by Don Travis
As I shook off the emotions my reverie had raised, I was shocked by thoughts of Paul Barton flashing through my mind. In need of distraction, I glanced at my desk clock. Although it was almost ten, it wasn’t too late for the crowd at the C&W Palace. Things would just be heating up over there. I threw on a windbreaker against the night’s chill and headed for the Impala.
I picked up I-25 South and exited at Central Avenue, turning left up the long, steady climb to the heights. Central was once touted as the world’s longest main street and had been a stretch of the famous Route 66 before Eisenhower’s interstate highway program did it in. Now lined with one-story brick and stucco antique shops, cheap motels, bars, and adult book stores, Central was well past her glory days, but she still put on a flashy show of neon lights by night. Inevitably the morning sun exposed her timeworn wrinkles and sagging frame.
I had intended to use this time to think. Instead I found myself examining the venerable old gal. The impressive campus of Presbyterian Hospital showed signs of recent construction, but then it usually had something underway. The University of New Mexico was a beehive of activity. Apparently some sort of musical performance at Popejoy Hall had ended, and cars were now spilling out of the side streets. The trendy Nob Hill Mall, with its boutiques and outdoor cafés in the Midtown area, drew college students and young adults from every walk of life.
I motored past the sprawling and aging New Mexico State Fairgrounds, where a weekend flea market, in-season horse racing, and daily casino operations attracted gamblers, drunks, touts, and prostitutes of both sexes. Back in the days when I was a street cop, this area and the rabbit run a little farther to the west had dealt me more trouble than anywhere else. I’d pinched more than one thief trying to sell his loot in the flea market. I’d faced down a distraught family man who’d gambled away the mortgage money at the racetrack and was determined to commit suicide by cop in the parking lot, but thank goodness my partner and I talked him out of it.
A few blocks east of the fairgrounds, I pulled into the C&W’s parking lot and found a spot directly in front of the joint. I locked the Impala and walked to the front door, mentally preparing myself for the blast of humidity and humanity that would greet me. I wasn’t disappointed.
There was no sign of Emilio Prada, but I got butterflies at the unexpected sight of Paul shaking his thing on the dance floor with a petite, enthusiastic cowgirl dressed in buckskin and fringes. Paul was a package of raw sex in chinos, yellow T-shirt, and leather vest.
The Santos Morenos occupied the big table in an area of the club they’d apparently claimed as their own. The sweaty honcho who’d crossed verbal swords with me last night seemed to be giving the group the benefit of his life lessons. It was the same bunch—minus Emilio. What the hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I walked up and greeted the group with false cheer. Everyone stared back blankly except the leader. My gang squad contact down at the station had identified him as Miguel Arrullar, which was ironic since arrullar meant to lull or to coo in Spanish. His street name of Puerco was more appropriate. This guy was more apt to grunt like a pig than coo like a dove. The long, lean cat at his right was his main man, another homegrown hood named José Zapata, called Zancón because of his lanky frame and long legs. The dark-chocolate dude to the left answered the description of the Haitian thug, Jacques Costas, commonly called Jackie.
“Damn, you getting to be a habit,” Puerco grumbled. “A bad habit.”
“Pleased to see you, too, Puerco.”
Somebody had a good eye. Arrullar genuinely resembled a pig. Small eyes, broad nostrils, short, bristly beard, and a face as wide as a boar’s head. His shoulders were fat and powerful and porcine.
He seemed pleased. “You heard a me, huh?”
“Who hasn’t down at the police station?”
“What can we do for the ex-dick who got shot to pieces rousting some poor bastard?” He’d done his homework too.
“Not much.” I turned to the others at the table. “How you fellows doing? Don’t see Emilio with you tonight.”
“Old Milio’s working. Got somebody flat on their back by now, but God only knows who.” Zancón blurted it all out before Puerco silenced him with a glare.
I nodded. “As far as I can tell, he’s always working. If he’s breathing, he’s figuring out how to fleece his next john. Anybody know where he’s crashing?”
