“It’s a date,” Sonny said with a wink.
“My bet is that she plans to whip up more than just peach cobbler for desert,” I whispered as we walked away.
“You hush up!” Sonny scolded. But he couldn’t hold back the grin that lit up his face. “It just so happens that I’m considered one of the more eligible bachelors around these parts.”
Oy vey. I didn’t want to think about what that said for my prospects in the dating marketplace. “Then I guess I better start brushing up on my chili recipe.”
“Don’t bother, Porter. You forget I’ve already tasted your cooking,” Sonny responded.
Sonny pointed me toward the ladies’ room. “Wait in there and give me five minutes before you head to the morgue. I’ll haul Harry off for coffee in the cafeteria,” he instructed, and took off.
Five minutes is a long time to wait when you’re counting each second that goes by. I wasted a few minutes in carefully studying my face, and spied a brand new line. This could mean only one thing: the alpha-hydroxy moment had finally arrived.
With that thought, I headed toward the elevator and pushed the button for the basement floor. The car lurched and groaned, as though uncertain the cellar was a place it really wanted to go.
“Lingerie, ladies’ apparel, and newly refrigerated cadavers!” sang a voice in my head.
The door opened and I trod down an empty hall, narrow and bare, a worn linoleum floor its only decoration. The echo of my footsteps held a disembodied, hollow sound.
The entrance to the morgue loomed ahead, its door as white as a freshly scrubbed surgical gown. I pushed it open to be greeted by a silence so loud, I could nearly hear the air itself breathing. The room was empty but for the shiny steel autopsy table which patiently stood waiting. Row upon row of drawers lay recessed inside the walls like neatly stacked cafeteria trays.
I dragged a pair of latex gloves from my bag and tugged them over skin that felt cold and clammy. Then I started in on the drawers.
Knock, knock, knock. Anybody home?
I pulled one compartment after the other open, ever so cautiously checking the toe tag on each permanently sleeping occupant. There was a John Smith, a Jane Doe, and a Luis Vasco.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” they moaned.
I picked up my pace, knowing there was no time to dally. The guy I was looking for wasn’t snoozing au natural under a sheet, but lying incommunicado inside an airless body bag.
I finally came upon a bag swaddled in evidence tape signed, sealed and delivered by none other than county medical examiner Jack Purdy. I double checked the tag to confirm this indeed was the booty I’d been searching for. Yep. Timmy Tom Tyler was listed as the bag’s sole resident. It was time to pillage and plunder.
I carefully pulled off all three evidence bands that sealed Tyler’s body bag closed, and slowly undid the zipper. All the while, I wondered if I’d find anything different. Nope. Timmy Tom was still inside. So was his phone. All that had changed was his skin color. Oh, yeah—and the odor emanating from his body had definitely gotten stronger.
Tyler’s eyes locked onto mine. Stop screwing around and get on with it.
I took a deep breath, and leaned in closer. The phone’s mouthpiece end had been shoved down his throat. If his cell phone operated like my own, the power button would be situated on the bottom row. I slipped a finger inside Tyler’s mouth. The next moment, a noise spewed out of Timmy Tom’s throat.
I sprang backward in terror as he silently laughed at my fear. What I’d heard was the sound of Tyler’s phone having been successfully activated.
Very funny. I went back to work, not pleased with Timmy Tom’s post mortem sense of humor.
I stuck my finger back inside his mouth, this time hoping to locate the function button to the phone menu.
Beep, sounded a deep bass. Blip, sang out a higher soprano. My fingers randomly pressed a series of buttons in a sensory game of blind man’s bluff. As two messages flashed on the screen, I felt like Aladdin, having hit the magical key to Tyler’s cell phone kingdom. On the plus side, I was presented with a choice of menu options. On the negative side was the intermittent flash, “low battery.”
Don’t do this to me, Timmy Tom!
I opened the cell’s phone book to scroll through its directory, tripping upon an index of Tyler’s favorite haunts. All the while, the screen grew progressively dimmer.
