In Gallup, Greed

by Tower Lowe

  “Mostly to find out she didn’t,” Alice corrected.

  “Right,” Lolo agreed. “I don’t know who killed Lonnie, but I never thought it was Mirage. More likely Jerry or ... or another person.”

  Lolo sat in the corner, wearing a linen shirt and a matching necklace and bracelet of stamped silver beads. Alice thought she looked calculating, maybe a little scared.

  “I want to tell you what happened at the party. I’m sick of all the fighting and suspicion. I’m worried about Jerry and his kid, Clark. If you’ve talked to Nez, you know we saw the kid at Lonnie’s house that night – pretty late.

  “I want you to understand. We finally have a success here in Gallup, a sophisticated, architecturally brilliant art gallery, and native artists are getting respectful money for our work. This Lonnie thing can ruin it all for us.”

  “It’s not a thing,’” Cinnamon reminded her. “Lonnie died.”

  “Of course.” Lolo glanced at Alice. “That’s why I agreed to come. Lonnie and I were friends since high school. What I mean is, the way he died, and no murder weapon, no suspects. I’m afraid people will think it’s one of the artists or Mirage. And that’s bad for business.”

  “How do we know it’s not one of you?” Burro asked.

  “We loved Lonnie.”

  “Okay.” Cinnamon stopped her. “If it’s not one of you, who is it? Jerry? Are you saying he didn’t love Lonnie, so he didn’t mind killing him?”

  “No.” A dark spot of sweat appeared in the front of Lolo’s spotless linen shirt. “Yes,” she contradicted.

  “Lolo?” Alice interjected. “Who do you think stabbed Lonnie and why? You agreed to come so you can tell Cinnamon and Burro what you know.”

  Lolo sat back in the restaurant booth, picked up her collar and ruffled the front of her shirt to dry the sweat stains. “Clark.”

  ”Jerry’s son.” Burro clarified.

  “Yes. Clark was there, like I said. Nez and I agreed not to tell the police or anybody else about the kid, but....I guess we can’t hide it if we are to be suspects.”

  “What makes you think Clark stabbed Lonnie?” Cinnamon pushed.

  “The kid hated Lonnie. He told me that one time when he came with his dad to Redemption. ‘Hate Lonnie,’ he said. ‘Want kill.’ He actually said that. I think...Jerry isn’t a very good father.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” Burro agreed.

  Alice felt sick that Lolo was implicating the kid, particularly since, as far as Alice knew, Lolo hid that knife under Mirage’s bed

  “Are you trying to protect the boy or offer him up as the perpetrator?” Alice pressed the point.

  “Protect him, of course. Even if the boy did it, I think it’s Jerry’s fault for running around on his wife and ignoring little Clark to get drunk with those rich buyers. I need Jerry and his Redemption Gallery, but, in my opinion, the man is a complete jerk.”

  “You’re telling us this 12 year old kid stabbed a grown man in the abdomen?” Alice glanced at Burro. She was aghast, especially knowing about the knife Lolo brought back to Mirage’s apartment.

  “Twelve-year-old boys get out of control, and Clark has a brain injury. People like that can go off at any time.”

  Burro objected. “That’s a stereotype often applied – incorrectly – to people with traumatic brain injury. Brain injury does not make people homicidal.”

  Lolo looked around the restaurant as if an old friend might show up to help her out. “I...guess you’re right. I don’t know if the kid was violent or not.” Then she picked up steam. “But he did threaten to kill Lonnie. I heard him. Maybe it was an accident, and, the boy panicked. Listen, you asked who I think stabbed Lonnie. I told you.”

  Alice waited, but still Burro didn’t bring up the knife and ask her if she used it on Lonnie. She was certain he had told Cinnamon about it, too. She figured they had a reason.

  “Did you kill Lonnie?” Cinnamon asked the question Alice was thinking.

  “No. How horrible. Don’t say that.”

  “Nez says you were upset that Lonnie planned to close the gallery.”

  “That’s true. I was upset. Lonnie said Jerry was using all of us.”

  “Why did he think Jerry was using the artists?”

  “I pressured Lonnie on that. ‘How is Jerry using us?’ I kept yelling at him that night. He wouldn’t budge except to say Jerry lied about the “spirit” idea. Of course Jerry lied about that. He wanted to make money, and we all knew that. Nez and Lonnie are idealists—fools. A business is to make money, and Redemption is making money for us and for Jerry. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  A vendor, carrying Zuni fetish designs stopped at the table. Burro lifted his hand in a quick wave, while Lolo shook her head at the tiny turtles and lions.

