Early summer
Southwestern New Mexico
With the late afternoon sun just a smidge off smack in his eyes, Trek barely saw the sign. Alamo Junction, Next Two Exits. A quick glance told him the Fury’s gas gauge sat on the edge of the red. Luckily, traffic was light. He whipped over a lane and took the off ramp a little faster than the recommended speed. When he hit the brake hard for the octagonal red sign at the bottom, Commando gave a grumble of protest.
“Sorry, dude. Sometimes Daddy isn’t the best driver.”
From his sprawled comfort in the hammock-extended back seat, the dog nudged Trek’s elbow and then settled back with a second muffled grunt. Trek followed the arrow and turned right, now keeping the prescribed speed. He knew these small towns were notorious for hidden cops with radar guns, waiting to nab a careless visitor. Not that he couldn’t afford a ticket, but why risk it? A clean record kept his insurance reasonable even with a restored muscle car like the Fury.
Trek knew he should have changed the color. Red cars were ticket magnets, especially one with a speedy look and flashy fins. He just couldn’t bring himself to change it, though. This had been Gramps’ car when he went to Vietnam in sixty-eight, never to come home, at least alive. After that the old car sat for years in a barn on the Tennessee farm where Trek’s mother had grown up.
About the time he finished college, he decided to have it restored. Although the work hadn’t been cheap, he was happy with the result. He had a one-of-a-kind car that turned heads everywhere he drove it. About the only variance from authentic was the new 2010 hemi engine he used to replace the original 361 V8 when it threw a rod three years earlier. This one got better gas mileage and didn’t sacrifice on power.
He pulled in to a Spee-Dee Stop that advertised American gas. Although not a real fanatic about buying US products, he figured he’d rather not support the Middle Eastern oil sheiks when he had a choice.
Commando sat up and watched while Trek got out, unlocked the gas cap, and put it with keys still inserted on the rear deck. The damned pump didn’t like his card. After three tries, he stalked inside to get the stupid sucker turned on.
The blonde clerk snapped her gum and batted her lashes. He wasn’t impressed, so complimented her nails, long and well decorated. It was something most men would not do, would not even notice. Did she get the idea? Hard to tell. He wasn’t playing gay eye for a straight guy, anyway. He had just handed her the card when a familiar sound spun him around. That hemi should not be running, but it was. As he watched in shock, the Fury ran right out onto the street and roared away.
“Damn it. The idiot won’t get far on the gas in the tank, but the bastard’s got Commando! That fucker just stole my dog!”
He jerked his phone out of a pocket and punched 911.
“I need to report a stolen dog,” he said, as soon as the dispatcher came on line. “At the Spee-Dee Stop, east side of town. Get a cop down here ASAP.”
* * * *
Dan Winstead eased his unit down a bumpy alley, looking for a kid on a stolen bicycle. He didn’t find the little punk. Oh well, just another exciting P.M. shift in Alamo Junction. His radio crackled.
“P-5, can you take a call at the Spee-Dee Stop? Man reported a stolen dog. He sounded mighty upset. The clerk called too, and she said a car was also taken.”
“Ten-four. Headed that way.”
Dan didn’t go code three. For a stolen dog it hardly seemed necessary. Maybe not even a stolen car. Well, whatever. When he pulled into the parking lot he saw the man pacing beside the gas pumps, clearly not a local and obviously agitated to near hysteria.
Even before he stepped out of the patrol car, the guy began to demand action. “The dirty bastard stole my dog. I went inside when my card wouldn’t work, and the next thing I know, he’s taken off with Commando.”
“Where was your dog? Did you tie him up and go in to get a soda or something?”
“He’s in the fucking car. I left the keys in the gas cap, right on the rear deck, and when my card wouldn’t read, I went inside so the clerk could turn the pump on.”
Dan shook his head. Dumb California or Texas city boy, thinking Alamo was too sleepy and slow for any danger. “What kind of car? You know the license number?” He expected it might be a rental. The answer jolted him.
“Fifty-nine Plymouth Fury, red with white and chrome. Tennessee TSY-967.”
Dan sucked in a fast breath. That must be one rare auto, and the guy was going nuts about a dog? “What kind of dog?”
“Commando’s a rescue. Pitty. One of those they rescued from that drug baron’s dogfighting operation. He was just a puppy, though. He’s a perfect angel, the best dog I ever had. I want that dog back—now. Let’s go after them. He couldn’t have gone far. I was almost out of gas.”
“Pity the dog is a rescue? I don’t get it.”
The man gave a snort of irritation. “Pit Bull. We call ‘em pitties. They have a totally undeserved reputation. Commando wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
Dan sighed. For a moment his rednecked cousin’s taunts and sneers flashed across his mind. Bubba had no use for “flamin’ queers,” and had an act that got most of the family in stitches, pretending to carry a pocket-size pooch in one hand and waving the other while he cried, “Oh, bowsie wowsie” in a falsetto voice.
He’d made Dan’s life hell once he came out. This guy did not use a falsetto voice, and a Pit Bull was no bowsie wowsie, but some of his words and gestures hinted to Dan that he just might also be gay.
