TEXAS TRUCK (book 5 in the Mike Magee series)

CHAPTER 1

“One of these days I’m going to hack you into little pieces!”

- Meddle - 

(Roger Waters / Pink Floyd) 


The old Chevy pickup shook and rattled down the paved, two-lane highway; the elderly six-cylinder engine now pushed to its maximum.  A Tex-Mex, AM country music station, barely audible above the wind noise, was harshly drowned out by bursts of static as lightning flashed within the angry, green-black clouds.  The swarthy Latino driving the truck looked fretfully at the swiftly moving storm.

“Madre de Dios!” he mumbled, touching his head, heart and shoulders in rapid, Catholic movements after several bolts struck the earth a few miles ahead.  “This was just the sort of storm – the kind of tormenta – that could produce los tornados,” he grumbled.

Unshaven, dusty and tired, the dark, squat Mexican named “Chago” chewed on his unlit cigar-stub and drank whiskey from a large, leather-covered flask he kept beside him.  He’d been on the road since 6 AM.  It was now almost 11 and it was already horribly hot.  He stuck his arm out the open window, grabbing onto the rusty bracket that held the rear-view mirror to the truck.  Every so often, he would change the position of his palm against the wind in an attempt to draw more air into the cab and evaporate the sweat that dripped from him profusely. 

The faded, threadbare chambray shirt clung to his hirsute torso in dark, sweaty splotches, especially from where the bib of his overalls had covered it.  Chago had unbuckled it when the sun began shining into the cab, allowing it to hang loosely in his lap.  He’d taken U.S. 90 West from Del Rio to Alpine where he caught Texas Route 118 North to a place outside of Ft. Davis that El Patrón knew. 

Driving 230 plus miles in the hot, desolate west Texas outback was bad enough; doing it without the benefit of air conditioning was something he truly disliked.  He would have to turn around soon so that he had enough gasoline to get back to his hacienda in Comstock.  El Patrón had requested that he keep going north until he reached the Interstate and not refuel until he got to Ozona upon his return.  That meant stopping to dispose of his cargo very soon.  And Chago was concerned with beating out the storm because his windshield wipers didn’t work.

A sign alerted him to what he sought: “Hidden Driveways Ahead.”  Slowing down, his eyes darted to-and-fro until he found the drive.  El Patrón said there would be empty ranch-hand bunkhouses along this stretch.  Pulling onto the graded dirt, he surveyed the scene, but felt that the house – even though it appeared to be deserted – was still too near the roadway for the deed he was about to commit. 

Chago traveled another seven miles before he found the perfect location.  He drove his truck slowly to minimize the dust from the two lumpy ruts that were probably first placed there by wagon wheels.  The bunk-house was almost a half mile from the road, nestled among some low hills.  There was a small dip about halfway in where a short, dilapidated old bridge had been constructed from stone and thick, heavy, weathered wooden planks.  Upon examination he didn’t trust crossing it, so he edged the truck down the steep bank, onto the dry, cracked clay chips of the creek bed, then stopped and surveyed the site.  It had sporadic groves of trees lining its banks which meant there was probably an underground supply of water.  The course cut out by the creek in rainy weather was low enough to be hidden from the road and would provide the shelter needed for his grisly task.  Chago nodded to himself.  This must be the spot that Patrón spoke of and the storm would be an added bonus in that a flash flood might cover his tracks and hide the body until he was well away from here.  He took another swig from the flask.

Chago continued up the other bank and drove cautiously to the house, wanting to make sure nobody was in residence.  Some ranchers in these parts didn’t take too kindly to an unannounced visitor.  Some would fire a warning shot; others simply aimed to make it painful, but not deadly.  He stopped several hundred feet from the building and slowly opened the door to his cab, pulling a 9mm Beretta from the map pocket in the door, keeping it hidden behind his baggy overalls.

If someone were to observe him sliding out of the vehicle at that moment, they would notice that Chago was much shorter that one would first suspect and even the 3-inch heels on the cowboy boots didn't add much to his stature.  He had the look and build of a pugilist that had gone to seed.  His low forehead and piggish eyes fooled more than one over-confident young buck into thinking the older man wasn’t dangerous.  That impression was always a very wrong and costly mistake. 

“Hola!” he called out in what he hoped was a friendly tone, “Quien está aquí?”  He waited and then repeated, “Hello!  Anyone home?”

No answer.  He walked up to the house and tried the door, easing it open with the toe of his boot.  Chago looked around inside and discovered a thick coating of dust on everything.  His smile revealed stained, gold rimmed teeth in front and crooked, missing teeth in the back.  The squat Mexican walked back to his truck as he formulated a plan.

“I could put her in here,” he thought to himself as he stared at the form in the rolled-up carpet, “I could make it so that she appeared to be a squatter who built a fire and burned the place down.”

As he pondered the idea, he recalled the conversation with his boss. El Patrón had emphasized he wanted her found dead – but recognized.  Los Norte Americanos had sent the whore to spy on him.  Patrón wanted to return the compliment by making the spectacle so hideous that they would be too embarrassed to ever do it again. 

“I trust your judgment in this matter.  Make her go away, amigo,” the Patrón had said to him, “Make her go away, but don’t make her disappear.  I want to send a message to our “friends” across the border and, if you do this thing for me I will ensure that Marguerite goes far with her education.” 

Chago had outwardly smiled with pleasure.  But, he knew, within the Patrón’s promise lurked a grim, veiled threat.  Patrón held all their lives in thrall.

He loved his seven natural and adopted children as well as his wife who, perhaps, was no longer the woman she once was before she had crossed the previous Patrón, causing the “accident” that had disfigured her once-beautiful face.  Patrón had been good to Chago and he provided for his family well.  He was especially proud of Marguerite who was the first in his family to ever attend college – even if she wasn’t one of his own spawn.  Hell, he was even fond of this redhead.  But this puta gringa Norte Americano had caused trouble.

He climbed back into the truck and took another swig before turning the vehicle around.

Chago sighed and returned to the grove of scrub oaks in the creek bed. He crossed himself several times, asking God’s forgiveness for the atrocity he was about to commit.  He decided to tie her, stretched akimbo between two trees and build a bonfire under her.  He could set up a one-hour road flare to give him time to get far, far away before it ignited the wood.  The fire would only be large enough to desecrate her lower body.  It would burn away the skin of her legs as well as her genitals and, if she were still alive, have her die from shock.  IF the spying bitch was still alive and IF she hadn’t succumbed to either the blow to her head with a baseball bat or heat stroke from being wrapped in the rug, she would scream horribly and painfully before dying.  Chago was tempted to stay and watch, though he knew he couldn’t.  He’d always enjoyed it when he made pretty girls scream.  Especially those of the boys who crossed or cheated El Patrón.

