The Pueblo neighborhood of south Phoenix is not for the weak. My charcoal SUV was parked about half way down the block under a large Cottonwood. That made it only slightly less conspicuous than a flashing neon sign. For one thing it was not covered with a layer of desert dust and secondly, it was not setting on concrete blocks.
I was watching the corner house, a small adobe single story well past its prime. All of the windows were open and a slight breeze was causing the curtains to wave. That was a sure sign for one of two things; either the AC was on the fritz or the electric bill had not been paid. Either way, it did not bode well for the inhabitants. It did, however, blend in very well with its neighbors. My informant had said a girl named Carla Zaiontz was staying there. My informant was a meth addled kid all of fifteen. He had, however, provided me with useful information in the past. I can't imagine how.
It was near two in the afternoon, the sun was where it always was, bearing down from a cloudless sky. That's when a tall leggy girl wearing a red halter top and cut-off jeans appeared from the rear of the house. She had short curly black hair and clearly resembled the photo that lay on the passenger seat beside me.
She turned and headed up the opposite side of the street in my direction. I opened the door and stepped out. She stopped. "Too fucking hot to run." I called out.
Unfortunately, she didn't think so. Carla turned and headed through an overgrown lot between houses. She looked to be in very good form. I took after her but by the time I had reached the alley I had already decided she wasn't worth the energy or the added cleaning bill. I looked both ways at emptiness, at least void of humans. The footrace had set off the barking of a large black dog chained to a post. That caused a few others along the street to take up the alarm.
You might already know this. Nothing brings unemployed Hispanics out from their mid-day air-conditioning faster than something annoying their Pit Bulls. Shirtless men holding beers were looking out of rear doors with torn screens. They were watching but made no effort to interfere. They could all recognize an armed police officer, even a female one. They apparently saw no need to tend to the animal they kept short-chained in the hot sun and one by one, eased themselves back indoors.
By the time I had returned to my vehicle, most of the dogs were calming down. My slacks were covered with burrs from the knees down. My shoes were scuffed and I was thirsty. In my mind I was blaming Carla.
I turned the AC up on high and randomly cruised a three block area for the next ten minutes. Before I turned north toward downtown, I decided to make one more pass down the alley where Carla had eluded me. Half way down, a mop of black hair caught my eye as it dipped back inside a rusty green dumpster.
"Fuck me," I whispered to no one. I put the vehicle in park and left the engine running. Sure, this was against department policy but those old boy policy makers hadn't been on-the-beat cops for years and likely forgotten how fast a car will heat up in an Arizona summer. When I got out, I could tell Carla was making no real effort to be quiet. I heard what sounded like soda cans rattling. I looked over the edge of the grimy trash bin.
Carla was against the rear wall kicking her foot trying to detach a wad of something from the toe of her sandal. "I was wrong." Is said. Carla lost interest in the mess on her shoe and looked at me.
"What the fuck?" Carla asked.
I looked at the bottom of the dumpster. "They were beer cans." I replied.
"Fuck." She said again. "What?"
"Get out of there." I said. I stepped back and put my right hand on the butt of my nine millimeter. Clearly she wasn't wearing enough clothing to conceal a weapon but even after seven years on the force, holding my gun still gets me a little wet. So sue me.
I watched as the long legged girl struggled to climb over the side, finally dropping to the ground. I waited till the small dust cloud drifted down the alley and then turned her toward the trash bin. "Hands against the steel sweetie."
"It's dirty." She said.
I put my hand in the small of her back and pushed. "You were just rolling in it." She reached out, arms wide, hands on the rim.
I patted her side. "How easy was that?" I said.
"I guess you want pat my ass now?" She asked.
"You have a weapon between your legs?" I asked.
"I wish." She said.
I removed a pair of handcuffs from my belt and pulled her right arm behind her. "What makes you think I would be looking for anything else?" I asked. I locked both hands behind her.
I guided her to the rear door of my SUV, opened the door and pushed her in. As I snapped the seatbelt around her I said. "You get any fucking garbage on this seat." I stopped. She was getting the message. She sat there quiet all the way.
I pulled into a mostly empty parking lot off of Decatur Boulevard. A sign on a side door indicated that it was the Panama Strip Club. I watched in the rear view mirror as Carla's eyes darted back and forth between the sign on the side door and the back of my head. I waited, she remained quiet.
