Shotgun Boogie

by Steve Brewer

  The passenger door popped open and El Gűero swung it out of the way for his girlfriend.

  First thing Howard saw was her shoe as it touched ground beneath the open door. Black spike heel and a black leather upper laced tight around her arched foot.

  Then a hand appeared above the door, perfectly manicured, tipped in crimson. El Gűero lightly grasped the hand and steadied her as she stood. In the heels, she was nearly as tall as him.

  If El Gűero was golden sunshine, his girlfriend was midnight. Tight black jacket over a minimal skirt and fishnet hose in the same shade. Her black hair was pinned back from her face. More great cheekbones, as if they came out of the same catalog, and lipstick in the darkest red. A diamond stud glittered in one nostril, and Howard was pretty sure the black eyebrows that arched so perfectly above her big sunglasses were painted on from scratch.

  Her face twisted with distaste as she looked around the potholed parking lot and Howard's rundown place of business. He sighed. Same distaste he felt every morning when he arrived at work.

  He got up from his desk as they came through the glass door, wiping his sweaty palm on his pants in anticipation of a handshake. But neither of them came close enough for that. They stopped just inside the door, looking around, noses in the air, both still wearing their black sunglasses.

  The woman was the first to speak.

  "You are the owner? Howard Bell?"

  Howard swallowed heavily and nodded.

  "We bring greetings from Señor Santiago."

  Howard wasn't exactly sure how to respond. He clasped his hands in front of him and said, "Thank you very much."

  "My name is Rita Gutierrez. And this is my lover, El Gűero."

  Howard's face felt hot. He nodded and smiled and tried to generally look unthreatening.

  "Nice to meet you, I'm sure."

  El Gűero said nothing. Because of the narrow black sunglasses, Howard couldn't be sure the slick young man was even looking his way.

  "He understands English," Rita said, "but he doesn't like to speak it. He finds it an inelegant language."

  Howard felt himself bristle a little, which was ridiculous. He was now a defender of his native language? He gave a shit?

  "We are alone here?" Rita said.

  "Some guys are working in the garage, but they can't hear anything we say in here."

  "Good," she said. "We are here to meet our driver and take away a truck. Everything is ready?"

  "Um. Not exactly."

  Rita's black eyebrows rose even higher.

  "I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Howard said, and truer words were never spoken, "but the shipment has been, uh, temporarily mislaid."

  El Gűero said something in Spanish, very quick and snappish.

  "He wants to know what you're talking about," Rita said. "How can you lose forty thousand pounds of merchandise?"

  "It's not lost, exactly. One of my employees brought in the truck, but she stashed the trailer somewhere."

  "Why?"

  Howard cringed. "She looked inside the trailer and saw what she was hauling. She got upset about it."

  Rita's scowl deepened. "She wants more money?"

  "No, that's not it. She's having an outbreak of conscience."

  Rita's expression didn't change, and Howard could tell she wasn't getting it.

  "She thinks innocent people will get killed with those guns. I tried to tell her that was none of our business—"

  "The first thing you have said so far," Rita interrupted, "that makes any sense."

  He shrugged.

  "I tried to persuade her, but she was upset. And she had this sawed-off shotgun—"

  Again, a quick bark in Spanish from El Gűero. Howard glanced over and saw that El Gűero had unbuttoned his jacket and spread it open, enough to expose the butt of a shiny pistol stuffed in his belt.

  "Hey, now—"

  "He says he isn't afraid of a shotgun."

  "I figured it was something like that. But I'm not the one who—"

  "This woman has stolen trucks before?" Rita asked.

  "Once in a while, she boosts a truck for me and I ship it down to Señor Santiago. We do the paperwork so it looks like we chopped it up for parts, but we really get someone to drive it down—"

  "Where is she now?"

  "I don't know. I keep trying to call her on the phone—"

  Another rat-a-tat burst of Spanish from El Gűero.

  "You have this woman's address?" Rita translated.

