Shenanigans Read online

  Shenanigans

  Gail Koger

  Copyright © April 2018 by Gail Koger

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Gail Koger. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized copies.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs

  Published in the United States of America

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events, existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Books in the Coletti Warlord series

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my parents.

  Prologue

  My name is Kandi Cain. How did I get stuck with this swell name? My mom, Margaret, is obsessed with Christmas. She even dresses as an elf in July. She had her ears surgically altered to be more elf-like. Ho. Ho. Ho.

  I got into more fist fights than I could count in school defending mom’s quirkiness and my name. When I was eight, Dad decided enough was enough and gave me boxing and karate lessons. By the time I reached high school, no one dissed my mother or me anymore.

  Our home is a shrine to Santa and his elves. The interior is a museum to rare and unique Christmas ornaments from the 19th century. The yard is decorated year-round with enormous Santas, giant candy canes and nutcracker statues. There’s an awe-inspiring amount of twinkling lights on the roof. They’re so bright, the astronauts complained.

  I think my mother’s preoccupation with Christmas started when her father got drafted during the Vietnam war. Before he was sent on his second deployment, he took leave to spend Christmas with his family. He was killed in action six weeks later.

  My father, Nick Cain, is a very large Santa look-a-like. He was a mob enforcer for the Gambino family until he met my mother at a Christmas party. It was love at first sight. To keep her safe, my Dad quit his job and they quietly moved from New York to Apache Junction, Arizona. Apache Junction is a small tourist town located at the base of the Superstition Mountains. The town caters to people interested in visiting the numerous ghost towns and hunting for the Lost Dutchman’s gold mine.

  When Dad isn’t playing Santa, he’s a member of the Superstition Mountains Search and Rescue squad and a highly sought-after rattlesnake wrangler.

  I was two when my parents found me in the backyard surrounded by birds, skunks, coyotes, jackrabbits, dogs, cats and a big ass mountain lion. I was giggling happily and petting them. My Dad said he almost crapped himself.

  Mom wasn’t pleased I had inherited her mother’s psychic talents. She wanted me to have a “normal” childhood. As if. My ability to summon and communicate with critters grew until they were forced to ask Grandma Hester for help. They didn’t know how to deal with a miniature Doctor Doolittle.

  My mother and Grandma Hester are poles apart. My grandmother always reminded me of the Queen of England with her crazy hats, brightly colored polyester suits, pearl necklaces and pristine white gloves. C’mon who still wears gloves? In the summer? In Phoenix?

  My grandma lived her entire life in a dazzling pink gingerbread house located in the historic district of Phoenix. Her two acres of orange trees kept the neighbors supplied with fruit.

  Overwhelmed by requests to find lost pets, and unable to live on the military’s survivor’s benefits, Grandma Hester started a pet detective agency called Finders. I was seven when I started helping her locate missing pets. I discovered I had a knack for it and once I started my hunt, I never failed to track down the lost dog, cat, horse, parakeet or pot-bellied pig. When I graduated from high school, I became a full-time pet detective. Since the pay wasn’t the greatest, I moved in with Grandma Hester and didn’t miss the Christmas music at all.

  News of Grandma Hester’s ability to find missing pets spread and a movie star flew her to Hawaii to find his missing tiger. Her helicopter went down in a storm and the wreckage was never found. It felt like a piece of my heart had died with her.

  She left me her house, the business and a bank account with the grand total of three thousand dollars in it. The bad news was, the house needed a new roof. The price tag was ten thousand dollars and our rainy season was rapidly approaching.

  Two months after my grandmother died, the neighbor from hell moved in. One look at his muddy red aura and I knew he would be a problem. The asshole’s name is Dutch Callaghan. He reminds of that guy who plays Thor in the movies. How can someone so gorgeous be such a prick?

  I could chalk some of it up to his job. Dutch is a Phoenix PD homicide detective. I know the long hours and the blood and gore would make me cranky. I even baked the ass some “welcome to the neighborhood” cookies. He took one bite and dumped them in the trash. I’ll admit I’m not the best cook in the world, but that was downright rude.

  Then the bastard said, “I don’t do pity fucks.”

  I was so stunned, I just stood there gaping at him. With a nasty smile Dutch stomped off.

  Me a pity fuck? Did I look that desperate? My temper flared to life and I yelled, “I’m not a pity fuck.”

  “And I don’t pay for sex either,” the asshole yelled back.

  He thought I was a prostitute? Oh, hell no. This meant war. The jerk had spent hours washing his big, black, high-rider truck. I summoned a flock of pigeons and had them crap on it. Repeatedly. “Game on asshole.”

  Chapter One

  Finders Pet Detective Agency is in a strip mall surrounded by high-rise office buildings. I share the space with a liquor store, a pizza parlor, a sub shop and Sparky’s Title Loans and Check Cashing.

  The interior of my office is a diverse mixture of hand-me-downs, Goodwill and vintage furniture. I love Grandma Hester’s antique oak desk and her old Remington Standard typewriter. She refused to use my laptop and banged out all her reports on it. Two brown leather chairs are positioned in front of the desk. Pictures of found pets decorate the walls. In the backroom there is a tiny kitchen with a microwave and a small refrigerator. Crammed against the other wall is a variety of dog and cat crates.

