What’s the hurry?” the cop said in a less sympathetic tone. “You got some ID on you?”

  “This your bag?” The rookie’s partner, a black woman with high-piled graying hair, pulled Dee’s battered handbag out from under a bush.

  “Yeah, uh, no,” Dee said, swallowing and sounding like she’d been practicing all her life to be a suspect.

  “Maybe we ought to go back to the station and see if we can sort this out,” the male cop said, relaxing his grip on the sputtering drunk.

  “No,” Dee said too quickly. “No. I, uh, was taking a cab, and uh, we got lost. Stopped to ask directions. No trouble. No problem.”

  The drunk, a wiry coffee-colored individual who could have been any age from twenty to fifty, picked that moment to stagger, point a shaky finger at Dee, and blurt, “She steal money, that bitch. She steal my ten dollar. I make charge.”

  “Carlotta,” Dee whispered urgently, proving beyond a doubt that she remembered my name, “can’t you do something, for chrissake? Please?”

  Now, I don’t generally take to the role of rescued damsel, but I had been genuinely pleased to see these particular cops. Initially, I’d felt a sense of camaraderie, a desire to slap hands and commend them for a job well done. My enthusiasm melted as it became obvious that they were determined to mistake us for a couple of suburban hausfraus slumming for a dope buy. I could practically see the thought balloons over their heads as they all but ignored the homeboys and zeroed in on the two of us.

  I was surprised neither of them recognized Dee. She’s been on the cover of People.

  The drunk kept shouting that Dee had robbed him, and he wanted to “make charge.” English was not his primary tongue and “make charge” was about all the cops could get out of him. I did not offer to translate. The more Dee protested her innocence, the guiltier she sounded.

  There was no ID in the handbag. No wallet. No money. A comb and a couple of hairpins. Picked clean.

  Still, if Dee hadn’t given two different names—Jane Adams the first time they asked and Joan the second—we probably wouldn’t have won a free ride in a cruiser.

  I backed up her story and kept quiet about her name, but I sure wished she could have dreamed up a better lie. Her tale of losing an address, losing her way, and forgetting her handbag sounded definitely fishy. As a citizen and a cabbie, capable of proving it with my driver’s license, my private investigator’s photostat, and other assorted paper, I could have walked. But I hung around; I wanted to see how Dee slid out of it. I was also curious as to why she’d gotten into it. And she was gripping my arm so hard, I wasn’t sure I could escape.

  I don’t get many chances to ride in the rear seat of a cruiser anymore. I’d forgotten such amenities as the lack of inside door-handles. Three in the back was a definite crowd. I hoped Dee’s drunken accuser wouldn’t vomit.

  “So how’ve you been?” I said once we got settled behind the mesh screen, with Dee practically sitting on my lap in her effort to avoid contact with the drunk. The cruiser could have used a giant-sized can of air freshener. The drunk added nothing pleasant to the bouquet.

  “Hey, I thought you just picked her up in the cab,” the female cop said accusingly, pivoting her head to stare at me balefully over her shoulder.

  “I did,” I shot back. “I’m making light conversation.”

  “Carlotta,” Dee murmured urgently, “can you help me out here? I just can’t have this happen, you know? Can’t you do something?”

  “You’re doing fine. Keep it up, you’ll spend the night in a cell—” Her warning glare stopped me from using her real name.

  “Isn’t there some way? Weren’t you a—”

  “No whispering back there,” the male cop warned.

  “No whispering?” I repeated. “You sure that’s illegal?” The drunk was praying to the Virgin in rapid-fire Spanish.

  “Smart-assing isn’t gonna help,” Dee snapped.

  She had a point. “Are you taking us to D?” I asked the cops.

  “Why?”

  “I wondered if you’d mind a little detour. That way I can save you some paperwork, maybe even a reprimand. Those written reprimands sure look bad when it comes time for the sergeant’s exam.”

  I had their attention. The rookie drove more slowly. The woman peered at me through slitted eyes. I started naming names. Neither of them looked impressed until I got to Mooney.

  When I was a cop I worked for Mooney. He was a sergeant then. He’s a lieutenant now and unlikely to rise further through the ranks. He’s to
o good a street cop—and too lousy an ass-kisser.

  Mooney owes me, but I hate to call in favors because the chance to help out my former boss rarely comes my way. On the other hand, Dee and I go way back, and her finally booming career probably didn’t need the notoriety of a bust.

