“Now, why would I ever think that?” I parried, playing the game to get my answer.
Krabbs pushed his lower lip out in a mock pout. “’Cause you suspected me of pulling some sort of funny business with shooting a bunch of monkeys. But now that you know I didn’t, what do you say? Do you and me stand any kinda chance?”
“I’ve got to tell you, F.U., I’m just not that kind of woman,” I demurely replied, folding my hands in my lap. “First of all, you’re a married man. Second, there’s Velma to consider.” I figured that ought to scare some sense into him.
F.U. reached over and patted my hand. “Don’t you worry. I’ll figure something out.”
So much for playing the sweet, old-fashioned girl. “That’s great. In the meantime, you were going to fill me in on who supplies you with animals,” I prompted.
“Well, some of them we breed right here on the ranch,” Krabbs replied, skirting the issue.
“And the rest?” I persisted.
“What do you want to know for, anyway?” Krabbs suspiciously countered.
“Because I think it’s important that we have an open and honest relationship.” I hoped the trap would prove vague enough to ensnare him.
F.U. visibly softened. “Well, just between you and me, I’m working with a dealer by the name of Admiral Maynard these days.”
There was no need for me to ask where Admiral Maynard got his supply. The vast majority of critters gunned down on hunting ranches are the very same animals which folks flock to visit in zoos—a dirty little secret that’s been going on for years.
The majority of zoos produce a flood of surplus critters. The more cute babies there are, the higher attendance records go up. The problem is, there’s only so much room at each zoo for any one particular species. So guess where the older animals end up getting dumped?
A Noah’s ark of creatures are continually hauled off to be sold on the auction block. Documents are changed to hide a critter’s origin and gender, while a minimal papertrail assures that the sales of everything from lions to water buffalo are nearly impossible to trace. Add it together, and you begin to get a picture of the well-oiled network dealing in the zoo surplus trade.
“You know, I got me a little chalet up in Lake Tahoe. Maybe you’d like to use it to go skiing sometime,” F.U. suggested.
“No, thanks,” I demurred. “I’m not one for cold weather.”
“Tell you what, then. I usually head to Vegas once a month.” He playfully bumped his shoulder against mine. “I got a little bit of a weakness when it comes to playing the slots. What say you and me take a trip on up there together?”
I shot him down with a shake of my head. “I used to live in Las Vegas. Since then, I never go near the place.”
“In that case, how about I set you up right here at the ranch with what we call our ‘Get Acquainted Hunt’? You get to go out and shoot an aoudad, a mouflon, and one Texas dall ram. Usually we charge ten thousand dollars for that package. But for you it would be free, of course.” F.U.’s cornflower blues sparkled.
“To tell you the truth, I prefer my animals alive and kicking,” I responded.
“Well heck, gal. Then all I’ve got left to offer is a well-paying job whenever you’re ready. Same as I gave to one of your predecessors. He took me up on my offer, and let me tell you-me, that he’s real happy about it too,” F.U. confided.
Hold on a minute—back up there! “You’ve got a former Fish and Wildlife agent working here at the Happy Hunting Ranch?” I inquired in disbelief.
Krabbs grinned and gave my arm a little squeeze. “Now, don’t you go getting all jealous. He’s not here; he’s working on a cattle ranch I own nearby, just over the border in New Mexico. Heck, maybe you even know him.”
My mind went blank, unable to imagine who it could be. “What’s his name?” I asked.
“Johnny Lambert. I hired him on for the job of ranch manager out at the Flying A. But don’t you worry none—I’d keep you right here at Happy Hunting with me.”
Johnny Lambert. The name sounded familiar. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out why.
Four
I departed, leaving Krabbs to face his lunchtime rendezvous with Velma. It was time to head into El Paso and break the news of Timmy Tom’s demise to Juan, his significant other, more commonly referred to as “Fat Boy.”
El Paso is a city of contradictions, the main one being that it’s not really part of Texas. Situated on the state’s westernmost outskirts, the place is so isolated it’s even in a different time zone. Nor is it totally Mexican in character, though its personality is more salsa than ketchup. El Paso is a completely different country with an identity all its own.
