Homesick Blues

by Steve Brewer

  She didn't answer. Why did he have to bring that up? They'd met the first time because she boosted a few semis from truck stops, but her hijacking days were in the past. She'd given up a life of crime, or so she'd thought before she came upon that burning car.

  Jackie tucked the revolver into her belt at the back. It tugged at her waistband, but she had to agree it was a comfort.

  "Think they've gone away yet?" she asked.

  "Probably not. It's got to occur to them that we're on foot. Both of our vehicles are still in the parking lot. They'll prowl all the streets and alleys around here before they give up."

  Right on cue, a vehicle came bumping down the alley. They crouched lower in their hiding place, but Jackie got a glimpse of the vehicle as it passed. An aged brown sedan. Nothing to fear.

  "Not them," she said.

  "Nope."

  They relaxed a little, leaning back against the concrete-block wall so they both faced the alley and the backside of another small apartment building.

  "Think they trashed your apartment?" she asked.

  "I wouldn't be surprised. I just hope they leave the vehicles alone."

  "I guess this means we won't be staying at your place tonight."

  "We'll figure something out," he said. "Maybe if we get your truck, we could sleep in the back under that camper shell."

  "The bed is full of boxes and stuff. We can go to a motel."

  "No credit cards," he said. "Not until we know who these guys are and how they're tracking you."

  She nodded.

  "Which brings us back to the Big Question," he said. "Who are those guys?"

  "I don't know. I thought once we got to your place, we would be in the clear."

  "I thought so, too. They had help finding us. That cop had captain's bars on his uniform."

  "You think they're cops?"

  "I think they own him. Right before they broke in, he went to his car and sat there by himself, like he didn't want anything to do with it. But he didn't drive away."

  "Hmm."

  "I got the impression those guys were from Mexico," he said. "From their clothes, their hair. I only heard a little of what they said, but the Spanish spoken in Mexico sounds different from the version we speak around here."

  Jackie waited for him to finish talking, but she'd already jumped to a chilling conclusion.

  "Santiago," she said when he paused for breath. "They must be Santiago's people."

  He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. After a few seconds pondering, he nodded.

  "You could be right. He may still be looking for you."

  "It's been two years!"

  "Those drug cartel guys are really good at carrying grudges. They get a lot of practice."

  He smiled at her. This time it didn't help.

  "How would he even know I'm in Albuquerque? I've hardly poked my head up since I got here."

  "McGuire probably put out a BOLO on you—"

  "A what?"

  "'Be on the lookout.' So the police captain, or someone else on the cartel's payroll, alerted Santiago and told him there was reason to believe you were back in Albuquerque."

  "Goddamnit," she said. "I'm never going to escape my past."

  "Take it easy. So far, we've gotten away from them. We lie low for a few days, give them a chance to get bored, and maybe they'll go away."

  Another vehicle crept down the alley toward them. They crouched behind the dumpsters, listening. A bigger engine this time, but it turned out to be a rusty old pickup, loaded with rubbish. The pickup paused at the dumpsters but didn't stop.

  Once the alley was clear, Jackie gasped. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.

  "This is crazy," she said. "Hiding behind these smelly bins. Let's go back up the hill and get my truck."

  "We should wait—"

  "I don't want to wait," she said. "Let's at least retrieve the truck and get mobile again."

  "And go where?"

  "I've got an idea about that. But first we need the truck."

  "Why not my car?"

  "Everything I own is in that truck."

  "It's registered to your WitSec name—"

  "Do you even have your keys?"

  "What?"

  "We left the apartment building in a hurry," she said. "I've got my keys. Do you have yours?"

  He felt of his pants pocket where his keys should be.

  "I can run inside real quick—"

  "Forgive me for saying so, Romeo, but you can't run anywhere real quick. Not with a cane."

  His face fell, and she felt bad that she'd hurt his feelings. After a moment, he propped his smile back up.

  "You've got me there," he said. "So, I'll cover you and you get the truck and we drive away?"

  "That's right."

