by David Knop
Lowriders are not just cars, they are lifestyles, social medium, expressions of the owner. There’s an extensive social network built around them. A parking lot full of lowriders and music was an instant town plaza. This was a prime place to ask questions, and not because these people were involved in drugs and murder. The opposite is true. This tight community knew the kind of people to avoid. The kind I was looking for.
Spectators strolled up and down the rows admiring the cars and talking with the owners. I kept an eye on them. Some folks around this town knew me and not in a friendly way. In the past, I’d been on cases that ended with sentences for a few of the locals and running into their kin could be awkward, painful, or worse.
People seemed to be enjoying themselves and I wished I could, but I was on the job. I walked up and down the rows, then stood in front of a 1984, bagged and body-dropped Fleetwood Caddy with shaved door handles, windshield squirters, rain gutters, and gas door. This ride sported a chromed chain steering wheel, plush leather interior, and a dazzling candy red paint job that must have cost over twenty-five grand on its own. I walked around it and looked for the owner but couldn’t find him.
While keeping an eye out for the owner of the H3, I wandered by a ‘95 gray Chevy Silverado with off-white leather and custom suede interior. Every visible mechanical part was chromed: wheels, shocks, hydraulics, axles, engine. The truck’s bed was crammed with pinstriped hydraulic equipment. What little space remained in the bed displayed trophies proving this show truck could jump. A small sign in front advertised for sale.
“You sellin’?” I asked the owner, a local wearing a short-sleeve black t-shirt that displayed the seal of Chicano Nation, Aztlan.
He beamed and said, “Done with it. Old lady says I need another one.” He laughed and launched into the details of the construction of the love of his life. I could keep up with most of the minutiae because I had built my own Jeep from junk. I feigned interest and waited for an opening to redirect the conversation to what I wanted.
As he became lost in his life, heat rose on my face. I could feel someone’s eyes burning on me. I crossed my arms and turned to the side and pretended to listen while I scanned the crowd. No one seemed to pay any attention to me. I turned back to my lecturer who appeared to be cooing to his engine.
The sense of being scrutinized returned and I kept my head turned to my one-man tour guide while looking around under my eyebrows. This time I spotted a bearded man staring at me from behind a juiced low-low Impala jumping in front of a cheering crowd. The man appeared, disappeared, reappeared behind the front end of the Chevy as it bounced up, stalled at the top, and then slammed to the ground only to bounce up again. He vanished as soon as our eyes locked.
I circled to get a better look while trying to appear aimless. It didn’t work because when I regained sight of him, he stood by three full-bearded men looking straight at me.
This is where I weighed options. Option Easy: turn and walk away. Option Smart: stand my ground and glare like a pissed brahma. Option Stupid: confront the four men by jumping in with both feet.
My old Marine Corps drill instructor reappeared in my head. Whenever he materialized, I was in for it. “You got one option and only one, Marine,” he said, his hot breath on my face. “Move it!” my DI barked, the sensation real enough to ring in my ears.
Bravado and brains don’t always mix, so I shit-canned my good sense, and puffed myself up while ignoring the feeling my five-ten height was not that impressive. I walked over to the group of hostiles and asked, “I know you?”
One man—had to be the man—showed missing teeth. “Who the fuck’re you?”
I gave them the up and down, made a show of it. Each of his group wore the same sort of garb: blue jeans, black Nike skateboard shoes, t-shirts boasting Thrasher or Redemption. They watched my eyes. I said, “From around here?”
“Who the fuck’re you?” Same guy, same question.
“Watch your language. Lotta kids here.”
His lips, nearly hidden behind his beard, split into a smile. I took it as an invitation to put a fist in it.
Before I could, a voice from behind me said, “Ah, Romero. Estado buscando para usted, cabrón.”
I turned. Six enormous Hispanic males salivated over me like Wolf. My new-found enemies from Colorado would have to take hind-tit to the locals.
