The Zozobra Incident

by Don Travis

  “And this kid’s the same bozo who split up the two of you last year?”

  “You can imagine the embarrassment that caused Del.”

  “Not enough. Not near enough. So, where are you on the investigation?”

  “I don’t want a file opened, Gene. Not until Del decides to file a complaint. Okay?”

  “Sure. But the patrol officers will report the firebombing. If the other shit leaks out, that’s just too bad.”

  “Fair enough.” I gave him the details.

  When I finished, he eyed me doubtfully. “You sure you don’t want a file opened on the blackmail attempt?”

  “That’s Del’s call, not mine.”

  “That was true until they threatened you too. But we’ll play it your way. Still, it looks like you could use some help.”

  “No question about that.”

  “You used the K-Y Lab for the notes?” I nodded and he continued. “They’re as good as anybody, so that end’s covered.”

  “But I sure would like to know whose name is on Ship-n-Mail box 2223 on Juan Tabo. And where the mail from that box is forwarded.”

  “As long as we can open a file on the Molotov cocktail, I’ll see what I can do. After all, it’s a lead to the perpetrators, right?”

  “Appreciate the effort, and your concern. You didn’t have to come over here, you know.”

  “Hey, what are friends for?”

  “Yeah. Appreciate it, amigo.”

  He shrugged off my thanks and took his leave.

  As soon as Gene’s unmarked police car pulled away from the curb, I locked the house and ran for the Impala.

  Twenty minutes later I eased past Emilio’s place. His Mustang was still in front of the apartment, but if he was inside, he’d play hell before he answered my knock. On the other hand, maybe he hadn’t had time to get back yet. Although the police and firemen delayed me by a good hour, he would have had to call someone to pick him up, or hike to a stop and wait for a city bus, which would require at least one transfer. Of course, he could have caught a taxi.

  I tucked the Chevy out of sight around the corner and walked back to wait him out in a small grape arbor in a corner of the backyard. The little alcove had some outdoor furniture, so I dusted off a metal chair and settled down to watch. As the house at the front of the property appeared unoccupied at the moment, I shouldn’t get busted for trespassing. From here there was no direct view of the garage apartment’s door, but nobody could approach or leave without crossing my line of sight.

  Half an hour later, a restored gunmetal-gray ’63 Ford Fairlane with green flames emblazoned on the hood eased into the driveway. Emilio bailed out of the front passenger’s seat as José Zapata, the thug called Zancón, eased out of the driver’s side and ate up the distance to the front door with his long stride. He was well named, that one. Long and lanky described him perfectly. So Emilio had called on the Santos to haul him home. I wondered about those chores he alluded to the other night, but what he’d said made sense. Anyone would have made Zancón for a hood. It wasn’t only his dress and tattoos; the man owned an attitude that screamed gangster.

  On the other hand, Emilio Prada cleaned up very well. He was the very picture of an attractive young man when he wasn’t trolling for gay trade. There was probably a lot he could do for the Saints.

  The two men remained inside the apartment for thirty minutes or more before emerging with boxes and suitcases. Emilio was clearing out. From fright over the attack at my home or merely to escape my clutches? Probably a little of both. He’d sure turned rabbit when the firebomb hit my window.

  This neighborhood was old enough to have alleys behind the houses, so I let myself out a back gate and made it to my Impala before the other two cars turned north on Coors. They were probably headed for the freeway.

  Zancón’s Ford was only a couple of blocks ahead of me, but Emilio’s Mustang was farther down the street. Was the gangster guarding the hustler’s back or merely going his own way? With one car between the Fairlane and my Impala, we eased to a stop at a traffic light. Emilio had made it through and turned east onto I-40.