  "And if the Mexicans are still there?"

  "I'm getting my truck," she said, "even if I have to shoot somebody."

  "All right. Just try not to shoot me, okay?"

  She smiled. "You'd better stay out of the way."

  They started up the alley, casting glances back over their shoulders to make sure no Escalade came up behind them. Traffic still hummed on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, but otherwise the neighborhood was quiet. Jackie walked slower than usual so he could keep up.

  When they reached the Stellar Arms Apartments, they were on the far end of the building from the manager's unit. Leaning on his cane, Romeo peeked around the corner at the parking lot, then said, "They're gone."

  "You sure?"

  "Their car's not here. And neither is that police captain who was parked on the street."

  "They might've left someone inside to wait for us."

  "Maybe," he said. "You sure you want to risk it?"

  "Just watch from here. I'll go straight down that sidewalk and right into the truck. If anybody tries to stop me, shoot them."

  Jackie felt a little breathless as she walked to the red pickup. Soon as she reached the truck, she unlocked the door and got behind the wheel and cranked the engine. She half-expected the noise to cause gunmen to burst forth from the burglarized apartments, but no one appeared.

  She backed the truck around in a half-circle, then drove the length of the parking lot to where Romeo waited.

  As he climbed into the cab, she said, "Nothing to it."

  "Now we've got wheels. Let's use 'em to get away from here."

  "I've got an idea," Jackie said as she drove them toward Central Avenue. "We can stay at Nancy Ames' house. Nobody knows to look for us there."

  "You've got a key?"

  "I left the back door unlocked when I was there last time."

  He said nothing for a minute, until they stopped for a red light at Central. While Jackie checked her mirrors to make sure no one was following, Romeo said, "Staying at that house doesn't seem safe."

  "We can't stay at your place. We can't go to the police. We can't check into a motel with a credit card."

  "I know, but—"

  "We need someplace to hide until we can get things sorted out."

  Jackie didn't wait for him to come around. The light changed and she turned left, headed for Nancy Ames' neighborhood.

  Chapter 29

  Joe Dog slumped low in the driver's seat of the Crown Vic, listening to his police-band radio and watching the sunset throw watercolors onto thin clouds above the elms. The Crown Vic was backed into the carport of a vacant house with a "For Rent" sign in the yard, three doors down from Nancy Ames' house. He'd been sitting there for hours now, and he was losing hope.

  He checked his phone for the hundredth time. Still no message from his boss. He kept hoping for a lead, and Grant Sheridan was his best hope. The man had friends all over the city, a thriving network of bigwigs and backslappers. The people who really run New Mexico, or so Joe Dog believed. The state government can squat in Santa Fe and makes laws and dole out money and cut ribbons, but it was oilmen and businessmen and developers who made the economy go. And those guys could
get away with murder.

  Grant Sheridan could accomplish more with a telephone than Joe Dog could accomplish with an army. But there still were times when brute force was required, and only a dispassionate man like Joe Dog could be trusted to use it judiciously. He liked to think of it as the personal touch.

  Take, for example, Estella Aguirre, a stubborn old woman who had refused to take Grant Sheridan's money. Sheridan needed her family plot for a subdivision he was building at the time, and no amount of smooth talk worked on her. So the boss called in Joe Dog, who started making things around Estella Aguirre die. First it was her lawn and her rosebushes. Then her cat disappeared. Then she found her precious toy poodle on her doorstep, its head twisted nearly off. When Joe Dog made it clear that her neck was next on his list, the old lady decided it was time to sell her property and move to a nice assisted-living center.

  Another time, Sheridan was having trouble with problem employees, some assholes who thought they were untouchable because they belonged to a construction union. Joe Dog shot holes in two of the ringleaders. Didn't even have to explain that he'd been sent by Mr. Sheridan. The point was made.

  Mr. Sheridan once told him that they had what's called a symbiotic relationship. They both benefited from working together. Joe Dog benefited in terms of wages and resources, and Sheridan benefited from the occasional direct application of violence.

