English Lessons

by J. M. Hayes

  Mad Dog’s place stood beside a dirt road, just beyond several other manufactured homes in varying stages of disrepair. The one custom-built Santa Fe-style monster in their midst might have been worth a fortune in a more consistent neighborhood. Heather crossed a dry wash filled with brush and mesquite that masked the view of Mad Dog’s yard until you were right on top of it. The yard was empty. So was the carport. No surprise. Pam would have taken the Mini Cooper to work. Heather pulled up in front of the house and got out of her Sewa tribal Land Cruiser. It wore a fresh coat of rusty brown dust from the back roads she’d just driven.

  There was no sign of Mad Dog. Not even when she called his name. The front door was open. That might have worried her, but Mad Dog didn’t believe locked doors prevented burglaries. Heather ran up the steps, crossed the porch, and rapped on the door’s knocker before going in.

  “Uncle Mad Dog? It’s me.”

  A breeze whispered through the bougainvillea beside the trailer’s west wall. A cardinal answered from the mesquite bosque along the wash. No response came from the house except a faint clicking. She pushed the door wider. Hailey, thick in her shaggy winter coat, ran to greet Heather from where the wolf had been examining ornaments on the Christmas tree. Her claws ticked on the linoleum floor and she wagged her tail in enthusiastic welcome. Heather bent and hugged the wolf and then realized what Hailey had been inspecting wasn’t an ornament. As soon as she understood what she was looking at, Heather went over and confirmed that the amputated hand still had its skin. It did. That meant she might be dealing with her second murder of the day. And it meant Uncle Mad Dog could be in very big trouble.

  ***

  Edna Crabtree looked like she could lift the corner of a John Deere and hold it in case someone needed to swap out a tire. What she held, just then, was a hefty mug of coffee for the sheriff. English took it, waved off the cream and sugar, and nodded his thanks.

  “I told Don not to bother you on Christmas Day, Sheriff. But you know my husband and his yard decorations.” She turned to her husband and shook her head. “Don, I wish you’d calm yourself and let this go. Allow our sheriff to enjoy his holiday.”

  The look on Edna’s face was like that of a young mother whose child had just done something naughty but adorable. Don Crabtree paid her no attention. He’d snatched up his own mug and begun pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor like a soldier guarding the oven. Considering the delicious aroma of roasting turkey issuing from there, and the microwave meal the sheriff could look forward to once he got home, Crabtree’s blocking access to the bird might be wise.

  “This is serious.” Crabtree did an about-face at the refrigerator. “I mean, it’s not just the personal insult of someone doing their business in our yard. It’s the sacrilege to our Lord Jesus. I’m thinking this SOB could be looking at real jail time.”

  The sheriff nodded, and not just to placate Crabtree. If he found the guilty party, and Crabtree pressed charges, a Benteen County judge and jury might just take the insult to Baby Jesus as seriously as Crabtree had.

  “Mrs. Kraus said you suspect the Conrads across the street?”

  Crabtree nodded. “Those boys have always been wild. And everybody knows they drink. Besides, when I was out there photographing the evidence this morning, I saw them staring out the window laughing at me.”

  “Now Don,” Edna pleaded. “You got to admit, but for the sacrilege part, some people might find this funny.”

  “I don’t got to admit no such thing, Edna. I can’t imagine anyone finding the tiniest bit of humor in such a despicable act.”

  The sheriff was glad he’d suppressed his own smile. “Sorry, Don,” he said, “but I’ve got to agree with Edna. I know several people who will laugh out loud when they hear about this. Your evidence against the Conrads is pretty shaky, but I’ll have a word with them.”

  Crabtree sputtered, but he didn’t say anything, or go get a gun to take care of the neighbors on his own.

  “When did you first notice the, uh, evidence?”

  “First thing this morning.”

  “He’s like a little kid about that stuff,” Edna said. “Just can’t get enough of looking at it. Shuffled out there in his slippers before coming to bed last night, then risked frostbite again the minute he woke up. And nothing between him and a terrible chill but his PJs and robe.”