Come on! Come on! I urged, silently praying to the Eveready bunny. Where was he when you needed him? Not here, the low battery signal informed me.
Finally, something besides a restaurant or strip joint appeared. The name “Admiral Maynard” floated in and out of view, sounding familiar. I tried propping Timmy Tom’s head up higher in an effort to get the phone closer to a source of light, as the letters “F.U.” next slithered onto the screen. That took me by surprise, but there was no time to ponder their connection. Two listings still remained and the screen was now seriously flickering.
My arm ached from holding the dead weight of Timmy Tom’s head, but the pay-off proved well worth it. Johnny Lambert’s name arose in Tyler’s A-list of contacts. Who’d have thought he’d be making a guest appearance?
My finger frantically stabbed at the scroll button, and one final name flashed into sight just before the screen faded to black: Dan Kitrell, the employee I’d met at the Happy Hunting Ranch. Then I remembered where I’d heard the name Admiral Maynard before: he supplied the ranch with good-enough-to-shoot critters.
I was about to zip Timmy Tom back up when I remembered the papers cached inside his money belt. Since Sheriff Hutchins had referred to them as being totally worthless, I figured he wouldn’t mind if I removed them. I opened the money belt and claimed the paltry treasures, then zipped Tyler back up.
Pulling out my roll of filched evidence tape, I wrapped it around the duffel bag in exactly the same manner as before. Once finished, I initialed the letters “J.P.” with magenta Magic Marker wherever the tape was crossed.
Then I slid the drawer closed and removed my latex gloves. Hopefully, this was the last morgue I’d have to see for a long time to come. After slipping out the door, I hopped on the elevator and hitched a ride upstairs to join the world of the living.
Sonny and Harry Walters were heading in my direction just as the elevator door creaked open. I exited and walked a short distance away.
“Good seeing you again, Harry!” Sonny slapped him on the back while throwing me a harried glance.
“Stop by anytime, Sonny. God knows, you’re better than the usual company I keep,” Harry cracked. He stepped inside the elevator and pushed the button, and its doors slid closed.
Sonny swung around to face me. “Do you realize how close a call that was? You sure as hell like dancing close to the edge of danger, don’t ya, Porter?”
I watched as he struggled to keep a straight face. Finally, he gave up and broke into a grin. “I gotta admit, that’s also what I like best. I’m having myself a great time.”
That was good to hear, because dancing on the edge is the only way I know.
We walked past Miss Mae, who reminded Sonny once more about dinner on Friday night, and cheerfully wished me a good trip home. Then we headed outside into the parking lot.
“So, did you get everything you needed back there?” Sonny asked.
“Yes,” I replied, not yet sure. “Thanks, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Sonny grunted. “Listen, I might want to take a look around for myself in the area where you found that body.”
“What are you, checking up on me?” I asked, knowing he’d most likely come across something I’d missed.
“I won’t bother to clue you in on whatever I find, if it makes you feel any better. Course, the thing to remember is that a pat on the back is only this far from a kick in the rear,” Sonny cheerfully reminded me.
I knew I could use whatever help the man was willing to offer. “Just call me Grasshopper, master, willing to learn at you
r feet,” I ribbed him.
“Cut the crap and just give me some landmarks to go by,” Sonny instructed.
I watched him take off in the direction of the Anapra Road, wishing I could go with him. But I was already running late for my next appointment. And after last night, I knew Mother Krabbs wasn’t one to be kept waiting.
Seven
The road to Crazy Cat Mountain undulated as sinuously as an exotic dancer. As I drove, I noticed how different the view looked in the daytime. El Paso’s streets stretched out below like the neatly gridded lines of a waffle iron. Not so the case with Mexico. Poverty slouched like a rabid beast through snarling streets, and spread into densely packed hillsides awash with makeshift villages of squatters. The tin roofs of their shacks caught the sunlight and reflected it back, so that the mountains seemed to scintillate in a conflagration of mini bonfires.
I parked my vehicle at the Krabbs mansion, the disparity in wealth overwhelming. But that’s what the border has always been about: the struggle between those with power and those without. The front door flew open and Mother Krabbs clomped out with her walker.