  "What? Oh, sure. But do you think that's a good idea? Going to her house?"

  "Give us the address."

  Howard didn't like that proposal. If they took the shipment from Jackie without him, Señor Santiago would have no reason to pay.

  "Look," he said, "let me go with you. Let me talk to her first. Maybe I can get her to see the light."

  "What light?"

  "You know, get her to come around. Give us what we want."

  "You can do that?"

  "I can try."

  El Gűero said something else. Howard understood a little Spanish, but he was unable to pick up a word of this guy's rapid-fire speech.

  "He says you can come with us," Rita said. "You can talk to this woman. But if she won't listen, we'll take over."

  She smiled for the first time. It gave Howard a chill.

  Chapter 20

  Special Agent Romeo Sandoval leaned into the doorway of the motel room without stepping inside. This wasn't his crime scene, and he wouldn't risk contaminating anything. Besides, he could see everything he needed to see from here.

  The dead man was flat on his back, lying diagonally across the bed, the pointed toes of his cowboy boots aimed at the ceiling. His Western-yoke shirt had pulled loose from his jeans, exposing his flat brown belly. The large-caliber bullet had penetrated just above his eyebrows, leaving a red crater where his forehead should be. Romeo couldn't see the back of the man's head, but he guessed there wasn't much left. Most of it seemed to be splattered on the far wall.

  "Damn," Romeo said as he stepped away from the door. "There's one poor bastard who saw it coming."

  "Yep," said Bill Naughton. "I expect he was looking right down the barrel."

  Naughton was an Albuquerque Police Department homicide detective, a lean, taciturn veteran with a square jaw and narrow eyes. They'd worked together a few times over the years, and Romeo trusted him. Naughton lived on a small ranch east of the Sandia Mountains and commuted into the city to sort its dead. He was in his ranch clothes today – scuffed cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans, a plaid shirt, a brown jacket, a battered Denver Broncos cap – so he looked like every other male (and many of the females) in rural New Mexico. Only differences were that he had a badge on his shirt and a Glock on his hip.

  "Think that's your truck driver?"

  "Must be," Romeo said. "A sixty-year-old African-American cowboy? How many you got in this town?"

  "First one I've seen," Naughton said. "Think the Indians got him?"

  Romeo ignored that. "What's he doing in the Roadrunner Motel? He took off after his truck was stolen, but he only made it this far?"

  "No wheels," Naughton said. "The truck thief left him on foot."

  "It's as easy to rent a car as it is to rent a motel room," Romeo said. "He must've been waiting on someone. He called somebody to come give him a ride."

  "Except they didn't give him a ride," Naughton said. "They gave him a bullet in the face."

  "But why? Because he got hijacked? That seems harsh."

  "Crime is a ruthless business. You make a mistake, you get punished."

  They studied the pavement for a minute, mulling that over, then Naughton said, "Maybe he was the only connection between that truck and whoever shot him. Somebody got rid of the weak link in the chain."

  "Could be," Romeo said. "You got an ID on him yet?"

  "Driver's license says his name is Avery Russell. An address in El Paso."

  "Not a commercial driver's license?"


  "Nope. Regular Texas license. But he also had a military ID in his wallet. Sergeant Avery Russell apparently got out of the Army fairly recently. The ID expired two years ago."

  "Fort Bliss?"

  "Must be," Naughton said.

  Romeo thought about the man he'd met earlier, the stiff-necked one who'd identified himself as being with the Army. He asked Naughton if an Army investigator named Duvernay had contacted APD.

  "If he did, I never heard about it."

  "He said he was investigating the theft of this guy's truck." Romeo pointed back into the motel room with his thumb. "Said the Army had an interest in the cargo."

  "What kind of cargo?"

  "Classified."

  "Of course."

  Another silence while they studied their shoes.

  "The motel clerk said he saw a white car drive out of the parking lot right after he heard the shot. Four-door sedan. Could be an Army car."

