The Outlaw Stinky Joe (Baer Creighton Book 4), page 17
He probed with his rifle barrel, then grabbed a foot and pulled.
Coyote pup.
That enlightened things a bit. Coyote pup means coyote Ma and Pa. Mountain lion, and a pit bull that just sliced a man’s face and murdered another.
No wonder he felt the goosebumps. Whatever ethereal medium connected the predators of the world, surely rippled outward from this locus. No wonder he’d felt its pull.
Now that was a mysticism worth pondering. Later.
He thought through the scene one more time. Coyotes and pit bull tangled up, most likely a territorial thing. They’d perceive each other as threats—didn’t matter which was here first. Mountain lion looking for food sits out the scuffle, and when one or the other wins, comes in to bag his supper. Drags it off.
Still, that didn’t say which animal was buried over there.
“I don’t want to mess with your dinner, partner. But I got to know.”
Maybe he’d find the pit bull, take the collar, and the whole thing would be over. Get back to rebuilding his business.
“Stick with me, here, boy.”
Lester carried his rifle port arms, and looked to the trees as much as the trail on the ground. Kept Lucky at his side. If the cat made it to the dog, it would easily inflict its harm before Lester could get off a clean shot.
Careful and slow, Lester stepped to the endpoint, a clump of shrubs with the tiniest green leaf nubs poking out, with a tore up mess of dried and matted leaves below.
He knelt. Shoved a hand into the dirt.
Away, ahead, twigs snapped. Leaves danced. Brown-yellow flashed between low evergreen branches. Disappeared.
Lester shrank inside. He jerked his hand free of the dirt, then wrapped it on the rifle stock and brought the barrel level. He turned, waiting for the cougar to loose a vowel and give away his location. From the sound, it was no more than a dozen yards off, and could close the distance in seconds. It was definitely ahead of him.
Unless ...
Lester calculated. An animal has to fight for its existence, just to keep food on the table. He gets cunning. You want to let out a roar and let your dinner look the wrong way while you rush his dumb, trembling ass from the rear.
Lester turned.
Chapter 35
Some point that girl’ll fetch a ride—maybe a killer will pick her up and cut her. Irony. Most likely she’ll hitch a lift with a salt-of-the-earth rancher with a cell phone, and Flagstaff cops and the FBI will know where I crossed and what I’m driving.
I have a half hour, absolute tops. Goal ain’t to get to Hardees where Joe defended his life. Just get away from where the feds have ten grid-square staked out with gadgets and wizardry.
I watch every car pass to see if they spot me. Hair on my arm is tall, like any second a bullet will come through the window.
Graves’ mountain lair—no worry about law, government, money, food, nothing. Fella can relax deep. Now I see the difference, back living in the wild, among people.
Follow the Interstate 40 to Business 40 and grab the first big truck stop. That’s where the people are, let a man blend in and wander off.
I park at the edge of the lot. Leave keys under the seat with another maple leaf. Lock the handles from the inside and walk off cool. Inside the truck stop I use the FBI man’s cash to buy a Mexican poncho with all the stripes and colors, and a John Deere cap. All the beef jerky I can fit in one hand.
Why, looky-looky.
Wild Turkey.
“Take a bottle of that Turkey. Fact—two. Here, I’ll put back the jerky.”
“That jerky’ll rot your gut.”
“I know it. Yep.”
He gives me back a couple ones and coins. Holds my eye too long.
He say, “I know you?”
“I look like a feller was on Dancing With the Stars, couple months back.” I put on the Deere cap. “That’s what most people say. Though I won’t dance for nobody.”
“Nah, that ain’t it. You got one of those faces I guess.”
“We appreciate ya.”
I back out, got the willies high. Escape the Graves land just to get recognized buying Turkey.
Outside, I look back through the glass, and he’s still watching.
So this is how it ends?
Nah, can’t be.
Stinky Joe depending on me. Got to make speed. See if a little Turkification helps.
I crack the seal. Pull a gurgle. Choke. Gasp. Wrong pipe … try again. Smooth. This time she goes where I want her.
