Kicks for a Sinner S3 (17 page)

“Darn it, Cassie. We don’t have time for ‘He loves me, He loves me not.’ Move your sweet bippie.”

“Bippie. Really?”

“You know what I mean.” He shoved her forward.

Resentfully, Cassie started down the ravine. A few more shots sounded from the outcrop and more rapid gunfire answered.

“If we hurry, we might be able to get help.”

Thankful for all that exercise on the treadmill she began to jog, and then run full out. Howdy stayed right behind though she suspected he could have passed her easily. His stupid cowboy code probably decreed he had to take a bullet in the back for her. She pushed herself harder. Her mouth went dry, damp strands of hair clung to her face, and she began to pant. Glancing back she saw Howdy coming along, silent and strong, his pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up plastered to his heaving chest with sweat. They’d run way more than the length of a football field.

The arroyo curved a little to the right, and they came up fast on a tiny pool of water, a patch of shade, and two grazing burros taking advantage of slightly greener vegetation than above the rim. The animals eyed them suspiciously, determined they were only loco humans, and went back to their meal.

“Finally, some luck. Looks like we got transportation.” Howdy stopped her with a hand clamped on her sweat-soaked shoulder.

“Those tiny things?”

“Small but tough. My guess is like any domestic animal, they know where their barn is. Climb on one.”

“What if they’re wild?”

“They would have run away if they were wild.”

“We don’t have a saddle or bridle.”

Howdy stared hard at her, clamped his hands on his hips, and splayed his legs wide like John Wayne without a weapon facing down a gunslinger. “Get on the burro, Cassie, before I throw you over one of them. I’ve about had it with your attitude, your mouth, and your sass.”

“You just make me.”

He did. Despite his lankiness, he had some muscle and it showed through that sweat-soaked shirt as he upended her and slung her over the back of the closest donkey. He swatted its rear and shouted, “
Andale, burro!
” rolling his Rs ferociously. The small beast of burden took off at a trot. The other followed. He caught up with it quick and used its mane to lever himself aboard. Cassie, meanwhile, had struggled upright and clung to the bristly hair on her donkey’s neck. Behind them came a sudden shout of
ladron, ladron
! An old man with skin nearly the color of the clay forming the arroyo limped after them waving a thick walking stick every few steps. A plain straw sombrero toppled from his head and hung by its leather thong around his wrinkled neck.

Howdy called out over his shoulder, “No
ladron
, not thieves, just borrowing,
comprende
?”

But the accusations continued to follow them until they came to a narrow path leading upward. Once up on the rim, they could see a small farm in the distance: a white cinderblock house with a corrugated metal roof, a shed sheltering an old tractor, a corral and lean-to for the burros, all surrounded by acres of irrigated tomato and pepper fields. Ignoring their long-legged riders whose feet nearly bushed the dust beneath their small, sure hooves, the donkeys headed directly for the corral in short, choppy strides. Cassie’s burro arrived first. She dismounted much more gracefully than she’d gotten on and opened the gate for the animal whose large brown eyes looked longingly at the vegetable fields for a moment before resigning itself to a manger with a few wisps of withered hay.

Howdy slid off as they passed the green door of the farmhouse and let his mount go on without him. He pounded with both fists on the sun-blistered wood and yelled, “
Se llama policia
!”

The door cracked open just enough to expose the double barrels of a shotgun. A youthful female voice hissed, “
Donde esta mi abuelo
?”

“The old man? He’s fine. Our friends are in trouble. Some gunmen have them pinned down a couple of miles along the arroyo.
Comprende
?”

“
Si, sus amigos
anger Don Esteban. He the only one who kill people here. You get us in trouble. Go away, gringo.”

“One phone call,
por favor
. Don’t give your name. Say shooting is going on by a rocky outcrop near the arroyo.” When the woman did not answer, Howdy played the celebrity card. “The men are American football players from the New Orleans Sinners. If they die down here, there will be a big investigation.”

“Which players?”

“Joe Dean Billodeaux and a friend.”

“I like Joe Dean, a handsome man with a smile like
El Diablo
. I will save him. Come in after you put the burros in the corral. They eat everything they see.”

Cassie had already taken care of that and dashed over to stand by Howdy. Then, she saw the shotgun. “I don’t believe this.”

