Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure Page 6

  I shook my head. “No. I would’ve remembered that. I would’ve thought Shakespeare. You know, ‘2B or not 2B.’”

  Christina grunted. “You must’ve been really popular with the guys in college.”

  “Don’t forget I’ve got a gun in my purse.”

  She arched a brow at me. “So do I.”

  “Oh. Right.” Shoot. “Was it 3C?”

  After fifteen minutes of walking in circles, we finally found my car in row 8D. I hoped we’d be more adept at nailing Joe Cool than we were at locating our parking space. We tossed our bags in the trunk and climbed in. I turned to Christina. “I’m not so sure this car will fit in with the south Dallas crowd. What do you drive?”

  Christina frowned. “Two thousand eight Volvo C70.”

  “Sweet. Convertible?”

  “Of course.”

  Pretty pricey for a rookie agent. “DEA auction?” I guessed.

  “You know it.”

  We sat there for a minute, considering our dilemma. “You gave me an idea.” Christina snapped her fingers in the air. “Let’s go.”

  Following Christina’s directions, I drove to the DEA’s impound lot, leaving the top up this time so the wind couldn’t further irritate my eyes. The noisy, crowded lot, situated under a freeway overpass, smelled of dust and gasoline. We headed through the metal gate on foot and walked up and down the rows of seized vehicles, searching for one that would fit our cover. The bright sunlight glinting off an occasional windshield or chrome bumper burned my already sensitive retinas, but luckily most of the cars were too dirty to generate much of a glare.

  Christina stopped in front of an old baby-blue Volkswagen Beetle. “This is cute.”

  I pulled open the door. It came off in my hand, clunking to the ground. “I thought drug dealers drove nice cars.”

  “The smart dealers do,” Christina said. “But the smart ones don’t usually get caught, either.”

  “Whoa!” I jumped back as something furry darted out of the car and under the rusty horse trailer parked next to it. We hurried farther down the row.

  I stopped in front of an ancient Oldsmobile that was brown all over except for a green passenger door. “How about this one?”

  Christina stepped up to the window and peeked inside. “Nuh-uh. Vinyl seats. Our thighs will stick to them.”

  “What’s this I hear about sticky thighs?” We turned around to find the attendant, a pudgy man sporting oil-stained gray coveralls and an equally oily grin. His lecherous gaze traveled up and down our bodies, taking in our revealing clothing and the things it revealed. Urk. The rat had been less offensive.

  Christina reached into her purse, pulled out a small black leather holder, and flashed her badge. “We’re special agents going undercover. We need something reliable but not flashy.”

  The man looked up in thought, then gestured for us to follow him. He led us a few rows over, then stopped and pointed. My gaze followed his finger, stopping on a powder-pink ’86 Cadillac Coupe de Ville.

  “A Mary Kay car?” My face turned from the car to Christina.

  She shrugged.

  The car had a rip in the vinyl top and was missing three hubcaps, but other than that it appeared complete. Fortunately, the registration and inspection were still in date, too. We wouldn’t have to worry about getting pulled over. “How does it run?”

  “Great,” the attendant said. “The engine’s huge. Lots of power under the hood. And just look at the size of that backseat. You could have a party back there.”

  If we did, this guy certainly wouldn’t be on our guest list.

  Christina stuck out her hand. “Keys, please.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Warming Up to the Ice Cream Man

  On our way to south Dallas, Christina and I made a brief detour by Sam Moon’s, the bargain accessory store run by a Korean entrepreneur and a harem of pretty Korean women. Sam Moon offered a competitive shopping experience far too intense for the mere recreational shopper. I headed straight to the jewelry section and forced my way in between two other women, their efforts to elbow me back unsuccessful. When they noticed my bloodshot eyes and splotchy face, they turned tail and headed for another display. Looking like a crazed drug addict has its benefits. With elbow room to spare, I picked out three pairs of dangly earrings and dropped them into my plastic shopping basket.

  A few aisles over, Christina fought with another woman over a striped silk scarf. “I had it first.” Christina yanked the scarf out of the woman’s hand.

