Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2)

by Randel Stephen

  “As long as he can keep the cool air running, fine. But I want a man watching him the whole time. Can’t trust anyone down here. Might tamper with the brakes or steal the spare tire or worse.”

  “What would be worse?” Avery asked as he cracked open a warm Mountain Dew.

  “He could break the air conditioning.”

  “Good point.”

  “You mentioned invasive species. How many are we planning on apprehending?”

  “One is enough.”

  “Just one?”

  “If it’s still alive and in good condition.”

  “I see.” The General rubbed his chin. This should be easy, he thought. “Male or female?”

  “A mature female of breeding age would be optimal, but alternatively, an adolescent male wouldn’t suck, either.”

  “Options. Good. I like options. Allows for flexibility in the battle plan,” the General said.

  The school bus bounced across the desert floor, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it, which actually was in front of it as the vehicle careened side to side in high-speed reverse. Private Tango lay splay-legged on the roof, pointed toward the rear of the bus. With binoculars in one hand, he called out signals relayed through an open window by Fire Team Leader Bravo to Fire Team Leader Charlie at the wheel. With his free hand, the private hung on for dear life even though the General had ordered him duct-taped to the top of the bus. No matter what, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Avery pulled out his laptop. He didn’t have much battery left. He needed to make this quick.

  To: General Manager

  New York Yankees Baseball Corporation and Empire

  Dear Sir:

  I’m writing you today to encourage you to kindly get off your ass and start winning more games. Recent results have been disappointing, to say the least. Tampa Bay is rapidly closing the gap, and Boston is already within striking distance. The Orioles and Blue Jays are even still in the race. Good God, man, the Canadians! Baltimore is bad enough, but please, not the Canadians! The time to take action is at hand. The suggestions listed below are in no particular order, but all must be implemented immediately. And by that, I mean now.

  1) More cheating. Seriously, how hard is it to steal signs? One kid with a pair of binoculars and a two-way radio in centerfield, and you’re done. Or how about aerial drones? They seemed to work pretty well in the Middle East. Make it happen. Otherwise, I know corking bats is so 1990s, but it’s still a good one to try to slip through. I’m sure the technology has gotten much better than rubber balls. There is probably some kind of nanotechnology developed by the Koreans out there now that can help. If you’re caught, blame it on overseas manufacturers. Americans always buy that one.

  2) Spend more money. Don’t tell me you don’t have enough. You’re the Yankees, and talent doesn’t come cheap. Overpay the roster. It intimidates the other teams to see your players chewing on hundred-dollar bills rather than tobacco.

  3) Throw at the batter more often. I don’t mean pitch inside more often. I mean hit the batter more often. When a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball nails an opposing player, he gets the message. When he gets whacked a couple of times during a game, he’ll back away from the strike zone. Isn’t that why you have so many relievers in the bullpen, anyway? Replacements for ejected pitchers? Down and away, followed by right in the ear. That’ll keep ’em off balance. For a bit, anyway, and then you just have to “bean” them.

  4) Sign fewer white guys. They suck at most things except tennis and investment banking.

  5) Invert the order. The opposing team won’t be expecting it. Tell your new lead-off hitter to lean into the pitch. This gives you an excellent excuse for suggestion number three when the media asks why you’re throwing at so many people.

  6) Forget breaking balls. Bring back the eephus pitch. It makes Latin players dizzy.

  7) Turn off the hot water in the visitors’ locker room. Enough said…wait a minute…turn off the water and hide a live cougar in the locker room (and by “cougar” I mean a mountain lion, not one of your player’s groupies). Better yet, don’t feed the big cat for a week or two. A mature, hungry puma can greatly reduce your opponent’s On-Base Plus Slugging Percentage (OPS).

  8) Sponsor a handgun and hard liquor night at the ballpark. Encourage warning shots at the opposition. I’m sure this will be an attendance booster as well, particularly among families with small children. It’s like fireworks during the game!

  9) Spend even more money.

