The Rowdy Coyote Rumble (Jackrabbit Junction Humorous Mystery Book 4)

by Ann Charles

  “Nope.”

  He checked his watch. “We have fourteen more minutes.”

  “You lead the way.” She moved closer to the wall in front of the ore chute so he could step around her. “Oh, watch out for that boa—”

  His boot bumped the two-by-four leaning against the wall. It clattered to the ground, the sound echoing around them and down into the mine.

  Something slithered along the rock wall, and then Claire heard a clink from the chute above her. A screech made her wince, followed immediately by a loud rumbling noise that drowned out the last half of Mac’s shout to RUN!

  Before her feet had a chance to follow his order, he barreled into her, his shoulder knocking her sideways. She stumbled toward the mine entrance, her shoulder bouncing off the wall.

  When she looked back at him, her breath log-jammed in her lungs as a flood of rocks crashed down the ore chute right into Mac. Several slammed into his left shoulder, their momentum and weight making him stumble backward into the wall behind him. She watched in horror as a melon-sized chunk careened into his upper shin, knocking his leg out from under him. Claire scrambled to his side through the dust as the last of the rocks trickled down the chute and rained around Mac, narrowly missing his head.

  “Oh, Jesus, Mac.” She dropped to her knees next to where he sat holding his left arm close to his ribs. “Are you okay?” She cleared the floor around him, her heart pounding loud enough to echo clear down to the valley floor.

  “Yes and no.” He shifted, grimacing from the effort.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m alive, but I’m pretty sure my left shoulder is dislocated. It’s happened a few times before.”

  She reached out to touch his shoulder but hesitated, not sure how she could help him. “Can we pop it back in?”

  His face was lined with pain. “I already tried while you were clearing away the rocks, but it’s being stubborn.” He coughed and groaned.

  “So what do we do?”

  “We get out of here and I go to the ER.”

  “You mean we go to the ER.”

  A light shined on Mac from behind Claire. “That sounded bad! What happened?” Butch asked, squatting next to Claire.

  “The hatch release on an old ore chute gave way,” Mac told him.

  “It didn’t give way,” Claire told him. “The hatch held fine until you bumped that board loose.”

  “You think it was rigged?” Mac asked.

  A sickening feeling spread through her. “I think Joe has this place booby-trapped.”

  “Booby-trapped?” Butch sounded skeptical.

  She nodded. She had no doubt now that Joe was hiding something in there, or maybe several somethings.

  Mac didn’t comment. He was too busy trying to stand. He held out his right hand to Butch. “Help me up, would you?”

  Butch carefully hauled Mac to his feet.

  His face blanched when he put weight on his left leg. The tunnel was too narrow for Butch and Mac’s shoulders to pass through side by side, so Claire came up beside him on his right. “Lean on me.”

  They started back to the entrance.

  “Where all do you hurt?” Butch asked, leading the way.

  “His left shoulder is dislocated.” Claire told him.

  “My left side hurts like a son of a bitch every time I breathe.”

  “Broken ribs?” Butch asked.

  “No, I’ve had a broken rib. There’s no mistaking that pain. This feels more like I went a few rounds in the ring with a heavyweight.”

  Jeez, what in the hell had Mac gotten into in the past? Dislocated shoulders and broken ribs? What else didn’t she know about him?

  Claire gripped him by the waist of his jeans, careful of his ribs. It was her fault he was hurt. She should have waited for him to go check out that ore chute, or at least warned him ahead of time about that board before he tried to slip around her. He’d probably saved her life by shoving her out of the way and now he was paying for her stupid curiosity.

  “How’s your shin?”

  “Throbbing.”

  He probably had a big egg of a bruise on it. The rock that had hit it was no pebble.

  They paused while Butch knocked the last of the boards off the entrance, clearing a path out under the stars.

  “Damned ore chute,” Mac said sighing. “I should’ve known not to trust it.” He hauled her close and kissed her forehead. “Thank God you’re okay.”

  “I’m sorry I dragged you in there.”

  He pushed her back, frowning down at her. “I wanted to go in, Claire. This isn’t your fault, it’s mine. I’m the one who kicked the board loose.”