  “No you didn’t,” the other woman spat, grabbing an end and tugging.

  Christina slapped at the woman’s hand but the woman refused to let go, her eyes narrowing. Christina scored a coup when she looked over at the next table, let go of the scarf, and squealed, “Ooh! I see a cuter one over there.”

  The woman dropped the scarf on the floor and dashed to the other table. Christina did a quick one-eighty, snatched the striped scarf from the floor, and bolted for the checkout stand.

  “My eyes are still burning,” I said once we were back in the car. “We need to make a stop at the doc-in-a-box.”

  Following my directions, Christina drove to the medical clinic, the two of us belting out as much of Bruce Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac” as we could remember, filling in the blanks with the standard “na-na-nas.” She parked in front. No need to worry about this car’s doors getting dinged. The thing was built like a friggin’ tank.

  Kelsey glanced up from behind the counter as we came in. “Back again?” Her eyes moved from my face to the pink Cadillac visible through the glass front of the clinic. “What is it this time? Makeover gone horribly awry?”

  Christina stepped up beside me. “I accidentally shot her with my pepper spray.”

  Kelsey raised her eyebrows. “That’s a new one.”

  A few minutes later, Dr. Maju summoned me from the waiting area. Today, under his open lab coat, he wore a SpongeBob SquarePants T-shirt with his jeans, just the thing to inspire a patient’s confidence. He glanced at Christina. “To hell with the Privacy Act,” he said to me. “Bring your gorgeous friend with you.”

  Christina giggled and followed me back to the exam room.

  Once I was seated on the exam table, Dr. Maju slid a stethoscope up my shirt and gestured with his free hand at Christina. “What’s your friend’s situation? Is she available?”

  “Do you really think you should be hitting on other women while you’ve got your hand up my blouse?”

  He rolled his eyes, focused on his watch, and counted my heartbeats. Finished, he pulled the stethoscope back out. “Is she free for dinner tonight?”

  My head oscillated to Christina. “You free for dinner tonight?”

  She gave him a flirtatious smile. “Sure.”

  I turned back to Dr. Maju. “She said no.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  Christina jotted her phone number down on Dr. Maju’s prescription pad and handed it to him. “I’m Christina.”

  “Ajay,” Dr. Maju said, taking the paper from her hand. “Now please take off all your clothes.”

  “Me? Why? I’m not the patient.”

  “Why else?” he said, raising his palms. “I want to see you naked.”

  Christina giggled again. Now I was really starting to feel sick.

  “Um, hello?” I waved at the doctor from the exam table. “I’ve got third-degree burns here. You’ve scored your date already. Can I get some attention now?”

  “Oh, all right, you big baby.” Dr. Maju shined his tiny flashlight up my nose and in my eyes, though this time it probably wasn’t just to annoy me. He reached over to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of clear liquid. “Lie back on the table. This may sting.”

  “Can’t get any worse than it already is.” Or so I’d thought. “Dang!” My eyes burned for the second time that day as Dr. Maju flushed them out with the solution. He took the pad and wrote a prescription for a skin cream while I blotted my eyes with a tissue.

  *
* *

  As we rounded a bend on the interstate, the enormous Cotton Bowl stadium and the towering Ferris wheel on the adjacent state fairgrounds came into view. Christina exited the freeway into a part of town I’d never been to before, but one she seemed familiar with, probably from earlier busts. On the frontage road sat a small used-car lot, a red and white banner strung between two poles promising NO CREDIT CHECK. We turned the corner and passed a brick strip mall containing a pawn shop, a liquor store, and a dollar store. Heavy iron burglar bars covered every window in the center.

  The shopping center gave way to a neighborhood for which the term “blighted” would be a compliment. An overturned shopping cart served as a lawn ornament on the dusty, grassless square plot in front of the first house, a faded wood-frame model missing most of its trim. Broken-down cars rested on blocks in gravel driveways or yards, one at a curb bearing a bright orange sticker posted on the windshield by the Dallas PD, warning the vehicle would be towed if not moved soon. At various houses along the route people sat on the sagging stoops with sagging faces, as if waiting for someone or something they never really expected to come.

