The Big Fix

by Linda Grimes

  I skidded to a halt, flinging my arms wide to stop Dave and Cody. I took each of them by a wrist and held them back. (Okay, I might have been holding myself upright at the same time. I can multitask.)

  Dave spoke first (I was still gasping), temporarily forgetting his cowboy dialect. “Wait a minute. Why don’t you let the pony go and we’ll talk about this. What are you looking for?” As if we didn’t know. “Maybe we can help you find it.”

  “Stand back or the pony gets it!” the man said, his gruff voice making the ridiculous words sound menacing.

  Kick him, Eeyore! Kick. Him. Now.

  For once in his cantankerous life, Eeyore stood still. The bag over his head must have been inhibiting his natural impulses.

  I swallowed hard and found my voice. “All right, mister. Stay calm. Nobody’s going near you.” I spared a nanosecond to glance at Dave and Cody, making sure they were listening. “What can we do for you?”

  “You can give me the gun that was supposed to be here, that’s what you can do,” he said, eyes getting wilder.

  “What gun is that?” I asked, squeezing both the guys’ wrists. They got the message and kept their mouths shut.

  “The goddamn gun that was supposed to be here, that’s what gun!”

  Eeyore took exception to the man’s tone and tried to rear up, only to be yanked—harshly—back down by the rope.

  I reached for him reflexively, but halted when Bluto pressed the blade harder against Eeyore’s neck. The thin cloth of the sack wasn’t going to offer any protection against cold, sharp steel. I tried desperately to think of a way, any way to get that knife away from my pony’s throat. We weren’t close enough to rush the guy, even if the wall of the stall hadn’t been blocking us.

  “Um, why don’t we help you look for it?” I said, keeping my voice reasonable. Mostly. It didn’t squeak, anyway. “It’s obvious the gun is important to you—maybe a gift from someone special?—and you need it back.” There. If he wasn’t bright enough to think of his own damn lie, I’d do it for him. Give him a credible out, and maybe he’d leave quietly. “You probably have a good reason to suspect whoever, um, stole it from you took it here. Once we find it, you can be on your way.”

  His mouth drooped open while he considered what I said.

  Come on, you idiot. Take the opening and run.

  “Uh … yeah,” he finally said, a dim bulb lighting behind his eyes. “That’s it. The gun is special. It was a present from my, uh, girlfriend. For my birthday—”

  That’s it, Bluto. Come on, you can do it! Now let go of my pony.

  “—and her asshole ex-boyfriend, he stole it and headed this way. He called her to, um, rub it in and told her since she was into tiny things—he’s a shit-face asshole jerk, is what he is, and he don’t know from tiny, the pencil-dick—he told her she may as well give her present to a pony as to me. Right, like he was some kind of stallion.”

  Boy, when he took an opening, he really ran with it.

  He seemed quite pleased with his embellishment of the story I’d started for him. I nodded my sympathetic understanding and kept squeezing. If I hadn’t been so terrified for Eeyore it would have been tough to hold my laughter in check.

  Dave pried my fingers gently from his wrist and said, “Damn, that’s cold. I feel for you, buddy.” He looked at me, his eyes telling me to go along with him, and then continued. “You know, I shoveled a bunch of muck out of that stall this morning. Maybe the gun was in the mess? The pile is outside, over by the corral. Why don’t we go look?”

  I let go of Cody, who said, “Good idea. I’ll get a shovel.”

  The man stiffened. “Wait!” He still held the knife to Eeyore. The rest of us froze. “You go get the shovel, girly. You other two—you stay where I can see you.”

  I nodded. “Sure thing. Um, meet you out by the pile?” I said. With any luck, he’d leave Eeyore in the stall.

  Apparently he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. He took Eeyore with him, knife to throat, making sure Dave and Cody were in front of him the whole way. Even newly armed with the shovel, there was nothing I could do that wouldn’t allow him time to plunge the knife into Eeyore’s throat—not a risk I was willing to take.