“Where the hell have you been? It’s a quarter after twelve. We’ve got fifteen minutes before my blood sugar drops lower than my rear end,” the tyrant barked. “You might as well come inside while I finish getting ready.”
I followed, knowing I had to be as crazy as she was to have come back here today. At least Ten-Karat was happy to see me. All twelve pounds of her jumped up and down, the mini-trampolines on the bottoms of her paws in perfect working condition. But her high-pitched yapping was as irritating as a four A.M. car alarm.
“Jesus Christ! Shut the hell up already!” Mother Krabbs yelled. Ten-Karat responded by leaping up into the air and licking her on the mouth.
“Yecchhh! I don’t suppose you could get rid of this thing for me? I’ll make it worth your while if you make the pooch disappear.”
“I don’t think that’s something you should be joking about,” I told her sternly.
“Who’s joking?” She snorted. “Hell, does Fido look like she’s worth spending three million bucks on, to you? Even worse, imagine having ten of these damned things jumping around the place like a hyperactive herd of yo-yos. I’ll give you fifty bucks to take the mutt off my hands. No questions asked,” she snapped.
“Don’t even consider it,” I retorted.
“Well, aren’t you the moral one.” Ma Krabbs gave me the eye. “Either that, or the government is paying you people more money than you’re worth.”
It’s always nice to know the public is so firmly behind us. I sighed, wondering if I could cite her for trying to bribe a federal official.
“Since you’re apparently making the big bucks, lunch is on you today,” she informed me. Ma Krabbs grabbed a purse the size of a small suitcase and headed out the door, where she caught sight of my mode of transportation.
“You’ve got to be kidding. You don’t expect me to ride in that thing, do you?” she asked.
“Sorry, but my Mercedes is in the shop today,” I said.
“A Mercedes?” Mother Krabbs scoffed, looking up her nose at me. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those Nazimobiles. My fanny only rides in something that’s one-hundred-percent American made.” She impatiently tapped a foot clad in a gold peek-a-boo sandal. Its design indiscreetly exposed a set of toenails that were as thick as a deep dish pizza. “What the hell. If we’re going to lunch, we might as well do it in style.”
Mother Krabbs rummaged around in her purse. “Here. Hold this stuff for me,” she commanded.
Out came a comb, some lipstick, and a small can of hairspray. A toothbrush and denture cleaner followed closely behind. A hefty stack of coupons held together by an ancient rubber band followed, along with a large change purse, and her Krabbs First National Bank passbook.
“Don’t try and snitch any money either, because I’m watching,” she warned.
The last thing she added onto the growing pile was a metal container in the shape of a cowboy boot.
“Those are F.U., Sr.’s. ashes in there,” she informed me. “According to the terms of his will, I have to take him with me wherever I go.”
Finally, Ma Krabbs pulled a slim black gadget from her bag, and pushed its button. One of the mansion’s four garage doors instantly arose to reveal a baby blue Cadillac DeVille.
Ching, ching, ching! sang a set of car keys.
I looked over and saw a key chain dangling off the tip of Mother Krabbs’ finger.
“I buy a new one of these babies every year on my birthday, and then never seem to go anywhere. Since I’m not getting any younger and you sure as hell aren’t ever going to be rich enough to own one, we might as well take it out for a spin and put some miles on this thing.” She threw me the keys. “Let’s hit the road and head out of here.”
After getting Mother Krabbs settled I sank back into the Caddy’s soft leather seat. Wow! No wonder senior citizens liked to drive around in these things, even if they could barely see above the steering wheel.
Mother Krabbs directed me into the heart of downtown El Paso to a squat pink cinder block dive. Not only was the place situated on a run-down corner, but it came with its own wino.
“That’s where you want to go?” I asked in astonishment.
“Hmph! Apparently clothes aren’t the only thing you’re lacking taste in,” she haughtily responded. “Garcia’s just so happens to have the best burgers in town.”