  Minutes later my Chevy trailed the Fairlane onto the expressway ramp where the highway dropped abruptly into the broad Rio Grande Valley. Sitting on low ground on the far side of the river, Albuquerque’s skyline was singularly unimpressive from this viewpoint. The massive bulk of Sandia Peak dominated the eastern horizon. A speck in the distance was probably Emilio. Zancón goosed his car as soon as he merged with freeway traffic, and we closed enough on the Mustang to watch Emilio switch to the right lane and enter the maze of blue-striped exits and flyways of the Big I interchange. I wasn’t close enough to determine if he took the exit south or the overpass leading north. Zancón gave me no clue as he continued east past the interchange.

  If Emilio was running for Mexico, that was not necessarily a bad thing. He was pretty well bled dry of information and would be out of harm’s way. Besides, he was dead right; the blackmailer was probably someone I’d already interviewed. Or somebody close enough to be alarmed by my questions. That meant the puzzle was now mine to figure out. Even though I had no idea of what was really going on, that thought was strangely uplifting. As I had learned long ago, there were always two stories unfolding: the apparent one and the one lying undetected below the surface. The surface plot was slowly coming into focus; the other one remained murky.

  I pulled out my cell and called Gene. He agreed to put out a “report location only” bulletin on Emilio’s Mustang.

  Chapter 9

  I SAT in the office Monday morning trying to go over notes from the investigation, but Paul’s image kept intruding. Finally I gave up on working and simply sat back in my chair to consider what was happening to me. Why was I becoming so wrapped up in this extraordinary young man? Maybe that was why. Extraordinarily handsome. Extraordinarily athletic. Sexy. Interesting. Just sitting and talking to him engaged all my senses. He hadn’t led a very complicated or unusual existence for a South Valley kid, yet because it was his existence, it became complicated and unusual to me. I shook my head and sighed. This was getting way past the physical, and because of it, the physical was immeasurably better.

  He’d left last Thursday night, actually Friday morning, without making any arrangements for later. Maybe I could sneak out for some pool therapy. I’d been a little less than consistent about it lately, as he had been quick to remind me.

  A phone call from Richard Harding was a welcome interruption. His electronics guru had found no evidence of hacking into his computer files, although he cautioned there was no way to be absolutely certain. Wasted words because I already knew that, plus I wasn’t sure if I could believe him or not.

  I hung up wondering what had been accomplished. Probably nothing. Evidence of a break-in would prove something; absence of such evidence was meaningless.

  Del phoned, interrupting that thought. “Addleston knows,” he blurted. “I can tell from the way he acts.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise. Sturgis’s promise not to mention it to his brother was halfhearted at best. The last time we talked, you were going to warn the partners.”

  “I haven’t gotten around to it yet. This thing has me rattled to the point where I’m not thinking straight.”

  “Where’s that steely-eyed, iron-nerved lawyer I used to know?”

  “He’s still in here somewhere—I think. Vince, will you go see Sturgis and tell me if I’m being paranoid. I need to know for sure if he spilled the beans to his brother, but I’m not ready to confront Addleston yet. The office politics are too complicated.”

  “Okay, but there’s something about this situation that doesn’t make sense, not for a simple blackmail scheme. What are you involved in that warrants a threat against me? A rivalry for a law partnership wouldn’t take things that far, nor would a labor union battle over an organizing attempt. I’m having trouble stretching this thing to the level of a death threat.”

  “Somebody’s just tryi
ng to scare you off, that’s all.”

  “That might be true, but doesn’t a threat on my life raise the stakes in a court of law? And I told you about the attempt to torch my place. That is definitely an escalation. Hell, it’s an overtly criminal act.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Del, here’s the point where I have to get personal—really personal. Who are you seeing right at the moment?”

  “Seeing? Well, nobody at the present.”

  “Any recent breakup?”

  “Not since Emilio.”

  “Anyone who’s jealous enough to go off his rocker?”

  “Absolutely no one. I’ve been so busy lately, I’m practically living the life of a monk. Well, there was that lawyer in Dallas a few days ago, but that was entirely casual. And the blackmail attempt predated him. No, there’s no one I’m intimately involved with, now or in the recent past, who would try anything like this. Nobody except Emilio.”

