Border Prey

by Jessica Speart

  Lambert stared off in the distance and cocked his head, as if waiting for the answer to be supplied by divine intervention. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard that name before,” he said diffidently.

  “That seems rather odd, considering your name and number are listed in Tyler’s cell phone directory. Any explanation for that?”

  Lambert scratched his forehead, appearing to kill time until the answer was astrally forwarded to him.

  “Nope,” he finally said.

  “Then you might want to consult with whatever spirits you’re listening to and ask them to help jog your memory on this one. Timmy Tom was killed two days ago—and the police are searching for the murder suspect,” I informed him.

  I climbed into my pick-up and took off down the road.

  Ten

  I decided to take a quick break and check in on Lizzie. My suspicion was that she’d still be in bed, nursing a massive hangover. I stopped at the first convenience store I found, grabbed some nourishment in the form of soda and chocolate, then pulled out my cell phone.

  Her groan filled me in on how she felt. “Thanks for coming to my rescue last night, Rach. I don’t know what I was drinking, but I never want to have it again.”

  I could relate all too well to that.

  “Listen, you might as well know I’ve been considering leaving F.U. for a while now. This is going to sound awful, but I’m just waiting until Martin successfully clones Ten-Karat.”

  “That’s what I want to discuss with you.” I wondered how to break it to her gently. “I found out Pierpont’s lab is over at the Flying A, so I stopped by the ranch this morning. All I can say is, I’ve got a funny feeling about the place. Something’s not right.”

  Lizzie gasped. “Oh, no, Rach! You didn’t disturb him, did you?” she asked in horror. “You know how protective he is of his work!”

  “Lizzie, my purpose in going there was to try and make sure Pierpont’s doing what he claims, and isn’t taking advantage of you.”

  “What makes you think he might be?” she asked after a moment.

  “Nothing I can pinpoint yet. It’s more of a gut feeling.” God, I was beginning to sound like Sonny. “Believe me, Lizzie, I hope I’m wrong. I’d like nothing better than to discover Pierpont can clone Ten-Karat, and maybe help save other species.”

  My reply was met by silence and I began to worry that Lizzie was really upset.

  “I’m afraid what you suspect might be true,” she finally responded with a sniffle. “It always seemed strange that I wasn’t allowed to visit his lab. I just didn’t want to think about it before.” She blew her nose and cleared her throat. “Okay. What can I do to help you find out what’s really going on?”

  I was relieved to hear a spark of my friend return to life. “I don’t believe F.U. would fork over millions of dollars to Pierpont without having a dossier on the man. So what I need are any records pertaining to Pierpont’s defunct company,” I told her. “Also, any other files you can find that F.U. might’ve gathered on him.”

  “Hmmm. F.U. has a computer in his office here at home. If there’s any information to be had, that’s most likely where he’s got it stashed. The only tricky part will be breaking the password in order to log on. But I’ve tackled harder assignments for you in the past. I can do it,” she decided.

  “There’s one more thing,” I added, enjoying hearing Lizzie become newly liberated. “Check and see if there’s any information referring to Southwest Heritage Trust.”

  “They’re the environmental group that F.U. gave the Flying A ranch to. Why should you care about them?” she asked in surprise.

  “Because Pierpont has his lab there. That alone makes me curious. And since Southwest Heritage is a private company, there aren’t any public records I can get hold of. It’s just another angle to check out.”

  “I’ll start in on F.U.’s computer tonight as soon as he falls asleep. Nobody’s going to screw around with me or Ten-Karat and get away with it,” Lizzie resolutely declared. “I have no intention of letting anyone take advantage of F.U. either, for that matter. Not as long as I’m still his wife.”

  We signed off and I headed out toward Little Chihuahua, fully fueled to take on Round Two with Fat Boy.

  I parked in front of Juan’s house and let myself in through the front gate. His home-made alarm must have been on the fritz: rather than being audibly attacked by a rabid Chihuahua, I was greeted by the slo-mo bark of what sounded like an intoxicated St. Bernard. I wove past his yard art and opened the door without bothering to knock. Inside, I found Fat Boy and one very annoyed capuchin monkey.