Doesn’t take forty seconds and the whoosh comes upon me. Use ta’could drink a half gallon and not hardly fall over. Now a three-second pull floats my valves. Yippee zippee.
Stinky Joe, I’m coming.
I set off cross the truck stop lot. Figure to cut between the big rigs’ fueling station, and beyond is the mountains. ‘Tween here and there is all manner of residential land, with the streets every which ways. Once I get up there, make it hard for the lawman to find me.
Slap that new Deere cap on my noggin and slip on the parka. The fella who sold them to me is the one liable to call the FBI. So he’ll tell them what I got on.
Or maybe not. Could be the girl from the car that calls.
More Turkey.
Snookle. Gurgle.
Aright, here’s how this rescue’s gonna unfold.
God Almighty wants me to save Joe, ’cause Joe’s good people. Going about said holy work, I expect protection. Hencewith and hereforth, I’ll just act like I’m Baer Nobody. Hitch a ride, maybe.
Consult the map.
More Turkey.
Turns out I’m not five miles from the Hardees in question. Five miles is two pints. I drank two thirds of the first, and I’m suspicious I might need some for supper.
About face. Back inside, the same fella looks at me—but I’m protected. I fish a gold coin. Hold it so he sees it glimmer in the fluorescent light.
“This is pure one hundred percent gold, minted by the Canadians. They love maple trees. I’ll trade this for six bottles of Turkey, and maybe a few dozen pieces jerky. And I need a lighter. Zippo-like. You know?”
“You’d need to go to a numismatics place or something. We use real money here.”
“Real money my royal English—. Say, help a fella out. Let’s make a trade.”
“I don’t have enough for a maple leaf.”
“You know what that’s worth?”
Shakes his head. “A thousand?”
“Someday soon. Right now, maybe you get eight hundred.”
“I don’t know. I don’t have eight hundred.”
“You didn’t listen. I want six bottles of Turkey and a couple packs of jerky. You got the cash for that?”
Voice behind me. “Can I see that mister? I’ll maybe take that trade.”
I turn. Middle age dude with hair to his ass. Braided. Got the beard. Jacket rides high over a holstered revolver. 101st Airborne on the shoulder.
I hand him the coin. He bites it. Looks at the marks. Turns it over.
“You bite it you bought it.” I wink. Respect.
“Deal.”
He looks to the attendant. “I’ll pay for all he’s asking for.” Turns to me. You sure that’s all you want?”
“Maybe a couple slices that pizza over there.”
He nods. “The cheeseburgers ain’t bad either.”
I grab two. Point to the pepperoni and mushroom slices. “Mebbe five of them. Oh. I want some first aid stuff. You know. Couple items.”
“Go ahead.”
There’s nobody else in line. I gather gauze, tape, ointment. If my leg doesn’t need it Stinky Joe will, got all these assholes on him. I grab a hot pickle in a plastic pocket, and the man paying grins while I whittle the outside edge of his profit margin.
He doesn’t seem to recognize me, and the other lost interest.
Last, there’s little canvas satchels, like bookbags, in a wire tub. I grab a black one. Tactical.
Cash register-man scans the items, and the paying fella pays. I stow my winnings in the bookbag and keep the working-Turkey in my back pocket. Shoulder the satchel and with nary a wayward glance set off for the hills. Stop after fifteen steps. Grab two slices of pizza out the bag and start chewing.
Cross the lot. Pass rigs pumping fuel. Walk the rutted dirt where they sleep some nights. Beyond is weedy plain, then scruffy foothill—looks to last a hundred yards. Then right up the mountain. Once I get out there, I’ll climb a hundred feet for elevation, consult the map and sup on jerky and Turkey.
Five miles? I’ll rescue Joe inside two hours. Three, tops. Then on to Montana.
Behind me … wheels on dirt. Got the low quiet sound, creep along fast as a man walks.
Fast as I walk.
Law?
I don’t want to look. Can’t!
But I got to.