  Crabtree shot his wife a dirty look. “And a good thing I keep an eye on it, too, the way this turned out.”

  “So it was fine last night?” English asked.

  “It was.”

  “And the damage had been done when you got up this morning?”

  “The blasphemy was right where you saw it, plain as day.”

  “When was that?” the sheriff asked. “And when did you go to bed?”

  “Daddy always goes to bed right after the news—10:30 on the dot.”

  The sheriff had been watching Crabtree pace and hadn’t noticed their teenage daughter enter the kitchen. She wore bunny slippers that made no sounds on the tiles. Her hair was disheveled and her face was creased with pillow lines. That and the oversized sweatshirt she apparently used as a nightie convinced English she’d just gotten up. The kitchen clock read just short of one. The girl was pretty and built too well for greeting visitors in such skimpy attire. But she didn’t seem aware of it as she skirted her father to help herself to a cup of coffee.

  “About time you were up,” Crabtree growled. “When’d you get in?”

  “I don’t know,” she muttered.

  “Just after three,” Edna said, the cheer drained from her voice.

  “Was my crèche all right then?” her father asked. The sheriff thought Crabtree might pick up on his daughter’s late hours and address them, once he got past what had happened in his yard. Or after Edna had a word with him. “Did you notice? Had somebody urinated in our yard?”

  The girl’s face was looking away from the sheriff. The chrome finish on the refrigerator showed the blurred reflection of what looked like a grin cross her face.

  “What are you talking about?” she said as she turned to her father. No grin. Just a cute and confused little-girl look.

  “If you didn’t see anything,” Crabtree said, “the sacrilege must have occurred between three and five. That narrows it down.”

  “Daddy, are you saying Baby Jesus got peed on?” No doubt, now—smile a mile wide. “Oh my,” she laughed. “Somebody’s gone and paved their road to hell with yellow snow.”

  ***

  “You picked a good place to hide,” the attorney told Mad Dog, “but you should have let your people know where you were.”

  Mad Dog didn’t say anything because he didn’t know what she was talking about. He hadn’t been hiding and he didn’t have people. In fact, he didn’t know why he’d gotten in the Mercedes with her.

  “Or maybe not,” she continued. “Hard to know who to trust right now. But they found you. We know they discovered your location. That deputy might have been working for them. You’re lucky I got there when I did.”

  The deputy had been seriously pissed. In fact, Mad Dog thought he might get arrested for…well, he wasn’t sure for what, or even if the deputy needed a reason. That was part of why Mad Dog got in Anjelica Grijalva’s car when she told him to. Also, because she obviously expected to be obeyed—no arguments. Hailey hadn’t stopped him. She just curled up in front of the door so the officer would think twice about searching the premises.

  “Do you know why the deputy was there?”

  Finally, something Mad Dog could respond to. “The hand,” he said. “I’m guessing he was there about the hand, though he didn’t act like he knew about it.”

  Grijalva took her eyes off the road for a moment to give him a searching glance.

  “Hand?”

  “The one that got left on my
front porch this morning.”

  She looked at him again.

  “In a box. By a brown truck. I thought it was UPS.”

  “A hand. A human hand?”

  “Yeah. With a big gold signet ring engraved with a snake that had feathers.”

  “Your people told us Quetz has gone missing,” she said.

  It took a minute, but the name finally registered. Quetz—it could be short for Quetzalcoatl. That was the name of the Aztec god whose human form was fair-skinned. Hernán Cortéz had conquered an empire because of that coincidence.

  “Your people don’t know what Quetz may have told the opposition. If they took him alive. But this is a good sign. They sent you his hand as a message. They could have just sent an assassin. Maybe they want to talk. To bargain. I wonder why.”

  So did Mad Dog. Along with why sending a hand as a message was a good sign. And who she thought Mad Dog was. He was having second thoughts about accepting this ride.

  “Uh, where we going?”