Opening the tailgate, he struggled with the rolled-up rug that was back there until it hung halfway off the bed.  Through the thick material, Chago could feel the shapely legs that were encased there and felt a little sorry for the young senorita inside.  Heaving the body over his shoulder, he was surprised to hear a muffled grunt and then movement from within.  In this heat and rolled up like she was, she should have perished hours ago! 

“If she is alive…” he began to ponder, allowing the thought to tempt him.  “If she is alive, perhaps I might still fondle the smooth milky-white skin and breasts of the beautiful young puta or even have my way with her.  Who would know… or care?” 

He smacked his lips at the thought.  She was beautiful too; copper-colored curls that had been the talk and envy of many of the women in the compound, blue eyes that glinted like two sapphires when she smiled, full lips made for passionate kissing and long, lovely legs that…

The short man shook his head, muttering a prayer and crossing himself several times once more to ward off the temptation, but he was weak in his faith when it came to sex and beauty.  He had once been a very successful prizefighter in Morelia, Michoacán.  Money, drinking and women had been easy back then.  He’d even purchased an agave farm with his winnings at one point so that he would no longer have to buy his tequila. 

But he was far more interested in cock-fighting, gambling, liquor and Norte Americano gringas than in farming.  The Latina women who seemed to swoon at his feet didn’t really attract him.  He’d lusted after the college chiquitas from up north; most especially the redheads he saw in Puerto Vallarta because, as a youth, he would devour episodes of “I Love Lucy”.  One of his hero’s had been Ricky Ricardo.

These women, these American women, were not interested in a squat, grotesquely deformed 25 year old pugilist who was almost as wide as he was tall, no matter how rich and famous he might be.  Nor could he take solace in the redheaded whores he’d bought, because they desired his money and not him.  But now, even the whores weren’t interested in him.  Part of it was because he was 53 and pot-bellied rather than a barrel-chested young buck with six-pack abs who had foolishly gambled his wealth away.  The second reason was that they were afraid of his she-devil of a wife, Maria.  It was only by the good graces of El Patrón that he had a job, a place to live and a woman.

But Chago always had a wandering eye.  For months, he had gazed, surreptitiously at this particular senorita’s luscious body and found himself lusting after her, jealous of El Patrón and his ability to attract such women.  He offered to clean the pool whenever she went sunbathing there, admiring the freckles that splashed across her gently tanning breasts and thighs when she was resting on a lounge chair.  They were like specks of cinnamon in his café leche Mexicana and he wished then that he could lick and lap at them.  This senora had made him feel younger.  She did treat him with disdain and even flirted a little with him.  Maria had caught him applying sun lotion to the woman and, when she got him home, beat him with a broken broomstick. 

Running his hands up and down the carpet, his conscious argued with his lust.  Out here, who would care if he fucked this puta for the last time in her life?  Maria would never know.  And this time, he wouldn’t have to pay for it!

Chago muttered and said a prayer again.  This woman had always been kind to him and he really had nothing against her other than the fact that she had betrayed his Patrón.  But she lusted after money and power, just like all the other putas, and worse, worked for Patrón’s enemies.  What was she but a better class of whore? 

Lust like that always came back to bite her type in the ass and that was what made all women sluts of some form or another in his eyes.  “You have to be an asshole first,” was the observation Maria had spouted as he left, saying it came from someone named Mack E. Avelli.  Maria may have been disfigured, but there was nothing wrong with her mind.  She still devoured a book each evening and seemed to remember everything.  Marguerite was just like her mother in that aspect.

The redheaded gringa had foolishly confided in Maria, thinking that the woman – because of what had happened in her past – would be loyal to her and not to the Patrón.  She had been wrong, of course.  So typical of American thinking – which was the main reason they were losing the war on terrorism in the Middle East.  Ruling by fear – especially internal, communal fear of those who lived among you always trumped “goodness” or “doing the right thing.” 

He stared at the horizon and saw that the storm was moving parallel to the highway he’d just left and probably would not reach him, even if he lingered.  Grunting, Chago shrugged and decided to give into temptation and enjoy her body for the last few moments she had in this world. 

He returned the bundle to the bed of the truck and unrolled her inert form from the thick, expensive, Oriental rug, sliding her body against the two twenty-gallon cans of gasoline at the cab-end.

She was still draped in one final layer of rug that was tucked under her.  He could, perhaps, strangle her during sex.  No, it would be better to have her alive. He decided he would spend some time listening to her screams before he left.  As long as he left by three, Chago could be home in time for a late dinner.  He smiled at this simple efficiency in thinking and gave the rug one last tug.

Her pale, shapely body came into view, magnificent in the afternoon sun.  Chago gasped at her beauty and used the remaining rug to slowly drag her towards the tailgate of the truck.

With her naked, sweaty form in position, Chago ran his dirty, stubby fingers up her thigh, admiring the fact that her pubic hair was the same shade as on her head.  The gringa’s he’d fucked in the past had all been dark down there.  This one’s hair was of God’s creation and not from a bottle! 

Chago caressed and combed at the wiry hairs with his fingers, marveling at the blossoming orchid of her sex.  He let his dark brown digit press into the cleft and felt her insides.  She moaned slightly.  His eyes were drawn to her right temple, which was badly discolored from where he’d struck her.  Blood had also caked in her ear, indicating a concussion.  The stumpy little man watched as she grimaced and then relaxed once more.  Her eyelids didn’t flutter and she didn’t seem to be conscious, yet..

The squat man let his horny, calloused fingers caress her soft skin until they touched her cheek.  He cupped it tenderly, then let his fingers travel across her neck and then down to the supple, milky white skin of her bosom.  The woman's breasts were a little too small for his tastes, but he liked the fact that the gentle, rounded swells stood proud, the two small peaks at each tip were a light pink in color instead of the crude, large, dark brown ones that Maria had, which sagged past her belly button from suckling seven hungry babies.  Plucking at the tender, pink flesh, he thought it was a sad, sad thing that she had done something like this to the Patrón, but he now would have a chance to find out if gringas like her were as tight as his compadres said.

He entered her, crudely and willfully.  She groaned once again, but remained in her unconscious state.

Chago was soon finished with his rape and felt some raindrops.  Looking up, he frowned.  The storm had changed direction once again.  Bending to pull up his underwear and overalls, he heard a swish just before a brilliant flash of white exploded in his vision, fading to a dull red behind his eyelids. 

It was her heel that had hit him, of course, connecting solidly with the point just below the ear.  The strike sounded like someone thumping a rip melon hard.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

“I’m not in love, so don’t forget it 
It’s just a silly phase I’m going through”

- I’m Not In Love -

(10cc – Godley & Creme)

The redhead rose unsteadily from the bed of the truck, dangling her legs over the edge, rubbing the side of her right heel where it had connected with his skull.  She spat, dryly, at him, then took several deep breathes before opening her eyes, glaring hatefully at the pathetic form on the ground. 

