by Don Travis
He paused as car doors banged and my neighbor’s frantic, quavering voice urged someone into the backyard. Hickey apparently realized the cops had arrived and decided to finish what he’d come for. That was okay. I wanted some satisfaction as well. He lowered his head and lumbered forward. But he was unsteady, and I sidestepped and delivered a hard jab to his ribs. He let out a gasp but whirled faster than I expected. Hickey was a brawler, but I was a fighter. I kept my distance and let him do the hard work.
On his next lunge forward, he clipped my left shoulder. I used the momentum that created to spin into his left side, delivering him a brutal blow to the ear. I could almost see the bells that set off inside his head. I followed up with a left to his nose, but I’d lost some of the power in that arm, so it didn’t hurt him much. I backed off and watched as he gathered himself for another go at me.
When he moved I timed his rush and flexed my right foot into his left knee. He lurched sideways right into my roundhouse. He did a one-eighty and blundered into my birdbath, breaking the concrete stand. Hickey sprawled on the ground, making no effort to get to his feet.
By then two uniformed patrolmen had arrived, batons in hand.
Holding both arms over my head, I stood stock-still. I wasn’t about to provoke them while they figured out the situation. “I’m B. J. Vinson,” I yelled. “This is my home. I’m former APD, so I know the drill.”
“Just hold it like you are, man, till we get this all straightened out.”
Mrs. Wardlow was right behind them. “Well, of course, this is Mr. Vinson. He’s been my neighbor for years. This other bozo is the troublemaker.” She picked up Hickey’s bat and grasped it like a seasoned Isotopes batter. “He attacked Mr. Vinson with this.”
After things settled out, I thanked the cops, kissed Mrs. Wardlow’s powdered cheek, and watched them haul Hickey off. Then, after statements were given and everyone had left—and my heart rate settled down—I dialed Del’s cell phone and told him he could go home.
I LOOKED at the man seated opposite Gene and me in the police interview room—a bear of a man with a white bandage across his forehead and a swollen, crooked nose. Luther Hickey looked almost like a teddy bear compared to how he looked yesterday afternoon in my backyard. Fury no longer burned from those dark eyes. Now he was simply resigned to what would come next. The three of us were alone in the room; Hickey had waived his right to an attorney.
He shifted his glance from Gene to me. “What’s he doing here?”
“We have a few questions for you.”
“Kinda questions?”
“Like why you tried to blackmail Mr. Dahlman in 5100?”
“I what? Fuck, I didn’t do no such thing. Blackmail him how? The whole apartment house knows he’s queer as a two-headed toad. And besides, who gives a shit? Now, if he had a dog and it crapped in the hallway, they’d all be up in arms. But he can bring in his faggot friends and do fuck-all in his apartment, and nobody gives a damn.”
It was the opening round in an hour’s grilling of the ex-con. Gene came at him every way he knew how, and then I took over. He denied having any pictures, or ever seeing any pictures, of Del and Emilio. In the middle of it, the detectives Gene had sent to search Hickey’s car, apartment, and cubbyhole at the Royal Crest reported they’d come up dry. Gloria pretty much finished things off when she phoned my cell to say Hickey’s handwriting didn’t match the extortion envelopes. Finally we gave up and had him returned to the cellblock.
“Sorry, BJ, we can’t tie him to the blackmail scheme, but at least he’ll be out of circulation.” Gene scratched his left ear. “I understand the DA’s going to press deadly assault charges, so you’ll probably have to testify.”
I watched the guards march Hickey down the hall. “No, he waived counsel. And when you charge him with assault on Alan Mendoza and me, he’ll confess. He wants to go back to Santa Fe.”
“That’s sad. You gotta be down really low when the pen looks better than what you have on the outside. But there are people like that. We’ll see he gets his wish.”
I waited until I was back at the office to phone Del. He heard me out.
“Do you think he is involved?”
“In all honesty I don’t think so. But we’ll keep looking to see if he ties into anyone else we’re looking at.”
Del indulged in some cussing. At length he sighed. “I was sure you were going to tell me this nightmare was all over.”
“No such luck.”