  “Your people suggested the warehouse. The armory is there. And enough of your soldiers to hold off an assault.”

  “Armory?” Mad Dog said. “No.” He was increasingly sure he shouldn’t have gotten in the car. Guns? Soldiers? She must think he was some kind of crime boss or revolutionary or…well, he didn’t know what. But she definitely had him confused with someone else.

  “No?” she said. “Maybe you’re right. They could take that as a sign you plan to strike back. Maybe we should stick to your strategy of laying low and staying out of sight. But you have to talk to your people. And your enemies. See what they want. We could go to my office. No one will be there today. Or my place. I’m sure you know, Rabioso, you’re paying me enough to provide you with anything you want.”

  Mad Dog turned and gave her a closer look. She was a very beautiful young woman. For a moment, he envied this Rabioso guy. Then Mad Dog remembered the hand and his foolish flights of sexual fantasy were replaced by another wave of nausea.

  ***

  The professional killed for pay and for pleasure. Plenty of pay, this time. He expected to net over twenty mil. And things were going well. He was nearly finished with his contracts. Before the day was out, he would pause to take his pleasure. All work and no play made Jack a dull ripper, he thought, and let himself smile.

  The décor inside the Nogales whorehouse improved as you rose above the service floors and entered the realm of management. Bawdy gaudy gave way to dark wood, thick carpets, and leather furniture. The professional noted the change and was neither surprised nor impressed. He’d been searched just inside the street entrance. They took a gun and two knives from him. That left him with three deadly weapons secreted on his person, so he was singularly unimpressed with Cowboy’s security. Still, two very large, very muscular men escorted him upstairs to the carved doors that apparently led to Cowboy’s office. They spoke softly into an audio-visual device beside the entrance and, a moment later, the doors opened.

  “Who’s this queer?” a young man across the desk from Cowboy asked in Spanish.

  The professional and alleged queer didn’t react. The man who’d spoken was tall with ropy muscles and a scar that turned his expression into a perpetual sneer. He didn’t think the professional spoke Spanish. Or didn’t care.

  It would have been an insult in English. Not just politically incorrect. In this man’s street Spanish, it was probably the worst slur he could imagine.

  The two bouncers from downstairs led the professional into the office and stopped in front of the desk.

  “Leave us.” Cowboy was thick and muscular and aging. He sat behind the desk with his intricately stitched boots propped on its surface and a Stetson pulled low over bushy gray eyebrows. The younger man pushed himself off the edge of Cowboy’s desk as the doors swung shut behind the bouncers. This guy was probably Cowboy’s head of security. Unless Cowboy was fool enough to think he could take care of himself.

  “Hey, little faggot,” the man with the scar said, “you here to pick our new wallpaper?”

  The professional smiled at scar face and cocked his head, as if he hadn’t understood.

  Cowboy shook his head. “Leave it alone, Nardo,” he said. “We got a truce with Mouse. I promised to cooperate with his man.”

  Nardo sighed. “Up to you, Cowboy, but don’t turn your back on him.” Nardo did just that and wiggled his buttocks.

  The professional raised an eyebrow and, addressed Cowboy in perfect Castilian. “With your permission?”

  Cowboy scowled but nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Within reason.”

  Nardo froze in mid-wiggle. Something very sharp slit through his trousers and tickled his nether regions.

  “You see, Nardo,” Cowboy said, “he speaks Spanish. And he may be small, but Mouse wouldn’t send me a killer who’s not good at it. You should learn to watch your mouth and not make assumptions.”

  “My back was turned,” Nardo whined. But he didn’t make things worse by trying to extricate himself from the situation.

  The professional withdrew the blade and wiped it on Nardo’s shirt. “Perhaps you are a man whose back should always be turned.”

  Nardo stepped away, gaining a little distance. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

  “This is Mr. Smith. He’s a messenger from Mouse. And Mouse tells me he’s the man who can take Rabioso down.”

  Nardo hadn’t learned yet. “You expect me to take shit like that from Mouse’s Sodomite?”