“Hard to keep up with Milio,” Puerco said. “I see him, I tell him you’re looking for him. That oughta make his day.”
“Mine too. Well, you guys have a good evening.”
“We plan on it, gringo.”
That accomplished nothing, unless you consider Emilio being warned I was on the prod as something. Once in the crowd, I paused to look back at the table. Sure enough, the head pig was on a cell phone. That was bad. It was a sign that queer or not, Emilio was gaining a better footing with the Saints.
Reluctantly leaving Paul on the dance floor, I abandoned the raucous noise of the crowded nightclub for the cool air of Albuquerque’s emissions-clogged main drag. It dawned on me that sitting in the parking lot might be the best course of action. If Puerco had called Emilio, he probably told him the big bad PI had left. With the coast clear, Emilio might decide to join his friends. My parking spot had an ideal view of the C&W’s front door, so I made myself as comfortable as possible and dialed Del’s numbers again. Still no answer. I was beginning to worry a little.
As I waited I observed the traffic going in and out of the nightclub. Young, mostly. The men tended to arrive alone or in groups, as did many of the women. People departing, however, were in pairs—a man and a woman. This was a great hookup joint. Sitting by myself in the car, I wished Paul would stroll out of the club alone.
An hour later the lot’s harsh lights turned Emilio’s blue Mustang a sickly puce as he wheeled down a row of parked vehicles. I was standing behind his car before he climbed out of the driver’s seat and paused to stroke the headrest fondly. If the guy had an emotional attachment to anything, it was to his car. He turned and started for the club, recoiling when he saw me.
“Damn, Mr. V, you scared the shit outa me.”
“I’ll bet I did. You thought I’d already left, didn’t you?”
“Dunno what you mean. You catch up with that dude in the big house out in the foothills?”
“Yeah. I don’t think you oughta go near him again, if you know what I mean.”
“I hear you, man. Pissed, was he? Well, glad that turned out all right.”
“You’re not off the hook yet, Emilio. He didn’t have the negatives. All he had were the two snaps you let him print. So, who else have you shown them to?”
“Nobody, man. Told you that already. I gotta go now. My compadres are waiting for me inside.”
“Not so fast. Either hand over the negatives or give me a list of everyone you shared those pictures with.”
“I done told you, ain’t nobody else, and I don’t have no negatives.”
“This time I won’t pay to have your car seats repaired.”
“Hey, man, don’t cut my car. I’m gonna call a cop.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and extracted my cell. “Here, use this. Dial 911.”
He waved the phone away. “What I gotta do to make you believe me?” The pouty kid evaporated and the street tough materialized. “But you ain’t gonna cut up my car no more. Why’s Del so hot for them pictures, anyway?” He gave a smartass smirk. “Or is it you that wants them? You having trouble getting it up without some help? That the problem, Emilio give you all the help you need. Be worth it, man, I promise.”
“No way in hell. Right now all I want from you is help figuring this out.”
The hustler wore his brains right out on his face; I saw him snap to the situation. “Somebody putting it to Del using them pictures, right? Well, it ain’t me.”
“I believe you. It’s whoever got the negatives from you. All you have to do is tell me who that is.”
/> Perhaps somewhat appeased by my left-handed appeal for assistance, Emilio leaned casually against the Mustang and crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s what I like about you ’n’ Del. Don’t look homo and don’t act it, but you sure dig it. Anyway, you being like that, you ain’t gonna take nobody down for having a little fun on the side?”
“Not looking to take anyone down except whoever’s trying to compromise Del.”
“Well, sure, I unnerstand that.”
Anxious to get me off his back, Emilio shared details of his sordid life in the months since he’d taken the pics of Del. I made a list of three probably phony names, along with descriptions that might or might not be accurate. “Where did you have the pictures developed?” I asked.