Chapter 15
MY LAST Zozobra, back when I was a sixteen-year-old high school sophomore full of piss and vinegar, had come in the midst of a vicious and unresolved battle to determine who I was. Susie Garcia’s perky breasts and Billy Balkins’s—Ballsy to his intimates—lanky physique both stimulated my raging adolescent libido. At that moment in time, the internal confusion over which of the two was more important to me eclipsed the excitement of Zozobra’s demise. My recollection of the event was reduced to the loud groans and moans of the flaming marionette, most likely because they mimicked my own smothered gasps of frustration.
For years legions of locals and guests from all over the world have scribbled their cares and woes on scraps of paper to go up in flames with Old Man Gloom in the desperate hope that the year’s hardships would die with the frightful ogre. I was more than ready to be freed from my plague of problems—both professional and personal.
I arrived in the capital city early Thursday afternoon and checked into the La Fonda Hotel. I took time to have a late lunch of hot pepper steak in the restaurant and to have them pack me a corned beef on rye to take with me. If I recalled correctly, it would be a long time before I had an opportunity to eat again. In a nearby shop, I bought a canvas tote bag, a small blanket, and a supply of snacks and bottled water.
I intended to hoof it straight up Washington Street to Fort Marcy Park to beat the mob, which was expected to number over twenty thousand this year. Instead I was lured into the town square. The burning of Zozobra traditionally opened the Santa Fe Fiesta, and an art-and-food street show was already going strong on the plaza kitty-cornered across from the hotel. Rows of colorful tents reminded me of woodblock prints I’d seen of medieval European fairs.
The plaza generally attracted pretty good crowds on any given day, but there were literally throngs of people tromping the grass as they moved from one booth to the other. I had no interest in buying anything; nonetheless, I shuffled along with everyone else to look at an astounding array of goods: paintings, Native American pottery and jewelry, Mexican tinwork, and Spanish retablos. Some of it was pretty good stuff, and I ended up spending a few dollars on a silver ring with a thunderbird motif and a couple of strands of heishi with a few turquoise nuggets scattered throughout. Hazel would like the necklace. The ring? Well it would probably fit Paul’s finger… if he ever bothered to speak to me again.
I added the purchases to my tote bag and turned away from the booth in time to spy two young men ahead of me. I had only a fleeting glimpse through the crowd before they turned left at the end of the row of booths. Had that been Paul? It sort of looked like him… in a way. I would probably have dismissed the idea if the other man with him hadn’t resembled Emilio. That possible combo was too much to simply ignore. Damn, why hadn’t I glanced up a moment earlier? With my curiosity meter in the red zone, I pushed through the holiday browsers, earning a dirty look or two along the way.
When I reached the end of the line of booths, I paused to scan San Francisco Street, but the two men I’d spotted were nowhere in sight. A bunch of people rushed here and there or strolled along like they had nothing to do. I went down the next line of booths, shoving my way through the throng and making a nuisance of myself. More glares.
I spent an hour vainly searching, although I did spot two young men who could possibly have been the couple I’d seen. Neither Paul nor Emilio was anywhere on the plaza or across the street where more Native American vendors sat in the overhang of the old Governor’s Palace, selling wa
res spread on brightly colored blankets. I searched every side street in the vicinity before finally giving up and heading to Fort Marcy Park.
There had been some changes in the eighteen years since I’d last attended a burning. The most obvious one was the security. I was early enough that the crowds hadn’t really started gathering, but it still took me a while to get through the security check. They searched me as thoroughly as the air transit people had done the last time I flew commercially. Teams of uniformed officers circulated inside the gate, usually a Bernalillo County sheriff’s deputy paired with a Santa Fe police officer. As Bernalillo County was Albuquerque, not Santa Fe, they were probably Gang Unit deputies.