  Romeo nodded. "I'll run over to the truck stop and see if Duvernay's still around, see what's he driving. And I'll call the Army and check him out."

  "All right," Naughton said. "I've got to wait here for the Medical Examiner's van. Make sure Mr. Russell gets a proper send-off to his autopsy."

  "This one should be easy for the ME to figure out. A single bullet to the brain."

  "He's not officially dead until the ME says he is," Naughton said. "That's job security right there."

  Romeo nodded and started to turn away.

  "Call me if you get anything," Naughton said.

  "Will do."

  Chapter 21

  Jackie Nolan tilted the mini-blinds so she could better see the light blue sedan that had pulled into the driveway of her mother's house. Brand-new Ford, blackwall tires, plain wheels. Likely a rental.

  Sunshine glared on the windshield, but she could see the outlines of two people in the front seat. Then the back door opened, and Howard Bell climbed out into the wind, holding onto his hairpiece. He wore no jacket over his white shirt, and he hurried to the front door. The other two stayed in the car.

  Jackie turned away from the window and trotted down the hall to her mother's bedroom. She opened the door a crack and looked inside, but Marge was right where she'd left her, lying on the bed fully clothed, staring unblinkingly at the white ceiling. Jackie pulled the door to, and hurried back to the foyer, arriving just as Howard rang the doorbell.

  The shotgun was still inside the duffel bag in the coat closet near the front door. Jackie bent over and unzipped the bag. Pulled out the gun just as Howard rang the bell a second time.

  She checked the peephole to make sure it was still only Howard at the door. He was alone on the porch, dancing in place and puffing his cheeks against the cold. She turned the knob and stepped out of sight behind the door as it swung open. She didn't answer when Howard said, "Jackie?"

  As he stepped through the door, she met him with the shotgun, pressing the barrels against the side of his soft belly.

  "Be still, Howard."

  "Whoa! Hey." He raised his hands to shoulder height, bumping his elbow against the open door. "Hey, Jackie. Point that somewhere else. Please."

  "Who's in the car, Howard?"

  "Jackie, please. I'm pissing myself here."

  "I pull this trigger, it'll be the last time you take a piss. So you'd better enjoy it."

  "Jesus, what's wrong with you?"

  "Who's in the car?"

  "The guy Santiago sent. El Gűero."

  Jackie gave him a nudge with the shotgun.

  "And the guy's girlfriend, Rita. They've come to the States to go shopping. And, oh, by the way, while they're here, they thought they'd pick up that shipment of automatic rifles."

  "Are they armed?"

  "What do you think?"

  Jackie leaned to her right to get a better look out the door. The couple still sat in the front seats. The engine was running.

  "Come on, Jackie," Howard said. "Put the shotgun away."

  "You brought armed killers to my home. I should pull the trigger and blow your guts all over the yard."

  "You're scaring me."

  "Good."

  Howard's face flushed.

  "What am I supposed to do here?" he said. "I stay here, you'll shoot me. I go back to the car, they'll shoot me."

  "Maybe you'd better make a run for it."

  "You're kidding, right? When was the last time you saw me run anywhere? I'd keel over dead before I made it to the end of the block."

  "You should take better care of yourself."

  "Now you tell me."

  Still no movement from the light blue sedan. But Jackie knew she didn't have much longer.

  "Take a step backward, Howard."

  "What?"

  "Out onto the porch."

  "One step?"

  "That's right."

  He did it, very carefully placing one foot out the front door.

  "Now the other foot."

  "Come on, Jackie."

  "Do it."

  He stepped back with his other foot. As soon as he was clear of the doorway, Jackie slammed the door in his face.

  She locked the deadbolt.

  Then she turned and ran down the hall.

  Chapter 22

  El Gűero grunted when he saw the door slam shut. The fat man, Howard Bell, rocked back on his heels as the door closed within an inch of his nose.

  Rita said, "Cabron."

