Coyote Ugly

by Pati Nagle

  I had to get there before Ling-Ling did. If we were very, very lucky, the birds were in that ginger jar and still alive.

  “There he goes!” yelled Devin. “I’ll get him for you!”

  On this clever excuse he ran after me, and Butch came along. When we got to the kitchen I turned and spat out the disgusting feathers.

  “Close the door, Dev!”

  He punched the control. I glanced around belatedly to see if any other humans were in there. Fortunately not.

  Butch started investigating the many items of interest that had hit the deck in our earlier adventure. I headed up toward the top of the cupboards, calling to Leila.

  “Leila? You all right? Answer me baby—”

  “Hey, Leon, what gives?” Devin called from the floor. “Where are the sedonai?”

  “Up here, I think,” I told him. “Don’t let anyone in.”

  “OK.”

  Devin pulled out his security card and started tinkering with the locks, while I leapt up top of the cupboards and made my way toward the ginger jar. Halfway there I found Leila crouched behind an industrial-sized tea caddy. Her eyes were very wide and she was breathing shallowly, staring at the kitchen floor as if expecting a broom to come out of nowhere.

  “You all right?” I asked her.

  She focused on me finally, blinked, then sat up and started to groom. “Leon.”

  “The birds—are they still in the jar?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw them, though I smelled them.”

  She looked like she needed a minute to compose herself, so I slid past her toward the ginger jar. With the lid gone, the birds might well be gone, too. I hoped they had been frightened enough to stay inside.

  A pounding commenced on the outer door. I glanced down at Devin.

  “Better check for other entrances,” I called.

  “I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, starting through the kitchen. “Jesus, what happened in here?”

  Not bothering to answer, I climbed over a fifty-kilo sack of rice and reached the ginger jar. I sniffed at it and caught a definite whiff of sedonai. My heart started racing.

  I crept up to the jar, slowly, silently. Flattening my ears so they wouldn’t be a tipoff, I cautiously looked over the edge and saw two large black eyes staring back at me.

  “Crap!” I shouted, jumping away.

  “What?” yelled Devin.

  “It isn’t the birds. It’s—oh.”

  I realized that the eyes I’d seen were Hosehead’s. I took another look in the jar.

  Sure enough, the little creep was in there, or rather his bowless double was. I watched for a few seconds. The thing wasn’t breathing.

  “Dev. Come and get this jar down.”

  He worked his way toward me, cussing as he slipped on spilled wontons. The pounding on the door, which had continued all the while, stopped briefly and a string of vehement Chinese took its place. Then it started up again, louder. It sounded like all Ling-Ling’s cooks were taking turns hurling themselves against the door.

  Devin hauled a chair over and stood on it to get to the counter. He stepped between a basket of bok choy and a bamboo steamer full of spring rolls, and reached for the ginger jar.

  “Careful,” I said. “If I’m right, the birds are in there.”

  He looked in, and nearly fell backward. I made a grab for the jar in case he dropped it, but he got his balance back and threw me a dirty look.

  “This is a dog.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I said, hopping down to the counter. “It’s an animatron, I think. Take it out of there.”

  He stepped down and put the jar on the counter, then reached in and removed the Hosehead double. I sniffed at it.

  “This thing reeks of Cygnius sedonai. They must be inside it. Look for a switch.”

  Devin turned it over, turned it every which way. Butch wandered over and jumped on the counter to sit beside me, watching with ears pricked forward.

  Finally Devin fiddled with a spot behind the dog’s ear. Its chest popped open, and the two birds fluttered out.

  Butch and I pounced on them, even as I yelled, “No claws!”

  “Right, boss,” Butch said, and held his bird down with a gentleness at odds with his massive frame. “It sure smells good, though.”

  “I’ll take that,” Devin said, reaching for Butch’s bird.

  Butch released the tiny thing, which fluttered and twittered, its feathers shimmering. Devin looked around helplessly with the bird in his hand and the dog in the other.

  “I guess a bird in the hand is worth two in the shaggy dog,” I said.

  He turned a look on me that would wither a cat tree.

