Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  “I have trouble believing it as well. Anyone outside of the department know about the raid?”

  “Somebody probably let the Citizen’s Commission Against Human Trafficking know about it. It’s protocol.”

  “That’s Roscoe Haldemain’s outfit, isn’t it?”

  “He’s chairman of it. Bishop Justin Gregory’s vice chair. But a gal named Betsy Brockmire pretty well runs it.”

  I called up a mental image of Roscoe P. Haldemain, an attorney I’d done business with a few times. A partner in a successful private practice specializing in both civil and criminal defense work, he was about ten years my senior, which would put him around forty-eight. My height—six feet—but carried about ten pounds more than my 170. Tanning salon complexion and gym-buffed frame. Brown hair heavy with gray, but in a suave, sophisticated way. I’d never particularly associated Ross—as he preferred to be called—with good works, but I had heard him give a speech or two about the horrors of human trafficking.

  The good bishop I’d met only socially. I knew nothing of his life before he moved to Albuquerque from wherever and started building an unaffiliated, nondenominational church. He’d apparently done a good job of it since he went from pastor to bishop in about five years. Bishop Gregory was also a sophisticated-looking man, somewhat shorter and carrying more weight than his chairman. But he also had sleek hair—black—shot through with streaks of gray.

  Betsy Brockmire, a nodding acquaintance, was dumpy but not unattractive, with brown hair carrying auburn highlights. She was a ball of energy who tended to wear me out in a hurry whenever I heard her address a luncheon or something.

  “Is the Citizen’s Council a state commission?” I asked.

  “It’s what they call an NGO, a nongovernmental agency. NGOs carry a lot of the water in fighting human trafficking. They may get some state money, but Haldemain and Gregory are elected by the organization, not appointed by the governor.”

  “Could there be a leak there?”

  I could almost hear Gene shrug on the other end of the phone. “I guess. But they’re all about fighting trafficking. Why would they tip off anyone about a raid?”

  “Let’s see,” I said. “What did we say some cop’s motivation might be?”

  Gene let out a sigh. “Money. From all I hear, neither Haldemain nor Gregory need any.”

  “You ever hear of a churchman who wasn’t scrambling for money? What about Brockmire?”

  “She’s a wealthy widow from back east somewhere who’s a civil rights activist. But point taken. The whole kit and caboodle’s loaded. What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s go see them anyway. Test the waters, so to speak,” I said.

  “All that’ll get us is a legal dissertation, a sermon, and a lecture. But I’ll see if I can set it up.”

  Then I told him about Juan’s request for a meeting with Paul this evening. Gene bitched about the short notice before agreeing to have his people on hand. In fact, he set me up with a date with Officer Glenann Hastings, who, it turned out, was in APD’s Special Victims Unit.

  PAUL AND Henry were both disappointed when I told him of the failure of the raid, but I faced a potentially violent revolt when I told Henry he couldn’t go to the C&W tonight.

  “Be reasonable,” I pled. “You’re on Juan’s radar. He sees you, he’ll likely take a powder.”

  “I don’t have to be with Paul. Hell, I’ll get my own date and just go dancing.”

  “Henry, you’re a free warrior of the Navajo persuasion. If you decide you want to go, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. I just hope Jazz doesn’t pay the penalty.”

  “What penalty?” His black eyes lost some of their stubbornness.

  “If we scare him off, Juan isn’t going to come back for another bite of the apple. Or a nip at Paul either. We’ll lose the best lead on the whereabouts of your brother we have.”

  I could see Henry didn’t like my line of reasoning but couldn’t escape the logic of it. “All right, but you keep me posted, okay?”

  Officer Glenann Hastings stopped by the house at seven thirty looking very fetching in gray slacks and white blouse with a vaguely western-looking vest in deference to the cowboy ambiance we were heading into. We wanted to arrive well before Paul. Henry took off for the Blue Spruce, which wasn’t far from the C&W in case something broke. That assumed he didn’t start a fight and get hauled downtown by Albuquerque’s finest—a distinct possibility given his foul mood.

