In Gallup, Greed

by Tower Lowe

  “He named the gallery Redemption?”

  “Yeah. Like a second chance or something. Nez liked the idea. Lolo thought the tourists would go for it. I didn’t care. Jerry loved the name, of course.”

  “’I’ll redeem us all!’ He’d yell that at the bar crowd.”

  “The money overwhelmed you,” Burro interjected.

  “It did, in a way. We were all happy until recently. Then Lonnie got upset.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure. He said the money poisoned us all.”

  Burro nodded. “Scrambled your brains.”

  “Maybe it did.”

  “Can we see the gallery?” I inquired.

  “Sure. Let’s try tomorrow.” Mirage gave her a funny look.

  “What?”

  “Just then, you voice sounded like your Mom.”

  “I know you met Momma,” I hesitated.

  “She and Dr. Stuart stayed with me when they first got to Gallup. Then, after he died, she came back for a little bit.”

  “What was she like?” I couldn’t resist.

  “Quiet. Devoted to Dr. Stuart and archaeology. She never shared much about her past, never mentioned she had a daughter.”

  “No. I think she forgot.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mirage countered. “She kept it all inside, I bet.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow,” I pushed away the topic. I wanted to know, and at the same time it was too painful to consider.

  “You okay?” Burro probed as Mirage left Earls.

  “Sure. Do you think Momma ever thought about me and Daddy and Virginia? Or did she shove us out of her mind and move on.”

  “She wrote those letters, remember?”

  “Only 20.”

  “Cinnamon. Don’t guess about what you don’t know.”

  “I know she didn’t come back.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s talk about it later,” I insisted. “You might be right, but this minute, it hurts to know she was here with these people and not in Virginia with me.”

  “Time to get over to our civil rights work at the school,” Burro said.

  ∆

  Not Considered Unreasonable

  Yanaha Middle School sits on the edge of Gallup: a long, low building centered in a field of dust and prickly pear cactus. Burro and I reviewed our notes before entering the school.

  Our clients, students and sometimes employees, make civil rights claims against state institutions. In this case, a12 year old client named Joseph claimed discrimination due to his visual impairment. Joseph is essentially blind. The school teaches Joseph in a special classroom, but he wants to be included in regular classes. He’s had enough of being special.

  “Teachers say he needs to be safe,” Burro read the file. “The principal says he won’t fit in.”

  “Same old story,” I cringed.

  Our first meeting in the office was more of the same.

  “Won’t the other students be distracted by the noise of the Braille and Speak Machine?”

  “The machine is quiet. Other kids adjust pretty quickly.” Burro assured the two regular ed teachers and the school principal, Stacy Dym.

  “I’m told I will have to read everything I write on the board,” a teacher with yellow eye shadow complained. “I don’t want to do that.”

  “Speaking what’s on the board is not considered unreasonable under the law,” I eased into the conversation. “Most teachers get used to it.”

  Another teacher, in stretch pants and a tight green shirt over ample flesh, worried about the Promethean Board. “It’s electronic. I project the book. Am I supposed to read all of that just for one blind student.?”

  “Joseph has the book either in Braille or e-format. Just tell him the page number.”

  “If it’s in e-format, the students will be distracted by that irritating electronic voice.” She tugged on her shirt indignantly.

  “There are earphones. And the other students are often more flexible than you think.”

  “Not in my class,” she assured me.

  “Again,” I repeated, “this kind of accommodation is not considered unreasonable under the law.”

  “Umph,” was her response to that.

  “Won’t the other students stare and make fun of Joseph because he’s different?” Ms. Dym, a frail blond woman in stiletto heals, continued to think of reasons to keep Joseph separate from other students.

  “I hope not,” I responded.

  “We don’t allow bullying here, of course.” A set of keys rattled at her waist as she stood up. “But this kind of thing might be throwing fuel on the fire.”

  “It’s a good idea to explore disability rights with students and teach tolerance.”

  “Not needed here,” the principal contradicted herself as she rattled toward the door.