  “Just kidding,” I told him. “Open the dog up and stash that one, then I’ll give you this one.”

  He did, and added the second bird before shutting the hatch again. I admit, I had trouble giving it up. Butch was right, they smelled delicious.

  The pounding on the door stopped. Devin looked at me and I knew what he was thinking—Ling-Ling had figured it out and was on the run.

  Devin whipped out his com and connected to central security. Luckily, they shut down all access to the port before Ling-Ling could skip the station. They caught her in her quarters, stuffing cash into her cooler.

  Clever distraction, that cooler, and poor Huey had fallen for it. All the while the real contraband had been inside the fake Hosehead.

  ~

  Devin and I discussed it later, after everything had been settled. We sat in his place, Dev having a beer and me digging into a ginger calamari appetizer from Ling-Ling’s, part of an unofficial thank-you from Ling2, who would inherit the business once Ling-Ling was put away.

  “What I don’t understand,” I said to Dev, “is how Ling-Ling got hold of the birds. I mean, she had to be working with somebody inside the aviary. No forced entry, right?”

  Devin paused to pull at his beer. “Right. Did you notice those green eggs with the purple spots in the kitchen?”

  “Yeah. The ones she brought through customs.”

  “She got them through the aviary’s exotics marketing program. Ordered them for her catering business. Perfectly legit, but it was just her cover for getting in to pick up the sedonai. She bribed some poor schmoe to kipe the birds for her.”

  “Schmoe is going down, yes?”

  Devin nodded. “Deep down.”

  I licked the last of the calamari crumbs off my plate and sat up to wash my face. “Well, Dev, I gotta shove off. I’m escorting a lady to dinner.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Anyone I know?”

  “Deputy-Agent Leila, since you ask.”

  Leila and Butch had finally been given official status with Gamma Station Security as a result of the Cygnius sedonai Caper. I was proud of them, and had already celebrated with Butch, spending an evening going through the trash bin back of Molly’s. Thumbs are a wonderful thing, yes indeedy.

  Tonight, though, was going to be something else. Leila was a class act, and I’d arranged a very special entertainment for her. I waited to see if Devin was going to comment, but he just sat watching me, swigging on his beer. I headed for the door and reached up to press the switch.

  “Good luck, tiger,” I heard Devin say softly as I left.

  Leila was waiting for me in the corridor outside Elsa’s place. I didn’t ask how she’d gotten out, and she didn’t offer to enlighten me. For a cat with ordinary thumbs, she was pretty damn clever.

  “You look beautiful,” I said, admiring her glossy coat.

  “Thank you, cher,” she purred as we started toward the rotunda. “And I owe you thanks as well for taking the heat off me in that horrid kitchen. That was a gentlemanly thing to do.”

  I could have told her I’d done it for the birds, but I didn’t. It wasn’t entirely true.

  “So, Leon, cher. Where are we going?”

  “I have a place in mind if it’s all right with you. You like Chinese?”

  For
a second she froze, and her tail twitched once, sharply. Then she relaxed.

  “Of course, cher. I trust you. You have excellent taste.”

  I smiled, and rubbed against her slightly as we strolled through the rotunda filled with soft, evening lighting. I knew this would be the start of a beautiful friendship.

  Recipe: New Mexican Cocoa

  This variation on Mexican style cocoa will warm you up on a cold night. The anise seed evokes biscochitos, a favorite New Mexican cookie (our official State Cookie, in fact).

  Ingredients (per serving):

  1-1/4 c milk

  2 T cocoa powder

  2 T brown sugar (or agave syrup or honey)

  1/2 t cinammon

  1/4 t red chile powder

  1/8 t hand ground anise seed (optional)

  dash salt

  1/4 t vanilla

  Preparation:

  In saucepan over medium heat, scald milk (heat until just below boiling). While milk is heating, measure remaining ingredients into a small bowl, adding vanilla last. Stir with fork until well blended. Whisk into milk, simmer and stir for three minutes. Serve.