  They climbed out of the car into the chill breeze. El Gűero glanced around the quiet neighborhood as they crossed a wedge of winter-yellow lawn to the front porch.

  Howard Bell still stood frozen on the porch, hands in the air.

  "What happened?" Rita demanded.

  He lowered his hands and turned to face them.

  "She pulled that sawed-off shotgun on me. Then she slammed the door."

  El Gűero pushed the fat man out of the way. He pressed his ear to the front door and listened, but could hear nothing from inside. He tried the knob, but the wooden door was locked. He shoved against it, but could tell immediately that this was no way to get inside.

  He waved Rita and Howard out of the way as he went to the large windows that looked out over the front porch. El Gűero slipped the pistol out of his waistband and used it like a hammer to break a pane of glass. He looked through the hole, but could see no movement inside. Just a standard American living room with matching brocade furniture and hardwood floors and a black flat-screen TV and a few flowery area rugs.

  He reached through the hole and unlocked the window, then forced it open with his fingertips.

  To Rita, in Spanish, he said, "Watch him."

  In answer, she slipped her hand inside her black handbag, where she always carried her straight razor.

  Gun in hand, El Gűero ducked through the open window, touching down inside as lightly as a cat. In one stride, he was on the nearest throw rug, without making the hardwood floor creak.

  He stood still, listening, but heard no movement in the house.

  Outside, Howard Bell started to say something, but Rita shushed him.

  El Gűero tiptoed across the living room, looking into open doorways – kitchen, dining room, hallway – and finding no one. The four doors opening off the hall, presumably bedrooms and bath, were all closed. He'd have to check them one by one.

  He went to the first door, the only sound the merest creaking of the floor as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He listened at the door for a moment, heard nothing, tried the knob. It turned.

  He went into the room gun first, but there was no one inside.

  A small bedroom, made even smaller because one end of it was full of moving cartons stacked to the ceiling. The boxes bore bold black writing from a marker pen, and El Gűero quickly deciphered some of the words. "Summer Clothes." "Dishes." "Books." The closet was full of clothes and more cardboard boxes. No one under the narrow bed. A swivel chair was tucked neatly under a small desk against one wall. A laptop computer and a few books s
at on the desk.

  El Gűero stepped back into the empty hall. He was headed to the next closed door when he heard a throaty mechanical humming, accompanied by a steady rattle, coming from the far end of the house. Took him only a second to recognize the sound as a garage door opening.

  He ran the length of the house, through the kitchen to the solid door that led into the garage. Deadbolted. No key.

  Cursing, he ran back to the living room, slipping on a throw rug and nearly falling before he reached the front door. He unlocked the door and found Howard Bell right where he'd left him on the porch. The fat man's mouth gaped and his cheeks were bright red.

  Rita was in the yard, stranded by indecision halfway between the porch and the driveway.

  The driveway was wide enough for two cars, and the rental car blocked only one of the garage doors. The other one had rolled up and a mint 1970s El Camino, shiny black, was backing out the open door. A stout, short-haired woman about his age was behind the wheel. In the passenger seat was an older woman with gray hair. She smiled brightly as the El Camino bumped into the street.

  El Gűero raised his pistol as they roared away, but it was too late. He put the gun away and turned to Rita.

  "I couldn't stop her," she said. "I thought about running in front of her car, but I think she would've run over me."

  El Gűero glanced around the quiet neighborhood. No one seemed to have noticed the commotion at the house.

  He and Rita turned toward Howard, who still stood on the porch, wringing his hands. They continued in Spanish, speaking low.

  "What do you think?" Rita said. "Did he warn her?"

  "You think he did?"

  "We couldn't hear what he said to her," she said. "No reason to trust him."

  "Look at him. He is too frightened to betray us."

  They studied him for a minute.

  "Do we take him with us?" she asked.

  "We don't need him anymore."

  She looked around, smiling. "Here?"

  "This place is as good as any."