Free Short Straw by Stuart Woods Page B

given them. “You know,” he said, “the main road from Puerto Vallarta is only a couple of blocks from where we are right now. Why don’t we just drive over there, park, and wait for her to show up?”
    “Good idea.”
    “You said she rented a Cherokee?”
    “A Grand Cherokee is what the agent said. Red.”
    “What a nice color; pops right out.”
    Cupie directed Vittorio to the highway, and they found a spot a little way up a hill that gave them a view for half a mile up the road. They parked and settled in to wait.
    “You an Angelino?” Vittorio asked.
    “Grew up out in the San Fernando Valley,” Cupie replied. “Roy Rogers used to sing a song about it. Made me proud.”
    “College?”
    “Two years of night school. Wish I’d gotten a degree; I might have made lieutenant or even captain. You?”
    “Grew up on the reservation, got a degree at Santa Fe State, did four years with the tribal police. Boring. Found out I was good at tracking people. I guess it’s a genetic thing; Apaches are great trackers. The signs you follow these days are different, of course. Instead of going rock to rock, you go cheap motel to cheap motel. If I had a hundred bucks for every cheap motel door I’ve kicked in, I could retire.”
    “Me, too. Family?”
    “Nah, I like single.”
    “Girl?”
    “I go from woman to woman; best not to get tied down. When I get to where I need somebody to cut my meat and wipe my chin, I’ll settle down. You?”
    “Wife died six years ago—cancer. I’ve got a daughter graduating from UCLA next year. She wants to join the LAPD. Can’t seem to talk her out of it.”
    “UCLA sounds expensive.”
    “I live on my pension; the P.I. work pays for UCLA. Maybe when she’s out on her own I’ll just play golf all the time.”
    “I play golf,” Vittorio said.
    “Yeah? I never saw an Indian on a golf course.”
    “Maybe not in L.A.”
    “Something red,” Cupie said.
    “Indians aren’t red.”
    Cupie nodded. “Up the road, something red.”
    Vittorio squinted, then produced a small pair of binoculars from a pocket. “Grand Cherokee,” he said.
    “Check out four cars back.”
    Vittorio moved the binoculars slightly. “Black Suburban,” he said, “with black windows. Trying to get around the traffic.”
    Cupie sighed. “Here we go again.”

Nineteen
    V ITTORIO STARTED THE CAR, AND AS SOON AS THE BLACK Suburban passed, he gunned the V-8 engine and forced his way into the line of traffic, nearly causing a multicar accident.
    “What the hell are you doing?” Cupie demanded, struggling to get his seat belt on.
    “Is it the same Suburban?”
    “Don’t you see the bullet hole in the rear window?”
    “Right. Hang on; big curve coming up.”
    “What’s your plan, Vittorio? If we chase these guys, they’re eventually going to get out of their car and shoot at us. You want to get shot at again?”
    “Nope, I want to avoid getting shot at.”
    They entered a sharp curve to the left, and Vittorio stomped on the accelerator again.
    “Slow down!” Cupie yelled. “You want to hit them?”
    “Yeah,” Vittorio said, his face screwed up with concentration.
    “You’re tailgating!”
    “Shut up, Cupie.” Well into the curve Vittorio pulled to the left, brought his front bumper in line with the Suburban’s rear bumper and jerked the wheel hard to the right. The bumpers connected, and the rear end of the Suburban began sliding to the right. It continued sliding until the big vehicle had rotated about a hundred and fifty degrees, then its rear wheels left the road and the Suburban began to travel, backward, down a steep, dirt embankment and toward a big copse of thick brush.
    “Holy shit!” Cupie yelled.
    They passed the Suburban when it had already reached the brush and was tearing, backward, into it.
    “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
    “I used to drive in demolition derbies when I was a kid,” Vittorio said, permitting himself a rare, small smile. “Look back. Did