“It’s okay, Cassie. She’s going to help us.”

The barrel of the weapon jerked upward. “Inside, pronto!”

The woman, quite young enough to be susceptible to the charms of Joe Dean Billodeaux or the movie stars she read about in Spanish language tabloids, gestured them to a set of chairs around a carved wooden table. They sat as she got her cell phone and made a call speaking so rapidly, Howdy had no idea what she said. For all he knew she could be notifying this Don Esteban of their presence in her living room. Sometimes as the Rev would say, you simply had to trust in God and the basic decency of people.

“Done. I have save Joe Dean. You want some coffee?”

“Any form of liquid would be mighty appreciated right now, ma’am. We ran a long way. Your burros came in handy. I’ll gladly pay you for their use.”

Their hostess gave him a beautiful, white smile. She wore her black hair parted in the middle and drawn back in the traditional bun but had on snug, white Capri pants and green rubber flip-flops. A yellow tank top worn braless allowed for a lot of jiggling from her small, firm breasts. Large, crescent-shaped earrings swung when she tossed her head. “I like you. I think I know you, no?”

“Well, ma’am, I do kick for the Sinners.”

She clapped her hands and chanted, “Howdy, Howdy—Doody, Doody.” Her bobbing breasts helped keep time.

“Yes, I wish folks wouldn’t do that when I come out to kick. I especially wish they wouldn’t shout ‘doody, doody, doody’ when I miss.”

“You don’t miss much. My brother watches the American football. He is far out in the fields today, but he be back in a while for dinner. I am not married, but I keep the house for him. I am called Carmelita Gomez.” She sat a pottery mug before him and leaning very close, poured the coffee.

“If you two would like to be alone, I could go outside and talk to the burros,” Cassie sniped.

“Pump some water for them while you out there,
gracias
,” Carmelita said. She turned her shining, dark eyes back to Howdy. “They are the pets of
mi abuelo
. He go into town and put on a big sombrero and a serape I make for him and pose with the burros for the tourists. He sell my weavings,
tambien
. You like to see my weavings? They are in the other room.”

Cassie stood up. “I’d love to see your weavings. Howdy, you sit and enjoy your coffee.”

“I think you want to visit the burros, no? I can give you a carrot for them.”

“No, no, I’m much more interested in weaving. Howdy, stay put.”

As Cassie figured, the large handloom filled half of a bedroom with celebrity pictures taped to the walls and a dozen bright pillows scattered across a single bed centered beneath a small window. She fingered through a pile of handwoven rugs and some colorful sashes draped over the back of a chair.

“Very nice work.” She selected a rug with wide turquoise and terra cotta stripes and a vibrant fringed green sash with a metallic sparkle. “How much for these?”

Carmelita sized her up and said, “Hundred dollars American.”

“Way out of my budget. How about forty?”

“Maybe seventy-five.”

“Fifty.”

“Sixty. Your boyfriend, he is rich football player.”

Cassie started to deny that, but swallowed her words. “Done deal.”

She threw the rug and sash over her arm and walked back to the table. She held up the rug for Howdy’s inspection. “Won’t this look great in your apartment? Pay Carmelita sixty dollars, honey. Honey, that’s like
querido
in Spanish, right? I got a little something for myself, too.”

Cassie wound the sash around her slim waist and modeled it by twirling around with her arms held gracefully above her head. Her hair might be stringy with sweat, her makeup gone and revealing her freckles, and she probably had raccoon eyes from running mascara and liner, but by damn, someone had to save Howdy from this Latina vixen.

“Pretty,” said Howdy, carefully keeping his eyes focused on a space between the two women.

The door burst open. Carmelita screamed and ran for her shotgun, but the old man held up his hands. Gasping, he asked where his burros were.

“In the corral,
Abuelo
. We have a famous visitor, Howdy McCoy of the Sinners.”

“
Es verdad
? Howdy Doody McCoy steal my burros?”

“No, only borrowed them. Look, I’m buying some of your granddaughter’s weavings. How much for the time we rented those animals?” Howdy took a leather wallet molded to the curve of his butt from his hip pocket.

“Hundred dollars American?” Carmelita’s grandfather answered.