  Coyote Ugly

  Eva scuffed her feet on the polished brick of Lincoln Avenue as she crossed the plaza. She walked ungracefully, stumping along, her new carving tucked carefully in her arms. She passed the galleries and boutiques without glancing in the windows. Their contents—designer fashions, bizarre “art,” and the inescapable coyotes; bandana-adorned caricatures in pastel blues, pinks, and greens—were no part of her Santa Fe.

  She paused to watch the workers setting up a bandstand for tomorrow night. It sent her back to Fiestas years ago; driving out from the pueblo to picnic on the hood of the pickup in Fort Marcy Park, with mariachis playing and kids and dogs rolling in the dirt. She remembered playing with the wind when her mother wasn’t looking, weaving twists of air into dust devils— miniature cyclones of stinging sand. Sometimes, when her older brother Joe had been pushing her, she would send a dust devil to plague him. She would laugh while he spat dust and rubbed his eyes, and Grandfather would laugh with her. Grandfather was the only one who didn’t scold her for her wind tricks. Mother, if she noticed, would silence them both with a fierce glare. But on that one night of the year, even Mother could not frighten Eva.

  Fiesta marked the end of summer and always began with the burning of Zozobra—Old Man Gloom—a puppet effigy, everyone’s symbol for their worst troubles. When the flames rose around his giant paper head and his eyes began to glow with green fire, everyone felt the magic of that purge. Eva remembered softly chanting, “No more trouble, no more fear, no more for another year,” while Grandfather’s warm arms and an old wool blanket kept out the sharp wind. She wouldn’t dream of imagining her mother as Zozobra, but she let the hurt of being scolded burn away in the fireworks.

  That was a long time ago. Fiesta was different now; everything was different.

  Eva walked slowly past the Palace of the Governors, where she’d sat under the portico helping Grandfather sell his carvings on many a lazy, dusty afternoon. Kachinas, carved the old Hopi way (the Hopi were Grandfather’s people) from a single cottonwood root, and painted in the summer colors or the winter colors by Grandfather with Eva helping. Now the kachinas were intricate meaningless sculptures that sold for thousands of dollars in hushed carpeted galleries.

  Eva stopped at the corner where Grandfather had liked to sit, back in the shade behind the half-wall at the eastern end of the portico. Back then the plaza smelled of sunshine on dry dirt, cottonwood breezes, and the warm leather whiff of La Fonda on the corner, where Eva would run to fetch a lemonade with the shiny nickel Grandfather gave her. Now it was all expensive restaurants and the fancy perfumes of rich patrons and sightseers. You even had to have a permit, certifying you were a “Native American,” to sell under the portico.

  She turned her eyes away from the silent hawk-faces of the traders in the shadows and clutched her little package tighter, walking head down, away from the plaza. The turistas in their bright holiday clothes gave her a wide berth. Indians were for staring at, not for talking to. No one wanted to say hello to an ugly Tewa girl walking down Palace Avenue.

  She wound her way through the streets to an old adobe house, trim newly painted bright turquoise, that bore a copper plaque inscribed “Alamosa Gallery.” Eva stepped inside and stood blinking after the bright sunlight.

  A young woman looked up from the antique desk. Pretty, blonde, slim. She could be a model. She could be on TV. Eva clutched her package tighter. Inside it was the only beauty she had.

  One bag ugly—you go to bed, you put a bag over her head.

  “Can I help you?”

  Eva stepped forward. “I’m here to see Mrs. Rougier.” Her tongue stumbled over the foreign word.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “She knows I’m coming, ” said Eva, fighting the cringe inside her. “I said I would come today.”

  “I see. Well, let me tell her you’re here. What’s your name?”

  “Eva Trujillo,” said Eva, struggling to keep her voice above a whisper.

  The pretty girl’s heels rapped hollowly on the wooden floor as she left the room. Eva was alone again, staring at sculpture and paintings illuminated by track lighting hung from the ceiling’s ancient vigas.

  She wandered down the room, gazing briefly at pieces that stirred nothing in her. Cowboy bronzes, static pot-and-squash still-lifes, views of Chimayo in every kind of weather. Time-worn images that were sure to please the tourists, interspersed with cactus collages in neon hues and other new “Southwestern” art.