  “Happy Trails to You” poured out of Juan’s organ grinder as Lola sat fidgeting on his shoulder. Dressed to resemble a miniature version of Dale Evans, Lola pulled on her cowgirl hat, ripped strips of fringe off her skirt, and did her darndest to remove the toy gun glued in its holster. Finally she gave up, leaned over and champed down on Fat Boy’s ear in frustration.

  “Ouch!” Juan yelped in pain, and tried to pull her off. But Lola hung on until he dug a gummi bear out of his pocket.

  Since Lola was dressed up as Dale Evans, I imagined Fat Boy was supposed to look like Roy Rogers. He was encased in a pair of fringed chaps large enough to cover a king-size bed, and an embroidered shirt whose fake mother-of-pearl snaps were ready to explode.

  “Hi, Juan. How are you doing?” I asked, as Lola gummed her candy and gave me the eye.

  “I got no time for your crap today, Porter,” Fat Boy groused. “Lola and me are busy rehearsing.”

  “And I can see how well it’s going,” I retorted.

  “Lola’s being a little testy this morning, is all. But we got big plans. I got us booked for our world premiere tour of Texas. We’re gonna be raking in the dough on the organ grinder circuit.”

  “That’s great. How about taking a rehearsal break for lunch? You’ve got to keep up your energy. I’m buying,” I offered, knowing Fat Boy would never turn down a free meal.

  “Okay. But I gotta change first,” Juan reluctantly agreed. “This costume cost me a bundle and I can’t afford to get it dirty.”

  “No problem. I’ll wait.” I didn’t bother to tell him Lola had already marked her territory on his shirt.

  Fat Boy returned wearing a sleeveless white tee, and a pair of khaki shorts with an elastic waistband stretched to its limit. I stared at the angry red welts which covered his arms and legs.

  “What happened to you?” I asked in alarm.

  “Goddamn fire ants got me,” Juan angrily rumbled.

  Hmm. That meant he must have left the confines of El Paso within the past day to roam around the desert. That’s where the insects build their mounds, from which they rush out to lock onto unsuspecting victims. Once attached, the beasties sting repeatedly. My bet was that Kitrell and Fat Boy had taken a desert sojourn last night after I’d spotted them at the Round-Up.

  Juan wrestled Lola into her cage, then we went outside and climbed into my Ford F-150. The pick-up tilted precariously as Fat Boy sat down and unsuccessfully tried to buckle the seat belt.

  “Where to?” I inquired, knowing he had a list of favorite eateries.

  He pondered the choices. “I’m in the mood for protein today. Let’s go to the Chicken Hut.”

  I headed down the strip to a neighborhood joint Ma Krabbs would have loved. The Chicken Hut’s whitewashed stucco exterior provided fertile ground for pornographic graffiti, while a mesh fence formed an enclosure at its rear.

  Inside, the only available light was provided by a muted TV and a decrepit jukebox, whose rotating hues danced across the patrons’ faces in an ever-changing rainbow of colors. The dive’s mainly male clientele sat in booths drinking their booze, looking as if they’d not only been born in the place, but would die here. I slid into a seat as an ancient waitress with skin the texture of a worn out saddlebag made her way over to us.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked Juan.

  “Give me four orders of the combo plate,
and a side of chicken wings,” Fat Boy responded without opening the menu. “Oh yeah. And a coupla cups of coffee.”

  “And for you, gringo?” she asked, not deigning to look me in the eye.

  “I’ll take the chile rellenos,” I replied, refusing to rise to the bait.

  Fat Boy snickered as she tottered away. “What she’s telling you is you’re not part of El Paso, no matter how hard you try.”

  “And why is that?” I inquired.

  “Because you’re not from here. You don’t know this place—which is why you’ll never stop the animal trade,” he said, taking a sip of the coffee placed in front of him. “Dealing with smugglers around here is like trying to shoot coyotes. Hit one, and another always springs up to take its place. Also, everyone knows who you are. That gives them the advantage. How many smugglers can you pick out of the crowd in here?” Juan asked, spooning four teaspoons of sugar into his cup.

  I skimmed the sea of faces, and wondered if Fat Boy was right. There was no way to know how many of the men returning my stare were aware of who I was. Then I caught Juan’s smirk.