“Seems to be the going rate for everything around here,” Cassie snapped. “How about a hundred for the rug, the belt, and the burro rental altogether, and I’d still say you come out on top.”

“Okay, sure.” The man held out a wrinkled brown hand, but his granddaughter got to the offered sweat limp hundred-dollar bill first.

“You sign it for me,” she asked Howdy. She found a pen and handed it to him. He wrote on the greenback, “For Carmelita, Thanks for saving Joe Dean. Howard ‘Howdy’ McCoy.”

Carmelita took the bill back, went into her bedroom, and returned with two crisp twenties for her grandfather. “Maybe I never spent it. Maybe I put it up on my wall,” she said, slinking up to Howdy again. “You can come back someday and visit it, no?”

“Look, we have no more time for this. The autograph session and souvenir buying are over. We need to get into town and find the others. Can either of you drive us there?” Cassie, still wearing the sash, put her hands on her hips.

“For a hundred dollars American,” the old man said.

“Oh, just give it to him if you have it, Howdy. I am worn out trying to save you money.”

He peeled another big bill away from several others and shrugged. “I thought we might have to bribe someone so I hit an ATM when Knox stopped to get the water and you went in to use the bathroom.” He offered the bill to the grandfather who nodded at the pen. He autographed it.

“I sell this on eBay, no?”

“Whatever you want. Talk about bribery. Do you have a car, or do we have to ride the burros again?” Cassie snapped.

“Carmelita drive you. My eyes are not so good no more.”

The young woman dangled the keys from her fingers. “But I am a good driver. Come.” She led the way behind the house and drew a tarp off a polished robin’s egg blue, vintage Ford low-rider.

“Sweet,” Howdy said.

“You ride up front with me. She go in the back.”

“That’s okay. You ladies ride together.”

“Then, we not going anywhere.”

“Howdy, don’t argue with her. Just get in. We need to find out what happened to Joe, ASAP!” Cassie opened the rear door, tossed in the rug, sank way down on the seat, and slammed it shut.

Howdy took his place next to Carmelita who cranked up some lively Latin music before putting her foot on the gas pedal. Under the cover of the beat, he mumbled, “Sure, it’s always about Joe.”

NINETEEN

“At least we got everyone else to safety. I wonder if we’ll ever know what happened to Tommy?” Joe squinted through the sight of his deer rifle but decided the thugs were too well hidden to waste a shell on them.

“Where’s the Billodeaux optimism? We ain’t lost the game yet,
compadre
. They have rapid fire and lots of ammo. We have long range and accuracy. By their stillness, I’m thinking they might be running low since they didn’t know they were running into armed men,” Knox assessed. “Could end up being a standoff.

“Yeah, a Mexican standoff.”

“We can always slip down into the ravine and make a run for it. I doubt those guys are in as good a shape as us. A man does want to see his baby born.”

“I’m not against running. If they shoot up the truck, we might not have any other choice. Wait, is that a white flag?”

One of the enemies had tied a handkerchief to the nozzle of his weapon and waved it above the door of the SUV. Eyes shaded by mirrored sunglasses, he stood up very slowly. Blood on the arm his flowered shirt attested that Joe had winged him. The big man was no Mexican, just a white thug with a deep tan. Cautiously, he stepped out from behind his cover and moved closer to the rocks. “We got the package. You tell us where the boy and girl are, leave the truck, and we let you walk away.”

“The boy and the truck are mine. Bijou stole them both. I don’t know about any girl. I came here to get my son and go home. That’s all,” Joe answered.

The negotiator conferred with the second man still under cover. “Bijou said the boy is his son. Yeah, he probably stole that truck. We don’t care so much about the truck.
El Jefe
wants the boy.”

“You can have the truck. I won’t give up my son. What have you done to Tommy?”

“Nothing
.
Wait, Bijou when he was drinking always said his big time football playing cousin stole his boy. You that guy?”

“Yeah, I’m Joe Dean Billodeaux of the New Orleans Sinners.”

“I remember that Super Bowl when you asked for help to find a runaway girl.”

“Bijou had her, left her pregnant. Tommy is her child, but I adopted him and want him back. My cousin was holding him for ransom. We came down here alone to bring the boy home, but the police back in the states know where we are. The FBI will come looking for us.”