She shivered and summoned up more adrenaline from her internal rage.  Not only had this man raped her, but he’d tried to kill her!  The only thing that had saved her was her self-defense training, which had taught her how to deflect the strike enough so that it was a glancing blow rather than a skull-crushing one.  Chago had merely cracked her temple hard enough to knock her out.  It throbbed now, but she was alive. 

She took one more deep breath and jumped down and paused.  In a swift movement, her left leg rose and jabbed out in a flash of rage-filled speed as she gave a primeval growl, the heel of her foot connecting with his windpipe just as he was reaching for her.  She felt the crunch of cartilage and the man’s hands went from reaching for her legs to grasping his throat.  She’d timed it correctly, hitting him just as he exhaled.  The girl slowly slid past him as he convulsed and died with agonizing slowness.

Staggering, she steadied herself against the side of the bed, falling into a squat. Ten or so breaths later, the woman slowly pulled herself up, wobbling slightly, placing a hand against the rear tire for support and concentrated on breathing.  Once she recovered she walked away from the terrible sucking sounds emitted by the brown dwarf on the ground, wanting to search the cab of the truck. 

Inside, she found a cooler with several bottles of water, most still frozen.  She dug two of them out – one frozen, one not.  She pressed the frozen one to her bruised temple and sat on the running board, slowly sipping at the other to re-hydrate, resisting the urge to pour the whole thing down her throat.  Her systems had endured enough shocks for one day.

“Bekkah, baby,” she said between sips, “you got yourself into one helluva mess here!  Now, where the fuck are we and how do we get as far away as possible?  She watched the storm and the rain it was producing.  There was the possibility that this dry creek bed could suddenly become a raging torrent of wash.  She needed to get moving. 

Bekkah finished the first bottle and opened another.  She grimaced because she needed to do one more thing.  Pushing the bottle’s opening into her own lower one, Bekkah screamed as she squeezed the cold liquid inside her to cleanse out the vile fluids that Chago had deposited.

She sat panting for several moments before willing herself to rise.  Her head throbbed and her vision occasionally blurred, but each time this happened, she employed the yoga breathing techniques she’d once learned to clear her head.  Digging around in the map pocket, she discovered the Beretta, two clips with 13 rounds each, a bag containing the leftovers from a Burger King breakfast and a bottle of generic Aleve.  She popped four of the little blue caplets into her mouth and followed it with the last of the unfrozen water. 

Bekkah pulled the rug down and threw to the ground next to his body.  The rug was longer than the bed of the truck – that had been her saving grace.  With one end sticking up on the passenger side of the bed, it had allowed air to flow into the center where she’d been trapped and preventing her from perishing due to heat stroke – but only just. 

She’d faded in and out of consciousness during the trip until the truck slowed down.  When it stopped, she had willed herself to remain awake and alert, listening for anything to use to her advantage.  Fortunately, Chago had a habit of thinking aloud when he was alone and it gave her an idea.  She made her way unsteadily up to the cabin, using a large crowbar as a walking stick. 

“Perfect,” she murmured when she saw the bunk house.  She headed back to the truck.

With the aide of the crowbar, she rolled the short, fat man into the rug, grunting from her exertions.  Her delicate hand picked up the coveralls he had discarded and searched through them.  In the pockets she found a three-inch thick wad of cash in tens, twenties and fifties, the keys to the truck, a packet of condoms, his wallet, the half-empty flask, two Cuban cigars and a lighter. 

She sniffed at the whiskey and cigars.

“Nice,” she said, setting it aside, “Quality stuff.” 

She sniffed at the cigars again.

“Cuban!”

Bekkah almost puked in sudden reaction to the odor.   She fought down the urge and hyperventilated for a bit.

“I… think I’ll save these both for another time.”

She stopped for a moment as those smells also brought back cherished memories and she began to tear up.

“God damn it, but I miss you, Mike!” she wailed, then sat down on the dirt and cried for ten minutes.  When she stopped, she stared into the distance.

“Fuck, girl – pull yourself together!  We have things we need to do and we need to get our ass outta here!”

Bekkah rose and climbed into the overalls, tying the straps of the bib around her waist to hold it in place.  The cuffs of the covering came up to her knees and the crotch dug almost painfully into her sex, but she couldn’t exactly go driving around in a truck stark naked now, could she?  Bekkah laughed at the thought!  Mike would have loved it.

Sighing, she let the straps all the way out to both hold it up and allow the bib to cover her upper torso.  It would have to do until she could find more clothing, but first she had to finish the tasks at hand and get as far away as possible before she stopped.  Bekkah began to work with grim determination, willing the throbbing inside her head to go away by thinking of the man she loved; the one she missed most; the thought of whom had kept her sane during these past three years of undercover work.

Two hours later, she had the corpse inside the building and was ready to ignite the flare.  She’d soaked the rug with fifteen gallons of gasoline and put the balance in the tank of the truck.  It had taken her longer than anticipated because Bekkah kept having to stop to avoid blacking out.  She found a stash of brand new bandannas in the glove-box and used two of them to secure a frozen bottle to her temple and one around her upper torso to act as a halter.  She was able to finish quickly after that.

Bekkah said a prayer for the soul of the man she’d had to kill and then lit the fusee.

After several false-starts with the three-on-the-tree, she finally got the truck moving without stalling out or jamming the linkage.  She’d tied some scrub to drag behind her and mess up any tracks she might have left.  When she got to the road, she found that this effort had been in vain.  It began to rain… hard.

“FUCK!” she groused when she found the windshield wipers didn’t work.  “Now which way?”  Looking around, she noticed a shaft of sunlight to her left and behind her.

Left it was, then.

She drove for an hour in the rain at just a little over 20 mph, cursing the whole time because it was keeping her too close to where the fire would start, but as suddenly as it had come down, it stopped.  Once the window was clear enough, Bekkah floored it.

“What do we have for entertainment in this piece of shit?” she asked, looking around.  She turned on the radio and searched the dial for something other than country.  And failed.  Any reception she did get was poor because Chago used a coat-hanger for an antenna.

“Okay.  Next question,” she said, digging out the cold breakfast remnants and eating them, despite the disgust she had about whose lips and teeth may have been biting into it before.  “How do I get to the drop-off for the mini-SD card?”  She’d mailed five of them out to different locations as “General Delivery”.  The post office hated when people did that now, but she hadn’t included a return address, so they’d either hold it or toss it in the “undeliverable” bin.

Well,” she said, answering herself, “a lot of that will depend on where the fuck in Texas I am, won’t it?  OH!” 

She read a sign that said “State Route 118 North”, but it was the one below it that made her happy: “I-10 – 45 Miles”.

Bekkah felt herself getting woozy, so she opened another cold bottle of water and dumped it over her head as she screamed.  It worked, shocking her system into alert-mode again.  She began to have an imaginary conversation with the man she hoped to see again soon.