  “I saw Clark, though. Look, I’ll tell the truth. I didn’t just see Clark in front of Lonnie’s house. I saw the boy leave Lonnie’s room.”

  “When?”

  “It was late—at least eleven. Mirage didn’t see that. I rushed her out of the house.”

  “And you didn’t check on Lonnie after that?”

  Lolo didn’t answer.

  “Nez says you left with Mirage? Did you go back? Did you break the lock?”

  “No, no nothing like that. You have to understand me better than that. I don’t have the...anger...to stab someone hard like that or to break a lock on a wooden door. I lose my temper, sure, but I give up quickly. I’m all talk, all feelings, no action. It’s why I want the money for my art. I...I don’t think I can make a living like at a 9-5 job like other people. I’m not tough enough to stab a man.”

  The food arrived. Burro sliced into the enchiladas and Cinnamon pealed the crisp skin off her chicken, following the delicious crunch with a sip of sweet tea. Alice stirred her fork in the sauce but didn’t eat. Lolo sat still, staring, as though steam coming off the red and green chile were a specter that frightened her.

  “What is it Lolo?” Alice asked.

  “I admit it, I was wrong. I didn’t check on Lonnie because I didn’t want to get involved in any drama with Jerry. I wanted to keep doing my art and be comfortable. I might be a fool for money, but I’m not a murderer.”

  Cinnamon ordered coffee all around and then launched the question Alice wanted to hear.

  “Alice found a bloody knife wrapped in a towel under Mirage’s bed.” “Mirage killed Lonnie?” Lolo’s mouth stood open.

  “She wasn’t at the apartment that night, as far as we know.” Cinnamon said.

  “Then how did the knife get there?”

  “How did your bracelet get there?” Alice put in.

  “The stamped silver one? I told Mirage I left it there a couple of weeks ago.”

  “How about the empty beer bottle?”

  Alice saw it. Lolo’s face drew in and darkness settled about her eyes. She’s about to lie to us, Alice thought.

  “What beer bottle?”

  “There was an empty Corona bottle by the bed, next to the bracelet.”

  “Mirage left it there, or whatever. I don’t know what you are trying to say – maybe that I killed Lonnie and planted the knife under Mirage’s mattress? It’s absurd. I tried to walk Mirage home that night, but she wouldn’t go with me, so I left her there. That was wrong, but I was drunk, and I didn’t know what I was doing. And I didn’t check on Lonnie after the kid left his room. Instead, I went home and slept it off. End of story. The bracelet and the beer bottle have nothing to do with Lonnie and the party.”

  Nobody spoke. A waiter filled our coffee cups.

  “I can’t believe Mirage is trying to set me up as Lonnie’s killer. It’s all because I want Redemption to continue. She wants to agree with Lonnie now that he’s dead and say it’s one of Jerry’s crazy business schemes. ‘Where are the art critics?’ ‘Where is the international Redemption that gave the gallery its name?’ I don’t see why all that matters. Those things will come in time. Lonnie wanted to throw it all away over a principle,
over that whole “spirit brought us together” nonsense that Nez and his parents support. Redemption isn’t about spirit, it’s about money. Mirage is out of line. This is vicious.”

  “A man died, Lolo,” Alice reminded the artist. “Now the problem is bigger than closing Redemption. Mirage lost her brother. She wants to know who killed him.”

  “It wasn’t me.” Lolo spat. Then she returned to the subject of the gallery and the money. “They forget what it was like to be broke and have no money for art supplies or an art studio or reliable transportation. Mirage and Nez act like there is virtue in food stamps and Goodwill. Going back to that when we have the chance to do better, is stealing from the poor.”

  Burro rubbed fingers across his forehead, a small frown passing through those ancient Spanish blue eyes. Alice didn’t know the man well, but it looked like evidence of a vision to her.

  “Let’s go, Cinnamon. I need a rest.”

  Cinnamon nodded slightly, looking at her assistant with concern.

  “Thanks for talking to us Lolo.”

  Lolo took the tip of her index finger and circled the rim of her ice tea glass, then drew a straight line through the condensation, down to the table.