Chapter 7
The bangers were led by Ángel “Wookie” Gutierrez who was doing the talking. I’d put him behind bars many years ago, as well as his brother. Father, too, come to think of it. Wookie was blue with tats beneath a thick layer of arm hair, cue ball-headed, squat and roundish low-centered body. Prison-yard muscle rippled under the fat.
“Que casualidad, findin’ you here, vato,” he said loud enough for his homies, and the Coloradan boarders, and the surrounding lowriders to hear.
While watching others, it turned out, I was watched. I should’ve picked up on it earlier. But while I was focusing too much on finding informants and the Colorado boarders, I’d neglected my rear.
Wookie knew everybody who had done time most everywhere in the state. And everybody knew Wookie. For him, finding me was easy. Even in a crowd this size. People hurried away with their wives and children. The crowded parking lot emptied in seconds, leaving empty car displays.
Wookie smiled showing teeth, alpha dog at the head of his pack. “Long time, homes.”
His voice sounded friendly, but I knew better. No doubt, he referred to his hard time in Vacaville after the local sheriff, the FBI, and I nailed him pulling a couple for-hire murders for an LA gang. I was surprised to see him out in the world.
Wookie scrutinized me up and down, then the Colorado snowboarders, then me, maybe deciding who he wanted to hurt first. To the Coloradans he said, “You pinche chingaderos still here?”
The boarders looked at Wookie, then at me, then at the bangers. I expected them to play cool, but they obviously knew Wookie. They hustled to a black H3 parked behind the crowd and laid rubber out of the parking lot. Wookie smirked.
Being alone with Wookie Gutierrez is not what I had in mind when I started this investigation, especially alone with Wookie and six huge cholos. He closed in, heating my face with red chilé breath, “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now, cabrón?”
Any answer would be the wrong one, so I stayed silent.
“You owe me, Romero. You owe me time. Time in seg and the yard, man. For my brother and father, too. Entiendes?”
I understood; understood I had to get out of here or take my chances. I had some defensive moves, but not for six men ready for me to make them. Everyone but Wookie was packing, too.
“What do you want, Wookie?”
“For a long time, all I wanted was your heart, man. I planned it out, dreamt about it, man. Drew a picture of it on my cell. I could taste it. That’s how much I wanted it.” He drew an arm across his face, wiping my imagined blood from his lips.
“And now?” I readied without moving. Adrenalin surged through me, causing my legs to shake. I clenched my fists. If this was my day to die, a few of these assholes would join me.
He grabbed for a hip pocket. Wookie was famous in these parts for his knife work. The rush of self-preservation kicked me in the ass, and I lunged at him, but instead met a boot in my stomach from a man to his right. I ate dirt. His men laughed.
“¡Cállate! Wookie said. The gang shut up. “Take it easy, Romero. I got somethin’ to show you. It’s cool. Chill, homes.”
I stood. Spit dirt. Wiped my face with an arm. He handed me a photograph of a little girl. The photo shook in my fingers.
A three-year-old smiled out from the picture, raven-haired and clothed in a fluffy pink dress. Love and innocence radiated from her beaming face.
Wookie pointed at the photo. “That’s Ximena. Yeah, Ximena. I talk to her; she listens to me. That’s what ximena means.”
His daughter. “Beautiful like her mama,” I said. I’
d seen Wookie’s ex at trial.
“Ella es tu Salvador.”
“What?” Wookie’s thick Spanglish accent was tough to understand.
“She’s your savior ‘because I only want her, now. Not you. She’s mi bebé, and I want to love her like she love me.”
“Okay,” I said, voice flat and non-committal. I was not sure which way this was going, and my stomach signaled it didn’t either. I swallowed a bad taste.
“Sí, mijo. You are the great investigador. Everybody knows.” Wookie opened his eyes wide. No way in hell he meant it, despite the promotion from bastard to son. “I’m goin’ straight and she is my family, mi inspiración to stay straight. Gonna send her to college, man.”
“What do you want from me, Wookie.” My adrenaline was inching down and I wanted out of here before I crashed or he decided to kill me.