He raised a leg to pry out a pebble stuck in the heel of his boot and then pressed his shirt down where his crossed arms had creased it. “Friend of a friend.”
“How many copies did he print?”
“Just one. I was right there all the time. Wanted to see how they come out.”
“How did you pay him?”
The kid smiled. “How you think? Old Rory’s hot for Emilio, so I give it to him the way he likes it.”
“You spend the night?”
“Hell, no. Took care of business and got outa there. And them negatives was right in my backpack. That big dude in the foothills used a couple of them to develop pictures, remember?”
“You’re sure you had a negative for each picture?”
“Right on. I made Rory match them up. Didn’t want no pictures around I don’t know nothing about.”
“Rory?”
“Rory Tarleton, the dude who printed them for me.”
“How about your buddies in the nightclub? You share the pictures with them?”
His eyes went round. “You crazy, man? No way they into that kinda thing. They see pictures of me like that, they toss my ass out the door and stomp on it. I ain’t that stupid.”
“You trying to tell me you aren’t servicing them once in a while?”
“Hell, no. They skin me alive, I tried that.”
“Don’t snow me, kid. It’s called paying your dues for the protection of the club.”
He smiled and smoothed an eyebrow with a long forefinger. “Emilio pays his way, but not like that. He can do some things for the Santos they can’t do for their own selves.”
“Like what?”
“Just little things. You know, like chores.”
“Maybe so, but you better understand one thing, Emilio. Even if they tolerate you, even if they give you a little cover, you’re not one of them and never will be. Remember that and get out of town if things go bad.”
He shrugged his indifference. “Naw. Emilio’s good for them. Like I say, he don’t look like no gangster, so he can do stuff for them others can’t. He’s useful to the Santos.”
For a kid up from Mexico, Emilio had a surprising command of the English language. He also had a mixture of accents. At times he sounded damn near like a Southerner. Then the gangster lingo of California would show up. At other times his language was almost cultured. It was like talking to a chameleon. He stood there and changed colors on you. He had probably learned English by watching American movies.
As he brushed past me and headed for the club, I strolled back to my Impala fretting over where the hell Del was. I’d virtually put the rest of my business on hold to accommodate his crisis, and now he’d disappeared.
Chapter 5
DAMNED NEAR two weeks went by before a sleepy, grouchy Del Dahlman answered his home phone one Monday morning. He let out an irritated snort when he recognized my voice.
“Christ, Vince, you know what time it is?”
“Seven o’clock on a bright New Mexico morning. The state fair is about to get underway with countless thousands getting fleeced by a hundred vendors. The Santa Fe Fiesta is hanging right over the horizon for its share, and the International Balloon Fiesta is hungering for whatever’s left.”
“Such cynicism. The fair and the fiestas are better than a month away, and besides, they’re a hell of a boost to our economy. You know that.”
“So I do.” At least he sounded awake now. “Why are you still abed?”
“Been taking depositions and trying a case in Dallas.”
“How do you try cases in Dallas?”
“I’m accredited before the Texas bar. And I’d still be there if the other side hadn’t agreed to settle late yesterday afternoon. Got in on the red-eye last night. Or rather, this morning. I was planning on lying in bed until some dumbass woke me up.”
“Wouldn’t happen if you returned your phone calls. Why don’t you stop by my office on your way downtown for a progress report?”
“You got it figured out?”
“No, but you can help me sort through some information.”
He agreed, and I hung up, perversely pleased at managing to screw up his day. Minor payback for major sleep lost during our breakup. The meeting with Del meant I’d have to cut my pool therapy short, so I decided to skip it altogether and went straight to the office. Given the two-hour time difference back east, I could get in a couple of phone calls to the Boston PD on another case.
It was a good hour before Hazel was due to arrive, and as much as her mothering got to me, the office was a bleak place without her around, at least in the early morning hours. I managed to get most of my phoning out of the way before a warm, wonderful aroma and the sharp sweetness of something unrecognizable announced the arrival of my client.