  The woman cop knew Mooney. She was starting to figure out that she had something a little unusual on board. She kept staring at Dee like she was on the verge of remembering something important.

  I wasn’t sure if Mooney was working nights, although he has a rep for pulling rotten shifts. He lives with his mother. I’ve met her, and to me she’s a perfect excuse to demand twenty-four-hour-a-day duty.

  When Mooney is in his office, he’s over at the old D Street station, since that’s where they stash the homicide squad.

  I tried to talk the cops into making the trip to Southie, but the male cop refused, and I couldn’t really blame him.

  I gave Dee an encouraging smile despite the fetid air and overcrowded conditions. There was another chance, admittedly slimmer. Mooney often worked out of Headquarters on Berkley Street. That was hardly a major detour, and I talked the woman into giving it a try.

  We arrived at the station at the same time as a wag-onload of hookers. One of them waved at me, but I didn’t recognize her under a ratty blond wig.

  I didn’t recognize the desk sergeant either. He gave us scant attention, preferring the charms of the sidewalk hostesses. The woman cop finally cornered him and they held a whispered conference while Dee fidgeted and the drunk said thirty-seven Hail Marys.

  “So is he in or not?” I asked when the drunk started on number thirty-eight.

  “Upstairs,” the woman ordered.

  We tagged along behind the prostitutes. How do women manage to walk in five-inch spikes? I marveled. Maybe they’re the latest in non-concealed defensive weapons.

  I saw Mooney before I heard him. He just stood there, arms folded—neat striped shirt tucked into faded chinos—watching the parade. Someone must have phoned and warned him.

  “New job?” he asked, tongue firmly planted in cheek. I was so glad to see him, I almost gave him an unprofessional hug. He smelled of cigarettes, having taken up the habit again after almost a year off. I gave it up ages ago, but the secondhand smoke smelled great, especially after the cruiser.

  Dee had slipped on her shades and they were making her less than inconspicuous. Never wear sunglasses at night unless you want to look like a drug addict. She buttoned her cape in spite of the sweltering heat, and tried to fade into a wall.

  If I was going to help her, I needed to cut her loose before some fan wised up—or worse, a jailhouse reporter. I drew Mooney into a corner and used up a good many points, promising to explain later.

  If Mooney and I had met any other way, I’m sure we’d have wound up in bed by now. But for years I steeled myself against thinking about him as a possible bedmate, and by the time he finally became accessible, the chemistry just wasn’t there.

  Like sleeping with a brother, I tell him whenever he asks me out.

  Other than my feeling that intimacy would be incestuous, I have nothing against Mooney. He’s good-looking if you like them tall, solid, and Irish. He’s got deceptively mild brown eyes that can freeze you with a glance. He’s close to forty, but you can only tell by the fine little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His waistline hasn’t expanded.

  Mooney explains our lack of romance in other terms. He says I flat out prefer outlaws to cops anyday—my current beau, Sam Gianelli, son of a Boston mob underboss, is a case in point.

  Mooney said a few words to the officers who’d brought us in and they made apologetic noises. Dee’s accuser wound up with a lecture on public intoxication that he was too far gone to understand. The cops offered him a ride back to the park, which I thought was decent of them.

  Mooney said he’d be more than happy to drive me and my friend. I would have opted for the smelly cruiser and a quick escape from his close scrutiny, but before I could decline, Dee said thank you in a fervent tone. Mooney hustled us out the back door and commandeered a new unit with working A/C. His old Buick is a wreck.

  Dee kept her face shielded from the light, grabbed the back door handle, and ducked quickly inside. I sat up front and aimed all the vents full on my face.

  We drove back to the scene of the non-crime.

  Dee mumbled her thanks to Mooney as she left the car, head bent, cape fastened, dark glasses in place.

  “I sure like your new stuff, Dee,” Mooney said with a warm smile. He squealed the tires when he pulled away. Boys will be boys.

  “Shit,” Dee said, with a pleased grin, as she squeezed behind the meter into the front seat of my cab. “How’d he recognize me?”

  I didn’t answer because I was busy staring at the red ticket plastered to the cab’s windshield. Parking at a hydrant is a hundred-buck fine, and the cab company sure won’t pay it.

  Like my mother always used to say, “Don’t mix in.”

  Three

  I started the motor. Dee pushed back the torn sleeve of her shirt and a thin red trickle oozed down her arm.