  Still, Joe Dog was expendable and he knew it. If the death of Nancy Ames went sideways on them, Mr. Sheridan would offer up Joe Dog to the cops rather than let anything get on him. Nothing ever touches Grant Sheridan or his network of cronies. They've always got people like Joe Dog – minorities, Third Worlders, street-level bad-asses – to act as their proxies when it comes time to pay the price. No pain for the white men, no blood on their clothes.

  Joe Dog was yanked from his dark thoughts by a vehicle cruising past on Mackland Avenue. A red truck with a camper shell on the back. New Mexico plate, not Colorado, but it looked like the same truck. Two people inside. Joe Dog couldn't tell if either was the woman he now thought of as Gwen Rogers, but he sat up straighter and started the Crown Vic's engine. While it idled, Joe Dog counted in his head. He got up to fifty-six before the red truck reappeared, coming from the other direction, slowing in front of Nancy's house.

  Sunlight splashed into the cab of the truck, and he could see a woman behind the wheel. Her hair was different, but Joe Dog was pretty sure it was Gwen Rogers, the one who'd given him the bruised face. His blood blazed at the sight of her.

  In the passenger seat was a man with short black hair and a blue Hawaiian shirt. Joe Dog was sure he'd never seen him before, but something about that haircut said "cop."

  He ducked low as they passed the vacant house, raising up just in time to see the red truck do a U-turn before it reached Carlisle. Coming back this way. Joe Dog lay across the front seat, keeping low, waiting.

  He heard brakes squeak in complaint. The truck was stopping, very close by. He dared a peek, and saw the red pickup had stopped at the curb near Nancy Ames' house, two doors down from where he was parked. The truck door opened and Gwen Rogers climbed out.

  It definitely was her, though she'd cut off her long ponytail. Her hair was now short and spiky and looked darker than before. Joe Dog didn't like the style much, but it did alter her appearance a great deal and he supposed that was the reasoning behind the change.

  Her friend walked with a cane, though he looked younger than Joe Dog and otherwise in good shape. While he limped along the sidewalk, Jackie cut across the yard and disappeared behind Nancy's house.

  What the hell were they up to? Joe Dog had run her off the day before, so she'd come back with help. Was that it? Why was she so determined to get inside that house? Was Mr. Sheridan's missing money in there somewhere? How could that be? Joe Dog had searched the house thoroughly.

  By the time the limping man reached Nancy's front door, it was opening from inside. Gwen Rogers apparently had gone around to the back door and come through the house to let him in. Once they were both indoors, the front door closed, shutting out Joe Dog and the rest of the neighborhood.

  Ten minutes crawled past without further sign of the pair in Nancy's house. He could see two of the home's windows from this angle, but both had their curtains closed.

  He wanted to stalk over there and knock on the door and shoot whoever answered. Shoot them both. Put several bullets in the woman in exchange for the pain and humiliation he'd suffered at her hands. Killing her was the only thing that would help him feel better.

  But it wouldn't get Mr. Sheridan's money back, would it?

  Okay, so he needed to talk to them first. Make them tell him where the money is, then get rid of them. He'd learned his lesson with Nancy Ames about shooting first and asking questions later. Those questions rarely get answered.

  Perhaps he would just shoot the man. The woman most likely could tell him everything he needed to know. Snuff the man and get the drop on her. Then he could have some fun.

  Keep it quiet, and he could take his time with her, get her to reveal the whereabouts of that missing money. Get her to reveal everything, her most personal secrets, her greatest fears, her final fantasy. Some people, when facing death, talked and talked, thinking they can prolong the moment, as if another breath or two made any difference. Others locked their jaws, toughing it out to the end. He almost hoped this woman was one of the strong, silent ones. He'd enjoy breaking her more.

  Joe Dog checked the clock on the dash. It would be full dark in another hour. Would they stay in the house that long? Were they planning to spend the night there? He got a rush at the thought. He could wait until they were both asleep, then slip inside the house and surprise them. He still had the keys to Nancy's house. Why not make use of them?

