In Gallup, Greed

by Tower Lowe

  Mirage stepped out into the entryway and faced the painted wise man. Looking deep into his brown eyes and wizened face, Mirage knew she had robbed Lonnie, not of money, but of a more important commodity. Her indifference to Jerry’s business practices robbed her brother of the spiritual experience he expected from Redemption. From Nez and his parents, she ripped off their dreams of artistic recognition amidst the serenity and peace the family valued above all other gains. Mirage felt hot tears pierce her cheeks.

  When she asked questions about the prices or the 70/30 split, Jerry came on strong and pushy and treated Mirage like she knew nothing. But who forced her to accept Jerry’s blame and manipulation? Mirage admitted to herself that she knew full well that Jerry didn’t price the art fairly and didn’t conduct Redemption business like a normal art gallery conducts business. Looking at it in stark terms, Mirage agreed with Jerry because it was easy. He gave her bonuses, bought her expensive dinners, and took her to bed. She used Jerry, too, to help escape her feelings of depression and uselessness. A groan slipped into the filtered gallery air.

  Swallowing the last drop of hot chamomile, Mirage returned to the plush leather chairs that made up the Holly’s white man’s conference room. This was where she had met with Cinnamon and Burro the first time. Alice recommended the two private investigators, and if there was one person in all this she trusted, it was Alice. That was odd, actually, because Alice was a drifter. Still, she had money from her father, the archeologist Dr. Stuart, and she didn’t have an agenda except to help Cinnamon and Burro find the older Cinnamon that they referred to as “Momma.”

  Momma was a quiet woman with green eyes, a soft, melodic voice. All she really talked about was archaeology and how brilliant Dr. Stuart was. Alice introduced Mirage to the couple, saying that they needed a place to stay while doing fieldwork around Gallup. Mostly they camped near the sight, but on weekends they stayed with Mirage. Then Dr. Stuart died quite unexpectedly down at Zuni, and Mirage let the older Cinnamon stay at her place, because she needed help with the rent then, and as a favor to Alice.

  Mirage felt sad for the daughter, because, really, the only time Momma mentioned her family was in relation to Dr. Stuart.

  “I left it all behind, my family, my home, and my genteel hobbies, and I came out west, to New Mexico to pursue my real passions – archaeology and Dr. Stuart.”

  That was it. She didn’t say anything about leaving behind a grieving daughter and husband. The woman was as much a mystery to Mirage as she was to her own daughter, the young Cinnamon. Momma was polite, courteous, even studious. Mirage never thought of her as the kind of person who would abandon a child. But, then, what kind of person is that?

  The tea cleared her head, and Mirage clicked off the drumbeat and distant Navajo chants. She stood in the empty art gallery observing dust float through sunbeams, recognizing that she was a woman lost, who was about to be found. Putting the teacup down, Mirage resolved to figure out what Jerry was doing with the Redemption money, how that knife got under her mattress and who that shadow was that came so close to her in the alley behind Lonnie’s house.

  While she did not recall checking up on Lonnie, she knew, intuitively, that she didn’t murder her brother. She knew that she didn’t wrap a kitchen knife she’d never seen in a strange towel, haul it back to her apartment and hide it under the bed and then trek back out to the alley to pass out. No. She didn’t doubt herself that much.

  An intruder brought that knife and towel to Lonnie’s, stabbed her brother and then stalked past her still body on the ground outside his house. And Mirage bet herself a new image of the spirit life that Cinnamon and Burro would help her find out the secrets to Redemption and, in return, she would help them find Momma.

  ∆

  Waiting So Long to See You

  After our rainy visit to see Holly and Jerry, Burro and I rushed into the lobby again, hoping to stake out our spot by the fire. The place was empty, but before we could stake out two chairs, Adam, the Navajo desk manager, brought another envelope and handed it to me.

  “Same thing,” he apologized. “Left on the desk with ‘Cinnamon’ written on the front. Maybe it’s a secret admirer.”