  To make our office more festive, Mom hung Christmas garlands from the ceiling. The stupid stuff almost strangled two of our taller clients.

  The front door opened and in walked a three hundred-pound hoochie mamma in a glow-in-the-dark lime green mini skirt and thigh-high, fuck-me boots. Her enormous breasts threatened to pop out of her low-cut flowered top. “You are Senorita Cain?”

  “I am, and you must be Maria Torrez.”

  “Si.” Her heavily mascaraed eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “You must help me.”

  I gestured to the chairs. “Please have a seat.” I waited until she had plunked her ample bulk onto a chair
before asking, “Who’s missing?”

  Maria bursts into tears. “Tinkerbell. Tomas took my Tinkerbell.”

  “Is Tomas your boyfriend or husband?” Pushing the box of tissues to her, I noticed her sparkly neon green nail polish.

  “That pendejo was my boyfriend until - until I caught him sleeping with my puta sister.” Maria let loose with a string of creative Spanish curses.

  I think she called her sister a whore and said something nasty about the size of Tomas’s dick. Sometimes my client’s lives resembled one of those telenovela soap operas. “Do you have a picture of the pendejo and Tinkerbell?”

  “Si.” Maria blew her nose loudly, then reached into her purse and pulled out two pictures. “They were taken a month ago.” She placed them on the desk.

  The pendejo’s head and face were covered in tattoos. I think he was Hispanic, but it was kind of hard to tell. He was giving the camera the one-finger salute and I noticed the prison markings on his knuckles. “What is Tomas’s last name?”

  “Lopez,” Maria supplied.

  “How long was Tomas in the big house?”

  At Maria’s confused look, I said, “Jail? How long was he in jail?”

  “Two years for fighting of the dogs.”

  Yeow, and that didn’t send her running for her life? Tinkerbell was a Yorkshire terrier and she wouldn’t last long in a bout. “Do you know if he’s still holding dog fights?”

  “Tomas promised me he no do it anymore.” Maria’s mouth quivered. “The pendejo took my puta of a sister to a fight. He is Ringmaster. After the dog and chicken fights, men beat each other in a cage. The puta said the hombres give Tomas mucho dinero to watch. Mucho, mucho blood.”

  Sounded like Tomas was running illegal, mixed martial arts fights too.

  “Tomas say he will put my Tinkerbell in cage with Brutus, his muy bad pit bull.” She broke down and sobbed like her heart was breaking.

  Not on my watch, he wasn’t. “Did you bring something of Tinkerbell’s?”

  She placed a bright pink bow on my desk. “There is big fight tonight. Please find her. Por favor. Por favor. Tinkerbell will be so scared.”

  “Do you know where the fight is being held?”

  “At old warehouse. I think in south Phoenix.” Maria’s mascara ran down her cheeks, giving her a demented clown look.

  “I’ll start my hunt now. Do you have somewhere safe to stay?”

  Maria nodded. “With my abuela.”

  Hopefully, her grandmother’s house would be safe. “Good. Once I’ve located Tinkerbell, I’ll call you, but you need to stay away from Tomas. Okay?”

  “If he comes near me, I shoot.” She pulled a .380 Ruger from her purse and waved it around.

  Holy crap! “Do you know how to use that?”

  She shrugged. “You pull trigger.”

  “Right, but have you actually ever fired it?”

  “No.”

  “My advice is call 9-1-1 first and shoot later.”

  “Bueno.” Maria shoved the pistol in her purse. Bang! A hole appeared in the floor an inch from my left boot.

  I shot to my feet. “Oh my God!”

  “Dios mio! The hombre at the pawn shop said it has a hairy trigger.”

  No kidding. “And you bought it anyway?”

  “It only twenty-five dineros,” Maria said, sticking her finger through the big hole in her purse.

  Maybe it was time for me to invest in a bulletproof vest. “My fee for retrieving Tinkerbell from an underground dog fighting ring is five hundred dollars.”

  Without blinking, Maria pulled out a stack of twenties and laid them on the desk. “Please find her. Por favor.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I quickly wrote her a receipt. “Remember. Stay away from Tomas.”

  “Si.” Maria took the receipt and left.

  I watched her get into a cherry red Chevy Impala lowrider. Bet it belonged to the pendejo. My vehicle was a beat up, gray Ford van filled with food, crates, leashes, and a doggie first aid kit.

  Spreading a map of Phoenix across my desk, I picked up Tinkerbell’s pink bow, and concentrated. A flurry of images flashed across my mind. Ancient metal warehouses. A tavern covered in graffiti. Crowing roosters. I let the bow fall and opened my eyes. Hmmm. Polk and 7th street. Smart people avoided the area, but if a critter was in danger, smart wasn’t always possible. My risk-taking drove my grandmother nuts.