Del still looked like an adolescent—great genes, probably—and blessed with a comeliness that transcended male and female. It was a blend of both, I suppose. But for the first time since I’d known him, he had bloodshot eyes—a refreshing reminder he was merely mortal. The aroma he brought with him came from hot, pungent coffee from the deli down the street, and the unidentified stimulus was a warm danish.
He struggled to balance two plastic-lidded cups of steaming coffee and a white bakery bag, barely managing to set them on my desk without dumping everything all over my pale green saxony carpet. I reached for one of the coffees as Del plopped into a chair across from me. Wordlessly he opened the bag and took out a couple of warm cheese danish.
“You look like hell.” I took a sip of the brew and laid one of the pastries on a napkin. “Damn, that’s good coffee.”
“Yeah, well, you look pretty too.” He picked up the other cup and took off the lid.
“Speaking of pretty, I don’t think Emilio’s the one trying to yank your chain.”
Del froze with the cup inches from his lips. He put it back on the desk without drinking. “What are you talking about? He’s the only one who has the pictures.”
“Well, strictly speaking, that’s not true.”
Del shrank with mortification as I outlined my findings to date, alternating the delicious bits of narrative with tasty bites of pastry. His coffee cooled as he slumped in the chair, taking the verbal body blows without uttering a word until I finished my report.
“Harding?” he asked in a small voice. “Richard Harding of Premier Tank & Plating? How did he get his hands on them?”
“I’ll leave that to your powers of deduction. You must have some since you claim to be a lawyer.”
“Come on, I’m paying your bills. How did he get them?”
“That’s not germane to the investigation. I found them and retrieved them, and that’s all that matters.”
“Vince, you’re enjoying this way too much.”
I sobered, or pretended to. “Any reason Harding would want the upper hand with you?”
“None that I know of. I was the lead attorney in his plant-expansion fight. Still represent him in a union matter. He ought to be cheering me on, not distracting me.”
“Way I figure it, he glommed onto a couple of the photos when he saw them. For leverage in case you had a disagreement.”
Del nodded. “Sounds about right. But he can’t do that now, right?”
“I recovered Harding’s copies of the pictures and deleted them from his computer. I’m no expert, but so far as I can tell, they’re gone. Before we leave Premier, there’s one other possibility to discuss.”
“What’s that?”
“The pictures were locked in Harding’s office. What if some of the help rifled his files and handed over copies to the union people?”
“Oh shit!” Del exclaimed. “But wait, wouldn’t they just contact me and threaten to reveal the photos?”
“That makes sense, but maybe it’s like you said: you validate your vulnerability if you pay the five thousand.”
“I don’t think so. Demanding money is a patently criminal act. No reputable law firm would be a party to that.” He paused before shrugging. “But you never know.”
“A law firm doesn’t have to be involved. Maybe the union people are doing it on their own.”
He dry-washed his face. “So what do we do?”
“I’ll phone Harding to see if anyone broke into his computer.”
Del seemed to have lost his appetite for the moment, so I confiscated his danish. No use letting it go to waste.
“By the way, assuming Emilio was the only one with the photos was dumb. He had to get the film developed somewhere, didn’t he?”
“He could have done that at home.”
“Come on, this is Emilio we’re talking about. And if he didn’t do it, somebody did.”
“True.”
“And you never considered he’d use the photos as bait for new johns?”
He groaned. “Never crossed my mind. Damn, who else has seen them?”
“Emilio gave me a few names, but I don’t know if he gave me all of them. He’s pretty active, and having one of Albuquerque’s leading attorneys as a satisfied customer isn’t hurting his rep any.”
“I’ll hurt more than his rep if I ever get my hands on the little shit.”
“In my book it would be justifiable homicide, but the justice system might take another view. Which brings us to the question of why aren’t you returning my calls? If it’s not important enough for you to respond, then it’s not important enough for me to pursue. Maybe we ought to forget about the whole thing.”