Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Two is his limit,” the General said, looking at Private Zulu. “I mean it, Private.”

Avery climbed the front steps to the house. Bennett opened the door and let him in.

“What’s going on with the getup?” Bennett asked. “No more tracksuits?”

“Bloodstains don’t come out of yellow.” Avery walked straight past his stepfather. “Polly!” Avery yelled out. “Dew me!” Polly unwrapped a straw and pulled a can of soda from the fridge. Avery walked into the kitchen and took the can from her. “Bad dog,” he said to Max. Max growled. From under the table, Nancy hissed. “Jesus!” Avery yelled at Ziggy. “How’d you get that monster through customs?”

“We, like, took the river route again, dude.” Ziggy reached down to pet the big iguana. It bit his hand before he could get close. Avery opened his briefcase and took out some money.

“General, consider our business concluded.” Avery drained the Mountain Dew in one long pull as he handed over the money. “Save the straw.” He handed it to Polly.

“Thanks. By the way, on our trip home, the boys and I chipped in and got you a little something.” The General handed Avery a gift box adorned with a camouflage bow.

“Go ahead, open it.” Private Zulu could barely contain his excitement.

Avery opened the box.

“A grappling hook. Honestly, you shouldn’t have.”

Private Zulu beamed. “I knew you’d like it.”

“You know, we never did get your chupa…whatever it was,” the General said. “What’re you going to do now?” Avery removed a newspaper from his briefcase and opened it to the sports page.

“According to this,” Avery said. “The New York Yankees are in last place in the American League East. Dead last. This season is a hopeless waste for a chupacabra spawning.” He put the paper down. “It just wasn’t meant to be this time. But…the day will come. Oh, you trust me, it will come, and I’ll be ready.” Avery sighed. “Until then, I have more important business to tend to.” Bennett stifled a laugh as he chomped on his pipe stem. “Where’s Kip?” Avery asked.

“He’s out,” Bennett replied. “Gone to see his girl.”

“Was he in my office while I was gone?”

“Can’t say.”

“Think. At any time during my absence, any time, was he in my room?”

“Can’t say.”

“That rat bastard!”

“Well, thank you for the hospitality, sir, ma’am,” the General said as he rose from the table. “But we’ve got a piece of highway to cover before we get home and return that bus to the depot. Planning on getting a used Croatian amphibious vehicle to replace it.” The General winked at Avery. “Don’t worry — we’ll drop the hippy off on the way.”

Private Zulu grabbed his pickles and shoved them in his pocket. The men of STRAC-BOM got up from the table and, one by one, thanked their hosts. Ziggy reached down and picked up his squirming reptile. Max growled again, his stubby tail pointed straight in the air. His hackles were standing up. Nancy ignored him. The General led his militia outside, and they loaded up. He cursed at Private Zulu and Fire Team Leader Charlie as he pulled another parking ticket from the window of the bus.

“Drive safe, y’all.” Bennett and Polly waved goodbye.

Upstairs, Avery stopped at the door to his office. Below the SKUNK WORKS sign, he used a single thumbtack to attach another. AVERY BARTHOLOMEW PENDLETON — PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR FOR HIRE — GOVERNMENTS TOPPLED — TERRORISTS’ PLOTS FOILED — MURDERS SOLVED — OCCASIONALLY, LOST CATS FOUND.

The Padre wore a jumpsuit. His hands and feet were shackled. His shoulder hurt from the bullet he’d taken from the Ukrainian bodyguard. He sat in a plastic chair in front of a folding table. The rest of the windowless room was empty. His immaculately polished boots, his Italian suit, and Roman priest’s collar were all gone. He sat in the cold room, alone. The door opened. A man with a briefcase came in and stood in front of him. From his suit coat, he produced a thin cigar. He handed it to the Padre. The Padre held it up and looked at it. He smelled it. The man with the briefcase took out a gold lighter and lit the cigar for him. The Padre inhaled deeply. He looked at the man standing in front of him.

“When am I getting out?”

“I’m… sorry, Padre.”

The Padre was silent for a few moments. “So that’s it?”

“I’m sorry.”

The Padre looked at his smoldering cigar. The tip burned red hot. “Carnicero?”

“He’s dead,” the man in the suit replied.

The Padre stared at the cigar. One part was on fire, one part was not, but the whole thing was consuming itself. The Padre held the glowing tip under his nose. The smoke rose in a spiral. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

Later that evening, in Monterrey, Barquero slipped through the throng of people on the sidewalk. They were lined up for the street vendors who boisterously hawked their food from small stalls to the late-night crowd of revelers. Time and time again, he looked back over his shoulder. No one was following. Barquero was a large man, but no one seemed to notice him. He found a taxi and got in. As the car pulled away from the curb, Barquero closed his eyes. Rosalina .

A lone coyote sat on a ridge above the Mexican desert. The pale moon cast an eerie light over the hungry animal as its tongue hung from its jaws. The beast wasn’t full. It wasn’t yet satisfied. It just sat, watching. Waiting patiently for the right moment…

To: President of the United Mexican States

Dear Mr. President:

You don’t have to thank me. You don’t even have to apologize, although it would be nice. We both know I saved your country and your position in the government. What I want, besides the rest of my rightful reward for locating and delivering to you one of Mexico’s most highly sought-after drug cartel lords, is the full and complete reimbursement of my out-of-pocket expenses. Heretofore, listed in no particular order:

1) Three cases of Mountain Dew. Original flavor only.

2) One new “Bruce Lee” yellow tracksuit. XXL size only.

3) One Motel 9 “All You Can Eat” breakfast buffet voucher.

P.S. — The New York Yankees won’t lose forever. You should keep my phone number handy. The chupacabra will have its revenge…

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Stephen C. Randel

Published by Knuckleball Press

All rights reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of Stephen C. Randel except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels

2012, Knuckleball Press

www.stephenrandel.com