  “Maybe,” I echoed sadly, wondering if I could call Momma an admirer. This time I was in no rush to read the note.

  “It’s not from Momma,” Burro reminded.

  “I know.” Only I really didn’t know that. It was possible that Mirage contacted Momma and told her that her daughter was in town and wanted to meet her and find out what happened those many years ago, find out why she never came to Virginia, never forced the issue of the letters so that she could be absolutely sure that her namesake, her precious little girl, was getting the hand-written missives she sent from far off New Mexico. Mirage seemed to want to help, so why wouldn’t she write Momma, or make a discreet phone call telling her that Cinnamon, her daughter, was staying at the Hampton Inn in central Gallup?

  I didn’t tell any of this to Burro, because another part of my brain thought the idea was rubbish. I opened the envelope casually, as if I knew if it were a joke, flipped the paper at an angle, smiled.

  10 am tomorrow at 1418 Cactus Drive Avenue. I’ve been waiting so long to see you.

  I showed it to Burro. “Corny.”

  “It is Corny,” Burro agreed, “but it’s threatening, too.”

  “Threatening? Why?”

  “Because if it’s not Momma, and it’s not, then the person who sent the note is playing with your feelings about your mother and trying to lure you all alone to this address.”

  “Okay. I see that.”

  “Promise me you won’t go. Or you won’t go without taking me along.”

  “I’m not following after these creepy messages, Burro. I’ll find Momma, but not that way,” I half meant what I said. “Right now we’ve got our hands full. The state civil right’s client is working out, but now we have two criminal investigation clients, and we have no good ideas whatsoever on who stabbed Lonnie to death in his own bedroom.”

  “What’ll we ask Holly when she gets here?”

  I considered. “For one, we need to know more about her relationship with Jerry. And she must know more about how Clark got to the party in the first place. Maybe Clark talked to her about what happened.”

  “Okay. We’ll start with that.”

  Holly arrived and Burro brought all three of us a cup of Hampton Inn lobby tea in a paper cup.

  Holly accepted the cup gingerly and set it on the glass-topped table without sipping. “It’s not easy for me to go behind Jerry’s back like this. There was a time when we shared all our decisions, talked everything out. We were true friends. But, to be honest, that time was years ago.”

  “What happened to change things?”

  “Alcoholism.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean Jerry is an alcoholic. I denied it successfully until last year when I finally got some help. I stopped making Jerry the focus and my life, and, I saw that I couldn’t trust him anymore. I don’t think he has any idea what he’s doing with Redemption or how distant he is from Clark and me. He’s on autopilot – having an affair and running two businesses into the ground at once.”

  “Two businesses?”

  “Oh, I mean the CGI stuff.”

  “That’s where you got the original investment for Redemption?”

  “Right.” Holly didn’t sound convincing. I glanced at Burro and saw him wince. I’d ask afterward if her answer brought up the vision.

  “Tell us about Clark and the bloody t-shirt.”

  Holly drew forward in the lobby chair, her honey colored hair falling over her face, hiding the creases around her mouth. “Clark...is very angry with his father. What I realize now is that Jerry is married to the bottle, and he doesn’t have time to be a father.

  “Before, I thought it was about the brain injury. That Jerry avoided Clark because of it, or that Clark exaggerated how distant Jerry acts. But, you saw it tonight. J
erry loves Clark. He ignores him because he’s more in love with alcohol than us.” She looked questioningly at us. “I mean all addicts love their addiction more than their families.”

  “True,” I encouraged.

  “It’s just that, if there’s half a chance that Clark stabbed Lonnie over this gallery, I have to leave Jerry. Even though I do love him.” She stopped for a minute, looking pensively at the Hampton Inn fireplace. “I love who he was when I met him,” she corrected.

  “How did you find the t-shirt,” Burro intervened.

  “With Clark’s dirty laundry. I confronted him. He says Jerry stabbed Lonnie and he only found Lonnie dead and tried to help him.”