Well, tie me up and throw me down. Who’d ever have thought it? As soon as I’d slid into one of Garcia’s stained and ripped booths I discovered why she was really so fond of the dump. This was probably the last place in town where she was still allowed to come without getting kicked out.
“Hey! I’m starving over here! Do you think someone could wake up long enough to hop to it?” she barked.
A waiter languorously made his way over to the table, wearing a smirk, a grease splattered shirt, and a thin pair of pants.
“And what can I get for you two lovely young ladies?” he inquired, running his tongue along his lips.
“Save it, Miguel. The only thing I want from you is some food. Of course, she might be interested in whatever else you’re offering,” Ma Krabbs retorted.
The springs in my seat were already so shot, it was impossible for me to slink any further down without my rear end hitting the floor.
“The name is Jose,” the waiter coldly responded.
“Whatever you say, Pepe. I’ll take a green chili cheeseburger, juicy and rare, with a large side of fries. And the redhead there”—she pointed a finger in my direction—“will give you an extra big tip if you make it snappy. My blood sugar’s heading south of the border.”
“And what can I get for you?” Jose asked me.
It was probably safest to order something Ma Krabbs wasn’t having. I could only imagine what extra nasty ingredients Jose might throw into her food.
“I’ll have a bowl of tortilla soup,” I answered politely.
I waited until Jose had left before turning my attention to the demon sitting across from me. “Okay. We’re here. So, what’s this information you’ve got?”
But Mother Krabbs stubbornly shook her head. “Uh, uh. That’s not the deal. First we eat. Then we talk.”
Whatever Jose added to Mother Krabbs’ meal apparently agreed with her. She grabbed the plate from his hands and enthusiastically bit into the burger as if it were the first food she’d eaten in days.
Once our plates had finally been removed, I asked, “Now can we talk?”
“After I order desert,” she loftily informed me.
The hot fudge sundae arrived, and I waited until Mother Krabbs’ spoon was raised in mid-air before pulling the dish away from her.
“Hey! What the hell’s up?” she demanded.
“Start talking, or I’ll let this thing melt,” I threatened.
Ma Krabbs broke into a sly smile. “So, you like to play hardball, do you?”
“All right! You win,” she pouted.
I pushed the ice-cream back towards her.
Ma Krabbs instantly dug in. “It’s that flimflammer Dr. Scissorhands. The way I read it, he plans to bilk that dolt-headed son of mine out of every last dime he can get his hooks on. I know bull dookey when I smell it, and he’s cooking up a big, old steaming pile of it. That’s what I want you to look into.” She emphasized her point by jabbing a spoonful of Rocky Road ice cream in my direction.
“You’re son’s not a stupid man. Maybe you’re just not giving him enough credit,” I said, playing devil’s advocate.
“Now that’s a pile of horse crap, if ever I heard it. You know as well as I do that F.U. couldn’t count to twenty-one if he took off his boots and unzipped his fly. His problem is, he’s pussy whipped, and there’s more than one feline in the barn that’s doing it.”
There was no question that Mother Krabbs was a royal pain in the rear. However, she was also sharp enough to be aware of everything going on around her.
“What you’re looking for is a private investigator. I only deal in cases involving wildlife,” I reminded her.
“Don’t you think I would have gotten someone other than you already, if I could have?”
Mother Krabbs certainly knew how to stroke a gal’s ego.
“F.U. knows every living soul in this town. There’s nobody else who’ll take on this case without him learning about it. Besides, that obnoxious, yapping ball of fur is wildlife. I don’t see why you should have any problem taking that mutt on as one of your clients.”
“I deal only in endangered wildlife,” I clarified.
“You want endangered? Well, the pooch is numero uno on my hit list. How’s that for zooming the little fleabag right up to the front of your priority file?” she retorted. “And if you still won’t take the case, I’ll sue you for animal discrimination. Just because Ten-Karat is nothing more than a poor little Chihuahua, shouldn’t mean she doesn’t deserve your professional assistance. Besides, my tax dollars pay your salary.”
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