  The Thursday night crowd at the C&W was heavier and the activity on the dance floor brisker. Real cowboys shuffled around the floor with wannabe cowgirls—and vice versa. The sound system was cranked up to full volume, and when music didn’t roil the eardrums, the deejay’s patter did. Glenann and I got in a couple of dances when the music was appropriate to my abilities.

  So far as I could tell, Juan wasn’t among the frequent dancers, but he might have been seated at one of the back tables. Of course, if he was in his distaff dress tonight, I’m not sure I would recognize him. We needed some of that facial recognition equipment everyone kept talking about. Software that would match a live face to photographs more or less absolutely and beyond denial. Yeah, right. That would happen about the same time we got Dick Tracy wristwatch radios. Of course, I’d heard those were practically here.

  Paul came through the door looking like a million dollars, followed a minute later by a tall blond APD detective named Don Carson. He’d followed Paul’s newly rented car from the house to the nightclub. Paul immediately joined some UNM friends at a table. Not a good move. He needed to be solitary in order for Juan to approach him.

  After a few minutes, he ambled over to another table to greet other friends and acquaintances, but he didn’t stay long. He broke away after five minutes and moved into the bar, where he produced his ID and bought himself a mug of beer. Then he stood near the dance floor and sipped his drink.

  Eight thirty came and went, but my heartthrob played it cool. He danced a few dances with cowgirls but spent most of his time watching the dancers from the sideline. Glenann spotted our quarry quicker than I. She poked me in the ribs.

  “There the suspect is. Coming from the bar. Approaching Paul from behind.” She patted my hand resting on our small table as if we were lovers. “What do you want to do?”

  “Keep an eye on them. Paul knows he’s not to leave with the guy unless he knows he’s covered. And not to get into Juan’s car whatever the circumstances.”

  As we watched, Juan took a place near Paul and stood sipping his own drink, a highball of some sort. He watched Paul with half an eye for a couple of minutes before tapping him on the shoulder.

  Paul looked surprised before he smiled and shook hands with the man. They talked for a minute, but we were too far away to hear what was said. We’d considered wiring Paul, but Gene argued the place was so noisy the mikes wouldn’t be effective. Gene elected not to come tonight because he’d been made by “Ellen” last night, and to have the same players on display might frighten our mark away.

  I grew antsy when the couple started roaming the big room looking for a vacant table. I lost them in the crowd, but before I panicked, Carson walked up and shook hands as if meeting a friend.

  “They’re at a table at the back near the restrooms. A female undercover snagged a table nearby. I’m going to get us a couple of drinks and join her. We’ll keep a close eye on the situation, BJ.”

  “Thanks. Any movement, let us know.”

  Half an hour went by before a man dragged an empty chair from the table next to us and sat down at ours. He leaned over and gave Glenann a hug.

  “BJ, this is Shelby Horne.”

  “Hiya, Mr. Vinson. Needed to let you know that Florio Gaspard just arrived in the parking lot. There’s an arrest warrant out for him in connection with the raid on the motel this afternoon, so I gotta take him. Hope that doesn’t screw things up for you.”

  “Everyone knows about the raid by now, as well as the two minnows who disappeared. Do
n’t think there’ll be any damage done. Might crimp Juan’s style but not ours.”

  “That’s the way I figure it too. Glenann, looking good. Wanna quick dance before I go?”

  She declined with an admonition to keep his mind on business. The undercover cop grinned and drifted away.

  A few minutes later, Paul and Juan walked in our direction. When they got close enough, I saw both had us on their radar. Then Paul did exactly the right thing. He stopped and said hello. I introduced Glenann as he shook my hand. He named his companion only as Juan. Paul asked about a game of tennis at some unspecified date in the future, and I agreed before they moved on toward the front door.

  “Why did he spotlight us?” Glenann asked after they left, closely trailed by Carson and his escort.

  “Juan knows we’re acquainted. Last night when Juan was posing as Ellen, he saw us all together and managed to get us introduced. That’s why Lieutenant Enriquez isn’t here tonight. Guess Paul thought it would look strange if he didn’t acknowledge us.”