  “What happened that night? How did Clark end up at Lonnie’s?”

  “Clark’s been oppositional for a couple of years. Part of the reason is his brain injury.”

  “How did the injury happen?”

  “Pediatric stroke. It’s rare. Apparently Clark was born with a small heart irregularity and a clot formed in his heart and traveled to the brain. He recovered, of course, but the language centers were affected...and his moods. He has more episodes of lashing out. Part of that is his dad, though. Jerry has ignored Clark since the stroke, and drinks even more than before it happened.”

  “Does Clark often sneak out at night?” I asked.

  “Yes. To follow his dad.”

  “And that’s what he did the night of Lonnie’s party?”

  “Don’t misunderstand. I punished Clark for the other times – took away video games, got a counselor, locked up his bicycle. He promised to stop.”

  “So he rode his bike over there,” Burro repeated.

  “Yeah. I thought Clark was sleeping. I checked on him around 10. But then at 11, I checked again and he was gone. I texted Jerry right away, ‘cause I figured Clark had followed him or found out where he was going. I mean, the stroke affected Clark’s speech, but there’s nothing wrong with his problem solving skills. He has no trouble at all snooping around and finding out where his dad is going and what he’ll be doing there.”

  “Even the affair with Mirage?” I ventured.

  “You know, huh? Worst kept secret in Gallup. I think Clark suspected it.”

  “Did Jerry find him at the party that night?”

  “He texted back right away that Clark was at Lonnie’s – at a party there. Said he’d bring him home. And he did.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Almost midnight. We lectured him, told him he’d lose his bike for another two weeks. But we made one mistake. We didn’t lock the bike up right away. It’s heavy, and we have to lift it into a locked cabinet in the garage. Jerry was too drunk to do it that night, and I figured Clark would be way too tired to go out again. But I was wrong about that.”

  “He went back.”

  Holly paused and picked up the paper teacup for the fist time. She sipped the weak liquid and sighed. “I love Clark, and I do everything I can think of to improve his speech and to give him a normal life. But there’s always Jerry. Nothing I do replaces Clark’s feelings of abandonment around his dad. So, yes he went back.”

  “He went back to find his dad?”

  “I don’t know. I thought Jerry stayed home, but he might have gone back to the party. I was sleeping in the den because I was angry with Jerry. Clark might have gone back to find Jerry, or to kill Lonnie, or because he thought his dad killed Lonnie. I can’t get him to say any more than that his dad stabbed Lonnie.”

  “What do you think?” Burro pushed.

  “Jerry’s a wimp. He was supposed to fire Lonnie that night.”

  “Fire one of the artists?”

  “Jerry thought Lonnie damaged the business with all that talk about how it was corrupt and lacking spirit. He wanted to fire him. But do you think he had the balls to do it himself? Of course not—Johnnie got that job.”

  “Jerry’s assistant,” I added

  “Right.”

  “How does he fit in with the group?”

  “Johnnie grew up here. His family wasn’t artistic, but he ended up hanging out with all the artists in high school. He never went to college. Instead he worked construction– he says. I think Johnnie was running errands for a couple of construction jobs, maybe selling pot or collecting bribes. Not that I know that for a fact. Johnnie is good at keeping secrets.”

  “What do you want us to do, Holly?” I got to the point of the visit.

  “I brought the shirt. I know I need to take it to the police, but I want to know first if my son murdered Lonnie. I want you to find that out.”

  “Keep the shirt, Holly,” I advised. “It will need to go to the police eventually.”

  “Okay. Do you think Clark killed Lonnie?”

  “No,” a white lie. “It could be Johnnie, for instance, or one of the other artists”

  “We’ll look into it, Holly,” Burro assured her. “Give us the weekend. But, on Monday, this evidence goes to the cops. And we don’t mention you showed it to us first.”

  “Agreed.” She pulled her bag together, took one last survey of the Hampton Inn lobby and swirled out the automatic glass door.