As soon as I passed into the Fort Marcy Ball Park proper, I came face-to-face with other radical changes. Although Kiwanis teams worked year round building the giant puppet we were going to burn tonight, the final construction—or more properly, the final erection—took place on the field. In the old days we came early, along with a host of children, to watch this final step in old Zozobra’s creation. Not now. He already stood on a huge stage fenced off from the public area. I used to walk down to the big marionette and stuff pieces of paper containing my written woes and cares into the monster’s legs to be destroyed when he went up in smoke. Uh-uh, not now. To collect the scraps of paper, the Santa Fe New Mexican staffed a booth with people. They even provided the pencils and paper. At the proper time, they would haul the box of woes to Zozobra for incineration. The new arrangement took some of the magic out of it.
I was early enough to find a good spot to throw my blanket down and establish my claim. This year the big effigy’s robes were white with black and crimson belt, buttons, and bow tie. His oversized head was topped with bright yellow streamers representing hair. Huge, round red eyes glared from ebony sockets. Heavy crimson lips outlined in black framed a sneering mouth.
“Does it really work?”
The voice at my side startled me. A man about my age stood staring at the towering monster. He was my height and weight, with a smooth milk chocolate complexion.
“The last time I did this I was sixteen, and it sure as hell didn’t take care of those problems.”
He grinned. “Only time did that, I’ll bet.”
Enjoying the byplay, I raised my voice over the gathering crowd. “Crystallized them, maybe, but didn’t snuff them out.” I noticed he had no blanket… or supplies of any other kind, for that matter. I scooted over and patted my blanket. “Join me?”
He sat down. “Thanks. My name’s Darrel.” His grip was firm.
“I’m BJ. Are you a foreigner or a Santa Fean?” The question was pure chitchat. The odds of a thirtysomething-year-old black man being a native of Santa Fe were modest at best.
“An immigrant from Mississippi. You?”
“Born and bred in Albuquerque. To these people, that not only makes me a foreigner, but the Antichrist, as well.”
Darrel turned out to be an architect recently lured to the City Different by a local firm, so this was his first Zozobra. As we sat on the blanket, we shared the bottles of water and power snacks I’d brought along. He was pleasant company, and I was able to satisfy some of his curiosity about the history of the place he now called home.
Speaking loudly to be heard over the crowd, I told Darrel how the Santa Fe Fiesta was a celebration started back in 1712 by the Marquis de Peñuelo, the governor of New Spain, to mark the reconquest of the city by Don Diego de Vargas following the Pueblo Revolt.
“They say that makes it the oldest civic celebration in North America.”
He put his lips to my ear. “You seem to know a lot about it.”
I turned my head and leaned in close. “I’ve been nuts about local history ever since I learned to read. My… uh, best friend and I used to take weekend trips all over the state. We found some interesting things. This is one of the more dramatic.”
“I’ve read about de Vargas and the Po’Pay revolt. Was that the start of burning up all your troubles in a big rag doll?”
He snatched his hand off the grass as someone came close to tromping on it. I glanced around. Our immediate area was getting pretty packed. Some were sitting, as we were, but others stood and unconsciously pressed forward, testing the boundaries established by the blanket we sat on. Many in the crowd were dressed in colorful costumes, adding to the pagan atmosphere of the night. A lot of them were on cell phones, frantically trying to find family or friends in the swarming sea of humanity.
At that moment the canned music died, replaced by a live band that was no less noisy. I leaned toward Darrel and shouted an answer to his question. “No, that came along later. In 1924 a Santa Fe artist named Will Shuster borrowed an idea from Mexican folklore and created a puppet he burned in his backyard to entertain friends. He named it Zozobra. That’s anxiety or gloom in Spanish. So he started a tradition of burning up people’s problems. Eventually he moved the burning to the city plaza, but when it got too big, they moved the whole shebang here to Fort Marcy Park.”
The people in front of us were seated as well, so we still had a view of Zozobra. He was constructed of wood, cloth, papier-mâché, and chicken wire, and stuffed with shredded paper, supposedly old police reports, paid mortgages, anything that caused angst.
Darrel eyed the monster and shouted. “That sucker must be fifty or sixty feet tall.”
“Sometime back Shuster signed over all the rights to Zozobra to the Kiwanis club, and they made a moneymaking project out of him. For charity, of course. They tell me the club expects to raise fifty or sixty thousand dollars for charities with this burning. Over the years they’ve collected over a half million to sponsor scholarships, youth projects, pay handicapped youth camp fees, and things like that.”
