by Joseph Badal
Orlov continued to grin and then spat in Race’s face.
Race pulled the trigger
Race now heard other sounds—voices and the roar of a powerful car engine. He pulled back from Orlov, moved to the front window, and cracked the blinds. A small crowd of men, women, and children had gathered on the sidewalk across the street. A police cruiser pulled up to the curb. Race looked back at McCall and knew another shot fired now would probably bring the cop storming into the house. This was Texas, after all. He clubbed McCall on the forehead with his gun and watched him collapse sideways on the couch, put the weapon in his jacket pocket, picked up the knife from the coffee table, and then ran to the rear of the house. To avoid leaving fingerprints, he used the fabric of his jacket to cover his hand as he opened the back patio door, and then sprinted across the backyard. He struggled to roll over the back wall that separated McCall’s house from the one behind it, and ran along the side of that house toward the street. Race slowed as he cleared the front of the neighbor’s house, put the knife in his jacket pocket, and forced himself to walk at a casual pace to his rental car. He drove off at a leisurely speed until he turned a corner. Then he hit the gas and sped away as fast as he dared to the Dallas airport.
CHAPTER 49
Barbara and Susan had reached the half-way mark on their hike up the west side of the Sandia Mountains, when Barbara’s cell phone rang. She looked at the screen and saw it was Sophia Otero-Hansen calling.
“Where are you?” Otero-Hansen asked.
“La Luz Trail. Making the most of our suspensions.”
“Sounds like punishment. That’s a tough climb.”
“Better than having to work with Bruce Lucas.”
“You know, there’s something symmetrical about all three of us being in the dog house.”
Barbara chuckled. “Our boss may have acted like an asshole, but we screwed up and deserved it. Your boss is just a pathological asshole. There’s a big difference between the two of them.”
“I hate it when you’re right.”
“So, what’s going on?”
“Well, Barbara, the bank robbers we’ve been after are now in custody. Except for one who was shot by someone and died in the parked getaway vehicle.”
“Who shot him?” Barbara asked.
“We don’t know. But the bank has video cameras inside and out. We’re analyzing the tapes right now.”
“And you called me because . . . .”
“Because I think the shooter could be your vigilante.”
Barbara tried to wrap her brain around what Sophia had just told her. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“Nope. I know I’m operating more on gut instinct than fact, but here’s what we have. A man walked into the bank just before the robbers arrived. He went to the safety deposit vault, accessed his box, and then left with the briefcase he’d carried in. That’s when he must have become aware of the robbery and decided to play Lone Ranger and save the women and children from the evil bank robbers. Someone called 9-1-1 about the robbery. I think it was your guy.”
“You must have more than that,” Barbara said.
“You’re right. The shells from his automatic that ejected in the parking lot across from the bank entrance were 9 millimeters. That’s the same caliber weapon the vigilante used in the Las Vegas incident in the lawyer’s office. You remember, he shot one of the football players in the shoulder before he forced him to overdose on liquid heroin. I’ll bet you forensics tells us the slug from that guy’s shoulder matches the slugs we’ll pull out of the getaway driver at the bank.”
“Come on, Sophia. That’s just conjecture. 9 millimeter pistols are some of the most common in America.”
“True. But I’ll bet you dinner at Marcello’s that the shells came from the same pistol.”
“What else?”
“Apparently, he’s made five visits to his safety deposit box in the last twenty-four months. It’s rented in the name Arnold Webber under a bogus Social Security number and address. We have the electronic log that shows the dates and times of his visits.”
“Did the bank’s security cameras catch the guy?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Does the guy look like the reporter up in Farmington?”
Otero-Hansen paused and then said, “No.” Another pause. “But he could have worn a disguise.”
“Sounds like conjecture on top of conjecture, mixed with intuition. What else you got?”
“Nothing,” Otero-Hansen said, “until forensics gives us something on the slugs and we finish viewing the video of the outside of the bank. “But, if my instincts are correct, your dark angel killer is in Albuquerque.”
CHAPTER 50
Susan’s doorbell rang at 7 p.m. sharp. She thought, I’ll be damned; a man who knows how to show up on time. She walked to her front door, looked through the peephole, and saw a forty-something, blond-haired man. His eyes looked blue; he was neither tall nor short. “Looks like a Mormon missionary,” she muttered as she threw open the door.