  Sincerely,

  Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

  • • •

  After an hour duct-taped to the roof of the bus, Private Tango was covered in dust and totally exhausted from bouncing and bucking across the rough terrain. His navigating skills were deteriorating rapidly as repeated blows from the roof of the vehicle to his chin began to set in. His calls for directional adjustments and accelerator controls quickly became confused.

  “Large squid, medium left. Big ditch! That’s good. Oh, no, a helpless three-legged javelina. Oh, my God! No, not really… Oh, my God! All stop, full reverse. Now full ahead. Excellent. Let’s get out of here! Big ditch. Okay, okay…big squid!”

  Fortunately, the vehicle soon came across a rutted dirt road that seemed to lead to some sort of small town or nasty outpost. It looked like something out of a spaghetti Western film set, only more real and dangerous.

  “That’s it,” Avery yelled to Fire Team Leader Charlie. “Make for the town.” The Fire Team Leader complied, and soon they backed into the village, scattering stray dogs and chickens along the way.

  This was the kind of town that people didn’t want to end up in, unless they were thieves, cutthroats, or murders. That said, even cutthroats avoided this place, as knives were considered as somewhat useless, if not gauche. That was, if the thieves didn’t steal them first. No, guns and murder did the talking here. It was also known as the home of the famous lucha libre wrestler “El Coyote.” He was renowned for his ability to break his opponents with a leaping maneuver off the top rope. It was known as the “Flying Burrito.” His high-flying assault from the corner turnbuckle consisted of landing on his foe with his back as he would scream, “I kill you dead!” His unfortunate competitors would subsequently grab their severely severed spleens in pain as he ripped off their colorful masks and paraded around the ring with them, swinging them above his head. It drove the fans wild. His mask was bright gold with bloody fangs painted near the opening for his mouth, and it never came off once in his entire career. It was part of the reason he was so revered in this part of Mexico. He retired undefeated, except for two matches in which he owed the promoter more money than his winning purse would cover. Fortunately for the Coyote, Mexican professional wrestling statistics are flexible at best. Everyone in town considered him to have never met his better or even come close to losing a match. In his retirement, the still-imposing barrel-chested man now ran a sort of bar, hotel, brothel, nightclub, strip joint in this small village. But really, it was mainly a brothel. The Coyote like the word brothel a lot. It sounded way better than whorehouse. He thought it sounded kind of French, kind of classy. He hung Impressionist art reproductions on the wall, in velvet, of course, so in case someone threw a beer bottle, it wouldn’t shatter. Plus, the velvet paintings soaked up the booze. At the end of the night, he would wring out the artwork into a glass and give away the gnarly, ink-stained liquid as a free shot known as the “The Sweat of Monet.”

  “Pull over,” Avery said. The mud and dust covered bus ground to a halt, backward, of course.

  “Someone get Private Tango off my roof,” the General ordered.

  Around them, old stone buildings surrounded an open square with a small, communal well. The pockmarked edifices were whitewashed but dingy. People walked by and seemed to not look, but they really did. It was hard not to notice the raggedy band of misfits that climbed off the bus. Even the donkeys noticed.

  “Look at the size of the dinger on that one…” Fire Team Lead
er Alpha slapped Private Foxtrot across the back of his head. “I’m just saying, Team Leader, that’s some donkey.” The private rubbed his head.

  “Fire Team Leader Charlie,” the General announced, “find someone to fix this contraption.”

  “Why me?”

  “You found it, you fix it. Pronto!”

  “Roger that, General.” The Fire Team Leader looked around the village, wiped his face, and set out.

  “We need disguises,” Avery suggested. “Have the men follow me.” Soon the crew was outfitted with large, colorful sombreros. Avery’s was yellow, with tiger stripes. A pudgy man in a yellow tracksuit leading a group of men in camouflage fatigues wearing brightly colored sombreros exited the small general store, trying to act inconspicuous.

  “Walk Mexican,” Avery said as he dragged his feet and looked down. The rest of the men followed suit. A cloud of dust lifted behind the band of men as they made their way across the street. The most prominent building on the block had a large neon sign proclaiming it as the Coyote’s Lair. Avery noticed the flickering sign. Coyote, he thought. Promising. He headed for it.