Bekkah came to a small town that looked as if they rolled up the sidewalks at 6 PM – with the exception of the roadhouse, which had about two-dozen pickups parked in front.  The town had one stoplight that immediately turned red as she approached.  She laughed as a song by Hoyt Axton, called “Speed Trap” came on.  Sitting at the light, she turned the mirror to see how she looked, shaking her head at the bruise on her temple and her bloody ear.  Bekkah dug out a chunk of chipped ice, placed it inside another bandanna and used it to clean the dried blood from her ear and neck.  Just as she finished, the light turned green.

As she drove, the rain returned again and then stopped. She opened another bottle of water and drank it slowly.  She was at least 100 miles from where she’d left Chago and had gone through half the water bottles.  Bekkah pulled into a church parking lot and rigged the bandannas to once again hold a bottle of frozen water to the bruise.  It looked strange, but it worked.  Satisfied, she left the parking lot and soon came upon the Interstate.  Bekkah felt a little safer, but the Patrón had eyes and ears everywhere.

“Do I want to go East or West?” she said as she looked at the slowly sinking sun. “I’ll go East, I think.”  She didn’t want to drive with the sun in her eyes because her head was throbbing enough.  Nor did she want to end up in El Paso, where this truck would very quickly be recognized.

An hour later, she came to the junction of I-10 and I-20.  She took I-20.  Within another thirty minutes she was “Entering the City Limits of Pecos” and smiled. 

“Now I know where I can go.”  Soon, she was getting off at Odessa and heading North on U.S. 385.  Yes, she knew where she wanted to be now, but first, she had to throw off the Patrón’s spies.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 3

Hey, you've got a lot of nerve to show your face around here.
Hey, you've got a lot of nerve to dredge up all my fears.
Well, I wish I could shake some sense into you and walk out the door.

But your skin is like porcelain.
Yeah, your skin is like porcelain.

-Porcelain-

(Kevin Griffin - Better Than Ezra)

Seven hours later, a tall, lanky 19-year-old, pimply-faced Tracey Gallagher was an hour into his graveyard shift at the truck-stop.  He was a podunk convenience-store clerk in a podunk town, in a podunk State filled with drunk Indians, redneck trailer-trash losers, a handful of brash oil millionaires from Texas and uranium miners dying of cancer.  He had just finished filling up the cigarette display when a stunning redheaded walked into his store dressed in just enough clothing to keep her from getting arrested. 

She was a bit dusty and dirty, wearing only bib-overall cutoffs, a bandanna around her breasts and another sweat-soaked scrap of bandanna around her forehead, but she still put every other girl he’d known to shame.  The bib kept coming undone whenever she’d bend over.  When she did, her small breasts were almost completely visible.  The girl looked up at him and giggled a little before adjusting the covering, dumping some stuff on the counter in front of him and heading into the ladies restroom.  Gallagher watched her.  She sure didn’t walk like any of the girls he’d ever seen in this county.  And she wore the overalls as if they were an evening gown. 

The redhead left the restroom and wandered around the store, quickly gathering more items.  When she approached him and bent over to deposit everything onto the counter, the gum and the toothpick fell out of his mouth, which hung open like the entrance to a pimply beehive.  The bib had fallen away and he’d seen her tits!  She reached over and pushed up on his chin, closing his mouth.

“Down, junior, or you’ll have to wipe the drool off the counter you just cleaned!”

Gallaghers jaw worked, but no words came out.  His legs became wobbly as she flashed a smile at him.

“I need $150 on pump six.  I’ll also take eight of those $50 gas cards,” she said, matter-of-factly. 

Gallagher gulped and nodded, his head and Adam’s-apple almost bobbing in sync.  She’d dumped one long-sleeved and three regular tee-shirts down on the counter,  along with a cheap personal AM-FM-MP3-CD Player with a plug-in transformer that worked off the cigarette lighter, a package of wet-wipes, one of those disposable, pay-as-you-go cell phones, a dozen CD’s, some sweatpants and sweatshirts, a package of women’s underpants, sandals, shorts, a Stetson, three large bags of jerky, a bag of chips, a pair of wrap-around sunglasses, a case of water and a bag of ice and then paid for it all with a handful of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills.  Gallagher took the money and punched in the gas purchase.  The redhead smiled sweetly at him and took the white, long-sleeved shirt, unfolded it and pulled it over her head.  Unselfconsciously, she reached into the collar of the shirt and unhooked the straps and pulled off the bandanna before letting the faded denim square slip out from beneath the shirt.   She tied the straps around her waist to keeep the overalls from sliding off.  The tee clung to her in a very appealing manner and Gallagher could see the faint outline of her nipples through the tight, thin material.

The redhead smiled once more at Gallagher and gave him a flirty little wave before she walked out to a beat-up old truck.  She filled her tank, as well as both large jerry cans.  Once everything was secured, she got in and drove off, not bothering to pick up the fourteen dollars and change owed her. 

The young lad behind the counter didn’t even recall conducting the next five transactions until a woman with a screaming baby in her arms pointed out that he’d given her more back in change than she’d paid him.

*     *     *     *

Bekkah knew she’d taken a chance, but there hadn’t been much choice.  She’d needed to clean up a bit and buy some clothes because it had become chilly and the truck’s windows wouldn’t roll up.  She’d intended to buy all this in several small purchases, but this truck stop was the first place she’d found within 80 miles that had a gas station that was open this late and she hadn’t wanted to risk having the truck run out of fuel and then be forced to walk in the desert.   

Pulling into a strip-mall parking lot, Bekkah quickly shucked the filthy overalls and threw them into an empty bag.  She cleaned up her private areas as best she could with the wipes then donned the panties, sweats and sandals.  She removed the bandanna from her head and turned on the interior light to look in the rearview.  She noticed that the swelling had gone down considerably, though the bruise was still blue-black and her head still throbbed, though not as much.  One bottle of water that was still mainly ice remained in the cooler.  She removed it and stuck it in the bandanna, then dumped the newly purchased water and ice inside the plastic box.  Bekkah then tore open the Player she’d purchased and inserted the batteries, thought better of it and used the power cord.  She then opened all the jerky packages and the chips so that she didn’t have to fumble with it on the interstate.  Donning ear buds, she made her way back onto the highway, happily singing along to the Beatles while munching on the dried meat and fried spuds.

Cash was generally untraceable, but she knew the Patrón had spies everywhere.  Now that she had the gas cards, she could give them away to folks and cause a little misdirection and then, in effect, disappear.

She drove another 300 miles out of her way into Colorado before stopping once more for fuel and breakfast.  It was there that she made friends with some Mormon missionaries driving their van down to Mexico, an old couple heading to Iowa from their winter home in Arizona, a Native American who was having breakfast before going home from work and a car full of college students heading out to California.  She gave them all-but-two of the gas cards she’d purchased.  They were very grateful for her help and the college jocks stood around her, gawking and flirting as she talked to them.  One of the college girls came out of the store with her own pre-paid phone and was getting ready to remove it from the box when Bekkah suggested they trade.  Since Bekkah’s phone was better than the one the girl bought, she agreed. 