  The aromatic pile of dung and straw was percolating in the sun next to the new three-bin composting system Dave was hot to start using. I’d been hesitant to make the investment (feeling as I did that other things—say, like eating—were more important), but Dave insisted it was the green thing to do, and would pay for itself—eventually—when we started selling the finished, soil-like product to gardeners. Billy thought we should call it “Cielie-Poo.” (Uh-huh, the origin of his new endearment for me.) Dave was lobbying for “Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue, But If You Want Them to Grow, You Need This Poo.” Which, granted, was a bit long, but Dave said we could always abbreviate it as “U-Need-This Poo.”

  Right now I needed something, that was for sure. Maybe the poo was it. It wasn’t like it hadn’t worked to get me out of a tight spot before, as about a hundred neo-Vikings could testify to. But I’d been told lightning doesn’t strike the same spot twice, so I wasn’t going to count on it.

  I started poking at the pile gingerly, keeping a wary eye on Bluto.

  “Hurry it up, girly. I ain’t got all day.”

  I shoveled faster, turning over big globs of straw and manure, not really paying attention because, of course, I already knew the gun wasn’t there. As I was lifting a particularly fresh bunch of horse hockey I heard a plane overhead.

  Billy.

  Everyone looked up, including me. Bluto didn’t like it. “Hurry the fuck up! You two, start digging—hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  Cody stopped. “To get more shovels.”

  “Forget it. Use your hands. Dig!”

  Dave sighed. They both reached for the pile as Billy circled around. I dropped the shovel and threw my arms up in an I-give-up gesture, hoping Billy could see me.

  “Listen, mister, I don’t think the gun is here.” I waved an arm, broadly, over the pile. For all this guy knew, I was a heavy gesticulator. “Maybe we should check the other stalls first”—I swung my other arm toward the barn—“because maybe the ex-boyfriend threw the gun in the wrong one,” I said, my voice growing louder with the approach of the plane.

  Bluto glanced upward, looking edgier by the minute. “You’re not done here—keep digging!”

  Billy flew by, heading toward the landing strip. Damn it. I’d been trying to wave him off. No telling what this maniac might do if he thought he’d be outnumbered even more. He’d have plenty of time to do major damage before Billy could land and run to us.

  But Billy didn’t land—he flew higher, banked steeply to the left, and came back toward us, coming in lower and lower the closer he got.

  What the hell?

  The plane buzzed by, probably not close enough to reach up and touch, but it sure felt that way.

  I dove to the ground, followed by Cody and Dave. (Sure, the plane was already past us by then, but it’s hard to stop a reflex.) Bluto tried to duck, but Eeyore, panicked into action at last, reared up, clocking Bluto’s jaw with the top of his rock-hard skull. Bluto fell backward, letting go of the rope.

  Eeyore, unrestrained at last, ran in circles, bucking, tossing his head until the sack came off. I pushed myself up from the ground. Dave and Cody did likewise. We all looked at each other, mentally divvying up what to do next. The pair of them made a beeline for Bluto, leaving me to cautiously approach my wild-eyed pony. Guess a crazy man armed with a twelve-inch switchblade was less intimidating than a disgruntled Shetland pony.

  “Hey, sweet boy,” I said softly, extending my hand toward Eeyore. “It’s me. You’re okay now.”

  Eeyore snorted twice, stamped his foot, and trotted to where Dave was bent over the semiconscious Bluto.

  “Heads up!” I hollered.

  Eeyore stretched out his neck and bit Dave.

  Dave straightened—fast—and grabbed
his ass. “Goldarn it!”

  Chapter 8

  Dave was sprawled on the cowhide sofa in the lounge, belly down and quietly moaning, bag of ice melting on his butt. (Yeah, I know. Cowhide. Brown and white and hairy. But it came with the place when I bought it. I’d been planning to redecorate when my finances got healthier, but now I wasn’t so sure. It was kind of growing on me. I’d even given it a name: Elsie the Cowch.)

  Rosa hovered over Dave, her face a mixture of sympathy and see-I-told-you-so. “Two inches lower and the tiny demon would have turned you into a woman. What would you have done then, huh?” she said.

  “Become a lesbian,” Dave said without missing a beat, and groaned when Rosa replaced the ice bag with a new one, none too gently.

  Billy and Cody laughed while I apologized for the umpteenth time. “I’m so sorry, Dave. I thought he was going for Bluto.”