  Glenann nodded. “He thinks fast on his feet.”

  “I don’t like them leaving the club, but I can’t follow them.”

  “Don will keep an eye on them. But I can go outside if you want me to provide backup.”

  “No, we don’t want anyone we haven’t spotted getting suspicious. How about another dance before we head out?”

  “You’re a pretty cool customer. I know you’re dying to know what’s happening, but here you want another dance with little old me. Lead on, cowboy.”

  “First, let me text Henry and let him know people are on the move.”

  I DIDN’T spot any familiar cars as we recovered my Impala and headed out onto Central for the long drop into the valley. We hadn’t covered a block before Glenann’s cell phone rang. She listened a minute before hanging up.

  “Don says Juan and Paul split up, and Paul seems to be heading back to the house. Shel—that’s the officer keeping watch on the parking lot—is going to follow Juan.”

  “Not too closely, I hope. We don’t want to spook the guy—if we haven’t already. I thought Juan would try to lure Paul to a motel.”

  “Maybe he did, but Paul wouldn’t bite.”

  Just as we reached the corner where the Blue Spruce squatted, Henry pulled out on his motorcycle and roared down East Central. He looked steady enough on the machine, but he showed little regard for the speed limit. He soon left us behind.

  By the time we reached 5229 Post Oak Drive NW, the house looked as if it hosted a party. I parked on the street in front of Mrs. Wardlow’s white brick. An anonymous brown Ford taking up my spot in the driveway indicated Gene had joined us. He’d been offered a new car when he made lieutenant but declined. It looked as if Charlie was here, which probably meant Hazel was too… fretting over Paul’s safety.

  Everyone was seated in my den except for Paul, who was in the bedroom changing into more comfortable clothes. Henry stood leaning on the small wet bar in the corner of the room.

  When Paul walked in from the bedroom area, Gene spoke up. “We’re all here now, so let’s get started. Before we hear Paul’s story, let me tell you Florio Gaspard was apprehended in the parking lot of the C&W. We took him without incident. Doubt if anyone even knew he was arrested unless they were watching closely.”

  That was significant, because a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman by the name of Brookings Ingles would show up as soon as the arrest was discovered. Brookie seemed to represent most of the people involved in the prostitution trade, pimps and whores as well.

  “Where is Gaspard now?” Charlie asked.

  “In an interrogation room at headquarters. We’re questioning him about the two kids we picked up this afternoon. Not sure if we can hold him, but the interrogators have been told not to mention the other end of the operation.”

  “You’ve got two witnesses who connect him to the trade,” Paul said. “Why wouldn’t you be able to hold him?”

  “The girl’s shaky. When she faces a defense lawyer in court, she’ll dry up and blow away. The boy’s on heroin, so who knows how he’ll handle himself. I wouldn’t count on anything unless Gaspard trips himself up.”

  “Which isn’t likely,” I said. “Paul, tell us about your hot date.”

  My lover looked me full in the eye. “It could have been a hot date. That Juan guy is a born seducer. If I’d been free and didn’t know anything about him, it’s likely I would have gone along. Except—” He paused. “—he didn’t ask me to. We just agreed to meet for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Flying Star on Juan Tabo. Eleven thirty. His treat.”

  I thought for a moment. “Makes sense. He probably wants to question Jazz about you, learn all he can before making his move.”

  “But Jazz doesn’t know anything about me,” Paul said.

  “Maybe enough to make this work.” I sighed in exasperation. “I can’t be there tomorrow. He’s seen me twice at the C&W. My presence at the Flying Star would be too much of a coincidence. Henry can’t be there either. But Charlie can. Along with some of Gene’s cops. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Officer Horne’s trailing Juan from the C&W. Have you heard from him, Gene?”

  I didn’t like the sour look on my ex-partner’s face. “Called just before you got here. Juan gave him the slip down in the barrio.”

  “Shit!” Henry exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

  “He couldn’t make himself obvious, so he hung back. Wasn’t hard for Juan to turn into an alley and sneak away.”