Bek smiled.  “Let Patrón figure that one out!”

Bekkah used her new phone to make a call to some friends – jewelry artists that had a shop in Alamogordo, New Mexico.  They were about the only folks out here she knew she could trust.  Cindy answered the phone. 

“BEKKAH!” she screamed and one could almost hear her jumping up and down for joy. 

“Hey Cindy!  I’m going to be in your area and I was wondering if you and Grant could put me up for a little while?”

“Bek, you know you can stay as long as you want!  Our door is always open to you!”

“Thanks Cindy.  I should be there in about, oh, six hours or so.”

“OK.  Grant says he’s looking forward to seeing you!”

“I’ll bet he is, the dirty old perv!” she laughed.

“Do you remember how to get here?”

“Pretty much,” replied Bekkah.

“Pretty much ain’t gonna cut it if you get lost.  Got a pen?” asked Cindy, then rattled off the directions to their home and studio.  Six hours and twelve minutes later, Bekkah was unlatching the gate to the dirt and gravel driveway.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 4

“’Aint nobody gonna stick anything up your ass 
if you remember who your friends are!”

- The Boys From Alabama -

(Patterson Hood / Drive-By Truckers) (2:52 mark)

I was working on editing a manuscript for my publisher when, from across the room, the sound of my cell phone ringing distracted me.  It was ringing.  Yes, just like a regular old-fashioned phone.  I’d tried song ringtones, but found that it only resulted in my wondering where the hell the music was coming from.  Rather than getting up to search for my phone and see who was calling, I picked up my Bluetooth earpiece lying next to the keyboard, stuck it in my ear and pressed the button.

“Mike Magee!  It’s your nickel, start talking!” 

“Magee!” grunted a familiar voice, hanging onto the “eee” for far too long, causing me to wince when I heard it. 

Crap.  I knew I should have checked the number before answering!   Why in God’s multitude of perfidious names would Kurt Malloy be callin’ me?  The bastard had been the nastiest thorn in my side for the past 14 years – even if I’d made a very comfortable living from parodying him with a fictional counterpart in my books.  Every cop in the city knew who the character was – with the possible exception of Malloy himself.  And if he did, he never admitted to reading my books… if he could read, that is!

Malloy had been the cop who had originally investigated my wife’s death.  She’d crashed into a telephone pole trying to get away from some car-jackers.  Malloy began to accuse me of complicity in her murder, based on information he had received through a dirty cop named Jessops.  Malloy began investigating and then harassing me, even after the D.A. ordered him to back off due to lack of motive and evidence.  When Malloy crossed that line, I sued and won, embarrassing the entire Department after my own investigation found the bangers responsible for her death, much to Malloy’s discomfiture.

I was outraged when the bastards that killed her were all tried as minors and got relatively short sentences at Juvie Hall.  So, I’d arranged for them to “participate” in a small war that I’d instigated on the West Side.  Malloy and Jessops just happened to be there to interview a witness.  Jessops managed to get his ass killed while Malloy survived his wound.  

Since then, he’d been a pain in my ass, figuring I’d been the one that stirred the shit up and got Jessops killed. I’d returned the compliment by being a thorn in his.  My fictional character hadn’t been very complimentary and he’d become almost a cult figure.  After that, I couldn’t get rid of him – either in writing or in real life.  He was the reason my books sold.

 “You dere?” called Malloy when I hadn’t replied.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I replied, sardonically.

“Betcha never thought you’d hear from me again, didja, you ugly mick?”  His South Side accent was almost cloyingly thick as he chuckled.

“I guess not,” I said tersely.  “Tell me; just how in the fuck did you get this number?”

“Ooh, my-my!  Did someone wake up on da wrong side of da bed today?” 

He sighed.  “I got it troo a friend of a friend, okay?  Pax?”

That had to be Cruz, I thought.  He’s the only person that Malloy would know that has this number.  Cruz hates Malloy as much as I do, so this must be something big.  I sighed before speaking again.

“OK, Malloy.  Since we both know you and I ain’t butt-hole buddies, why are you calling and what the hell do you want?”

“Da wife and I are doin’ well, tank youse very much,” he said sarcastically before adding, “you goddamned mick’s ain’t much for socializing, is ya?”

“I am, if you happen to be female, under 5’ 6”, cute and have enough education to hold a conversation with me.”

“Well, I ain’t-,”

 “Now there’s an understatement!”

“…but my niece is!”

“Get to the-… HUH?  What do you mean, your niece and what’s it got to do with this call?”

“Don’t tell me youse don’t remember Bekkah!”

“Huh?  Bekkah…?  Fuck you, Malloy.  You know I remember her!” 

I stared at the mantle where a picture of me with a gorgeous redhead that sat.  Of course I remembered Bekkah!  There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think…  God only knows how she was his niece, though!  Malloy and his wife were the most plain-looking couple on the planet. 

Three years ago, Bekkah had been my world, my entire reason for living.  She’d been one of the best things to enter my life.  We were lovers and roommates while she went job hunting and I seriously began thinking about settling down with her until she dropped two bombshells:  One, she was Karl Malloy’s niece and; two, she’d accepted a position with one of the alphabet-soup Investigation Agencies in the Federal government.  On the East Coast, working in every major city until she ended up in DC.  At first, she said it was the DHS, then NSA, then FBI.  Each time I called her, she said something different or contradicted something she’d told me earlier.  She was far too intelligent to be bouncing around like that unless she was fucking up royally.

I followed her career as best I could until she took a job with an Agency I’d never heard of and she just sort of drifted away.  Over time, she appeared to fall prey to the sleaze that seethes from our Nation’s Capitol like a festering, oozing wound.  It started with her dating corrupt congressional aides, a Senator, and then a member of the Columbian Embassy.  When she became cozy with him, we ceased to communicate.  Well, she did.

My voice went flat at the memory. 

“What about her, Malloy and what’s it got to do with me?  If you’re asking if I want to attend her wedding, the answer is…” 

“What the fuck you talkin’ about?  Ain’t no wedding!  But she’s… you know how she is.”

I replied slowly and softly.  “Of course I do, Malloy.  She’s… she’s the kind of girl that’s sort of hard to forget.  Please tell me she’s alright?”

I don’t think I’d ever used a concerned tone of voice with him before and it seemed to take him a little aback because he didn’t say anything for several moments.

“So,” he said, hesitantly, “youse… still care for her, den?”

“Yes.  Why?”

“Just need ta know so’s I know ta pass a message along.”

He didn’t elaborate, so I took a chance, trying to keep the rising bitterness out of my voice.