  He shut off the engine. Minutes earlier, the thought of sitting in the car for a few more hours would've been total misery. But he didn't mind it now. Not if it meant he could get his hands on that woman.

  Chapter 30

  Romeo Sandoval went room to room, Glock in hand, checking inside closets and behind doors. He didn't turn on any lights, but enough waning daylight leaked around the curtains that he could make sure they were alone. Living room, dining room, kitchen, bath, two bedrooms, all clear. Jackie trailed along behind him, carrying her overnight bag.

  "See?" she said as they circled back to the living room. "Nobody here but us chickens."

  He put the gun away.

  "What do you think? Isn't this a good place to spend the night?"

  "The price is right," he said, "but I'm nervous. Somebody spotted you here before."

  "Nobody's around now."

  "The state police will identify Nancy Ames' body anytime now. Officers will come knocking."

  "We won't answer the door. If we leave the lights off and keep quiet, they'll go away. We can stay here one night, long enough to get some rest."

  "Maybe so," he said. "But if the police find us here, they're going to have a lot of questions."

  "They gonna charge us with burglary for sleeping here?"

  "They could."

  "I'm willing to take my chances with the cops," she said. "The one I'm worried about is whoever killed Nancy."

  "If someone actually did."

  "She didn't throw her purse in the grass and burn herself up. Somebody killed her. And that somebody is still around. I'd sure hate to get surprised during the night."

  "We can take turns sleeping," he said. "Go get some rest. I'll take the first watch. I'll keep an eye on the neighborhood and make sure we don't get any unwanted company."

  "You've got to sleep, too. We don't know what'll happen next. You can't afford slow reflexes."

  He grinned at her. "Are you planning to surprise me?"

  "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."

  "I'd better stay on my toes."

  "You'd better."

  They were facing each other, two feet apart, and Romeo wasn't sure what to do next. Get Jackie sett
led into the bedroom? Give her a comforting hug? Kiss her?

  That last option sounded best, but before he could act, she said, "There's food in the kitchen, if you want a snack or something."

  "Don't you find it a little creepy, eating a dead woman's food? Staying in her house?"

  "I keep telling myself she wouldn't mind. And that food will just get thrown out if you don't eat it."

  "Do you want something?"

  "No," she said. "I'm too wound up to eat."

  "Relax. We've found a haven, at least for the moment."

  "You're right." She took a deep breath and blew it out. "Maybe with you watching my back, I can get some actual sleep. The last couple of nights have been rough."

  "Sleep in your clothes," he said. "Just in case."

  A pause, and Romeo thought she was about to lean in for that kiss, but she turned away.

  "I'm going to wash up," she said. "Then I'll take Nancy's bed. You can make up the guest bed if you want."

  Romeo tried not to look disappointed.

  "I'll just wait my turn," he said. "One of us should stay awake through the night."

  She cocked an eyebrow at him.

  "Don't let me sleep through my shift," she said. "We take turns, right?"

  "Right."

  "No macho bullshit. We take turns. I mean it."

  "I can tell. I'll wake you in four hours."

  She groaned.

  Chapter 31

  Felipe Moreno hated to be the bearer of bad news. His boss didn't react well to disappointment, and had been known to personally cut off the heads of those who failed him. Felipe's shirt stuck to his back as he got out of the Escalade with Gonzalo and Little Mike in front of the old adobe hotel.

  They'd agreed it was best for Felipe to talk to the boss alone. He and the boss went back the farthest, all the way to their hardscrabble boyhoods on the streets of Chihuahua City, and Felipe had a gentle way of speaking that often calmed Joaquin Santiago.

  Felipe wasn't sure that would be the case today. The boss really hated this woman, Jackie Nolan. No man dared to cross Santiago, much less some gringa from El Norte. She'd gotten away with it two years ago, though Santiago spent a fortune on cops and informants in Albuquerque. Now she was back in this sprawling city, but Felipe was unable to hand her over. He expected Santiago to explode at the news.