  In the end, with little choice, since the law was on the student’s side, the school agreed to include Joseph in regular ed classes. Burro and I promised to return in a few days to review the progress of the inclusion model. Joseph was ecstatic.

  “Thanks, both of you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you coming all this way.” He shrugged. “Even if it is to explain that all I want is to be with other students.”

  “It’s our job, and it’s your legal right,” Burro reminded him.

  The kid smiled. “Great, but...”

  “But?” I listened.

  “I have a friend who wants to be in regular classes, too. He has a traumatic brain injury, but he can be in a regular class. It’s his mom and dad. They want to protect him, you know? Can you help him?”

  “You’re pulling in civil rights clients now?” Burro teased.

  “Come on in,” Joseph projected towards the door.

  A redheaded boy lingering in the hallway walked towards us.

  “I can work in regular class. Know it.” He defended. “You talk to Mom and Dad?” Hope rose in bubbles of blood to his cheeks.

  “We can try, with your permission,” Burro suggested.

  “Please...Mom... talk Mom.”

  “We have to start with your teacher and the counselor, okay? Then we’ll get in touch with your parents.”

  “Thanks.” The boy reached out his hand to Burro, shook firmly, and then shook my hand, too. “Much,” he added.

  Burro and I got the information on the redhead, and then followed through with our plan to take a few days off and help Mirage and find out more about Momma.

  Driving to the Hampton Inn on West Mahoney, Burro drew me out on Jake. Since my love stories tend to have unhappy endings, I rarely volunteer much information, even to Burro.

  “He owns a bicycle shop in Santa Fe?” Burro asked.

  “No. He’s looking to buy the one on St. Michael’s Drive. He sold his bike shop in New Orleans last year, wants to come to New Mexico.”

  “So he’s a wanderer.”

  “Moving from New Orleans to New Mexico doesn’t make him a wanderer. Call him an adventurer – or how about a mover?”

  “Are we defensive?”

  “I like him, Burro. He seems steady. Settled. He knows a lot about the bicycle business – been a serious rider since high school. He has a passion.”

  “How many dates so far?”

  “Ten or so. I met him in July.”

  “So ... late August now... almost two months. More than casual?”

  “Maybe – who knows? He’s sexy, takes me seriously.”

  “When do I meet him?”

  I glanced sideways at Burro from the wheel of the red Corolla. “You want to meet him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe when we get back,” I wavered.

  That night I slept a dreamless sleep. Since meeting Jake I didn’t obsess so much about Momma. Jake reminded me of her, in a way. He was smart and funny, in a dry, bitter way. Momma was like that – at least as much as I remember about her. He smelled of Cinnamon, too, because he drank Chai. The smell reminded me of the sugary toast
Momma served on cool Virginia mornings before school, and with Jake I traveled back there to Momma’s arms for a few blissful hours.

  ∆

  You Can’t Go on Your Feelings

  Midnight at the Gallup Hampton Inn, and the in-room phone rang, pulling me out of a dreamy sleep. Burro, I guessed – maybe a new vision. I wrapped my fingers around the phone.

  “Hello.”

  Jake.

  “Sitting here missing your silky legs and sexy curls. What you doin?” I smiled, liking the attention.

  “I’m sleeping.”

  “Oops. Well, I’m still thinking about the sexy curls. Maybe your waking thoughts are about me?”

  I actually giggled. What was happening to me? “My day thoughts are not about sex, sadly...preoccupied with money and scrambled brains.”

  “Burro’s hallucination. Is there any truth to it?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “What’s the truth to a wild vision like that?”

  “There’s a rich guy named Jerry who opened an art gallery here called Redemption. He has three native artist friends in Gallup and he set them up in the Gallery, but it strikes me as odd to open an expensive art gallery in Gallup. I mean, why not Santa Fe?”

  “Everything doesn’t have to happen in Santa Fe, Cinnamon,” Jake’s voice was harsh.