“She’s missing,” he said.
“Who?”
“My daughter, pendejo.” He pinched his eyebrows.
My status had dropped to stupid. This would not end well.
“Find her,” he said.
“Call your ex.”
Wookie smiled. “Esta muerta.”
The deadpan statement was ominous. To ask Wookie how his ex got to be dead would not help my position. “Call the police then.”
Wookie elevated his head. “How’s that gonna play out, cabrón?”
He had a point. Wookie Gutierrez had spent all his life in trouble before he went to Vacaville. The son of a Rio Arriba County deputy had been killed years before, but the body and critical evidence had never surfaced. Gutierrez was never indicted, but everyone in town knew he played a leading role. Wookie never took pains to deny it either, in fact, he had the deceased’s name tattooed on his forearm. Law enforcement officers in this part of New Mexico wanted Wookie’s blood and he knew it. That’s why he didn’t pack iron. No, going to the cops would not help find Wookie’s child.
“I got no jurisdiction off the rez.”
Wookie seemed incredulous. After all, I had arrested his ass years ago.
“Fuck that shit. You find her. I pay plenty,” he said.
“I don’t think I can help you, bro.” I caught myself looking for a door, but in this open parking lot there was no escape.
Wookie showed teeth. “Cabrón, I don’t ask nobody.” His crew spread out. I could probably make it through three, four of them before they shot or stabbed me, but those were not encouraging odds. For what it was worth, I threw my baddest testosterone eye.
It didn’t work. Wookie’s face wore the dead, indifferent glare of a predator. I took a step back and straightened up.
“Nothin’ I can do, man.” I held up my hands, turned, and walked away expecting a bullet. His eyes stung hard on my neck as I walked, but I preferred the stare. I also knew Wookie would not accept my refusal and I would see him later.
When I got to where I’d parked, my Jeep was gone. My beautiful ’53 custom that I’d poured my heart into back in the day. Damn near broke an arm putting in the Chevy V-8. My dad shit when he found out how much money I’d put into just the paint job.
I shook my fist at no one. “Jesus H. Christ,” I said.
My face heated as I shot glances around the lot. Maybe I’d parked it somewhere else. Maybe someone was playing a joke. No such luck.
Wookie and three of his thugs cruised by in a ‘64 Impala SS Rag Top, gloss black and blasting “Lowrider” by War. The cholos scowled, each face showing how much they’d hate to be anyone else. The others followed in a low-low ’67 pearled-cream Impala four-door, booming “Jeep Ass Niguh” by Masta Ace. The cars dipped and jumped like Weasel then sped off.
I looked for a rock to throw, but the lot was as clean as their tricked-out Chevys. I stood there like a fool, my face aching from grinding teeth.
Chapter 8
The Lowrider Fest parking lot repopulated as I walked away. People who live near psychos like Wookie develop a sort of danger-detecting radar like Squirrel. And, like Squirrel, they know when to run and when to come together again.
Now I was without wheels. Wookie must’ve known I would do anything for my car. The image of it being driven by some scumbag grated. I shuddered at the image of my Jeep rigged low-low and scraping sparks off the pavement. I walked to the south end of Española. My legs weakened like a newborn calf, but I headed out on the long walk home.
I was hungry, but I couldn’t cook for shit. The thought of me fumbling around in Costancia’s kitchen on my own reminded me of the divorce papers still sitting on my desk. I scolded myself for surrendering to self-pity, but that made me feel worse.
In some places, Indians have a hard time catching a ride on the highway, but around here, most everyone is Indian. I worked a thumb for ten minutes until someone stopped.
It was dusk, so I couldn’t make out the color or detail on the pickup as it slowed and pulled off to the shoulder. The evening had started to cloud up and chill and I wasn’t in the mood to be picky.
As luck would have it, the driver was not just any Indian, it was Clement Ouray Pokoh, the Southern Ute cop I’d mistakenly roughed up in front of my house. A man holding an AK-47 in your driveway is hard to forget.