Forty-eight million cars travel on the city’s main highway every year, but most of them keep driving right on past. If they bother to pause at all, it’s usually only for gas, making El Paso the state’s most glorified truck stop. What these travelers are missing is a canvas in progress—one whose personality is defined by its people.
El Paso’s cast of characters covers a wide spectrum ranging from car thieves and smugglers, to godfearing church goers, bankers, and high-powered industrialists. The result is a spicy stew of the powerful and the powerless seething on a frontier border filled with mystery, magic and myth. Part militarized zone, part carnival, the place is a ticking time bomb in a land of the forgotten. In lots of ways, El Paso is the ultimate loner’s hideaway. Which is probably the reason I felt comfortable here.
Since landing in El Paso, I’d tried my best to behave. Even I was surprised at the major attempt I was making to play by the rules these days. I’d gone so far as to sit and quietly listen while a bunch of pencil-pushing bureaucrats drummed the Service’s mantra into my head.
Big cases, big problems. Little cases, little problems. No cases, no problems.
Otherwise known as the “if-there’s-no-shit-it-won’t-hit-the-fan” philosophy. It was hoped that I’d learn from my punishment, and so far, there hadn’t been any upsets. Probably because nothing big had come along to kick over their apple cart yet. But I was beginning to tire of apples and starting to search for oranges.
I turned off I-10 and drove through El Paso until the Tortilla Curtain came into view. Then I swung a hard right onto Montestruc Street to enter the barrio called Little Chihuahua. My landmark was a warehouse adorned with the mural of a Mexican peasant weeping tears that formed the Rio Grande. Defined by narrow streets and even skinnier alleys, the neighborhood was filled with houses once painted as bright as children’s piñatas but now faded and peeling. An array of colored bottles dangled off the battered fences surrounding each run-down dwelling. The local belief was that they helped prevent roaming dogs from peeing in people’s yards. They looked like glistening charms on a chain link bracelet.
Timmy Tom’s house had an aqua facade as lusterless as yesterday’s hot internet stocks. I parked and let myself in through the gate. That action instantly set off a home-made alarm—the recording of an angry Chihuahua yapping at the top of its lungs. Fat Boy responded by sticking his head out the front window to investigate. He motioned me inside without a word.
I made my way past his collection of yard art. A couple of rickety grocery carts stood next to gnome-sized figures of all Seven Dwarfs; nearby was Mother Goose, along with Mary and her little lamb, closely tailed by Jack and Jill hauling their buckets. Statues of the Three Wise Men brought up the rear, their arms laden with dirty plastic flower pots. I ducked beneath a clothesline that drooped under the weight of Juan’s blue jeans, and slipped in through the door.
There was no problem finding Fat Boy; all I had to do was follow the sound of music. It was obvious Juan had already received the bad news. His body, the size of a sports utility vehicle, was dressed in black from head to toe.
Most people fight the battle of the bulge at some point in their life. But Fat Boy had long ago zoomed past heavy to enter the realm of the enormous. Juan believed the fatter he was, the longer he’
d live, and did whatever he could to nourish his condition. That fortitude was put to the test when he’d landed in the hospital after a bad car accident. It didn’t matter that his jaw had been wired shut; by the time Juan was released, he still hadn’t lost an ounce of fat. Rumor had it that he’d received a barrage of high-caloric liquids. I preferred to believe he’d managed to suck cheeseburgers down right through his straw.
Juan stood before me now with tears streaming down his face, and a wooden organ grinder hanging around his neck. Lola, his monkey, sat perched on his shoulder dressed in a somber black skirt.
“I’m an asshole from El Paso, but that don’t get in my way. ’Cause I’ve learned to use a lasso, and I’m hopin’ that’ll pay off some day.”
Juan’s voice cracked as he cranked out the last few notes of music, then he wiped away a trail of tears. “That was Timmy Tom’s favorite song. We wrote it together, and were gonna take it out on the road. I’d even been teaching Lola how to twirl a lasso for our show.”