  “Got a Kleenex or something?” she asked.

  “Try the dash.” My pal, Gloria, dispatcher and co-owner of the Green & White Cab Company, stocks the cabs with first-aid kits, but some of the bozos who pilot them steal anything, including Band-Aids.

  Dee rummaged in silence for a while, then said, “Here’s one of those things you clean your hands with after you eat Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

  “If it’s still in the wrapper, use it,” I advised.

  Caught by a traffic light near the Public Garden, I watched as Dee wiped her arm and cranked down the passenger window, presumably to toss the used towelette. Instead she kept a tight grip on it, leaned back, and giggled. The sound echoed off the dividing shield.

  “Something funny?” I asked.

  “I was just thinking I’d probably get arrested for littering,” she said. “Jesus,” she gasped, squeezing out words between eruptions of laughter, “of all the cabs in all the cities in all the world … Is that how it goes? You know, that line from Casablanca. Bogie says it. ‘Of all the gin joints in all the cities in all the—’”

  “‘You had to walk into mine,’” I quoted with feeling. “Calm down.” Some people throw giggle-fits when they realize they won’t have to spend the night in jail. Relief takes mysterious forms.

  “Shit, I’m sorry, Carlotta. Not recognizing you right off, I mean. I wasn’t expecting … What I mean”—her laughter took on a bitter, self-mocking tone—” I mean, here I go skulking out of the hotel, all incognito and anonymous, and first thing, right off, I take a cab with you at the wheel. I mean, I’m doing everything just right, you know?”

  Her voice had begun to waver.

  “Lose a lot of cash?” I asked.

  She hesitated. I gave her a raised eyebrow and she apparently decided that saving her ass twice in a single night gave me the right to a question or two.

  “Around a hundred bucks,” she muttered. “Maybe two.”

  My eyebrow went up another notch. I know what’s in my wallet down to the last dime.

  “Back to the hotel?” I asked her.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You staying there? Nice place,” I said.

  “Remember my apartment on Mass. Ave.? What a toilet that was.”

  “But the parties were good,” I said. You get enough people together in a one-room dive and nobody notices the decor.

  We drove another three blocks. The silence grew as heavy and uncomfortable as the heat.

  “Carlotta,” Dee said slowly, “that license you showed the cops—are you the kind of investigator who finds people?”

  “I’m a private investigator. I do missing persons work.”

  “Can you get rid of the cab?”

  “I suppose I could,” I said doubtfully.

  She was suddenly eager. “Come upstairs. You can help me out. I mean, you’re per
fect. You’re like a gift. I’ll pay for your time. I’ll pay for what you lose tonight with the cab. I’ll pay your damn parking ticket. I mean, even if you won’t do it, I’ll pay.”

  I pulled up in front of the Four Winds. The doorman hurried down the walk, but Dee waved him off.

  My hand hovered at the ignition. I straightened up and turned to look at her. I could feel my jaw muscles clench. “Is Cal with you?” I asked finally, breaking a long pause.

  She looked searchingly at my face. I concentrated on a nearby traffic light.

  “He left,” she said. “Long time ago.”

  “You don’t want me to find him, do you?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Buy Steel Guitar Now!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There comes a time in the development of a manuscript when the author needs to view it with eyes other than her own. I’d like to thank Richard Barnes, Susan Linn, James Morrow, and Karen Motylewski for providing that critical vision. I’d also like to thank Gladys Roldan for correcting my fledgling Spanish, and John Hummel for his contribution.

  I am grateful to my agent, Gina Maccoby, for her unflagging support, and to my editor, Brian DeFiore, for his expert judgment.

  Sometimes events in life as well as in literature warrant acknowledgment. I extend my deepest appreciation to Dr. Benjamin Sachs, Dr. Judith R. Wolfberg, Dr. Johanna Pallotta, and Alexandra Paul-Simon for helping to make the dedication of this book possible.

  About the Author

  Linda Barnes is the award-winning author of the Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries. Her witty private-investigator heroine has been hailed as “a true original” by Sue Grafton. Barnes is also the author of the Michael Spraggue Mysteries and a stand-alone novel, The Perfect Ghost.

  A winner of the Anthony Award and a finalist for the Edgar and Shamus Awards, Barnes lives in the Boston area with her husband and son. Visit her at www.lindabarnes.com.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.