Turn my head part way. Peripial vision one hundred percent. Some sort of pickup truck. Helpful knowledge. Keep walking, and try to keep the pace flat. Though under the parka my hand goes to Mister Glock.
My first drunk in months and I’m thinking like a desperado. I ain’t safe to accost.
“You there!”
Huh? I know that voice—but good, or bad?
“Baer, dammit. Hold up.”
“Hunh?”
I turn. Truck stops. I fetch Glock out the holster, but under the poncho.
Door opens. “You got problems, Baer; better get in the truck.”
“Cinder?”
“Who else is gonna come looking for you?”
“Uh, well. Half the law enforcement.”
“They’ll be here shortly. You’re all over the scanner. I guessed you’d set out for your dog.”
I look a circle. No law, yet.
“Baer, it’s me for shit’s sake. Get in the truck.”
Don’t like the bum rush.
“Why you come?”
He approaches. I step back. Turn partways with the gunfighter stance. He stops.
“You just stole a car from a state trooper’s daughter, a mile from her house, Baer. What the hell’s got into you?”
“How you know?”
“I know everything. And if I figured out where you’re headed, they will too. They’ll be there waiting.”
“Aw, piss.”
“Plus they’ll be all over the roads from Williams to Hardees—that is where you’re going?”
Nod.
“Up to you. Damn. Thought you’d appreciate the help.”
“Well, just hold up a minute. You come on a little strong is all.”
“Maybe think on it in the truck, out of sight.”
I got a buzz like I stuck my head in a swarm of honeybees. Just realized Ole Nat Cinder doesn’t shoot sparks and his eyes is—what?
“Your eyes brown?”
“Hazel, I guess. Do they still say hazel? What the hell, Baer?”
“Well they ain’t red. You got the door unlocked?”
I step-to and pull the handle. Look across the hood and see a black sedan with white plates tooling along, up by the semi trucks. Could be anything.
Pull off my pack. Grab the bottle out my back pocket. Climb inside.
Cinder engages the transmission, but doesn’t move.
“You want a slug a Turkey?”
“I’m sober.”
“Bully for you.”
He shakes his head. Looks at me long, out the side of his eye. Cinder starts to drive, turns the wheel slow. The black sedan’s moved off. He exits out the back lot and after a quarter mile turns on a residential street.
“I guess you saw your dog killed a guy?”
“Guy was gonna beat him with a chain. Them lying sonsabitches didn’t show that.”
“What, the news?”
“Right.”
“Where you been staying, that you watch television news?”
“You didn’t figure it out?”
“You with Tat?”
“I was with her. Not with her. Well. Yeah. Guess I was. Both.”
“Ain’t she a little young?”
“She looks fifteen but says eighteen. And I didn’t do shit until she—wait a damn minute. Wasn’t you pokin’ Mae?”
“That’s impolitic.”
“What you gonna do? Dump her?”
“Hardly. I was going to wait a minute but since you bring it up, I want to ask your permission—you know. Old school. I want to marry her.”
“Ha! Bullshit!”
He looks at the sky. Sees me watching. “I’m serious. I want to marry her.”
“Good. But how does that fit your big plans, governor?”
“Is that a ‘yes’? I have your permission?”
“Take her. Marry her.”
“Good. I already did.”
“What?”
“Yeah. She’s pregnant and I didn’t want to wait on you turning up.”
“It yours?”
“Damn, Baer. You’re a piece of work.”
“Nah, hell. Marry her either way. Someday when you’re president I’ll ask a pardon.”
We ride. I present big but sometimes it’s just peacock feathers. Give me chance to collect my brain coherent. Can’t help but smile as the news settles in. My baby got a real man, ain’t a piece of shit.
“Nat Cinder, I appreciate you. I truly do. Not the ride, though that too. But you and Mae is a good thing. Good for her and I hope good for you as much. And them babies. If I die too soon, I got peace she’s with you.”
He looks dead ahead. Says nothing.
But his head starts bouncing small, then bigger until he nods three four times, and his cheeks pull back like a grin wants to bust his head.