  “I should have warned you sooner about it.”

  “Stop it, Slugger. I did this, not you.” He shuffled toward the opening where Butch was waiting for them. “You really think that mine was booby-trapped, don’t you?”

  Knowing what she did about Joe, she had little doubt. “Yep.”

  “I like that son of a bitch less and less every time I go in one of his damned mines.”

  It took them an hour, but they made it down the trail to the stand of desert willows before taking a short break. Holding his arm close and keeping his breaths shallow, Mac walked the rest of the way to Butch’s truck without help.

  As they headed back to civilization, Claire turned to stare out the back window toward the shadowed hillside where Humdigger mine was hidden.

  Someone had rigged that chute at least to slow down, if not kill, a trespasser. Someone who hadn’t wanted visitors finding out what was tucked away inside of the mine. And most likely that same “someone” was a man who’d made a living as a dirty rotten no-good thief and went by the name of Joe Martino.

  Claire turned away, fiddling with her flashlight. The question was why would he go to such lengths to keep everyone out?

  Chapter Ten

  Friday, November 9th

  As seedy underbellies went, Yuccaville’s was more dusty than sleazy, Ronnie thought with a smirk. At least that was the case with Dirty Gerties, the one and only strip club in town. The white cinderblock building was lined with a brown bathtub ring above a skirt of scraggly weeds bent sideways in the stiff morning breeze. The few windows gracing the place had bars covering them, making her wonder if it was to keep the voyeurs out or the customers in.

  Tapping the brakes of his pickup, Chester bounced into the pothole-filled parking lot. Two other dust-coated trucks were parked up near the building, sandwiching a rusted, ancient boat-sized Thunderbird. Their bumpy entrance inspired a dust devil to spin to life, collecting loose trash and whirling it into the empty lot next to them.

  Ronnie frowned across the pickup cab at the grizzled old coot. “Chester Thomas, when you asked me to come to town with you to pick up some mud, I assumed you meant drywall compound for the rec room walls Claire had noted on her honey-do list, not the goop you dip a babe in a bikini into.”

  “I did.” He shut off the engine.

  “Then why are we sitting in the parking lot of a strip joint known for its rowdy mud wrestling bouts?”

  “We need to make a pit stop.” He shoved open his door and slid out, chortling. “Get it? Pit? As in mud pit?”

  She joined him in front of his bug-coated grill and followed him over to the solid steel entry doors. “If that’s your way of proposing we hop into the mud pit for a quick wrestling match, you can forget it. I left my bikini back in my early twenties.”

  He held open the door. “That’s too bad. I was planning to put money down on you and win me a fortune. Carrera told me about your hogtying party for that poor cowboy over at The Shaft.”

  “Don’t remind me of that asshole.”

  “Come on, girl. That’s no way to talk about your stepdaddy.”

  Ronnie poked him in the ribs on her way inside, then let him lead the way into the dimly lit club. She took the seat he indicated next to him at the bar which surrounded a square ring. Currently the ring was dark with boards cove
ring the mud pit. Stripper poles graced each corner, all four shined up and ready for a whirl. The smell of lemons and pine filled the place, surprising Ronnie. She’d expected something spicier and sex-inspiring—something musky perhaps with sultry notes of tawdry lap dances and one night lust affairs.

  “You’re early, Thomas,” the platinum-blonde bartender said, leaning onto the bar across from them. Her low-cut T-shirt emphasized an impressive rack of what Ronnie would bet were man-made boobs judging by the wrinkled and freckled skin of her upper chest. Lines fanned from the corners of her long-fringed eyes, and she had deep parentheses around her mouth. “Where’s your usual partner in crime?”

  “He went and bought the damned cow when he could’ve gotten the milk for free, so I brought along a new playmate.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The bartender smiled, warm and friendly. “She’s a little young for you, don’t ya think?”

  “Only in years. Cherry Haywood, say hello to Ronnie Morgan. She’s Harley’s granddaughter.”

  “Well stick a feather in my cap and call it macaroni.” Cherry held out her hand to shake, which Ronnie did. “Who knew Ford had it in him?”

