Chaser (Jinx Ballou Bounty Hunter Book 1) Read online

  “You were a cop?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Why’d you leave?”

  “Funny thing about police departments. They don’t let you go straight from the academy to being a plainclothes detective.”

  “You don’t say,” he replied with a chuckle.

  “I knew this, obviously. But what I didn’t realize was how miserable I’d be as a patrol officer. Me and uniforms? Not so much. Then there’re all the rules and regs I had to follow. Wonder Woman never bothered with probable cause or arrest reports.”

  I stared blankly across the room, the memories replaying vividly in my mind. “The turning point came when my partner, Officer Luis Garza, and I responded to a violent confrontation between two rival gang members at Grumpy’s Bar and Grill on the 300 block of West McDowell. By the time we arrived on scene, the suspects had been subdued by a couple of patrons—Conor Doyle and Robert ‘Fiddler’ Dixon.

  “I took Conor’s statement and learned he worked as a bounty hunter. I was intrigued. After two other uniforms transported the suspects to lockup, I questioned Conor further about his work. He explained he didn’t have to wear a uniform, request warrants, or fill out arrest reports. I turned in my badge and joined his team a month later.”

  What I left out of my interviews with Hensley was that my aversion to uniforms and the regimental aspects of cop life stemmed from a near fatal semester at Phoenix Junior High Military Academy.

  Before coming out as trans, I’d been acting out a lot. Drinking. Cigarettes. Weed. Anything to avoid dealing with my feelings of being a girl. When I got caught shoplifting a dress, my father, a psychologist, decided the discipline of a military academy would straighten me out and make a man out of me.

  Instead, it sent me into a depression spiral that culminated in me breaking into the commandant’s office, looking for a gun to kill myself with. All I found was a bottle of Vicodin. I washed down two dozen pills with a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch. Not that I really wanted to die. I just wanted to stop the soul-crushing pain I’d been struggling with my entire life.

  I woke hours later in the infirmary, my throat sore from having my stomach pumped. My distraught father soon showed up, desperate to understand why I wanted to kill myself. With my defenses down from the Vicodin and the humiliation of the failed suicide attempt, I shared my dark secret with him—that despite outward appearances, I’d always known I was a girl.

  To my surprise, he didn’t freak. Apparently, he’d suspected something was going on and had been doing research. After I was sent home, he rallied my mother and brother around me and got me started on androgen blockers. The next semester, I enrolled at Discovery Charter Middle School as a girl.

  I stared at the newspaper, entertaining visions of exacting my revenge on Hensley—running him over with my truck, riddling his body with bullets Bonnie-and-Clyde style, pushing him off Camelback Mountain and enjoying the sickening splat as he hit the valley floor a thousand feet below.

  How he’d discovered my transgender history was beyond me. Only a few people knew. One of them had spilled the beans, and I was determined to find out who.

  When I finally calmed down, I drove north to Phoenix Living’s editorial offices in the Sun Glow Building on the corner of Third Street and Earll Drive. I pulled into the underground garage and locked my guns in the glove box, in case I was tempted to turn my murder fantasies into reality. Being fired was bad enough. Didn’t need to get arrested for first-degree murder.

  After a short ride on the elevator, I stormed into the offices with my copy of the paper rolled in my fist. “I need to speak to Thom Hensley,” I said to the receptionist as calmly as I could manage.

  Moments later, Thom came out wearing a pale-gray suit and a lime-green dress shirt.

  “Hey! How’s my favorite bounty hunter?” He extended his hand, looking extremely chipper. I wanted to put him through a chipper.

  “What the fuck, Thom?” I shook the paper at him.

  “Excuse me? Something wrong with the article?”

  “What gave you the right to out me?”

  “Ah.” He frowned and gestured toward a hallway. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  My face burned. I felt like screaming but accepted his invitation. He led me to a glass-enclosed office and drew the blinds. The office was small but smartly decorated. Journalism awards lined a walnut bookshelf along one wall. He settled behind his modern black desk and invited me to sit in one of the upholstered guest chairs. I remained standing.