  “Welcome!” El Coyote, said ushering the men inside. “Right this way, my friends.” The former wrestler pulled aside a scarlet-colored velvet rope that kept back no one. The men followed El Coyote inside — all except Ziggy, whose attention was captured by something further down the street. “Lupe, a table up front!” The round woman at the bar ignored him. “Lupe!” She walked away. “Don’t mind her,” El Coyote said. “Sit wherever you like. The next show starts any minute now.”

  The men of the militia ambled up to a long table in front of the main stage. The place was empty except for a couple of dancers. “Don’t worry.” El Coyote wiped down the table with a greasy rag. “You’re just in time. The crowd starts to come in around sundown. Best to get here early. What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”

  “Mountain Dew,” said Avery.

  “Lupe, one tequila!”

  “No, Mountain Dew, please.”

  “Yes, tequila. Is very good.”

  “Beer, cold,” said the General. The rest of the men nodded.

  “Lupe, tequila and cerveza all around.” El Coyote walked toward the bar. Scantily clad women from the brothel’s rooms upstairs began to filter down the staircase into the club to check out what sort of fresh meat had just wandered in. Private Zulu’s jaw dropped. He’d only heard of places like this, and what he’d heard about them was very naughty. An overweight stripper wearing a leather bikini sauntered over and spun around in front of Private Zulu. Grabbing the back of his head, she shoved his face into her cleavage and violently shook her chest, grinding the skinny private’s face into the leather bikini top. Letting him go, she blew the frazzled private a kiss over her shoulder.

  “She smelled nice,” Private Zulu said.

  “What?” Private Foxtrot watched the stripper saunter away.

  “Kind of like the seats inside a new truck.”

  “Looked like forty miles of bad road to me. How about that one over there?” Private Foxtrot pointed.

  “Naw,” Private Zulu said, “she’s two axe handles across the ass.”

  “Good point. What about her?”

  “You know, she’s a bit old for me.”

  “Old? There ain’t nothing but old in this place.”

  “Yeah, I just like a lady’s skin to fit a bit tighter.”

  “She does droop in places that shouldn’t, but Daddy used to always say, ‘It’s better to have ten ones than one ten.’”

  “Your daddy also tried to teach a raccoon to drive a tractor.”

  “Yep, drove it right through the side of the barn…hold the phone, partner. What about that one?” Private Foxtrot pointed at the most beautiful girl in the bar. Dark hair, voluptuous curves, and a big pistol strapped to her hip. She was the bomb, and everyone knew it, especially her.

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “Naw, she’s out of your league.”

  “What do you mean?” Zulu asked.

  “I mean that she must cost a fortune. Look at those…”

  “I got money!”

  “How much?”

  “Couple of bucks, plus a few old pesos I found lying ’round the HQ.”

  “You’re out of luck, buddy,” Private Foxtrot said as he watched the gorgeous woman curl herself around the pole on the main stage. “The good news is you’ve got enough money to buy me something to eat.”

  “We done ate today already. How can you be hungry again?”

  “I’m always hungry.” Private Foxtrot waved for El Coyote’s attention. “What kind of vittles you got to eat around here?”

  “My friend, we serve the best menudo in town.” El Coyote smiled. “Spicy! Good for a hangover, too.”

  “Hey, Zulu, you like menudo?”

  “Sure, but mainly their older stuff, before they went all commercial.”

  “No, I mean to eat.”

  “Never had it. What’s in it?”

  “Stomach,” El Coyote replied.

  “Stomach? No way, Jose, I ain’t eating stomach.” Private Zulu shook his head.

  “My friend, it’s tripe. It’s good for you.”

  “Tripe? Okay. I like tripe.”

  “Excellent. Lupe! Two bowls of menudo, pronto.”

  “Do you even know what tripe is?” Private Foxtrot asked his friend.

  “Sure, it’s like chicken, right? Mexican chicken?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

  “He was kidding about the stomach part, wasn’t he?”

  “Just trust me.” A few minutes later, the two privates were slurping away at large, steaming bowls of bright red soup with large chucks of honeycomb-shaped material and hominy floating in them. “What do you think?” Private Foxtrot wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his fatigues.