  “I left Mirage in the alley, went back to her apartment, and had sex with a complete stranger.”

  ∆

  A Sudden Rainstorm

  Burro and I pulled up to Jerry and Holly’s place in the Corolla about a little before 7:30 pm. A sudden rainstorm ruptured the peaceful landscape, and spindly Chinese elms bent sideways in the blue gray sky. With no umbrella, Burro and I rushed to the tall arched entryway. Holly answered our ring.

  Inside, she led us past the somber sculpture of a native woman and into a sitting room off the foyer. We sat in white leather chairs facing Jerry who turned away from us, staring at an empty grate piled with unburned logs. Clark sat by Holly, a small wrinkle forming between blond bangs and small aqua child-eyes.

  Holly led the conversation, while Jerry appeared to barely listen. “Clark wants to get out of his special classroom.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “That’s right,” I responded. “The school is obligated to provide the least restrictive environment for students with disabilities. Looking at Clark’s IEP, we can see he was recommended for inclusion in the regular education classroom three times in the last two years.”

  “That’s true. I didn’t think it was good for him...” Jerry’s voice was low against the wind and rain on outside the window.

  “No. Want it. Want with my friends,” Clark sounded against his dad.

  Holly put her hand on Clark’s shoulder. “We know now, Clark. We know you want to be with your friends.”

  “The thing is, with an aide and appropriate accommodations, Clark can get a good education. And he needs a social life and normal friendships. That’s a big part of middle school.”

  Jerry looked up. “I agree,” he countered his earlier statement. “Holly is over-protecting the boy.”

  “How would you know?” Holly shot back.

  “I know a boy needs friends. It’s not good for him to be around these middle-aged teachers all the time at his age. He...sits around and thinks too much.”

  “Thinks about how much he misses his dad. Thinks that you don’t love him.”

  “MOM,” Clark stood up. “ME. About me. School. Not about you and Dad.”

  “I’m sorry,” Holly sobbed. “You’re right, Clark. Jerry, I didn’t mean it, or, I did, but I know you love Clark. I...I’m scared, I guess. I’m sorry.”

  Jerry sat, looking at fireplace, not explaining why or how he changed his mind. Clark sat next to his dad, and Jerry put his arm around his son and experienced another mood change. “Your Mom loves you, son. We’ll get you in the regular class.”

  Burro and I brought out the paperwork and suggested they both review it. “The school will set up an IEP meeting as soon as they can, and then Clark will be able to change his schedule.” I explained.

  Holly took the papers, and led us to the door. We stood across from the alabaster woman, and looked out into the rainy night.

  “You two are private investigators, right?” Holly’s voice was quiet. “Johnnie told me that.”

  “Johnnie?” I asked, even though, by now, I’d heard a lot about the man.

  “He’s one of Jerry’s assistants.”

  “We are licensed private investigators,” Burro volunteered. “But that’s not the work we do with Clark and the schools...”

  “I know, I know. I want to hire you to investigate. I found a bloody t-shirt hidden at the bottom of Clark’s closet,” she whispered into the tall airless entryway. “I think he stabbed Lonnie the night of the party.”

  “Got it,” I spoke quickly because she seemed to want to finish before Jerry joined her at the door. “Meet us at the Hampton Inn at 9.” Jerry passed by the sculpture, glancing uneasily at the serene face, and approached Holly at the door.

  “Thanks, folks. We’ll get Clark what he needs at school.”

  We drove off, watching the wipers scour rain from the windshield. Burro, I assumed, was engrossed in visions of money. As for me, I wondered why, if a man like Jerry could be there on this night for his son – why Momma, a southern girl brought up to put family before career, before practically everything but church, abandoned me without a trace and never returned.

  ∆

  The Spirit Life

  The pine door creaked, and Mirage heard a low drumbeat sounding from high in the ceiling of Redemption. A male voice called a Navajo chant from speakers in the rafters. Jerry left the music on again. Mirage pushed the door shut and collapsed on the floor of Redemption, instinctively facing away from the wise old native man, not wanting his advice. She was full of fear. The cold tile brought her back to that night in the ditch after Lonnie’s party.