  “How about anyone who might resent your lifestyle?”

  “You mean like someone who hates gays? I’m sure I’m surrounded by them. We all are. But there have been no incidents lately.”

  “You’re a pretty good lawyer. You win more than your share of cases. Have there been any recently that might have sent a losing defendant off on a tangent?”

  He cited a few of his more adversarial cases, and I wrote them down so Charlie and I could check on the parties involved. I hung up after assuring him I’d go see Sturgis.

  DECIDING A face-to-face meeting would be more productive than a phone call, I headed for UNM. There was a parking spot on the street, so I jaywalked across Central to the C&J building. The professor was in his office shuffling papers at his desk. His face turned cautious when I rapped on his door.

  “I thought I might be hearing from you again.”

  That comment confirmed Del’s worst fears. “You let me down, Steve.”

  His expression turned sheepish. “Yes, I’m afraid I did. James and I had lunch the other day, and he confided he was up for a partnership. When I heard his potential rival in the matter was Mr. Dahlman, I’m afraid I let the cat out of the bag. I do, however, feel justified in my indiscretion since partners in a prestigious law firm should be of good reputation.”

  “I’m shocked to hear you say that, Professor.”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “Why?”

  “Isn’t it a bit hypocritical to consider a gay attorney as somehow less qualified than a straight one?”

  Momentary confusion crossed his face. “Yes, of course it is. But that’s not the way I looked at the situation. I merely assumed that if Mr. Dahlman was under the threat of blackmail, something unpleasant might come of it, such as bad publicity.”

  “We’re all vulnerable to pressure from others to some extent. It merely seems strange that one member of the gay community sees nothing wrong with torpedoing another—simply for being gay.”

  Sturgis flushed with anger. “You’re welcome to take that attitude if you wish. Life is more than one’s sexual orientation, you know.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Steve. I’m as gay as you are.”

  His look and body language told me he hadn’t suspected. “You’ve learned to hide it well.”

  “That may be, although I suspect it’s simply me being me.”

  My mission accomplished, there was no point in trying to dump a bigger load of guilt on him, so we exchanged strained good-byes. I gave Del the bad news on my cell from the car.

  Charlie was waiting for me when I got back to the office. He’d satisfied himself that the Blah-firm receptionist was clean. Belinda had worked for the partnership for ten years, and her husband, Yul Gerard, was an engineer for the local power company. However, Charlie’s poking into the Royal Crest had turned up a maintenance supervisor with a record.

  “His name’s Luther Hickey. Went down for knifing a guy.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Hickey was a crew chief for an oil-drilling company down in Hobbs with a rep as a good worker but a hard drinker. At a company Christmas party a few years ago, he got into it with another worker. Claimed the guy was making indecent remarks to his wife. During a dustup, he stabbed the guy. Wasn’t fatal, but he went down for a nickel at the state pen on the south side of Santa Fe anyway.

  “Hickey was paroled after three and a half years, but he ran straight into the problem most ex-cons have. No one would hire him. He finally landed a job with Royal Crest Management. He’s called a supervisor, but all that really means is he does the maintenance on his shift. He’s not making much money, and his wife and family left him. He’s a bitter guy, BJ.”

  “Did he have any sort of relationship with Del?” I asked.

  “You mean Del’s lifestyle? No, I don’t think he’s Del’s type. Stocky, hairy, and rough. He’d probably haul out his knife if he got propositioned that way.”

  “You think he’s a homophobe?”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me. He seems like a hard case all the way around.”

  “Anything to tie him to Emilio?”

  “No, but Hickey was on the premises a lot, so he probably knew who came and went all the time. He might have met Emilio. He could have drawn his own conclusions even if he didn’t meet him face-to-face.”