  “I get that, Jake,” the earlier intimacy slipped away. “But you’ve been to Gallup, right? The economy isn’t that good.”

  “I was there briefly before I stopped in Santa Fe,” Jake still sounded defensive. “The economic situation there doesn’t mean it isn’t a good place to start a gallery. There’s less competition, for one thing. Santa Fe is stuffed with art galleries. Maybe this guy Jerry likes Gallup. Maybe he’s been friends with these people a long time.”

  “Sounds like you know him,” I complained, knowing they’d never met.

  “Of course not.” Irritation bristled over the phone.

  “I’m not saying everything has to happen in Santa Fe, Jake. I’m talking about customers with the money to purchase the art and attracting experienced art buyers. Santa Fe is an internationally known art community that also gets thousands of high-end tourists every year. Gallup gets tourists, but not enough to support a high-end gallery. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Is the gallery making any money in Gallup now?”

  “Okay yeah. It is making money—a lot of money.”

  “This Jerry was right then.”

  “It doesn’t feel right to me. How did he get people to start paying such high prices? What was the incentive?”

  “You can’t go on your feelings, Cinnamon,” Jake took on a superior tone. He sounded pleased with himself. “Anyway, how can you overpay for art?”

  I gave up. What was going on with the guy? He seemed arrogant and unsupportive. Maybe he’s worried about the bike shop deal, I rationalized. Either way, I don’t need this.

  “Maybe you’re right about that,” I dismissed. “Did the bike shop loan close yet?”

  “Close?”

  “The mortgage loan. I thought you said it was going to close in the next couple of weeks.”

  “No, no. That’s been delayed for a while. The seller is causing problems.”

  “How?”

  “These business types get wrapped up in petty details, you know?” He changed the subject abruptly. “When are you coming back to Santa Fe?”

  He didn’t want to talk about the bike shop, so I figured that was the problem. That, or maybe he had a new girlfriend already. Her luck. “Few days,” I hinted.

  “Okay, love,” Jake tossed out. “See you soon.”

  I shook off the negativity. Men confused me—both as an object of desire and dismay. I blame it all on Momma. Where was she when I needed advice, and guidance on how to handle relationships. She was off on a desperate search for another man while Daddy waited for her love at home in Virginia. How can I be expected to understand relationships, when the most important one in my life is a mystery of abandonment and silence?

  The phone rang again. I picked up, expecting to hear Jake apologize.

  “Cinnamon?” It was a woman’s voice.

  I waited. The caller didn’t hang up, but didn’t say anything more.

  “Momma?” I can’t think why I said that.

  There was no answer, but the caller didn’t hang up.

  “Are you there?”

  “I’ll send you a note,” the voice said, and hung up.

  It was not a dream, because I got up after, put on a robe and left the room, wandering down the 3rd floor hall of the Hampton Inn. I stared at the ice bin and the drinks available from vending. Do people drink diet Mountain Dew? Does Momma drink diet Mountain Dew? Was the phone call a cruel joke? Who even cared enough to play that kind of joke?

  I decided, for the time being, to believe it was a wrong number that came when I was thinking of her —my abandonment playing tricks on me. I tossed my body back in bed, grabbed the covers, and pulled the peach cotton over my head to create a dark cavern where I could sleep, hiding from difficult things, like men and Momma.

  ∆

  Big Cut for the Gallery

  “Ping!” The tire pressure light chimed on in Jerry’s Audi S6 sport sedan.

  “Shit!” He banged the leather wrapped steering wheel.

  “I’m already half an hour late because of her!” he shouted to the dashboard.

  Christ, that Mirage was so hard to deal with about the Lonnie thing. Lonnie being her brother and all, she’d naturally be sad. But hiring private detectives—the woman needed to accept death as part of life, you know? Sometimes people fuck up. Lonnie definitely fucked up. The man sealed his own fate with all that talk of shutting down the gallery and giving up the money. Jerry figured it was a break for him that Mirage didn’t remember much about that crazy night. He selected one of the buyers on his smart phone.