  Even the Gorman, occupying a place of honor above the mantel, held little meaning for her. The shapeless woman, huddled in her blanket, only reminded Eva of how the world saw her. She shivered.

  Two bag ugly—you put a bag over her head and one over yours in case hers slips.

  “Here she is!”

  Eva turned as she heard the footsteps coming down the hall. Mrs. Rougier, holding out a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m so glad you came in today! This is Ms. Messersmith, one of our best customers.”

  “Hello,” said Eva, shaking Ms. Messersmith’s hand in her own cold one.

  The woman wore a heavy squash-blossom necklace over her black silk blouse. Her face was sharp and she didn’t smile. She avoided looking at Eva after the first glance, turning back to Mrs. Rougier.

  “Eva is a very promising new artist,” smiled Mrs. Rougier. Large silver earrings flashed out through her auburn hair. “Let’s see what you’ve brought, shall we?” She led them over to the desk, where Eva unwrapped her carving.

  It was a fawn. A beautiful baby, lifting innocent eyes to a new world. Eva had let the wood’s own dappling form its markings, brought the whorls to life in shaping muscle. She smiled softly at it, looking up from its nest of paper.

  “Very pretty.” Ms. Messersmith sounded bored.

  “Why, yes, Eva, it’s lovely,” said Mrs. Rougier.

  Eva looked from one woman to the other, her heart sinking. “You don’t like it.”

  “No, it’s very good,” said Mrs. Rougier, with a glance at her client. “It’s just not the style Ms. Messersmith is looking for. We’ll show it, of course. Heather, make out a consignment slip for it.”

  The pretty girl nodded and placed a form in her typewriter. Eva resisted the impulse to snatch up the carving again.

  “Ms. Messersmith is looking for a piece for her foyer—”

  “Something that reflects the desert—savage, stark. My home is designed to capture that feeling.”

  Eva nodded. She could imagine Ms. Messersmith’s home; had seen pictures of such homes in magazines. All angles and skylights, with freestanding adobe walls inside, built only to display expensive interpretations of the desert’s starkness.

  “Perhaps you’re working on something along that line? We could stop by your studio and see?” said Mrs. Rougier.

  A glimmer of interest appeared in Ms. M
essersmith’s eyes. Eva opened her mouth to refuse, but Mrs. Rougier interrupted.

  “Yes, why don’t we, it would be lovely! Eva has a delightful little studio—in the older part of town.”

  In the poorer part of town, thought Eva, why don’t you just say it. Aloud, she said, “I don’t have guests come there. I can bring a new carving here.”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of troubling you to walk so far again, Eva. We’ll just drop by tomorrow, say four-ish? We won’t be in your way, I promise. Don’t you think, Frances?”

  Ms. Messersmith nodded. “Charming.”

  “Thank you so much, Eva. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Dismissed, Eva had nothing to do but trudge slowly home.

  ~

  Joe was there. She could tell by the smell of the room—a hint of tobacco and beer. She glanced at the stove and saw he’d been into the stew she’d left simmering.

  She put the receipt for her carving on the work table and walked over to the kitchenette, began to clean up the mess he’d left, wondering why she put up with it. To get away from her family’s demands and criticisms, wasn’t that why she’d left the pueblo? If she were a white woman, she could have just thrown her brother out.

  “Hey, Eva.” Slam of the bathroom door.

  She turned on the water in the sink. Hot bubbles foamed over her hands. “You sell?”

  Eva shook her head.

  “Shit. Give me twenty, then.”

  She fought the rising fear and anger. “I don’t have it.”

  “Well, you better get it.”

  “Go away, Joe.”

  He muscled up beside her as he’d done when they were kids, thrusting his barrel chest forward from skinny hips. Eva turned her head and stared hard into his eyes, the way she’d defended herself all the years. Her look said, don’t push me, or I’ll set the wind on you. She held it, praying he wouldn’t hear her heart pounding.