  “How dare you do this to me, you slimy little hack! Bad enough you out me, but you call me a tranny on the front page? You have any idea how offensive that word is?”

  “I apologize for the use of that term. My copy editor writes the headlines, not me.”

  “I don’t care if it was the pope. You had no right bringing up the subject in the first place.”

  He leaned forward, extending his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Jinxie, sweetie, I did you and the transgender community a favor. Visibility is vital to greater acceptance. Look at Laverne Cox, Jamie Clayton, and Chaz Bono. They’re not hiding who they are.”

  “Doesn’t give you the right to out me. I got fired because of your story.”

  He pursed his lips in an apologetic pout. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t help me. I want to know who told you.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t reveal my sources. You understand.”

  I leaned over his desk, shaking the rolled-up paper at him as if he were a misbehaving puppy. “What I understand is that you’re going to give me their name or you’ll wish you had.”

  “Do I have to call security?” His hand hovered over a red button on his desk phone.

  I gritted my teeth. A voice in the back of my head told me to chill. I sat in the chair. “Look, I just want to know who told. This is my life. Not some byline.”

  “Jinx, believe me when I say I never meant to hurt you or cost you your job. I know it’s tough. But I have the utmost respect for your kind.”

  “My kind? What the hell do you know about my kind? Are you trans?”

  “Well, no.” He placed a hand on mine. “But look at the bigger picture. You’re a trailblazer, paving the way for other transgender people to enter the profession. You should be proud.”

  I pulled my hand away while my grip on the paper tightened. “Don’t try to charm me, Hensley. I want the person’s name, and I want a public apology from you printed in next week’s issue.”

  “Sorry. No can do.”

  “I’m going to sue your ass for defamation of character. You, your copy editor, the whole fucking newspaper.”

  “You can try, but you’d only win if what I wrote wasn’t true. Problem is, everything in that article is factual. And eventually, you’ll realize I did you a favor.”

  “How ’bout I do the world a favor and jam this paper up your ass?”

  His hand pressed the red button. “You should leave now.”

  I stood, my hands trembling, while my murder fantasies played on a loop in my head. “You’re going to regret this, dipshit.”

  I stormed out of the office as two sides of beef dressed in black polo shirts appeared by the receptionist’s desk. “Relax, boys. I’m leaving.”

  The security guards escorted me down the elevator and out to my truck, going so far as to watch me drive to the booth to pay for parking. In the ruckus, I hadn’t gotten my parking ticket validated, so I had to pay ten bucks for the privilege of giving Hensley a piece of my mind. Insult, meet injury.

  I hit the streets, unsure where I was going. I should call Conor, I thought. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I kept hearing his voice in my head, warning me not to get too excited about the article.

  Was this what Conor was hinting at last night? Did he tip off Hensley about my trans history? Surely Conor wouldn’t betray me like that. But if not him, who?

  The questions raced round and round my head like coked-up hamsters on an exercise wheel, until I decided to tal
k with the one person who could understand my predicament—my fairy drag mother, Tía Juana.

  7

  Juanita Valdez came up through the Phoenix drag scene in the 1970s and ’80s, performing under the name Tía Juana. In the early ’90s, she transitioned to living full-time as a woman. Eventually she became the owner of the Main Drag, one of the valley’s biggest queer bars, where she also served as mistress of ceremonies a few nights a week.

  I met Juanita when I joined the local transgender support group as a teenager. She took an immediate liking to me, declaring herself my fairy drag mother. She taught me how to walk and talk and blend in with the rest of the female population.

  “You gotta work it, Miss Thang. Don’t let them boys clock you as anything but total fish. Your survival depends on it,” she’d warn me, usually after chastising me for not looking or acting femme enough.

  Shortly after my reassignment surgery, she bestowed upon me my nickname, Jinx—a mash-up of my first and middle names, Jenna Christina.