  “Hey, Blue Dog, man, welcome back,” Jerry cooed. “Listen, I got tire trouble here, but I’m on my way to see you guys.”

  Blue Dog complained on the other end about the hotel accommodations..

  “I know, I know. Chill, I’ll take care of it soon as I get some air in my tires. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes at most,” Jerry lied.

  Blue Dog and Drew, his buyers, needed to get real. They acted like big shots every time they came to town. “Assholes, we’re equals here,” he wanted to say. Or how about, “I’m the boss, assholes, so cut the regal act.” Truth was he needed those two to get cash, so he put up with all these prima donna demands.

  Blue Dog still wasn’t satisfied on the other end of the phone.

  “Take care of this first, Jer. I need a suite, not one of those double bed rooms, bud.” Blue Dog whined. “Fix it for me.”

  Like Jerry had power over at the Hampton Inn. He had tried to bribe the Navajo desk clerk, Mane, without much luck. If there was a free suite he gave it to Jerry in exchange for a Starbucks latte. But Mane never agreed to kick anybody out, even for real cash. Honesty like that bugged Jerry.

  “Don’t be a jerk, Jerry,” his wife Holly used to say. That was back when he shared his troubles with Holly. He didn’t dare tell her he tried to bribe the local desk clerk at the Hampton Inn. Lately, any little detail set Holly on the anger trail.

  The Mission Impossible theme song filled his Audi.

  “Hello?” Jerry answered on the Audi Bluetooth. It was Johnnie Tru.

  “Hey, Jer, Blue Dog’s on me about getting an appointment this afternoon.”

  “No big deal, Johnnie. Just take care of it. We’ll sort out the details later.”

  “It’s dangerous, okay? These guys think they are in Vegas?”

  “Stop worrying, Johnnie, okay? Just take care of it.”

  Jerry sighed. Redemption Gallery seemed like such a great idea at the start.

  Filling his tire with air, and then heading for the Interstate and the Hampton Inn, Jerry steered his thoughts to Lonnie and the early days. The two were close for years
. Before Redemption, Lonnie and Jerry held court at Sammy’s Bar and Grille on Coal Avenue. Punching back Johnnie Walker Blue and happy hour brews, the two boys flirted with the women and bruised up the men – at least they pretended to do both. Those were good times.

  Holly used to like the party scene until the child came. Jerry understood that, her being a mother and all. He didn’t want his son’s mother all drunk at the bar, either, but she turned into a damned nag about money and drinking and staying out all night and the extra-on-the-side ladies. He loved Holly – truly he did. But she needed to lighten up. Boys will be boys and all that. And he’d come through with the bucks, hadn’t he? Big bucks, okay? Agreed with her idea about making more money so the kid could be upper middle class and, then, after the brain incident, to pay for special help and tutoring. Jerry’s boy gets the best money can buy, yes sir.

  Jerry opened the gallery as a place for his old art buddies to sell Gallup art internationally – make a name for themselves. Or at least think they were making a name for themselves – same thing. It was charity in its way. Yeah, it was charity, an act of kindness for Jerry to remodel that building, create this exquisite gallery, and help his friends get rich. Lonnie owed him a little gratitude, respect. Instead, the ingrate turned on Jerry.

  Blue Dog and Drew brought the wives, Pat and Adele. Drew’s wife, Pat, was short, pudgy, self-assured, and too damn honest. Adele, on the other hand, was slim, brown-haired and liked a little corruption now and then. That made her a good partner for Blue Dog, since he never seemed to be able to play by the rules. Both men used to be entertainment lawyers in LA and Jerry met them through his Dad’s scene painting business.

  Jerry circled the Hampton Inn, came around the entrance and spotted the two couples. Blue Dog, red-faced and talking, towered over the rest. The couples laughed at one of Blue Dog’s stories and rolled their $500 luggage up to Jerry’s Audi.

  “Jerry! Great to see you, man,” Drew actually slapped him on the back. “We’re ready to spend some real money at Redemption,” he laughed.