“Yes, I still care for her, Malloy.  Or, rather, I did before she took up with her ‘present group of friends.’  I was once very much in lo…”

I stopped and swallowed hard before the emotions overtook my words, then sucked in a deep breath and asked bluntly, “Is Bekkah in trouble, Malloy?” 

“I-, I honestly don’t know,” he said, sounding worried and confused, which was very atypical of him.  “She just called about an hour ago an’ wouldn’t say where she was.  First time she’s contacted us in tree years and what does she want?  Your phone number!

“I had ta tell her dat I din’t have it.  Tree years, Magee, tree!  When we asks when she’s comin’ home, she evades da questions.  All she would tell me was dat she’d gotten in a fix and needed youse to call a fuckin’ number she give me.  Said you was da only one she could trust for what she needed. 

“Howdaya like dat, huh?  She can’t trust an uncle who spent tirty-nine years on da force, but she can trust some dumb mick writer she dated for what, eight weeks?  Tree months tops?   I tell ya!”

“What did she want, Malloy?”

“Want?  Oh, yeah.  Youse to call dis here number and leave a message if she don’t answer and she’d call ya back.”

“I see.  What’s the number?”

Malloy gave it to me.  I quickly typed it into the computer and found out that the area code was for a cell phone purchased in Colorado.  That wouldn’t help me in an age where you could call from anywhere and it wasn’t considered long distance. 

“You still there, Magee?”

“Yeah.  Looking something up.  Give me a moment, would ya?”

Malloy grunted but didn’t say anything.  I had an account with a name search company and typed the number in there.  Nothing came up because it was a pre-paid, disposable cell phone.  I told Malloy and he snorted.

“I could have told you dat, ya dumb potato-picker!” he groused, chewing me out for wasting time, “you don’t tink I had Cruz run it when I callt him?”

I sighed and we both fell silent as I tapped at the keys, trying some search techniques that Mary Obarski taught me.  No results.  Nothing.  Nada.

“Magee,” croaked Malloy after trying to be patient while I looked up a couple more things.

“Yeah?”

“Call her right away. Make sure dat she’s all right.  If she is, send me a postcard of da Sears Tower.  If she ain’t, send me a postcard of da Hancock.  I’ll do what I can ta helps youse.”

“Thanks, Malloy.  I’ll do that.” 

“She’s my wife’s little sister’s baby, Michael,” he croaked, his voice growing tender and wistful.  “We raised her like she was our own when Matt and Eleanor died in dat accident.  Since den, she’s been our little girl.  Make sure dat she’s alright, wouldja please?  If she’s in trouble, get her out of it and get her home safe to us, okay?”

“I will, Karl.”  It was probably the first time in our lives we’d ever called each other by our given names.  Neither of us noticed it.

“Fine den.  I’ll look forward to da correspondence when youse had time to get in touch wid her.”

I swore I heard him sniffle as I hung up, but it could also have been my imagination.  Malloy was the most Neanderthal excuse for a human being I’d ever known.  I shrugged and dialed the number he’d provided. 

Her voice message cheerfully told me that I’d ‘just missed her’ but that she’d return my call ‘just as soon as I am able.’  She sounded like a bubble-brained blonde instead of someone who’d graduated at the top of her class from Loyola.  All she needed to do was crack gum into the earpiece.

“Bekkah, this is Mike Magee.  Your uncle said you wanted me to call.”

I left a short message with my land-line, cellular and a calling card number she could use.

I didn’t get a callback that night which put me on pins-and-needles.  Nor did I get one the next day.  By day three, I figured it was a drug-induced hoax she was playing and forgot about it.  Instead, I went back to working on my newest novel.

My heart wasn’t in it, though.  Malloy’s call and the mention of Bekkah tore me up inside, so I went and took some solace with Ashley, my current FWB.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 5

“What do you want me to do,
To do for you, to see you through?”

- Box Of Rain -

(R. Hunter / The Grateful Dead)

The phone rang and I finally located the damned thing in the pocket of a jacket I’d worn the previous night; an expensive English Tweed that my late wife had given me for my 40^th birthday.  She always said it smelled of leather and hedgerows.   Right now, it smelled pungently of cigars and stale booze – almost as if I’d spilled more on the jacket than in me.  Fact is, I probably had! 

My face distorted into a frown as I squinted at the display.  The number was unfamiliar and I was about to toss the phone onto the couch when curiosity got the better of me.  I staggered over to the computer and typed in “whitepages.com” when the phone chimed, indicating I had a message.  Despite my head pounding like a bass drum, I managed to find and push the proper button and then listened to the message.

“Mike! It’s Bekkah. I’m sorry I didn’t call back right away.  I know I haven’t been the best at keeping up with you and I apologize for that.   I was under-cover and couldn’t say anything.  I hope you understand.

“I’m doing OK, but I need your help because I’m in a bit of a bind and you’re the only person I can trust right now.  Would you give me a call at this number as soon as possible, please?”

She rattled off the number, finishing with, “It’s very important.  Thank you, dear!  Talk to you soon, okay?”

I did a redial and waited as the phone rang.

A male voice answered gruffly, “Hello?”

He sounded like an elderly Tom Waits suffering from a terminal hangover after a marathon concert where he’d overindulged in whiskey and cigarettes. 

“I’m sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number; I was expecting someone else.”

“Is this Magee?”

“Yeah.  Who the hell is this?”

“Are you on a cell phone or a land line?”

“Cell.”

“Hold on.”

A hand went over the receiver and a short, muffled conversation ensued.  Then the hand was lifted and the male voice croaked again, this time sounding a bit more sympathetic, like gravel was being crushed in his larynx.

“Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll call you right back.”

“Who the fuck is we?  Wait!  Who are you?” I called, but the line went dead and then there was a dial tone.  Within a moment, my land-line rang.  I picked up the receiver.

“Mike?”  It was Bekkah’s voice, slightly off, as if she were talking through a sewer pipe filled with water, but still her voice.

“Bek!  What’s up?  Your Uncle Karl called me over four days ago and said you were in trouble.  What’s wrong?  Where are you?”

“Calm down, Mike.  I’m fine.  I’m staying with some friends out in New Mexico.”

“Why didn’t you just talk to me on the cellular?”

“Because it’s too easily intercepted and traced.  I’m talking to you through my friend’s computer.”

“Hell, dear, that can be traced as well!”

“Not really,” she told me, then explained how Grant used different proxies to hide his own identity.  I could picture him now as one of those paranoid, liberal ‘survivalist’ types that believes in UFO’s, government conspiracies for everything and that they’re all out to get him.  When I said this to Bekkah, she laughed.

“He’s not that way at all!  Grant and Cindy are just two really neat people that I’ve known for quite some time.  He makes jewelry and uses Cindy as his canvas and muse.”

“If you say so, dear.”

“Honest injun, Mike.  They’re good people.  But I do need your help.”

“What is it, hon?”

“I… need to see you,” she said in a shy voice.