  Cowboy shrugged under his Stetson. “You’ll take what I tell you.”

  Nardo spat on the carpet, took a step away, and then whirled on Smith with a knife of his own. “How you like it now, faggot? I’ll shove some cold steel up your ass for what you did to me.”

  The professional, currently known as Mr. Smith, had sheathed his own blade. He didn’t move except to smile, eyes on Nardo’s weapon.

  “Nardo! No!” For the first time there was real concern in Cowboy’s voice. It caught Nardo off guard and his eyes flicked toward the desk.

  That’s when Smith took Nardo’s knife, grabbed him by the hair, pulled back, and stretched Nardo’s neck across a knee, throat up. Nardo’s blade pressed tight against his own flesh beneath the Adam’s apple.

  “If this man is your bodyguard, he’s worthless,” Smith said. “You want to keep him?”

  Cowboy took his feet off the desk and leaned forward. He pushed the Stetson higher on his forehead. “He is worthless and I should consider your offer, but he is my son, not my bodyguard.”

  “I see.” Smith dropped the boy and the knife and withdrew his knee so fast Nardo’s head bounced off the floor. “Then I won’t kill him. And I’ll only cripple him a little if he troubles me again.”

  “Holy Mary!” Nardo said. “Who are you, really?”

  “Tell him,” Cowboy said. It wasn’t an order. It was permission.

  “I am the deadliest assassin you’ll ever meet. I’m so good, Mouse and Cowboy will pay me one million dollars apiece for killing Rabioso. While they are allies, I won’t kill you. But give me another excuse, Nardo, and I will take great pleasure in hurting you. For the moment, I am Mr. Smith, but you, I think, should call me sir. Do you understand?”

  Nardo looked in the professional’s eyes and believed him. “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  Heather knew she couldn’t reach Captain Matus by phone, but she thought Sewa headquarters would be in radio contact with him. She called. They weren’t. Under the circumstances, that meant no one was available to help her deal with an off-reservation problem.

  As suggested, Heather next called the Pima County Sheriff’s Office to report what she’d found. They weren’t interested. They told her they’d send a unit when they could spare one. Her status as a Sewa tribal police officer didn’t impress them. Especially since
they’d already answered a call to assist a Sewa officer at the address she specified. No Sewa officer had been there, and the deputy who responded had labeled the incident a false report. That put her on their don’t-hold-your-breath priority status. The next deputy to come to Mad Dog’s would likely arrive only after the last treed cat in the county had been rescued.

  Heather didn’t like it, but she understood. They were understaffed, underfunded, it was Christmas, and they had another body part, a celebrity’s, to command their attention. She was on her own.

  Heather hung up and looked at the hand beneath Mad Dog’s Christmas tree. Even Hailey had abandoned her while Heather tried to explain the situation to the Pima County sheriff’s dispatcher.

  She opened her cell phone again and selected the camera mode to begin documenting her second crime scene of the day. To be on the safe side, since she was in a location with decent cell service, she forwarded all her photos to her email. Then she went to work on the hand and the box it had come in.

  With no other law enforcement agency prepared to help or take her seriously, she went into Mad Dog’s kitchen after she finished with the pictures. There were a number of things that should be done and for the most part, she didn’t think she could do them. But there was only one way to find out.

  Heather considered the meat thermometer briefly. A human fever thermometer would be better, but she knew Mad Dog didn’t have one. Mad Dog thought there was no point in knowing stuff like that because of the years he’d spent with a deductible on his health insurance that was so high the policy only kicked a few days after you became comatose.

  If Heather could establish the hand’s temperature, she might make it easier for the experts to determine how long it had been detached. Problem was, the indicator on the thermometer only began registering at 120º. As she held it by the probe, the red indicator moved. Not much, but she could mark it with her sharpie.

  She also found a re-sealable plastic storage bag. That was good since she’d used her meager allotment of evidence bags on the governor’s case. And, of course, she found the usual collection of utensils, dishes, cups, and glasses. Not much that was useful.