  Charlie hadn’t talked directly to Hickey, but had gotten all of his information from coworkers, neighbors, and by checking his record. When I asked for a description of the man, he handed over a copy of Hickey’s mug shot and a company group photo of the local staff. “Like I said, stocky, hairy, and rough looking. His ears look like his papa used to haul him around by them when he was a kid.”

  I studied the photos, confirmed what Charlie had said, and thanked him for a job well done.

  HICKEY WASN’T on Emilio’s list, either by name or by description, but Charlie spent the next two weeks digging into his background and associates while I ran down two men I’d added to the list recently. One of them had looked promising, but neither led me anywhere.

  One afternoon in mid-July found me sitting in the waiting room of the James, Jamieson & Smith law office on San Pedro. A very nervous Estelle Bustamante kept glancing up from the receptionist’s desk. She’d almost jumped out of her pretty skin when I walked through the door and asked for an appointment with James or Jamieson—or even Smith. Sotto voce, I assured her this was not an attempt to sabotage her job or sink her reputation. From the way those big brown eyes kept flicking in my direction, she did not totally buy my declaration.

  Eventually the most colorless man I have ever seen outside of a true albino strode down the hall. Although he stood at least six three, he couldn’t have weighed more than 140–50 at the most. His hair was like dry winter grass, his irises the color of oyster shells. All that kept him from being completely bland was a pronounced bluish tinge beneath his eyes and around his cuticles.

  The body might have looked anemic, but the rich bass booming out of his thin chest was healthy enough to reach every part of the building. “I’m Roger James. What can I do for you, Mr. Vinson? I should let you know that I’ve heard of you. Sherry DeVine is a friend of mine, and she told me how much you helped with her problem.”

  “Not much of a recommendation, I’m afraid. I normally don’t do domestic work, but I knew Sherry back when she was Sherry Robinson. Jerry even longer. How do you know them?”

  “Her, not him. My wife and I belong to a bridge club. We became casually acquainted with Sherry there. At any rate, how may I help you?”

  “Mr. James, I am a licensed confidential investigator with a reasonably well-balanced clientele, except I’m lacking clients directly or indirectly tied to organized labor. As that is an area that interests me, I’d like to correct the deficiency.”

  His eyes turned a bit grayer. This guy knew a fairy tale when he heard one. He cleared his throat. “I will certainly let my partners know of your interest. However, as you can imagine, we already work with a couple of your competitors. Both, I might
add, come out of the labor movement.”

  “Duly noted. I must also be candid and let you know I’ve worked with a lawyer in the Stone, Hedges, Martinez law firm once or twice.”

  “I see. That, of course, might present a conflict of interest. They represent Premier Tank & Plating, with whom we are engaged in a dispute.”

  “An organizing attempt, as I recall.”

  “Yes. The union believes management has used unlawful practices to discourage an honest vote of its workers in the matter.”

  “I suppose that would put me outside the pale, so to speak. I’m curious. Is the union game as rough as it was in the old days?”

  “If you mean do plant managers hire scabs to knock heads when legitimate workers protest, not so much anymore. Neither side shoots at the other, at least not normally.”

  “That’s progress, I suppose. How about intimidation? You know, threats, blackmail, that sort of thing.”

  “That depends on your definition and probably your viewpoint. I’m sure there’s been a little ‘who was that woman I saw you out with the other night’ sort of thing. But threats of physical violence? Outright blackmail? No, I don’t think so.” He paused and gave me a cool look. “Mr. Vinson, are you here as a representative of the Stone firm?”

  He had me unless I weaseled.

  I weaseled. “The Blahs have not hired me to investigate the matter or gather information on their behalf.”

  “The Blahs?”

  I chuckled. “That’s what the guys down at the police station call the Stone firm. You know, Stone, Hedges, Martinez, Blah, Blah, Blah.”

  He laughed aloud. “That’s rich. The Blahs. It fits them to a T. I’ve got to pass that one along.”

  “So long as it’s not for attribution. Well, you have my card. If something comes up where there is no conflict of interest or divided loyalties, I would appreciate your consideration.”