  “This is depressing.”

  “This is the ’hood,” Christina shot back. “What did you expect?”

  I was used to a higher class of criminal, if there was such a thing. In order for someone to evade their taxes, the person first had to have income. Most of the income in this neighborhood probably came in the form of food stamps and housing assistance.

  Christina took a few more turns before pulling into the dirt driveway of a single-story wood house surrounded by a chain-link fence, the steel wires bent in several places. The gate had been torn off its hinges and lay next to the drive. What little paint remained on the house was the yellow-brown color of mustard jar crust. I hoped it wasn’t lead based. A slumped porch spanned the front of the house as if too lazy to sit up straight. Miniblinds missing several slats hung crookedly in the few windows not covered with plywood. The yard was mostly bare, with a dozen or so dandelions serving as a lawn. Behind the house sat a detached garage that leaned precariously to the right against an oak, having given up the will to live.

  Christina cut the engine. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”

  I stared at the dump. “The ‘Condemned’ sign must have fallen off.”

  We climbed out of the car and headed to the porch, stepping on it tentatively lest it collapse under our weight. Christina unlocked the door and we stepped inside. A foul stench greeted us.

  I pinched my nose shut. “It smells like something died in here.”

  “Or someone.” Christina waved her hand in front of her face. “I’ll get the windows. You find out what that smell is.”

  “Wimp.”

  The den was small and dusty, containing only a filthy rust-colored corduroy couch with duct tape holding the cushions together. A few cigarette butts and an old tattered phone book lay on the floor. Christina stepped over to open the windows, while I continued into the kitchen. The countertops and linoleum were a hopelessly outdated avocado green, the countertops nicked and dull, the flooring splitting at the seams and curling up at the edges. A white fridge with a Rent-2-Own sticker on it stood next to the stove. No doubt the rent was past due. Against the back wall sat two large black trash bags oozing moldy, rotten garbage. Flies swarmed through the air above the bags while their maggot spawn wriggled among the debris. I suppose I should have been glad it was only garbage and not a decaying corpse.

  Bile came up in my throat but I forced it back down. “I’m a big girl,” I told myself. “I’m a federal agent. I’m tough. I can do this.” I pulled my skimpy T-shirt up over my nose, grabbed the bags, and yanked them out the back door, sending the roaches that had been hiding under them scurrying under the cabinets and refrigerator. The screen door slammed shut behind me with a loud thwack.

  I let my shirt down and gulped in a breath of the fresher outside air, then pulled the bags around the side of the house and out to the curb as fast as my legs would go. So much for being a diva. When I went back inside the house, Christina had all but the plywood-covered windows open and the odor had begun to clear out.

  The two of us looked around. The house had two bedrooms with horribly marred walls, one bearing three fist-sized holes. The small bath sported a cracked mirror, a tub with a three-inch scum ring, and a toilet with no seat.

  “This is disgusting.” I yanked the mildew-covered plastic shower curtain off its rings. “How can people live like this?”

  Christina shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.” She opened the cabinet under the sink and bent down to look inside. She shrieked and scrambled backward, knocking me into the tub. Leaping in after me, she yanked her gun from her purse, shoved a clip into it, and aimed it at the cabinet. “Something’s in there!”

  “What do you mean something’s in there?”

  “I don’t know what it was. But it was furry and had claws and pointy teeth.”

  “Another rat?” I pulled my gun out, too.

  “No. Too big for a rat. It looked, I don’t know, like a small bear or something.”

  Despite the lax laws in Texas regarding exotic pets, I sincerely doubted a bear had made its way into the neighborhood.

  There was no way to get out of the bathroom without passing the open cabinet. I’m not sure what Christina had seen inside, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

  A moment later, a furry brown foot with long black claws appeared under the open cabinet door. Whatever was in there was climbing out. A few seconds later, another foot appeared. Then another, and another. A face peeked around the door, a cute face with brown fur and black circles around the eyes.