Juan pulled two Tootsie Rolls from his pocket and unwrapped them. Popping one in his mouth, he handed the other to Lola, who’d excitedly begun to squeal, swaying from side to side on his shoulder. She shoved one end in her mouth and frantically began gumming down on it. Lola was doing a hell of a job, for not having any teeth.
“I didn’t have a choice. They had to come out!” Fat Boy whined when I’d first confronted him about her toothless state. “Timmy Tom said otherwise she’d bite someone for sure when we were out on tour, and we’d get sued for everything we own.”
From what I could see, that amounted to Three Wise Men and a few fairytale characters who’d seen better days.
Fat Boy hastily slipped a second Tootsie Roll in his mouth, after glancing over to make sure Lola wasn’t watching.
“We were gonna dress Lola up like a cowgirl for our tour,” Juan said shakily. “You wanna see her outfit?”
I shook my head no, and Fat Boy burst into a loud wail.
“Maybe later,” I relented.
But he wasn’t in the mood to be consoled. “My life’s ruined! We were even planning to cut an album. What am I going to do now?”
“Go solo?” I suggested helplessly.
Fat Boy surprised me by blowing his nose and agreeing. “Yeah, I’m considering that. After all, I still got Lola to think of.”
So much for my stab at grief counseling; it was time to get down to business. “We need to talk, Juan. I don’t know if anyone told you, but I’m the one who found Timmy Tom.”
Fat Boy sank onto a couch whose upholstered red roses sagged beneath his bulk like a well-worn hammock. “Yeah, I know. The police called me. Jeez, Timmy Tom loved that cell phone.” Juan broke into another round of tears.
“Timmy Tom had asked me to meet him early this morning near the Anapra Road. Do you have any idea why?” I asked, raising my voice over Juan’s wail.
He shook his head and eased his pain with another Tootsie Roll. Lola shrieked in rage.
“All right. Then tell me what Timmy Tom was involved in these days. Had he gone back into smuggling?” I pressed.
Fat Boy shrugged his shoulders, and Lola clung onto his shirt for dear life. “Don’t know that, neither,” he responded noncommittally. But his left eye had begun to wander, which was a sure sign that he was lying.
“Don’t fib to me, Juan,” I snapped.
He handed Lola another Tootsie Roll, which only aggravated me more. I’d been secretly hoping he’d toss one to me.
“I’m not fibbing,” Fat Boy stubbornly insisted.
“I know when you’re jerking me around, Juan. What’s the deal? Timmy Tom’s lying on a slab over at Memorial Medical Center with Ma Bell climbing halfway down his throat. And it’s not from choking on his phone bill, either. Don’t you think he’d want you to tell me the truth so that I can find his killer?” I persisted, hoping to break him down.
Juan obstinately stuck out his jaw, the size of a pork butt. “How do you know when I’m fibbing, anyway?”
The last thing I’d ever do was tell him. Knowing Fat Boy, he’d resolve that problem by knocking out his eye and having a glass one implanted.
“I have my ways. Now, tell me what was going on.”
“All I know is that Timmy Tom recently lost a big client,” Fat Boy sulked.
“What kind of client?”
“What kind do you think?” Juan fired back. “It sure as hell wasn’t a producer for organ grinder music.”
“You know what I mean.” I was tempted to punish him by taking away his candy. “What kind of animals was he dealing in?”
“Monkeys,” Juan sullenly replied. “What else?”
I figured that had to be true; Timmy Tom had been a big believer in specializing. Besides, Fat Boy’s eye hadn’t moved.
“Let me see the paperwork on what he was bringing in and who the client was,” I demanded.
“How should I know where Timmy Tom kept that kind of stuff?” Juan’s fingers nervously played with the ends of his straggly hair, which were drawn back into what resembled the tail of a piglet.
“Because you were his bookkeeper, damn it!” Grieving was one thing; taking me for a fool was another. Especially since I’d already played that game this morning.
Fat Boy laboriously worked his rear end to the edge of the couch, one massive cheek at a time. Then, using his palms for leverage, he gave the cushions a hard shove and launched himself up on his feet. Lola hastily abandoned ship, springing into the air with the grace of an acrobat to land on top of the venetian blinds. Fat Boy shot her a reproachful look as he shuffled into the next room, huffing and puffing while grumbling under his breath.