  ∆

  Gray Pixels

  Jake was done with that damn gallery, good and done. The whole creepy scene suited another kind of guy, a guy who could hang around and babysit a bunch of artists and insecure wannabe artists like Jerry. Sure, a cool quarter million was more than Jake had earned in any job in his life, but so what? Peace of mind counted for something.

  “Jake!” Johnnie nudged him with a sharp elbow. “Perk up, fella. It’s a cake walk.” This guy seemed creepier than the gallery’s 6-foot oil painting of the wise, but judgmental native guardian.

  “Look, Johnnie, I thought I was to mange the gallery. That’s it. I don’t want this other job.”

  “Jerry has another place he has me look after – right near Lonnie’s place, on Cactus Drive. We’ll need you as a backup property manager. Come on. We’ll walk right from Sammy’s here. It’s not that far. Besides, you look like you’re about to run off. I need to talk you down.”

  The idea of Johnnie talking anyone down was a joke. This guy acted so cranky it left Jake itching to punch him. Talking people into homicide was more like it. Jake was a lapsed Louisiana Catholic, who knew hell was waiting for him one day, and work at Redemption looked like it would bring that hell on earth. Plus, he had to betray Cinnamon to take the job. And the way Jake saw it, leaving a woman was easy; sleeping around, no problem, but what Jerry and Johnnie were asking was much harder. Jake had his rules, and he didn’t want to drive Cinnamon out of Gallup so he could make $250,000 guarding a bunch of creepy spiritual paintings. Plus, his first try at getting her to leave was a complete failure. The woman had a mind of her own. He burrowed his eyes into his bike as a signal to Johnnie that he wanted to leave.

  Johnnie ignored the dramatics. “Come on, man. Relax. Jerry’s an easy boss, man. And this place I’m showing you is, like I said, it’s a property management deal. Give out the key, call a plumber, easy stuff like that.”

  “Sure.” Jake hated to look like a wimp. He didn’t mind being a wimp, but hated looking like one to another man. It was a locker room thing from high school. Never let another man know you’re sweating. So he went along, figuring he’d get his ass out of Gallup as soon as it was all over.

  Johnnie started off walking west at a fast pace on Cactus Drive. Jake followed and tried not to look at his watch.

  “The biggest part of the Redemption job,” Johnnie kept talking, “has nothing to do with this little rental house. The important task, Jake, is to entertain the tourists who come to see the art. We keep up appearances, put on a show about how the art has spirit and historical perspective with modern lines, whatever.

  “Next, after entertaining the tourists, you’ll have to put on a big show for buyers from LA – treat them like royalty. Jerry has some business partners who like native art and want to be part of this whole Redemption deal and show respec
t for Gallup artists. They come into town every couple months – a couple of them are here now – and lay out a bunch of money. You’ll need to record the sales and make sure the art gets packed up right. We’ve got some local shippers know all about that, so you oversee the process, pay the bills, that’s it. What you so nervous about?”

  Jake’s breath was stuck in his abdomen. He felt trapped at the bottom of a well—a panic attack. Dry heat welled up on his skin and a cloud of gray pixels washed in front of his eyes.

  “I’m fine,” Jake lied. He wanted to sit down. Or run away.

  They reached a house with yellow crime tape around the edge, and sitting on the front stoop was Jerry. Jake jumped back.

  “This the house? You want to rent out a crime scene?”

  “Lighten up,” Johnny cooed, “this isn’t the house. This is Lonnie’s place. You know the guy got stabbed? Jerry’s over here looking for gallery papers, that’s all.”

  “Hey-hey,” Jerry sang, chipper as ever. Jake didn’t like it. “Johnnie and Jake. Lonnie’s got some of the sales records in here. We’ll get ‘em before you two go on to look at the rental property.” Jake held back on the street.

  “Okay. You sit,” Jer motioned to the front step. Jake sat down, holding his head low between his legs.