  The bartender at Dirty Gerties knew Gramps? Ronnie shot Chester and then Cherry a raised brow. “My grandfather comes here?”

  “Not lately, but he used to have one of our punch cards.” Cherry grinned at Chester. “Although he was never brave enough to climb into the pit, unlike this horny toad.”

  Ronnie grimaced. There were some things she didn’t need to know about her grandfather’s life, like anything involving the opposite sex. Anything at all.

  “What can I get you two?” Cherry wiped the bar down with a wet rag. “The kitchen isn’t open yet, but I can throw something together to wet your whistle in the meantime.”

  “I’ll just take a Dr. Pepper.” When Cherry looked at him with raised brows, he explained. “I’m driving. I don’t need that sharp-eyed sheriff pulling me over on the way out of here.”

  Actually Ronnie wouldn’t mind getting stopped by Grady. Last night, not long after Claire had left, he’d swung by The Shaft, still in uniform. He’d locked gazes with Ronnie, his stare narrowing when it landed on her pool playing FBI pal. But before she had a chance to sink the 9-ball and explain, he’d spoken into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder and exited without even a “See you later, alligator.”

  Ronnie ordered a gin and tonic. “What?” she replied to Chester’s scrutiny after Cherry walked away to pour the drink. “When in Rome.”

  “Burn it down?”

  “Something like that.” She lowered her voice. “Why are we really here? And don’t tell me you wanted me to meet your pretty bartender girlfriend.”

  “Cherry owns this place.”

  “She does?”

  He nodded. “She bought it about seven or eight years ago and spruced it up. The place was a real dive before then—stunk like sex most days, and the girls looked dried-up and ragged from too many twirls around the ol’ pole.”

  Ronnie glanced around, noticing the polished brass rails fencing the pit and black leather booth seats. Now that she thought about it, the floor hadn’t been sticky or peanut shell-covered, unlike The Shaft most nights. The place smelled like a basket of lemons. The plain concrete block exterior hid a lush den ready-made for all sorts of vices of the wicked sort.

  “These days, Cherry provides health insurance to her employees and helps pay for child care.”

  “Talking about me, Thomas?” Cherry set the drinks down in front of them, draping the towel over her shoulder. “I hope it’s juicy. I could use something exciting in my life.”

  Says the owner of a strip club, Ronnie thought, stirring her drink with a small smile.

  “Actually,” Chester said, “we have some questions for you, Cherry.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Yesterday morning before you opened for business, someone called The Dancing Winnebagos R.V. Park from your payphone.” He took a sip of his Dr. Pepper. “You wouldn’t happen to have any idea who might have been in here before hours, would you?”

  “Besides the cleaning crew?”

  He nodded. “The voice was male, if that helps.”

  “My janitorial crew is all female. In my experience, when it comes to keeping everything clean and sanitary, female janitors are less likely to be distracted in a club where girls run around topless more often than not. Plus it makes my employees more at ease.” She snickered. “There’s nothing more painful to watch on stage than an uptight pole dancer. Imagine a giraffe trying to slide down a fire pole.”

  “Did anyone stop by to use the latrine?”

  Cherry rubbed her lips together in thought. “Let’s see, I came in around nine and holed up in my office going through last month’s expenses one more time before shipping it all off to my bookkeeper. I can’t remember seeing anyone other than … wait.” She held up a finger. “Dory stopped by.”

  “Who’s Dory?” Ronnie asked.

  “Dory Hamilton. He works for Tucson Electric & Power. He’s about two inches taller than me, has a big belly, and wears lots of thick gold chains and a look-at-me big gaudy watch. Nice enough but a little too greasy around the edges for my taste. He said there’d been some calls about power outages in the area and asked if we’d had any issues.”

  “Did you see him make a phone call?” Chester asked.

  “No, but I do remember hearing his voice. I assumed he was talking on his work phone.”

  Chester and Ronnie exchanged speculative glances.

  “How close is the payphone to your office?” Ronnie asked.

  Chester answered for Cherry. “It’s just down the hall.”

  “So you could easily hear someone talking on it when the place is quiet.”

  “Definitely.” Cherry pointed at the gin and tonic Ronnie had sucked down without realizing it. “Want another?”