  I rolled my eyes. “For God’s sake, it’s just a raccoon.” Having been raised in the country, I’d had plenty of opportunities to interact with these creatures, once engaging in hand-to-paw combat with a coon who’d tried to steal a bag of hot dog buns off the picnic table in the backyard. Raccoons were bold, sure, but they were no match for a couple of armed women. I stepped out of the tub and waved my hands at the creature. “Shoo.”

  But the beast didn’t shoo. Instead, it bared its teeth and charged me. “Holy shit!” I fell back into the tub, scrambling to get to my feet.

  “Just a raccoon, huh?” Christina held her gun aimed at the creature’s face.

  The raccoon stood on its hind legs two feet away, glaring up at us, lips curled back to show its fangs.

  “I’ve never seen one act like this before,” I said. “Maybe it has rabies.”

  “Rabies? Great. You better shoot it before it bites us.”

  I would already face an inquiry for shooting at Jack Battaglia. If I fired my gun again, my superiors would think I was a loose cannon, a liability to the department. I’d probably lose my job. “Why don’t you shoot it?”

  The raccoon wasn’t baring its teeth anymore. Without its fangs showing, it was actually kind of cute.

  “I can’t,” Christina said. “I couldn’t live with the guilt. And it wouldn’t be good for my karma.”

  “Screw your karma. I’ve heard that a person exposed to rabies has to get fourteen shots with a ten-inch needle.”

  “Then shoot the damn thing already.”

  I looked at the raccoon again. It blinked its big brown eyes at me. “Aw, hell. I can’t do it, either.”

  We tried again to shoo the critter out the door. Again it charged us, ramming into the tub. Not looking so cute anymore. We had to do something quick or the darn thing would climb into the tub with us. I shifted my Glock to my left hand and grabbed Christina’s gun from her. Bam! I put a hole in the floor only two inches from the varmint. Exactly where I’d aimed.

  The raccoon hightailed it out of the bathroom. Three much smaller raccoons scurried out of the cabinet and ran after it.

  Ears ringing from the blast, I climbed out of the tub, stepped to the door, and took a look. The mother raccoon lumbered into the living room and climbed over a windowsill, her babies trailing a
fter. Thank goodness we’d opened the window.

  “What the hell!” Christina stepped out of the tub. “What do you think you’re doing, grabbing my weapon?”

  I handed her gun back to her. “If I’d shot my gun, I’d have to file a report. And if you’d shot your gun, you’d have to file a report. But since I shot your gun, neither one of us has to file a report.”

  She frowned. “You sure about that?”

  “I work for the IRS,” I said. “I know loopholes.” Actually, I wasn’t at all sure whether a report was required. But my logic sounded plausible on some level.

  She removed the clip from her gun and shoved them both back into her purse. I did likewise. Then I checked my manicure. The sparkly red polish was intact. Good.

  With the vermin vacated and our tour complete, we headed back outside, sitting down on the stoop.

  “How does this whole undercover thing work?”

  Christina stretched her long legs out in front of her. “Basically, we pretend to be users, try to gain the dealer’s trust, then make a buy.”

  Not too complicated. “How long does it take?”

  She lifted one shoulder, noncommittal. “It varies. Some of the bigger stings take months, years even. A small operator like this guy? Three, maybe four weeks, tops.”

  Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a pencil and a notepad. “If we’re going to be stuck in this dump for weeks, we’ll have to do some shopping.” I began to make a list, starting with air freshener and roach spray.

  “Don’t forget the disinfectant,” Christina added. “Antibacterial soap, too. And a toilet seat.”

  When I finished adding her suggestions to the list, I slipped the notepad back into my purse.

  A police cruiser rolled slowly up the street, windows down, a tall, black officer at the wheel. He pulled to a stop in front of our house. “Got a report of a gunshot in the area,” he called. “You girls hear anything?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Not a thing.”

  Christina shook her head.

  The cruiser rolled on.