  “Well, at least we know what kind of car he’s driving.”

  “Yep. A 2009 dark blue Ford Fusion.”

  “Did Horne get the plates?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. That’ll give us an address.”

  Gene grimaced again. “Sure did. The My Other Home Motel at 145 Ocotillo SW.”

  This time, I uttered the profanity.

  Chapter 8

  JAZZ HUDDLED against the wall in a corner of the room. Only one lamp relieved the darkness, but he liked it that way. He didn’t know what time it was, but then he didn’t give a crap either. One minute was as good as the next.

  This was a nice room. White walls and airy. Big television in the living area. Gold drapes with some kind of figure woven into them. It was a woman, repeated over and over in the curtains. Was it Spider Woman? White Shell Woman? The more he stared, the more he became convinced it was Estsanatlehi or Woman Who Changes. It pissed him that Henry could pronounce her name better than he could, but he’d never heard of her until a few years ago, while his half brother sat at their grandmother’s knee as a child and learned all about the Navajo pantheon. But Jazz knew she was called Changing Woman because she went from youth to maturity to old age. And so, year after year, this earth goddess ushered in the seasons.

  The beige carpet against his butt proved more comfortable than some of the chairs at home. But soon, his nerves rankled and pulled him to his feet. He paced the room, his hands fidgeting, touching this and that. This little bungalow behind a fancy redbrick house was new to him. Somewhere on the west side of Albuquerque, he guessed, although he wasn’t familiar enough with the city to be sure.

  Juan brought him here two nights ago after telling him he owed Silver Wings a lot of money and had to stay with the older man until it was repaid. That was news to Jazz. He didn’t owe anyone a damned dime. Something about the pipes he smoked, Juan said. Jazz couldn’t decide how he felt about seeing the Mexican go. He liked Juan okay, even though the guy hadn’t turned out to be the loving companion he originally seemed. During that first week with Juan, Jazz thought he’d found what he was looking for. A steady. A companion for life—through thick and thin.

  Then Juan introduced him to the pipe, and the second week was even better. Nirvana, or what Jazz thought nirvana would be. The sex was powerful, all-consuming, overwhelming. But it wasn’t long before the pipes became more important than the sex. He craved a smoke
more than a tumble with his lover. When he asked what he was smoking, Juan told him plain tobacco with an herb in it that gave him a little high. Jazz knew better, of course, but by this time, he didn’t care.

  Then Juan introduced him to Silver Wings in a motel room. Jazz refused to have anything to do with the man at first. The crack in his armor came when he understood that if he didn’t service Silver Wings, there’d be no more pipes. No more nirvana. The first time, Juan lay beside him in bed, kissing and fondling him until he got so charged up, he didn’t realize Silver Wings joined them until Juan slipped out of the bed and let the older man take over. After that, Jazz permitted his hormones and the crack cocaine to dictate what to do.

  He didn’t really like Silver Wings, but at least the man was clean and less obnoxious than some people who’d tried to get with him in the past. And Silver Wings kept the pipes coming. Sometimes when Jazz craved a smoke, his senses went dull, but sometimes—like now—they got super sensitive. He knew the moment someone entered the backyard and walked toward the apartment. The step wasn’t heavy like Silver Wings’. Lighter. Like Juan’s. Jazz’s spirits climbed, jolting him into action. He stood in the middle of the room, waiting expectantly. But before the door opened, he was drained of energy. Exhausted, he sank onto the thick plush cushions of the sofa. Juan greeted him with a smile. Jazz responded with a wave of the hand.

  “Hey, man. How’ya doing?”

  “You bring a pipe?”

  “You’re going apeshit over that crap. Mr. Silver Wings says you getting expensive.”

  “Good. If he doesn’t like me, I can come back to you.”

  “Oh, he says you as good in bed as you ever was. But he hoped you’d spend some time with him at the pool. Be sociable, you know.”

  “Why? All he wants is for me to fuck him.”

  “Sure, he wants that, okay. But he’d like to show you off now and then. Make his friends jealous. Maybe share you with them now’n then.”