  “She’s good.” Chester slurped the last of his Dr. Pepper and threw some cash on the bar. “Thanks for the drinks, Cherry. Always a pleasure to hear your sultry voice.”

  Cherry swatted the bow-legged flirt with her towel.

  “Thanks for the answers, too,” Ronnie added.

  “Not a problem.” Cherry scooped up Chester’s bills and tucked them into her bra. “Don’t be such a stranger, Thomas. The twins have been missing you lately.”

  Grinning through his unshaven whiskers, Chester led the way out into the sunlight.

  “The twins?” Ronnie asked as they headed back to his pickup. “Is that code for something?” Like Cherry’s chest?

  “Yeah, it’s code for the twin sisters who like to tag-team me and give me a lashing in the ring.” With a wink and a snicker, he climbed in the pickup and started it up.

  Ronnie joined him in the cab. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Only when it comes to women.” He looked out at the road. “Keep your eyes open for a white Chevy S-10.”

  She buckled her seatbelt. “Why? Is that what the twins drive?”

  “No, it’s Dory Hamilton’s company vehicle. He checks the meters for Tucson Electric and Power both here in town and out in Jackrabbit Junction.” Chester shifted into drive and bounced out of the lot onto the road.

  “How do you know who Dory is?” Was Dory a frequent customer at The Shaft? Had she seen him in there before and hadn’t noticed him?

  “He was a steady lunch customer at Sophy Wheeler’s diner across the street from The Shaft, back before Sophy got hauled off to prison for trying to blow your sister to smithereens and they had to shut the place down. I saw him in there watching Sophy’s legs more often than not when we’d stop in for a burger or her famous chili. That babe might have been a grade-A wacko, but she made a bowl of chili that would bring you to your knees.”

  Ah, yes, Sophy, Joe’s ex-wife. The psycho, shotgun toting and dog stealing bitch who’d done her best to remove not only Claire from the face of the earth, but Mac as well. Ronnie had heard all about Claire’s nemesis while living in Tucson with the t
wo of them.

  “So why would this Dory guy have called with that message?” Was he working for the Polar Bear? One of the big-money crime bosses that her ex-husband had laundered money for? Was he also undercover for the FBI? Mississippi’s partner? Or had he overheard Katie or Claire talking about Ronnie’s sitting-duck situation while eating at The Shaft and just liked to scare the hell out of skittish women?

  “I don’t know.” Chester rolled past the side street Kate had taken Ronnie down a few days back, the one with the motel where the S.S. Minnow’s rusted twin was docked in the defunct pool.

  Ronnie glanced down toward The Rowdy Coyote, doing a doubletake when she thought she saw a familiar Volvo parked parallel to the motel. Was that Katie’s car? She turned in her seat to peer out the back window, but they were too far past the street now. Facing forward again, Ronnie shook her head. No, it couldn’t be Katie. Claire had said she was substituting at the school today. It must have been a different black Volvo.

  “But if it really was Dory,” Chester aimed a grizzled grin her way, “I’m thinking you may want to use his rolls of gold chains to hog-tie him while Claire nails his greasy ass to the wall.”

  “I agree. That bastard had better have a good reason for making prank phone calls, or he’s going to pay some painful consequences.”

  * * *

  Kate was beginning to think she needed a different car.

  Her black Volvo was a dead giveaway in a town full of dirty pickup trucks and Sheriff Department Broncos, like the one easing up behind her curbside parking spot across from The Rowdy Coyote Motel at that very moment.

  Damn it, now what had she done? It wasn’t illegal to park across from a public business and eat lunch in Yuccaville, was it? She’d made sure to park far enough away from the fire hydrant to be in the clear. If Ronnie had sicced Grady on her after the mess the other night with Deputy Dipshit, Kate was going to cut holes in all of her sister’s underwear.

  She glanced over at Room 9, worrying that her cover was now blown thanks to the sheriff. Not that much had been happening through the gap in the curtains today. The snake was gone, though, along with its tank. Maybe the manager had gotten wind of it. Or maybe the Polar Bear had used it on a victim and been forced to dispose of the slithering weapon in case the cops came sniffing around the joint.