  Chapter Two

  A row of ancient metal warehouses lined the street. Squashed between two warehouses was a tavern. Every surface of the bar had been marred by red and black spray-painted gang signs. The thumping, rap-crap music blaring from the interior, rattled my van so badly the assortment of leashes fell off their hooks.

  Tattooed bikers, hollow-eyed winos and strung-out junkies loitered around the entrance. They all seemed to enjoy the poor excuse for a song. A few transients did a bad hip-hop dance on the garbage strewn sidewalks.

  I parked, rolled the window down and listened. The pounding music couldn’t drown out the raucous cock-a-doodle-dos that vied with the frenzied barking of frightened dogs. Bingo. The racket was coming from the last warehouse.

  I flipped the visor down and checked myself in the mirror. An elderly nun looked back at me. My friend Sally worked at a mystery dinner theater and taught me the art of applying stage makeup. The black habit I borrowed barely hid my steel-toed boots. My special hitman latex gloves insured I didn’t leave any prints behind. I put a taser in my right pocket, picked up the box of hamburgers and climbed out of the van.

  The street people eyed me hopefully. I gave them a big smile. “I’m Sister Mary and I’m here to feed the lost.”

  A wino put a hand to his ear. “What?”

  “Food,” I yelled.

  Everyone crowded around me eagerly. Lordy, did they stink and where the hell did all the flies come from? I handed out the burgers. “Bless you my child,” I shouted repeatedly as I made my way down the sidewalk.

  A big, muscle-bound biker stepped in front of me, blocking my path. He had menacing down to an art form.

  I eyed him warily. Why did he look so familiar? Had I met him somewhere? Kind of hard to tell. His bushy brown beard hid his features, the mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes and a black pirate skull cap covered his hair. I slid my hand in the pocket with the taser and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  The biker hollered, “Stay away from the last warehouse, Sister. Bad shit goes down in there.”

  “Thank you, my son.” I handed him another burger and gave out the rest of the food.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I watched the bad-ass biker walk back to the bar and start talking to another equally scary biker.

  I took a cautious look around. No one was paying any attention to me. I sprinted down the side of the warehouse to a weed-filled alley.

  My gaze froze on a cherry red Chevy Impala lowrider parked at an odd angle. “Oh crap.” Had Tomas taken his car back or had he grabbed Maria, or had she come on her own? Either way, not good.

  According to several dogs inside, the mean ones were gone. I mentally linked with a hawk perched on the roof. “Watch. Warn,” I commanded.

  The hawk screeched.

  Dropping the box, I pulled out a lock pick and quickly unlocked the door. One of the advantages of being the daughter of a former mob enforcer was learning all the tricks of the trade. Not the killing part, but how to disable alarms, pick locks, steal a car and my favorite, evade the police. Dad had even taught me how to shoot a variety of weapons and I wasn’t too bad with a knife either. Since Mom was into peace on Earth and goodwill to all, it was our little secret.

  I stepped inside and groaned. Crammed into cages were battered pit bulls, smaller dogs and roosters. There was no sign of Maria or Tinkerbell, but I knew the Yorkie was here. I spotted an office door and hurried over to it. Whimpering came from inside. I picked the lock and eased the door open. Tinkerbell was in a small crate. She yapped and did a little wee-wee dance.

  “Ho
ld on sweetie.” I released Tinkerbell and grinned as she shot from the crate, squatted on the cement floor and did her business.

  An image of her owner formed in Tinkerbell’s mind.

  “I’ll take you to her, but first we have to rescue all these animals.”

  Tinkerbell looked up at me like I was nuts and barked.

  “No. The dogs won’t bite me or you.”

  She barked again.

  “Because I won’t let them.” I surveyed the wire enclosure in the middle of the warehouse and grimaced. The floor was covered in blood-soaked sand and was that a finger? My stomach knotted in horror. Holy shit, it was. Did the broken nail have sparkly polish on it? Kind of looked like it, but if I checked, I could mess up the crime scene. The cops got pissy when you did that. Besides, just the thought of picking it up, gave me the heebie-jeebies. I’d get the dogs and chickens to safety, then call the police.

  Tinkerbell woofed urgently.

  “You’re right, we need to leave, but all of you won’t fit in my van.” Should I call Tom or Dick or Harry for help? They were all animal rights activists, tough as nails and lethal in a fight. I reached for my cellphone.

  The hawk screeched.

  I linked with him. The pendejo and two of his buddies had pulled up in a van with Lopez Meats on the side. Crap. Feeding time. I scooped up Tinkerbell and put her in the hidden saddle bag pocket of my habit. “Be very quiet.”

  Drawing heavily on my psychic abilities, I took control of every critter in the warehouse and unlocked the cages as fast as I could. “Stay. No barking or crowing.”

  Silence reigned. Smiling, I stepped into the shadows and waited. The Ringmaster was about to find out what it felt like to fear for your life.

  “Who forgot to lock the damned door,” Tomas yelled as he stepped inside the warehouse.

  I blinked at his sparkly gold Ringmaster baseball cap. Someone had an ego.

  When no one answered him, Tomas growled, “Who?”