  Not that I could have stopped him anyway. Eeyore was fast when he wanted to be. He was safely back in his stall, munching on an extra helping of oats. The trauma of being a hostage hadn’t dampened his appetite one bit.

  We’d all taken to calling the guy currently duct-taped to a chair in the pantry “Bluto” because he refused to tell us his real name. Billy had checked him for ID, but came up empty.

  Dave waved aside my apology. “That’s okay, darlin’. The bruise will match the one on the other cheek.”

  “HEY! LET ME OUT OF HERE!” Bluto’s voice blasted us. Again. And then kept on going until I covered my ears in frustration.

  “You should’ve let me tape his mouth, too,” Billy said from behind me. He was standing behind the leather chair I was sitting cross-legged on, massaging my shoulders. Guess I looked tense.

  I looked up over my shoulder at him. “With a beard like his? That would be cruel. Duct-taping his arms and legs was bad enough.”

  “Cuz, the man threatened to kill your pet pony. Would a little cruelty really be out of line?”

  “What do you care? You don’t even like Eeyore.”

  He leaned over the top of the chair and kissed my nose. “No, but I like you. And you, for some inexplicable reason, are fond of that hoofed hellspawn. Therefore, I’m willing to be cruel on your behalf. That’s just the kind of guy I am.”

  Even upside down, Billy’s eyes were amazing. I used to think it was only because they were gorgeous (I mean, what’s not gorgeous about big, dark blue, black-lashed man-eyes?), but now I thought there was more to it. Whether it was with a spark of mischief, a glint of amusement, or an ember of passion, they always glowed with life, and promised things Billy was very good at delivering.

  “I could gag him with a napkin,” Cody said helpfully, interrupting my reverie before I fell too deeply into the indigo-orb ocean. Damn, girl. You have it bad.

  Rosa shook her head once, emphatically. “No. You will not put one of my good napkins into the mouth of that—”

  She continued in Spanish, something along the lines of “knife-wielding, pony-threatening pig,” if I caught it correctly. Not that she cared for Eeyore any more than the others did, but the pony was part of her household, and nobody threatened anyone in Rosa’s household. Well, except Rosa. Naturally.

  Cody pulled a faded, sweat-stained bandana from his neck. “I suppose I could use this.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Ew, gross.”

  “I know what you mean. I don’t like the idea of his spit getting on my favorite bandana either.”

  Not exactly what I was referring to, but okay.

  A loud thumping noise was added to the hollering.

  “What’s he doing now? Is he kicking the door?” I asked.

  “He can’t be, not with his arms and legs taped,” Billy said.

  Cody nodded. “Though I suppose he could be using his head.”

  Rosa rushed out of the room. “Madre de Dios, if he has dented my pantry door with his big fat coconut of a head…”

  “I’ll keep an eye on things,” Cody said, and followed her at a more sedate pace.

  “Maybe we better let him out,” I said, watching them go. I wasn’t too worried. Even without Cody and duct tape, I’d put my money on Rosa.

  “Nah. Let him stew a little longer. It’ll make him more amenable to answering our questions next go-round,” Billy said.

  Our prisoner hadn’t been at all cooperative so far. Billy had hinted that if the rest of us left him alone with Bluto for a few minutes, the man would tell us anything we wanted to know. I’d vetoed it firmly at the time, but was beginning to reconsider. He was one annoyingly loud son of a bitch.

  “Can you make him shut the hell up?” I asked.

  Billy nodded. “Easily.”

  “Without bloodshed or bruises?” I added.

  He tilted his head and considered. “Well, no bruises where they would show.”

  I sighed. “Let him holler.”

  Bluto’s volume increased by a few decibels, then stopped abruptly on the heels of a loud thwack and a stream of Spanish.

  Over on the couch, Dave’s eyes got big. “Holy guacamole. That’s some pretty bad language, even for Rosa in a temper.”

  Resigned, I got up and headed for the kitchen along with Billy. Dave hauled himself up and limped along behind us, holding the ice pack to his backside.

  The door to the large, walk-in pantry was open, but blocked by Rosa. Cody leaned against the colorfully tiled kitchen island, watching intently, with a smile on his face, as the housekeeper hit Bluto over the head with a spatula, apparently not for the first time.