  “You’re full of crap, Juan. The only thing anyone cares about is that I’m a gringo who’s dared to come in here, whether I’m welcome or not.”

  Fat Boy’s annoyance quickly faded as plates of food were set before him. He inhaled the first of his combo platters and instantly moved on to the next. “By the way, did you get that cell phone back for me yet?” he asked between bites.

  I barely dodged the shower of refried beans which shot toward me. “What’s the rush, Juan? Is there something on Timmy Tom’s phone that you need?” I paused. “Or that you’d rather wasn’t found?”

  Fat Boy curled his upper lip, exposing a wad of chewed up food in his mouth. “Like I told you, it’s got sentimental value.”

  He reached for a barbecued chicken wing and stuck the whole thing in his mouth. Next he grabbed a tortilla and began munching.

  I made certain he’d had plenty of time to swallow, then asked, “You want to tell me what you were doing at The Round-Up with Dan Kitrell last night?”

  Oops! I guess I was wrong. Fat Boy began to choke and pound on the table, but the tortilla remained stubbornly lodged in his throat. I knew I’d never get my arms around him to do the Heimlich, and the other patrons seemed to view Juan’s plight as a form of entertainment.

  I tried to shove him forward in the hope the table ledge would work like a fist, but moving Juan proved as impossible as pulling Excalibur from its stone. Meanwhile, he was no longer coughing, but gasping for air and turning blue.

  What I needed was leverage, and quickly. Sitting on top of the booth behind him, I drew in my knees and placed my feet squarely on Juan’s back. Then I propelled him as hard as I could directly into the table. A lump of tortilla flew out of his mouth, and landed smack in my chile rellenos.

  “Are you trying to kill me or something?” he gasped, glaring angrily at me.

  “Kill you? You’d be dead if it weren’t for the fact that I’m here!” And he could at least have had the courtesy to aim his tortilla somewhere other than in my lunch.

  “I believe we were talking about your meeting with Dan Kitrell,” I reminded him.

  “Who?” Fat Boy asked, his left eye sliding like a Yankee toward home plate.

  “You know: tall man, works at the Happy Hunting Ranch,” I responded.

  Juan continued to stare without saying a word. It was time to jerk his chain a bit.

  “I’d hate to think something might happen to ruin your upcoming music tour,” I remarked.

  Fat Boy’s eyes narrowed into two folds of fat. “What are you talking about? Like what?” he asked suspiciously.

  I pushed my chile rellenos away. Fat Boy’s fingers latched on to the platter and pulled it in his direction.

  “Like my having to confiscate Lola on grounds that she was smuggled over the border.”

  “You can’t prove that!” Fat Boy exploded.

  “Sure I can,” I confidently told him. “All I have to do is go through your paperwork and see if she was brought in with any of the shipments marked for the One World Zoo. You remember that place—it’s the one Timmy Tom was furnishing with huge shipments of monkeys. The facility without a phone number or address.”

  Fat Boy pushed the plate of chile rellenos back towards me. “I ain’t hungry anymore. Thanks for spoiling my appetite, Porter.”

  The one thing I wasn’t worried about was Fat Boy starving to death.

  “Whadda ya want to know?” he sullenly inquired as his fingertips edged their way toward my plate once more.

  “What were you doing with Kitrell?” I repeated my question.

  “You’d really be mean enough to take my Lola away from me?” Fat Boy demanded.

  “In a heartbeat,” I assured him.

  “And if I tell you what you want, you’ll leave me and Lola alone?”

  “Absolutely,” I vowed, wondering how Timmy Tom would feel, knowing he’d been so quickly replaced in Juan’s affections.

  “What the hell. I don’t owe Kitrell nothing anyway,” he decided, and leaned in toward me. “Kitrell’s been nosing around about chimps.”

  Like this was something I didn’t already know. “Did he ask you to get any for him?” I inquired.

  “Yeah—but there’s a catch. He insists he’s gotta see them first before he buys one. I guess he wants to make sure he bonds with it, or something.” Fat Boy picked up a few remaining chicken wings and finished them off. “The problem is, I don’t have a source for chimps. So I sent him over to see the Monkey Man.”