“You hoofin’ it?” he said, as I slid in.
“Startin’ to think you’re tailin’ me.”
“Looks that way to me, too.” He pulled out into the traffic lanes of Highway 84.
“Seems like I run into you more than I need,” I said.
Pokoh chuffed. “You need me, now.”
“What gives, Pokoh?”
“You got some big head, Romero. You hold some kind of overblown image of yourself.”
On our right, rolling hills hid the sun’s remains. Orange and magenta clouds floated in a sea of blood pierced by green- and yellow-striped shafts. Above the traffic noise, I thought I heard Coyote chuckling somewhere.
Traffic heading south was light. Pokoh’s face looked aged in the approaching lights. I envisioned a prehistoric campfire flickering on his skin.
The ancients have always had a way of connecting to me if they wanted to and they were signaling something haunting about Pokoh now.
But what did any of that have to do with meeting him on this highway exactly when I needed a ride the most? I don’t buy into coincidences and I didn’t believe him. Before I could speak, he said, “What you want with Gutierrez?”
“Wookie wanted me. I was in Española huntin’ for leads on murders at the pueblo, when he jacked me up and stole my car. How’d you know I talked to him?”
Pokoh pointed to a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. Military and high tech. “What’d he want?” He looked at me and veered toward the centerline.
I pushed my boots against the floor. “His daughter.”
“Daughter? No daughter. Not legally. She was fostered out a year ago.”
“Oh?”
“There’s more,” Pokoh said. “His old lady went missing while he was in Vacaville.”
“No other family?”
“Few are stupid enough to have Wookie in the family.”
“Ever locate the ex-wife?”
Pokoh laughed. “Wookie plus missing ex-wife. Do the math.”
“Figures. Then, why’s he looking’ for Ximena?”
“Don’t know.” Pokoh went quiet, then said, “I’ve been tailing his ass, figured him for the horse killings. Bad things going down around here usually have something to do with Wookie and it doesn’t matter if he’s in or out of prison. I was hoping you’d tell me why he wants the girl.”
“Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell.” Sharing the details of my investigations was never a good idea. “So, you’re connecting Wookie to the horses?” I asked, expecting him to violate my own rule.
He laughed while he said, “Fuck you, Romero.”
Neither of us spoke during the remaining miles. He dropped me off at home under an ink dome perforated by ten thousand eyes of li
ght. He looked at me a long minute and said, “You and I are gonna to come to an understanding.”
He drove off before I could ask what he meant.
I was hungry, so I headed for our—my—kitchen. I averted my eyes from the divorce papers on my office desk. The refrigerator was empty except for two black lemons and some moldy cheese labelled with a name I’d never heard of. I found some wilted lettuce and threw it out. I looked for bread to make a cheese sandwich. After two inspections of every cabinet and drawer, I remembered I hadn’t bought any bread. No car, so going to the store or out to eat was a non-starter. I could walk down the road to my neighbor Gilbert, a retired chef, but he was off somewhere in the Pacific with his new wife.
I ended up eating the mystery cheese while thinking about how the FBI had warned me off the Pecos family murders. Fuck them. The wave-off by Special Agent Crutchman only made me want the challenge more.
Burping stale cheese, sitting at the kitchen counter, I laid out the details on the Pecos murders; a double murder, brutal and senseless. Drug activity and theft was a potential motive. There was unusual traffic coming in and out of the pueblo by suspicious thugs with Colorado plates. And then there was the dead horses. Some had turned up here, others in Colorado. Colorado seemed to run through the case like an icy creek.
The potential connection in both cases interested me and presented an opportunity. I didn’t want the horse case, but Palafox had made an offer. What if I worked a two-fer by looking for the horse thieves and the Pecos murders on the side?
What-ifs. I had a mind full of them including what if I did nothing? A vision of Juan Pecos surrounded by halo of dark blood shoved its way into my head. Juan was my friend. I had a duty to him. And my job as a cop was to chase what-ifs. If one didn’t pan out, I would move on to the next.