  Juanita lived in an elegant four-bedroom house off Seventh Street near North Mountain, where she offered housing to an ever-changing roster of trans people left homeless by their families.

  I passed under an arch of climbing vines sheltering Juanita’s front door from the morning sun. My watch read just past eleven, a decent hour for most respectable folks. Juanita, however, tended to sleep till the crack of noon due to the late hours she kept at the bar. I rang her doorbell, anyway.

  Moments later, the door opened. Juanita stood tall and thin, combining the elegance of Lena Horne with the flamboyance and sultry voice of Tina Turner. Her brightly colored silk robe revealed long, dark legs, still shapely for someone in her midsixties.

  She was not wearing makeup, a rarity for her and not a good sign. She could be moody before she’d had coffee and put on her face. Like, rabid-dog-psycho-killer moody. So I opted to tread lightly.

  “Morning, tía. Did I wake you?”

  “Please, chica, tell me that wasn’t you leaning on my doorbell at this god-awful hour.” She gazed at me, bleary eyed. “Haven’t even put on my war paint yet.”

  “You look beautiful, anyway. Truly.”

  “Ain’t you sweet. Full o’ bullshit but sweet.” She sighed and stepped out of the doorway. “Come on in, sweetie. Don’t need you melting on my front stoop.”

  I followed her down a short hallway to a spacious, brightly lit kitchen that looked out onto a courtyard bursting with oleander, hibiscus, and Mexican bird of paradise. I took a seat at the breakfast bar while she filled two earthenware mugs with coffee. A copy of Phoenix Living lay facedown on the bar nearby.

  “Cream or sugar, sugar?” she asked.

  “A little cream, if you don’t mind.”

  “You know I never do.” She poured a smidge of half-and-half into the mug, then slid it over to me. “I always have mine black. This tired old queen needs all the kick she can get.”

  “Where are your housemates?”

  “Rosalyn’s at a job interview. Caden had a doctor’s appointment. I think he’s starting T soon.” T was slang for testosterone injections.

  “How’s Ciara’s new bookkeeping job working out?”

  Juanita’s mouth twisted into a cruel scar. “You didn’t hear?”

  “No.”

  “Some motherfucker beat her near to death last week in the parking lot where she worked.”

  “Shit. That was her?” My chest ached. “I can’t believe it. How’s she doing?”

  “She came outta the coma after two days. Face is beat all to shit. Broken arm. Docs saying she may come home tomorrow.”

  “Damn. The police know who did it?”

  “Cops don’t know shit. No one saw nothing.”

  “You want me to ask around? Talk to some of my old contacts on the force?”

  “Anything you can do would be appreciated, sweetie.” Juanita settled onto a stool on the other side of the bar, cradling her coffee. “So what brings Miss Jinx Ballou to Casa Valdez this depressingly sunny morning?”

  A dust devil of rage and humiliation twisted up through my mind. I flipped over the Phoenix Living. “I got outed.”

  “Oh my heavens!” she exclaimed in mock horror. “Someone call the queer police. There’s been an outing! Should I administer mouth-to-mouth?”

  “Gee, thanks. Just what I need is to be mocked.” I slipped the issue closer to her. “Look at this shit. It’s humiliating.”

  She tilted her head and met my gaze. “Humiliating? Why? Because now everyone knows the valley’s badass female bounty hunter is a hot little tranny?”

  “Tía, stop! You know I hate that word.” Angry tears prickled behind my eyes. I was not going to cry in front of her, no matter how she pressed my buttons.

  Her gentle hand touched my cheek. “My dear little princess warrior, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing humiliating about people knowing you’re transgender.”

  “It puts a target on my back. You were the one who pounded it into my head that my survival depended on people not knowing I was trans. Look what happened to Ciara.”

  “True, I did tell you that, but that was a long time ago. Things have changed. Time for hiding in closets is over for seasoned warriors like you and me. We got to stand up and make a show of force. Let these motherfuckers know we’re not going away.” She tossed the copy of Phoenix Living across the breakfast bar. “Honestly, Jinx, I think you’re just upset your little bubble of passing privilege got burst. A lot of us couldn’t pass as cisgender if we tried.”

