Monday, June 4, 2018

Lucita's Salacious Secret by Jesse Rawlins

Lucita's Salacious Secret

Mescal peered at the fifteen women assembled on the mesa—

They sure got that boy aroused. Not because they sprawled half-dressed ….

But because they lay there dead.

Me? I grabbed the Canon hanging round my neck—and rabidly fired pictures. I knew from prior visits we had no phone reception here.

The sun sat high in a July sky. And sweat raced down my cleavage. But tempering my adrenalin, I cranked the camera’s ISO and exposure down as well. We didn’t get much crime out here in Pinjon County. But once this shit-storm hit the press, life wouldn’t be so balmy. As the elected sheriff in these parts, best I got things right.

This un-named mesa squats serenely over Crooked Canyon—just outside the northern tip of New Mexico’s Brokeoff Mountains. While thirty miles due east, the famous Carlsbad Caverns smugly hug the local landscape.

The Crooked also intersects with the sweeping Chihuahuan Dessert.

Pronounced by some as chay-hojaun, our continent’s second largest desert scrapes southeast Arizona … envelopes neighboring West Texas—then languishes further south … and exhausts itself in Mexico.

People call this place a wasteland ….

But twenty years I’ve called it Home.

I motioned to Mescal …. The cat had certainly taken that poor boy’s bewildered tongue.

Yet I respected his somber silence, as we trudged to my Silverado—

Then spiraled down into Lucita … not far from Devil’s Den.


I called the FBI field office over in Los Cruces. And asked for Billy Evans. The man was ten times tougher than a two-dollar steak. And a hundred times more prickly than any of the Chihuahuan’s two-hundred cactus species. Besides being short on empathy, he also lacked imagination.

I had to settle for VM ….

Evans had a penchant for wanting to shoot the messenger—

So I kept my message short not sweet.


Instead of calling me back, Evans turned-up on my doorstep.

“I wanna talk to your wit—the one who found the bodies.”

“Sure,” was all I said.

“Let’s go then: time’s a wastin’—where does Mescal live?”

“Lives right here with me.”

Evans glared: “Well? You gonna fetch ’em?”

I waved him inside the house; he let my aging screen door slam.

“No need to fetch Mescal—boy’s sleeping on that sofa.”

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me. Mescal’s a Golden Retriever?”


I poured a coffee black for Evans and slid a folder off the counter. The agent didn’t speak … just squinted at the pics ….

At the risk of sounding pompous … those photos came out sweet.

“We need a copter,” I said to Evans.

“Why we need a copter?”

I’ll show you once we’re up there.”

Evans locked his jaw—like he was set to argue. But okay was all he said.

I didn’t say a word to Evans ….

But the one who’d killed these women—lived right here in little Lucita.

And I knew how to deal with her.


The copter banked a U-turn over the yawning canyon—then hovered like a bee … above the honeyed mesa. Though embarrassing to admit, I found this aerial view so stunning—I actually creamed my undies.

The pilot deciphered the scene … before agent Evans did: “Well I’ll be a fly on an armadillo’s ass—

“Those bodies form a pentagram ….”

I photographed the mesa with a hunger I’d never known. That pentagram-shape meant diddley.


Evans ended his call.

“Thanks for dragging me into your crazy circle jerk.

“The anthropologist has confirmed what we already knew: ain’t no way in hell this is a tribal burial plot—

“But she does think some of these vics were interred a decade earlier.”

“If they’ve been here all this time,” said the pilot, “then why’d the killer dig ’em up—and decide to display ’em now?”

“Cuz someone’s finally showing off,” I said.


Back on terra firma life seemed so mundane ….

Sweating like a bottle of ice-cold Dr. Pepper, Evans swiped his dirt-streaked brow: “You still retiring in a month?”

“Yes, indeed, I am. Moving out to Utah: to explore the canyons there.”

“Lucky you, Lucita ….”

Lucky me, for sure. Unfettered from this job—

I otta be able to seduce—at least two women a year.

I’ll certainly miss my trophies … but I’ve got scores of gorgeous pics.


Bio Despite its scantily-clad acclaim, Jesse’s first published story (When the Pheromones Dance) wasn’t well-received by her orthodox Catholic mother.

The author wisely fled to Washington—and securing White House Press Credentials—covered Science Policy during the Clinton Administration. But infected by Lewinsky Lewdness—Jesse suddenly spiraled into a life of prostitution: and spent six orgiastic-years pretzling for Corporate America.

Belittled and beleaguered, Jesse finally thought it wise to seek professional help¬—and kidnapped a shrink.

Now holed-away in Parts Unknown, she’s trying her hand at fiction. Flashzines Shotgun Honey and Out of the Gutter's Flash Fiction Offensive have graciously published her smut. Avant-garde Red Fez has featured her work as well. You can learn more here:



  1. Feed the authors, show em some love.

  2. "The man was ten times tougher than a two-dollar steak."

    1. I love that line. Seriously, every line or two is classic stuff.