“Sure, babe. When?  Should I pick you up at Midway or O’Hare?”

“No, I need to see you out here.”

“There?  Christ-onna-crutch, babe!  Are you in trouble, Bek?”

“Um, well, sorta.  But in a good way.”

“You’re pregnant?”

“Oh, NO!  NOOOO-no-no!”

“What then?”

“Its job related.  Can I tell you more when you get here?”

“I-, I guess, yeah.”

“OK.  Like I said, I’m in New Mexico.  Fly into Albuquerque on a flight tomorrow – there’s one that leaves at 1 PM, connects in Denver and will get you here by 5.  Call that cell number to let me know when you’re leaving Denver and I’ll arrange to pick you up.  Get here as soon as you can, please?  Make sure you’re not being followed, though.  Oh, God, it’ll be good to see you again, Mike!”

“Followed?  Bekkah, what’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.  Love you!  Bye!”

The connection cut off and I stared at the receiver for a few moments.  My thoughts were broken as Maggot, my cat, jumped into my lap, brushed the phone away with his jowls and loudly complained because there wasn’t any food in his dish.  I put together the concoction of expensive wet cat food, the cheapest dry stuff and some leftovers from last night.  Maggot is a dumpster-diver and this is how he likes things.  He also weighs in at over 24 lbs, which isn’t good, even for an 8 yr old Maine Coon.  At least, that’s what my vet, Sara Lister, tells me.  Then she does some blood tests and measurements and finds out that Maggot is all muscle.  “Where’d his mother live, the Lincoln Park Zoo?  His father must have been a goddamned bobcat or an ocelot!” was all she said when she handed him back.

*  *  *  *  *

Flying into Albuquerque International “SUNport” was very similar to flying into Salt Lake City, which had been my “one-stop layover” from O’Hare – not Denver.  Both landscapes were the same sandy brown color of dried out brush which only turns green for a few weeks each year after rains (and mudslides).  The main difference is that Albuquerque has a lot more mountains around it and is a steeper descent. 

As the Captain announced our approach, I thought of my apartment and my neighbor, Mrs. Tiller who promised she’d look after Maggot.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the cat disappeared for the whole time I was gone, though.  He very specifically resents it any time I leave for more than a couple days.

Mrs. Tiller had harrumphed at the condition of my place, even though I’d cleaned it.  Both of us knew it wasn’t up to my usual standards.  She also knew how hard the breakup with Natalie had been for me, even trying to fix me up with her niece, Dolores.  Knowing her, I’d probably find the place sparkling when I got back. I had to laugh; as much as I’d made jokes about that woman being a Nosie-Nellie, she was actually one of the nicest, kindest, most caring neighbor I’d ever met.

As I came out of the gate hallway, I looked around for the explosion of red hair that would say “Bekkah,” but I didn’t find her anywhere.  Shrugging, I went down to the baggage claim area to get my suitcase.

“Mike Magee, pick up the white courtesy phone.  Mike Magee, pick up the white courtesy phone please!”

I shrugged and walked over to the closest handset.

“Magee here.”

“Yes, Mr. Magee.  You need to call your party, which is currently at the cellphone waiting area.  The number you need to call is…” 

The cheerful, feminine voice rattled off the numbers to me twice as I plugged them into MY cellphone and then called.  The gravel-crusher voice answered.

“Magee?”

“That’s me.”

“Good.  Go to the passenger pickup area.  Look for a bright yellow 1974 Chevy pickup.”

“How will I know that it’s you?”

He laughed.  “I own the only goddamned one in the state that still looks showroom new!”

Grant hung up before I could ask about or ask to speak too Bekkah.

It was a short walk, as their “Sunport” was about the same size as Midway before all the expansion.  On one hand, their cutesy moniker for their airport was a huge indication that I was in “airy-fairy land” where every whack-job new-age nut flocked to as their “mecca.”  I’m not an atheist, though.  I call myself a “spiritual deist” for lack of a better term and could feel the mystical energy of the land slowly seeping into me through my soles.  It was extremely unnerving.  I’d read several books about the State and everyone that came here seemed to feel the same ethereal connection.  I was enough of a believer to simply allow the flow to fill me.  It would whether I wanted it to or not.

Within a minute, a huge, monolithic yellow pickup worked its way through the traffic and then pulled up by me.

“You must be Magee,” said the man, reaching over to fling the passenger-side door open.  I climbed inside. 

“I’m Grant,” he stated, holding out a calloused and scarred hand.  I shook it and shut the door. 

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Book jacket,” he said, throwing a novel into my lap, my picture staring back at me from the back cover.  Grant swore a bit, then concentrating on weaving through the traffic.  While New Mexico is not the most populous State in the Union, it has more drunk-driving accidents per capita than any other – and Grant said he intended to avoid them if at all possible.  We soon merged onto I-25 and then headed south at a rapid rate of speed.

“How far is it to your place?” I asked.

“Couple hours.”

“Isn’t everything a ‘couple hours’ away in New Mexico?”

Grant grunted and smiled.

It had been unseasonably warm in Chicago on this day in April, but that didn’t prepare me at all for the heat out here. 

“Here,” Grant said, handing me an ice-cold bottle of water.  “The A/C is out and this dry heat will suck moisture out of you like a sponge.”

I opened the bottle and drank.

“So, why isn’t Bekkah here?” I asked.

“She had something to attend to so I told her I’d come pick you up.”

“How far is it to your place?”

“Coupla hours.”

“How many miles, I mean”

“A hunnert or so,” he replied cryptically again, reaching over and turning on the radio.  Country music played softly and he began to sing along.  I shut up and enjoyed the desert scenery as we rode, taking an occasional swig from the water, then pulled out my laptop, plugged the adaptor into the lighter socket and booted up.  At least I’d get some work done on my latest book, which was starting to become seriously overdue despite a generous advance.

Eventually, Grant made small-talk with me and then opened up a little more when I asked him about his jewelry-making business.  He proudly showed off some of his work that he was wearing.

“Nice stuff,” I told him.

“You’re a bit… older… than we imagined,” he said, finally inquiring about me.

“What were you expecting?”

“Not sure.  Someone a tad younger though.”

I couldn’t tell if he was amused or bothered.  He didn’t say any more and I was at a loss for words, so I went back to my writing. 

A little less than two hours later, half of which had been over a road with ruts and potholes large enough to devour most Korean cars, we arrived at Grant’s spread, a rambling ranch-styled house that served both as their home.  The barn behind it was his studio. 

We bumped down the long drive to the well-tended abode.  Several Siamese or Burmese cats lounged around outside in whatever shade was provided and I guessed that Cindy bred them.  Grant honked the horn unnecessarily and two women burst from the doorway.  One of them ran up and flung herself into my arms – Bekkah. 

She was dressed in jeans, boots and an embroidered ecru peasant blouse, her red hair nowhere in evidence and her head completely covered by a tan bandana.  She wrapped her arms and legs around me, kissing my face repeatedly.  She finally unwound herself and stood there, smiling.