Although the car sounded much more important to Dan than even the best dog, he sprang into action. Grabbed the mike through the open window, he put out an ATL on the Fury. He mentioned the dog, as well.
He then turned to the stranger. “Come on. Get in. I’ll go down this road to where it gets back on the interstate. Maybe we’ll spot him. If not, I’ll drop you at a motel. I suppose you have your wallet and stuff?”
The man huffed. “Of course.” Then as if he realized he needed to chill out, he held out a hand. “Trek DuHamel. I appreciate your help. I just pray we can catch up before that creep does anything to my dog, like throw him out on the highway.”
Dan accepted the hand shake. “Officer Dan Winstead. Let’s see what we can do.”
He jumped back into the unit and started off while Trek was still fastening his seat belt. A red Fury should not be hard to spot.
It wasn’t. They found it sitting at the foot of the on-ramp back to the interstate, neatly folded around a light pole. Trek bailed out before the unit’s tires quit turning and ran toward the car.
The driver waved wildly out the open window with his left hand and seemed to be bouncing around in the front seat. He also screamed in frantic tones. “Oh my God, get this fucking dog off me. He’s got hold of my ear, and he won’t let go. Help me. I’m bleeding all over the place. Get this man-eating dog away from me.”
“Commando, let go. Come to Daddy now, like a good dog.” An instant later, the fawn-colored pooch bounded out the window and ran straight to his master. Kneeling, Trek hugged and petted him.
“Hey, Officer—Dan—can you hang onto him while I get a leash out of the car? He’s all upset and he might take off.”
“Is he gonna go for my ear?”
Trek looked aggrieved. “No! He knows good guys from bad buys. He just didn’t want to get too far from me, and he wasn’t going to let this ignorant ape get on the freeway.”
Dan grabbed the dog’s collar, careful to hold the animal at arm’s length. While he wasn’t scared of dogs, he knew how a bite felt, and it wasn’t fun. Meanwhile the would-be car thief spilled out, one hand clapped to the right side of his head, still cussing and blubbering. With his free hand, Dan drew his pistol and ordered the man to face the car and put both hands on the roof.
“I’m bleeding, goddammit. Call the EMTs. Feels like my ear is torn half off.”
Growing irritated with the theatrics, Dan snorted. “Do what I said, or I’ll finish the job.”
By then Trek came back with the leash and took charge of the dog. Dan read the guy his rights, cuffed him, and put him in the squad car. He’d bleed all over the seat, but that could be cleaned up later. Trek still waited, holding Commando’s leash and not seeming a bit impatient. Although he did glance at the Fury with a wry expression, otherwise he seemed calm about the situation. He had his dog back, and maybe that really was his main concern.
Certainly the car was not going anywhere for a while except onto a tow. The grill and radiator were practically in the front seat, and the hood looked like a beer can a horse had stepped on. Dan shook his head. “I’ll call a tow for you. The car’ll have to be held as evidence for a few days. It’ll take that long to get repair parts in, I expect.”
Trek nodded. “I may just have it sent home and let the shop that did the restoration handle the repairs. As soon as it’s released, that is. I don’t want a half-assed job done. Will you hold it at the police yard or what?”
“It’ll go to the county sheriff’s substation, actually. The local PD doesn’t have space. I can probably get it released tomorrow if push comes to shove but no guarantees.”
They waited until the tow truck arrived. Dan knew the operator, having met him very early in his tenure with the local police department.
Mickey Guinn shook his head. “Oh man, what a bummer. That pretty car, all fucked-up. What happened?”
“Some doofus tried to steal it, didn’t see the owner’s dog inside. I guess the dog didn’t want to go riding with a stranger. Bit the guy’s ear until he crashed.”
Slapping his greasy leg, Mickey laughed. “Craziest thing I ever heard.” Then he sobered. “Where do you want me to take the car?”
“Sheriff’s lot for now. Here, you may as well meet the owner.”
Trek ambled over, leading Commando. “While it’s too late to say be careful with her, I’d be grateful if she suffers no more damage. I’m Trek DuHamel, formerly of Memphis, Tennessee. I was on my way to California when I stopped for gas. Big mistake.”
Mickey grinned. “I’ll handle your baby with kid gloves, mister. I respect a good old-fashioned muscle car. Had a few myself.”
After that Dan drove Trek and his pooch to the Sierra Inn, back toward the center of town. “Check with me in the morning. Meanwhile I’ll see how soon I can get your car released. There’s a rental agency just down the block too. The desk clerk can give you their number. That way you can get back on the road if you need to.”
“Thank you for your help, Officer Winstead. Can I call you Dan?”
Dan shrugged. “Sure, why not? We aren’t too formal out here in New Mexico, at least anywhere outside Albuquerque and Santa Fe.”
After Trek went into the motel lobby, Dan finally took the still whimpering would-be car thief down to the ER at Alamo Medical Center. A couple of stitches, a tetanus shot, an antibiotic shot, and a bandage later, they went on to the jail where Dan booked the guy for grand theft auto. For a PM shift in AJ, it had been a pretty good adventure. He chuckled frequently for the rest of the time he was on duty.