  “Maybe you’re right, except the bail bond agent I work for fired me over the article.”

  “Well, fuck them! You’ll find someone else to work for. You’re good at what you do, right?”

  I stared at my coffee. “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “And you’re still dating that fine slab of Irish corned beefcake, are you not?”

  I couldn’t help but blush. “I am.”

  “You have a family that loves you and embraces you for who you are.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have a roof over your head. Food to eat. A car to get you from point A to point B, yes?”

  “Technically a truck, but yes.”

  “Then what the hell you bitchin’ about, chica? You got a shitload more than most of us. I mean, damn, you transitioned before you hit puberty. Your folks paid for your surgery. You won the fucking lottery.”

  “I know, I know, but—”

  “Look at me, Jinx. I’m sixty-four years old and can’t get surgery because I’m HIV positive. Ciara, bless her tender heart, was nearly murdered. And you’re whining about some crappy article and a narrow-minded bail bond agent? Bitch, please! Jinx Ballou, pity party for one!”

  I felt sick and properly put in my place. I’d shown up here like a spoiled child with a broken toy when so many in the trans community faced homelessness, brutality, and worse on a daily basis. The room was silent for several minutes except for the chirping of a family of quail in the courtyard outside, the hen herding a half dozen bug-sized chicks to the shelter of the bushes.

  Juanita broke the silence. “So why’s Phoenix Living writing about you in the first place?”

  I shrugged. “Thom Hensley called wanting to do a cover story about female bounty hunters. I said yes, figuring it’d boost business. But I never mentioned anything about being trans.”

  “Miss Thang, Hensley’s an investigative reporter. He writes about corrupt politicians and Russian gangsters. You sat down with him and are surprised he dug up your little secret? Chica, please!”

  “Okay, maybe I was a little naïve.”

  “A little?”

  “Okay, a lot naïve. But still, I’d like to know who outed me to Hensley.”

  “Sure wasn’t me. I never spoke to the man. Maybe that sweet boyfriend of yours.”

  I thought more about the night before, and my stomach soured. “He was acting squirrelly last night when I brought up the article.”

  “Then I suggest
you ask him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why the hell not? He’s your boyfriend, ain’t he?”

  “I don’t want him thinking I don’t trust him.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Yes. Maybe.”

  “Just ask the man. Don’t play these mind games. Life’s too short for that nonsense.”

  I finished my coffee. “You’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. Tía Juana is always right. Now”—Juanita gestured at my faded Pearl Jam concert T-shirt—“what is up with this outfit? Please tell me ’90s grunge is not making a comeback. And where the hell is your war paint?”

  “This is what bounty hunters wear. And it’s too freakin’ hot for makeup.”

  “Miss Thang, listen to your fairy drag mother and listen good. It is never too hot for makeup. A little waterproof eyeliner and some lipstick, at least.” She tugged on my naked earlobes. “And did you learn nothing about accessorizing, or was I talking to myself all those years? I can loan you a pair of hoop earrings that would at least add some class to this sad little tomboy look you got going.”

  “Hoop earrings are too easy to get caught on something. Besides, I have some accessories in the Gray Ghost.”

  “Oh really? Such as?”

  I smirked. “Black leather tactical belt from Bianchi with a molded plastic holster for my Ruger and two magazine pouches.”

  “Lord almighty, just kill me now.”

  “And I have bracelets.”

  She folded her arms and gave me a suspicious stare. “Really? Show me.”

  I pulled a pair of handcuffs from my back pocket. “See?”

  “Out!” She pointed toward the front door. “I can stand this heresy no longer.”

  She was teasing, at least I thought she was. Sometimes it was hard to tell with her. But I needed to get going, anyway. I had to find a bail bond agency willing to hire me now that my big secret was out there.