  She remembered waking up, cold weeds on her cheek, scratchy pebbles digging into her hips. A night breeze lifted her black hair and prickled a small spot on her spine. One eye open, she saw a shadow, in the shape of a human, moving in the dark. The shadow stepped near her feet, and she heard the crunch of gravel and a whisk of dead brush. The creature breathed roughly, mucous caught in the throat, and stopped to cough. Mirage remained stiller than the stars, willing her form to be darker than soil, hoping for a reprieve from whatever foolish choice found her here, lying on the ground, a feast for some dark demon of the night. Then the figure moved on, long steps and clouded breath, disappearing as she passed out again, her consciousness fading into the cool earth and rough sand.

  There on the floor of redemption gallery, remembering this moment from the night of the party, Mirage admitted to herself that her life was lost. The wrong path started before Redemption, but the gallery represented a steep downward gait, a clear divergence from the life Mirage set out to live. Where had she gone wrong? Glancing swiftly up at the oil-painted elder, she almost heard him speak. Spirit. It was that simple. Some time ago, Mirage gave up living for the Spirit, and lived for the material world instead. She went to work, partied with Lonnie, Lolo, and Nez, bought groceries at Wal-Mart, let them spoil in her white enamel fridge, and lived on what happened to her.

  Ultimately, living like that brought on the blackout and Lonnie’s death. Mirage wanted to know more about that night. Maybe more memories waited in the back of her mind. Mirage stood up and walked the Saltillo floor back to the kitchenette and started water for tea. Jerry said he dropped her off and never got out of the car. Yet, tickling at the edge of her conscious mind, she revisited that night and sensed Jerry still there, in Lonnie’s kitchen, pulling cash out of his wallet and stalking over to Johnnie’s chair. She heard an angry exchange between the two partners...all this before Lolo and the beer bottle in the fireplace. She also had a feeling that she checked up on Lonnie after Jerry left the room. Nothing clear and sharp, only an idea that she talked to him about the gallery.

  The kettle whistled and Mirage rose to breathe warm steam and watch a net bag of cham
omile brew. She prepared the tea and returned to sit in one of Holly’s leather chairs. Sipping the bitter brew, she was certain of an argument between Jerry and Johnnie, certain that Jerry went into Lonnie’s room, and fairly clear that she went in after, to find out what was going on. That was like her – to get over-involved in Lonnie’s life while ignoring her own.

  For instance, why was she sleeping with a married man who didn’t understand her, and didn’t even want to understand her? Jerry used her for sex, fun, to run the gallery the way he wanted it run, and to keep her quiet. It wasn’t that Jerry told her secrets, but because Mirage was ashamed of sleeping with him, she never asked any questions or showed any curiosity about how Jerry ran the business. For Mirage, Redemption was an existence, a job, an affair, but it wasn’t life, it certainly wasn’t spirit. Now she clearly saw the questions she failed to ask Jerry.

  What was going on with this building? Sure, there were high ceilings, natural light, and expensive conference room furniture. Tourists came to view the paintings, but the truth was that tourists rarely bought anything except trinkets and souvenir postcards sold at the register. Most visitors were awed by the prices, if not by the art itself. Lonnie was right when he complained that no art critics visited, no write-ups appeared in the Gallup Independent or the Santa Fe Pasatiempo or New Mexico Magazine. The only people who came were Jerry’s friends from LA and, recently, that meant those two couples who spent lavishly but knew little or nothing about art. And then, there were issues about how the prices were set. If she was honest with herself, Jerry set the prices more according to how much money he needed. She didn’t know why Jerry needed so much money, but before each visit, he came in with a set amount he wanted the gallery to pull in and the amount the artists, especially Lolo, demanded. Holly’s demands for new age medical treatments for Clark’s brain injury played a roll. Mirage had heard them talking on the phone while Jerry set prices, and Clark’s treatments or expensive items for their house figured into the financial arrangements for the gallery. For instance, when Lolo declared she must pay cash for a new Lexus big enough to haul around her new sculptures, Jerry tripled the price on one of the “cultural message” silver teapots and practically forced Drew’s blond wife to take it home. Pat particularly disliked the teapots, but Jerry kept pushing the value of the “investment.” Mirage knew full well that these creations weren’t worth $200,000 now, much less in ten or twenty years. And she also knew that 30% of $200,000 was $60,000, the price of the car Lolo wanted. Yet she didn’t let herself think about those things. Instead, Mirage told herself to ‘live and let live’, not asking questions even in her own mind about how Jerry conducted business at Redemption.