  “Ouch! That hurts! Hey, somebody make the bitch sto—OUCH!”

  Rosa, still holding the spatula, yanked open a nearby drawer and grabbed a heavy metal meat tenderizer. She held it up in front of his face and said, “You saco de mierda, you better shut your mouth, or next time I will use this on your useless head. Do you understand me?”

  “Anybody want to tell me what’s going on?” A new voice came from behind us.

  Mark.

  He was standing right beyond the large dining room table (the kitchen was open to the dining area, separated only by the island).

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Cody raised one hand about halfway up, looking guilty. “I contacted him after Dave called to tell you about the gun.”

  “Why the heck did you do that? Did I say to contact him?” I said.

  Red crept up the security guard’s neck. “No, ma’am. But when Mr. Fielding got me the job here, he told me if there was ever any trouble I was to let him know right away. When nobody knew who the gun belonged to, I figured that qualified as ‘trouble.’”

  Mark had vetted the security guards at all three of my client hideaways. Guess I should have known he’d use them to keep tabs on me. He’d picked up Thomas’s overprotective tendencies when they were roommates at Harvard, and hadn’t let go of them since. It was annoying—but somewhat understandable—when I was in high school, and maybe even college, but now that I was a businesswoman I was trying to break him, along with the rest of the men in my life, of the habit.

  Mark crossed the space between us, kissed the top of my head, and said, “No need to bite his head off, Howdy. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  Then he smiled at me and, okay, I still melted. Speaking of breaking bad habits …

  Of course, melting at another man’s smile is a little awkward when your new boyfriend is standing a few feet away. I glanced at Billy, who had a rueful half smile on his face and a knowing look in his eye. Damn. He’d noticed, all right.

  Nothing I could do about that now. So I coughed and plowed ahead. “That’s beside the point. Cody is my employee”—I cut the employee in question a stern glance—“and he should check with me before he contacts someone else.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll remember that from now on,” he said. But he still looked at Mark for confirmation, which Mark gave with an all but imperceptible nod that almost set me off again.

  “Hey, Mark. Good to see you,” Billy said, defusing the tensi
on with his trademark affability. “If I’d known you were coming I would’ve offered you a lift.”

  “I believe I’ll wait until you log a few more flight hours before I take you up on that.”

  Billy laughed. “Wuss. Even Ciel has been up with me, and you know how she—”

  “EXCUSE ME!” the voice from the pantry rudely interrupted. “I can have you arrested for kidnapping, you know. You can’t hold me against my will. I know my rights!”

  Mark zeroed in on me right away, for some reason. “Aren’t you usually on the other end of things in these situations, Howdy?”

  * * *

  Billy put his palm over my mouth. “Ciel, I understand. You can stop trying to explain. Trust me, you’re not helping your cause.”

  I pulled his arm down, but held on to his hand. “I want you to know…” Oh, hell. What did I want him to know?

  I’d dragged him out to the barn with me on the pretext of checking on Eeyore, which I really did want to do, but mostly I wanted to get him alone so I could reassure him about the Mark-melting thing. Eeyore eyed us malevolently from his stall, munching on hay.

  Mark and Cody were hauling Bluto to the local sheriff’s department. We’d discovered through persuasion (“we” being Mark, and “persuasion” being something I’d rather not dwell on) that Bluto was a Las Vegas parking lot attendant with an oh-so-clichéd gambling problem. He’d been contacted by an anonymous source and told where he could find the gun. All he’d wanted to do was retrieve it, drop it at a prearranged location, and pick up the money that would be waiting there for him. When I’d interjected that that was mighty trusting of him, he’d said if there hadn’t been money there, he wouldn’t have left the gun. Guess he wasn’t totally stupid.

  Of course, he swore up and down he thought the gun had been stolen from the person who hired him, and therefore it wasn’t as if he was stealing it himself. He was only retrieving it.

  Yeah, right. But Mark was sure the guy was at least telling the truth about not knowing who’d hired him. The plan was to let the local sheriff deal with the man while Mark followed through with the drop. Using Bluto’s aura, naturally, in case anyone was watching.