“I’m pretty tickled about it,” Nat says.
Chapter 36
Shirley looked out the fisheye lens of her front door. Calmed her heart. Took a deep breath. Allowed a long, measured release.
Knocking, again.
She turned away, cupped her hand at her mouth to deflect her voice farther from the door.
“Just a minute.”
She waited.
Beating on the door. Plus a kick, down low, that rattled the jamb.
She twisted the knob and pulled.
El Jay strode inside. He had the walk of a newly important man, someone who thought the world wouldn’t recognize his stature unless he did first. He looked at the floor, which he’d left strewn with Shirley’s belongings. He nodded.
“Like what you’ve done with the place.”
“It’s over there.”
From down the hall came the sound of a shower faucet and a woman’s light voice, singing:
“Мишка косолапый по лесу идёт”
El Jay put up his hands. “The hell?”
Шишки собирает, песенки поет.
“Who else is here?”
“Ulyana. You know. The Russian stripper. Your brother’s girl.”
“In the shower?”
“Of course in the shower.”
“What’s she singing?”
“Hello? It’s Russian.”
El Jay hesitated, as if tempted to investigate.
“You want the memory stick? It’s right there.” She pointed.
“Yeah, yeah.” He looked. “So what’s the deal with you? Where was it? Why give it to us now?”
“I found it. You and Mister Toungate said you wanted it, and I don’t want anything to do with anything. I just want to mind my own business.”
El Jay nodded toward the hall. “So what’s she doing here?”
“Oh, just a little girl play, later.”
He winced.
The water-sound of the shower ended. The door opened while Ulyana finished her song; her voice drifted out clear and resonant. The Russian had pipes. Shirley hadn’t known that.
El Jay raised his brows. Frowned.
In all her years hooking, Shirley had learned to recognized the signs of a man too nervous to cement the deal. His eyeballs roam nonstop. He hedges everything he says. Thinks you’re a cop or a set up, one. So he tries to keep everything in play until he figures out where the danger is.
El Jay was acting like that.
“The thumb drive is right there,” Shirley said. “It’s in the candy dish.”
El Jay kept his head pointed back the hallway. He shifted as if hit by a physical force.
Naked, Ulyana eased into the living room, walking slow, as if careful to allow each part of her that jiggled a full three seconds with each step. She stopped singing but smiled big.
White teeth. Pink nipples. Blond hair, except where she was bald.
El Jay smiled. Looked at Shirley. Then Ulyana, again.
Ulyana reached as she passed him, arm outstretched like an angel reaching toward God. Arm trailing, fingers elongated, shoulders bent to prolong their electric connection as she dragged her hand across his hip, over his mess, and forlorn, lost, bereft, away from his touch. She pouted her lips and continued through the kitchen, then the hallway toward Shirley’s bedroom.
Jiggle.
Jiggle.
Jiggle.
“Hey dipshit,” Shirley said.
El Jay whipped around.
She point a pink .38 she’d borrowed from Ulyana, her purse gun, at El Jay’s head.
“Follow her down the hallway.”
His jaw fell.
“You heard me. Go.”
“Or what?”
“You die. Trust me. The naked girl is what you want.”
Wide nostrils. Squinty eyes.
“Move, asshole. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’m a hooker and she’s a stripper. Use your imagination.”
His lips eased upward at the edges, but the calculating look still illuminated his eyes. El Jay turned.
Shirley let him stay three paces ahead so he couldn’t spin and hit the gun. As he reached the room: “Stop. Walk slow, straight in.”
El Jay complied.
Shirley entered behind him. “Why should Ulyana be the only naked one? Take off your clothes.”
He moved carefully, his pace indicating his displeasure; his compliance indicating his curiosity. He pulled off his jacket. Dropped it. Dragged his long undershirt over his head, revealing ripped ab muscles and chiseled pecks.
“Oh, you two’ll be great for one another.” Shirley said.
“Pants?”
“There’s only one kind of naked.”