  “Spongy.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty good.”

  “Strangest-looking chicken I ever had before.” Private Zulu lifted his bowl to his mouth and drained the last bit of his soup. “Tastes like rubber. They must feed them something different down here, maybe plastic bags. Hey, what the heck has he got over there?” The private pointed to the front of the building, where Ziggy was carrying an iguana about half the size of himself. He made his way to the table and took a seat. He draped the long brownish-green reptile around his neck, like a lizard shawl.

  “Where’d you get that?” Private Tango asked.

  “Like, this kid, man. I swapped my hacky sack for him.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Private Foxtrot.

  “Nancy.”

  “Nancy?”

  “Like, yeah, dude.”

  “Why’d you name him Nancy?” Private Zulu moved his chair back from Ziggy a few feet.

  “Like, I’m not sure he’s a he, man. Like, I think he digs me, though, dudes. Watch this.” Ziggy kissed Nancy on the head. Nancy hissed and bit his ear. “See!”

  “The General is in the can. Better not let him see that thing when he comes back,” said Private Tango. “He’s not much of an animal lover. His dog used to chew on him when he was little.”

  “Like, Nancy’s not a dog, man. He’s an iguana. Like, he wouldn’t hurt anyone, dude.” Nancy hissed again and took another snap at Ziggy’s ear. “Like, good boy,” Ziggy said as he stroked the clearly perturbed iguana’s neck. Avery, sitting at the other end of the table, just shook his head.

  “You men better stay out of the head for a few minutes,” the General said as he took his seat and wiped his forehead with a Confederate flag handkerchief. “It’s pretty ripe in there. Jesus! What the hell is that damned dinosaur doing wrapped around your neck, boy?”

  “Like, it’s a rescue lizard, man.”

  “Get it out of here.”

  Nancy hissed at the General.

  “No way, dude. Homeless iguanas are, like, a major, major problem in Mexico. Nancy, like, needs me, man.”

  “Well, he’s not sleeping on the bus,�
�� the General said as he took a swig of his warm beer. “Lizards are like Russian Spetsnaz — they’re most dangerous at night. Now, Mr. Pendleton, let’s go over our plan of attack for capturing an illegal immigrant…”

  “A what?” Avery asked.

  “A Mexican. Plenty of them around here.” The General lowered his voice and scanned the brothel without moving his head. “You’re after a female of breeding age, correct? This is a target-rich environment.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a scientist, not a human trafficker. I hired you and your men to escort me in search of a chupacabra.”

  “A who?”

  “Not a who, a what, and what it is, is simply the last frontier of undocumented creatures. A beast so secretive that it’s classified above top secret. J. Edgar Hoover even had a file on them.”

  “You mean to tell me that we stole a vehicle, forded a raging river…”

  “It wasn’t that raging, General, sir,” Fire Team Leader Alpha interrupted. “More like lazy. We could have waded across if we had wanted to.”

  “Shut up!” the General bellowed as he pointed a pudgy finger in Avery’s direction. “My men are a highly trained militia with a mission of national importance, to stop the invasion of illegal immigrants. Not to chase after Bigfoot.”

  “For the record, General, it’s really not advisable to chase after a sasquatch. Better to set up a well-camouflaged blind and wait. Chasing them only makes them angry. There was this one time, in British Columbia, where I…”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about Canada! Don’t even mention Canada. We’ve got enough problems with Mexico as it is. It makes my head hurt.” The General rubbed his bald dome.

  “Try the menudo,” Private Foxtrot suggested.

  “But don’t get it with the chicken,” Private Zulu added.

  “General,” Avery said, “I have contracted with you for a specific service: guide and escort me and my companion…”

  “And Nancy!” Ziggy blurted out.

  “…And Nancy, during our journey to capture a chupacabra. Our oral agreement is irrevocable and binding, and if you choose to violate the terms of said agreement, I will be forced to employ the formidable resources of the Law Office of Gregory Kennesaw Mountain. You’re no doubt familiar with his extensive experience in front of the Supreme Court.”