The other woman stood to the side, more mature and elegantly rich in her curves – not fat, mind you – but, well, plush, in a very appealing manner.  I think that some of my friends would have said she was “built like a brick shit-house,” mature and soft.  That, and she had a natural warmth that made her even more beautiful, if that was at all possible – a genuine mother-earth type. 

“Mike, this is Cindy.  Cindy, Mike,” said Bekkah, standing off to one side

“Very pleased to meet you, Cindy!” I said, kissing her hand.

“So wonderful to finally meet you, Mike,” she told me, folding herself into me and giving me a hug and a kiss that was somewhere between “hi there” and “Helloooo sailor!!”  Had I known her better (or if Grant hadn’t been present), I’d have lowered my hands from her waist to her ass and given it a good squeeze.

 “Wow, that’s the first time I’ve seen smoke come from his ears, Cindy!” Bekkah laughed.  “Mike, I take it you’ve gotten to know Grant.”

“In a manner of speaking, I guess I have.”

Grant reappeared and tossed me a beer.

“Thanks!”

“Drink up,” he said, popping his open.  We all went back inside to the shelter of cool air conditioning.  Once there, I had to maneuver around the multitude of ubiquitous cats inhabiting their abode.  I bent to pick up a kitten that was standing in my path and mewling loudly, its legs akimbo, eyes shut and face scrunched up in a frustrated look.  She immediately quieted in my arms, began kneading and purring while I petted her.

“You’re a cat-lover!” squealed Cindy.

“I’ve had a few in my time,” I said. 

“I told you about Maggot, didn’t I?” asked Bekkah.

“Oh, that’s his cat?  Wow…, I thought he’d be… you know… younger!”

I shook my head in wonder.  “You’re all making me sound like I’ve got one foot in the grave!”

“Oh, not at all!” laughed Cindy.  “We just thought you were around 35 or 40.”

I pouted, but it went unnoticed.  Most people tell me I look 35 or 40!  I stole a quick glance into the mirror to see whether or not I’d aged overnight.

We all made small talk and drank a couple beers together.  Bekkah sat between my legs, wrapped protectively in my arms while I lounged on the couch.  Occasionally, she would shiver and scrunch into me even more.  I kiss the top of her head, then squeeze her in a hug and she’d calm down.  A bit later, both ladies got up and began to fix dinner. 

Grant took me out to his workshop and told me how he came up with ideas for his various creations.  He also dabbled in photography and turned on his computer to display his latest captures.

There was a lull in the conversation as we opened two more beers and I asked him a question.

“Do you know what’s up with Bekkah?  Is she in some sort of trouble?”

He gave me a side-long glance, sizing me up to see if I were kidding before shaking his head no.

“All I know is that she came in here driving a rusty old 57 Chevy pickup held together with bondo and primer and sporting a “three-on-the-tree.”  She seemed a little scared and asked me to dismantle – not sell, mind you – but dismantle the truck and then sell off the pieces when she told me to.  Right now, all I’ve done is remove the cab and bed from the frame, which I’m storing in my barn.  She won’t let me sell any of it just yet… and quite honestly, I don’t want to.

“Now, I would love to keep the truck, but she told me she’d had a little tiff with the former owner and that he had a bit of a mean streak in him.  The truck is rare enough that it would have attracted attention had I begun to sell off the parts.  So, I’m just waiting for her to tell me what to do with them.”

“Hmmm.  That’s a little on the odd side, but OK.”

“Now, if this all blows over, I am gonna keep it.  I’m currently pounding out the dents before I finish the repairs that the former owner started.”

“Are you going to paint it yellow?” I chided.

“Candy-apple red.  Although, in this climate, you best bet IS to paint it yellow… or white,” he told me.  “I want to turn it into a show truck.  It’ll be garaged.”   Then, after a moment, he asked, “What do you do?”

“I’m a writer,” I told him.

“Well, DUH!” he replied.  “I mean, what else do you do?” 

“I used to be a stockbroker.  Before that, I owned a small business until things in my life fell apart and everything unraveled.  I primarily write action-adventure tales and I fictionalize real crime stories.  Sometimes I’m sucked into ‘involvement.’  I don’t like to be, but sometimes it just happens.”

“Oh?  How?”

I told him about Natalie, my last girlfriend, how I’d met Bekkah and the previous books I’d written.  He nodded, but didn’t give any sign of having read one, even though it was the latest one he’d tossed at me when we first met.

“What does Bekkah do, and how’d you two get involved?” he asked.

“She hasn’t told you?”

“Bekky… is good at avoiding any talk about herself.”

I laughed.  “That is so true!”

There was a shout, calling out that lunch was ready.  Grant and I walked inside, discussing some of the jewelry he’d been commissioned to do.  Then we sat down and Grant lead a small prayer of grace before we ate.

When there was a lull in the conversation, I spoke up, talking to Cindy. 

 “Thank you for taking care of Bekkah and allowing me to visit here,” I told her.  “Both you and Grant have been more than kind.”

“Hell, we’d do that for Bekkah any time,” said Cindy, “She’s family as far as we’re concerned.  I went to school with her mom and was there in the delivery room when she was born.”

Lunch was fantastic, though I’d be hard-pressed to remember what it was, other than the artichokes.  Bekkah’s hand rested on my thigh for most of the meal.  Cindy told us stories of Bekkah being a toddler in student housing and how everyone would get stoned and hold intellectual conversations with her.

“We loved her to bits.  I introduce her parents as well.  He wasn’t her biological father, but he raised her as if she were!”

“Well, I’m glad for that.”  I looked at Bekkah one more time and realized I hadn’t expressed what had been bothering me.

“You cut off your hair!”

Bekkah smiled.  “I shaved it all, actually.  It was part of a story to tell the neighbors.  I’m their ‘poor, recovering niece’ that’s been going through chemotherapy.”

“And the reason for all this is…?”

Bekkah quickly got up.  “I’ve got to help Cindy clean the dishes.  I’ll talk to you about it later.”

Yes, she was definitely very good at avoiding subjects she didn’t want to discuss.

Afterward Grant and Cindy told us they had to get back to work.  I went into what I call a “food coma” and decided to take a nap.  Bekkah joined me about 15 minutes later and we kissed for the better part of 10.

“So, why did you have me fly into Albuquerque when Las Cruces would have been closer and, when are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“Aren’t you horny?”

“Yes, but I’m too full to do anything.”

“Well, I’m horny! And I’m far from full!”

“Bekkah, I’m full!

“That’s Okay, you don’t have to do anything, I’ll just get on top.  You won’t have to do anything other than admire.  Then we can nap.”

“Christ, woman!  Don’t you have any shame?”

I heard a cry come from the other end of the house.

“Not,” said Bekkah, “after hearing that all week, I don’t!”