I wondered what I could quickly snoop through, when something hit me on top of the head. Unless the sky was falling, it had to be Lola up to no good. I glanced down to spot a Tootsie Roll at my feet, as if in answer to my prayers. Then I looked at Lola, who grinned devilishly, with another candy roll gripped in her paws. She must have pilfered them without Fat Boy’s knowledge. We removed the wrappers and simultaneously placed the candy in our mouths.
I was swallowing the remains when Fat Boy trudged back into the room with a suspicious glare. Clenched in his hand were some crumpled sheets of paper, their left sides ragged. I figured they must have been hurriedly ripped out of a loose-leaf notebook that probably contained all sorts of goodies.
Juan reluctantly handed me the pages, and I eagerly scanned them. A large number of spider and squirrel monkeys had been shipped from South America to the One World Zoo, but the facility had no address or phone number listed.
“Where can I find this place?”
Fat Boy’s left eye started sliding like a greased pig at a 4-H Club fair. “How the hell should I know? You’re the animal police. Aren’t you supposed to have the drop on where all the zoos are?” He precariously lowered himself back into his seat.
“All the legit ones,” I retorted.
“Well, as far as I know, that’s exactly what One World is.” Fat Boy’s wandering eye picked up speed.
Right. And I beat out Cindy Crawford when it came to looking hot in a bathing suit. Timmy Tom must have gone back to smuggling monkeys for the pet trade to make a few quick bucks. Unless he’d been involved in something else illegal for which a nonexistent zoo made a dandy cover. Either way, I was smack up against a frustrating dead end.
“So why did One World Zoo drop Timmy Tom as a supplier, anyway?” I casually queried.
Fat Boy didn’t reply, but pulled out more of his candy stash. The response was Pavlovian. Lola swooped down and balanced on Juan’s head before scrambling onto his shoulder, and snatching the mini-log out of his hand. Then she cartwheeled over to the opposite end of the couch.
“I taught her to do that trick,” Juan disclosed, unsure whether to be pleased or upset.
“We were talking about Timmy Tom,” I reminded him.
Fat Boy discreetly extracted one last Tootsie Roll and shoved it into his mouth. “I think they wa
nted some animals that Timmy Tom couldn’t get for them.”
His eye hadn’t budged an iota.
“And what kind would those have been?” I persisted.
“I don’t remember anymore,” Fat Boy pouted. But his eye told a different story. It swung to the side of his head, as if pulled by the force of a magnet.
I clearly wasn’t going to get anything else out of him today. “Let me give you a piece of advice,” I warned him. “It would benefit you to remember what Timmy Tom was involved in. In the meantime, don’t get any funny ideas about picking up where he left off.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep that in mind, Porter,” Juan irritably responded.
He turned back to the organ grinder, and cranked out the tune he’d been playing when I’d walked in.
“I’m an asshole from El Paso, but that’s okay by me. ’Cause I got a gal named Lola, and she don’t monkey around on me.”
I let myself out the door.
It used to be that Fish and Wildlife agents worked out of the official U.S. Fish and Wildlife building in El Paso. Of course, once upon a time, there was also more than one Fish and Wildlife agent assigned to the area. I drove past the compound, where a mere two inspectors were now housed. The Bridge of the Americas spanned the nearby border, along with a legion of trucks and cars that were backed up twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
I continued driving along the Border Highway, with the Rio Grande running through a steeply walled concrete ditch off to my left. During monsoon season heavy rains turn this stretch into a raging, wet ‘n’ wild amusement ride. That’s when people usually drown attempting to cross the river from Mexico into El Paso. Yet in other areas, the Rio Grande is little more than a pathetic brown dribble, the majority of water sucked out for irrigation.
After jumping on to I-10, I crossed into New Mexico, then swung onto Highway 136. Ahead was an eight-mile stretch of desolate asphalt I’d dubbed the “ghost road,” mainly because I was usually the only one on it.
Border Prey Page 5