“That’s good stuff,” Darrel yelled. “Got to see if I can get hooked up with an outfit like that.”
“They’d be happy to have you.”
Something thumped me in the back of the head. I turned to see a woman holding a big purse. She and her companion were standing on my blanket. She muttered an apology. I glanced at my watch—7:00 p.m. Still an hour and a half before the real show began, and we were already losing space to the pressing mob.
“I see he’s animated,” Darrel said.
The puppet’s limbs were twitching. His head moved back and forth as if he were surveying the crowd. Occasional amplified moans and groans overpowered the noise of the mob.
“Yeah, he sets up quite a racket when he’s burning.”
“So he goes out with a bang.”
“A groan and a moan and a screech and a bang.” I wasn’t certain how much of this he was hearing. “You’ll see for yourself before long.”
The crowd grew larger, noisier, and more restive as evening arrived. Booze was banned in the park, but flasks abounded, and they sure as hell didn’t contain sassafras tea. Another band had taken the stage, and if anything it was more enthusiastic and louder than the first. Every thump of the bass reverberated inside my chest. It was just like being at an outdoor rock concert. Pretty soon we’d have to give in to the press of people and stand up, but first I shared my corned beef sandwich and some water with Darrel.
After that we stood, and I tried to retrieve my blanket. There were too many people standing on it, so I abandoned it to its fate. Eventually the decibel level grew to a pitch where conversation became impossible.
We stood and craned our necks to do some more people watching. Just as I figured my back was going to give out, a blare of trumpets heralded the approach of the traditional procession from St. Francis Cathedral. The Conquistadores Band approached the base of Zozobra’s stage from a gate that spared them from having to squeeze through the mob. Immediately “The Star-Spangled Banner” blared through the speakers, and the crowd sang—no, shouted—along.
Then the tempo switched from triumphant to funereal. Black-robed and hooded Kiwanis members led the parade bearing the effigy of the Mother Mary in the persona of La Conquistadora. Gloomies, eight- and
nine-year-old children who dance as ghosts around Zozobra, preceded the Fire Spirit Dancer, Queen of Gloom, Gloom Princesses, handlers, dignitaries, and a seemingly endless host of others.
As darkness fell a synthesizer blared when white-sheeted Gloomies began cavorting before Zozobra. The Fire Spirit Dancer, clad in a flowing red costume, drove away the mischievous children in an acrobatic dance originally created by a New York ballet dancer. A drum crew added to the din of the frenetic synthesizer. A band added brass and reed instruments as the dance reached its tempestuous climax. Then the master of ceremonies stepped forward and whipped the assembled crowd into a chant of “Burn him! Burn him!”
As the demand for his death grew, Zozobra flailed and roared in protest. I could almost believe he was some grotesque human personification facing a burning at the stake. It was eerie.
At last, Santa Fe’s black-suited mayor took the stage to solemnly pronounce the death sentence to the screaming crowd. Instantly weird green lights lit the periphery of the doomed monster. As the official stepped away, the crowd broke into the chant again. Cries of anticipation reached a crescendo, grown men shouted, women screamed, and children yelled. And everyone pressed forward for a closer look. For a moment, I wondered if I’d be able to draw another breath. The panic passed, although the pressure continued to mount. The noise was indescribable.
Then the Torch Handler gave in to the demands of the frenzied crowd by touching a brand to the skirts of the giant. Old Man Gloom’s grunts and groans became squeals of agony. His arms flailed helplessly as a white-hot blaze raced up his loins. Thousands of throats let out a deafening roar when the first fusies, little containers of black powder concealed in the marionette, fired off. The band struck up the Mexican revolutionary tune “La Cucaracha.”
The animated creature continued to flail as parts of him began to come apart. Gloom was now totally consumed by flames. His lower jaw fell away, blasted apart by fireworks concealed in his head. The roaring fire reached for the sky. It was a miracle half of Santa Fe wasn’t incinerated by now. Of course, Zozobra’s auto-da-fé came at the end of New Mexico’s monsoon season when the countryside was wetter than usual—at least in theory.