  My antennae immediately began to vibrate.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, hoping I sounded more blasé than I felt.

  “You don’t know who the Monkey Man is?” Fat Boy grinned. “Hell, I thought everyone knew about him. That’s Admiral Maynard’s nickname.”

  “You know that I’ll nail you if you’re lying to me about this,” I warned.

  Fat Boy stopped eating long enough to give me a solemn look. “When it comes to Lola, I don’t fool around.”

  Odd as it seemed, I believed him.

  “Okay. Then tell me how you know F.U. Krabbs.”

  Fat Boy snorted. “Who doesn’t know him?”

  “Nothing personal, Juan, but I don’t see the two of you traveling in the same social circles,” I replied.

  He scowled as though I’d unnecessarily hurt his feelings. “Timmy Tom used to fill special orders for F.U. until the Admiral came along and wormed his way in. Then Timmy Tom was cut out and Maynard took over.”

  The connections were beginning to fall into place. Evidently Maynard was top dog for illegal animals these days.

  “Are we done yet?” Fat Boy asked petulantly.

  “Only one more question,” I assured him. “What brought you into contact with Johnny Lambert?”

  “Let’s just say he was a very cooperative Fish and Wildlife agent,” Fat Boy sneered. “Hell, Porter. You might find it pays to be a little more easygoing yourself, where us businessmen are concerned. Figure it this way: there’s only one of you while there’s a whole lot of us, which makes it open season for smuggling stuff in over the border.”

  Juan casually reached over and snatched a piece of pie off a passing tray. “Just remember what I told you about shooting coyotes. You can never get rid of them.”

  Well, when it came to being wily, I was more than willing to go head to head with the best of them.

  Eleven

  I delivered Fat Boy back into Lola’s capable hands and took off. It was time I made Admiral Maynard’s acquaintance. Following Juan’s directions, I headed southeast toward the town of Fort Hancock. Maynard’s house wasn’t visible from the road; a ten-foot-high chain link fence topped with barbed wire ringed the entire property. I pulled up to the gate at the stronghold’s entrance, and pressed the buzzer on an intercom box.

  “Who’s there?” inquired a mechanical voice that could have passed for Robby the Robot.
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  “Rachel Porter, with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”

  The gate silently swung open. I drove through a grove of lush vegetation, so engrossed in the surrounding that I was caught off-guard when a sound reached my ears.

  The haunting song of gibbons filled the air, as enchanting as sirens luring me into their lair. But the call I heard next sent a flurry of primeval shivers scurrying up my evolutionary spine.

  whooo, whooO, whoOO, whOOO, wHOOO, WHOOO!

  The hooting raced through the treetops and swung on the vines before swooping down to the ground. The cry was that of man’s closest kin: Admiral Maynard had a colony of chimps on his land.

  I was so enthralled that I nearly ran over the figure which unexpectedly stepped in my path. I slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a rotund gentleman who stood beaming as though I were his long lost daughter.

  Polyester royal blue pants were hiked high above his waist and held in place by red and white polka dot suspenders. Stretched across his barrel chest was a pink Banlon shirt, its hem creeping up to expose a strip of white belly. The man’s green eyes twinkled from above a bulbous nose, and he wore a skipper’s cap. His fingers scampered up to a small patch that covered the center of his throat.

  “Whee dawgies, gal! It’s about time you came by for a visit!”

  I realized the tinny sound I’d heard over the intercom hadn’t come from a recording, but from the admiral’s implanted voice box.

  “Come on in and take a load off,” he cheerfully instructed.

  I turned off the Ford’s engine, feeling as if I’d landed in a strange new dimension. “I take it you’re admiral Maynard,” I said, and extended my hand toward him.

  “Hot diggity, that’s right! We haven’t met before, have we? Don’t ask me why, but I feel like I’ve known you for years, gal,” he exuberantly informed me.

  As we shook hands, I noticed the tips of two of his fingers were missing.

  The admiral caught my glance and merrily wiggled all five of his digits. “Don’t that beat all? Lucky Louie, one of my chimps, did that back in ’94. He got a little too playful one day, and bit ’em off. But let’s get out from under this hot Texas sun. Mother will be here in a minute with cold glasses of lemonade,” he offered.