“You got the wrong address, amigo.”
The man’s eyebrows shot upward. Then he grinned. “You’re Susan Martinez, right?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“I’m your date.” He stuck out a hand. “Roger Smith.”
Susan didn’t immediately respond. Then she finally said, “Barbara said you’re in the Latin American Studies Department.”
“I am.” Then Roger’s eyebrows arched again. “Oh, I see. You thought I would be Hispanic.”
Susan felt her face heat up. Barbara had pulled a fast one on her. Barbara knew she liked her men tall, dark, muscular, and handsome. Roger was “nice-looking,” but he wasn’t tall or powerfully-built. And he sure as hell wasn’t dark. Whether they were Hispanic had nothing to do with it. Susan shrugged. “I just assumed.”
He smiled. “I hope you like flowers,” he said as he handed her a mixed bouquet.
“Sure. Why don’t you come in while I put them in a vase?”
Roger and Susan met Henry and Barbara at Piatanzi on Juan Tabo Boulevard. The food was delicious and the service excellent. However, conversation lagged. At least between Roger and Susan. When it came time to leave for Blacky’s, Susan said to Barbara, “I need to use the ladies room.” Barbara followed her.
“You like Roger?” Barbara asked as they stood in front of the mirror.
Susan jerked a look at Barbara. “He’s all right.”
“Maybe if you tried talking to him, you might discover you have something in common.”
Susan said, “He’s not really my type.”
“Jeez,” Barbara said. “What’s wrong with him?”
Susan shrugged. “He’s a little like Henry. Nerdy.”
Roger left his car in Piatanzi’s lot. He and Susan piled into the backseat of Henry’s Saab and traveled to Tijeras Canyon. Blacky’s potholed parking lot was packed with cars, pickups, and motorcycles. Muted rock music poured from the building. Inside, the music was deafening.
Susan took in the packed space, which had four rows of tables that ran from between a pool table in the back to a slightly raised stage behind a tiny dance floor in the front. Every stool was taken at the bar on the right, and dozens more patrons crowded behind the bar stools and along the windows in the back and around the pool table.
“We’ll never find a place to sit,” she said.
Henry held up a finger. “We’ll see about that.” He waved at and walked over to a man who stood just inside the entrance. They hugged and then the two of them came over to where Roger, Barbara, and Susan waited.
“Meet the owner of this glorious establishment. John, these are my friends.” Henry introduced everyone.
“Glad you could join us tonight,” John said. He nodded at two burly guys who disappeared for a moment and then returned with a small table and four chairs. The two men placed the table and chairs just off the dance floor, to the front of the stage, and then the owner said, “All yours. Enjoy.”
After they took seats and draped their coats over the backs of their chairs, Henry asked, “What would you like to drink?”
Susan said, “Bourbon on the rocks.”
“Make that two,” Roger said.
“Pepsi for you and me?” Henry asked Barbara. She nodded. He turned and serpentined his way through the packed lounge toward the bar.
Barbara leaned into Susan. “That’s another thing I like about Henry. He drinks scotch, but he always drinks what I drink when we’re together. Knows I don’t drink alcohol anymore.”
Susan smiled.
Henry returned a few minutes later. “The waitress will bring our drinks.”
The band pounded out a rendition of Wilson Pickett’s Mustang Sally. Susan caught herself tapping her feet to the music, but stopped when Roger smiled at her and shouted, “Are you originally from New Mexico?”
Small talk, Susan thought. Wonderful. Then she heard Barbara groan. She turned to look at her and asked, “You say something?”
Barbara nodded. “Yeah. I said, ‘Oh, shit, it’s Leno Sanchez.’ ”
“Where?” Susan asked.
Barbara pointed toward the far side of the dance floor. “Over there. And I think he spotted us.”
Susan had dated Sanchez off and on for six months. When she needed her libido exercised, she’d see him. Otherwise, as Barbara had said the other day, Sanchez was all brawn and no brains. How he’d ever passed the APD exam and become a cop was beyond her.
“What’s wrong?” Henry asked.
“Nothing,” Susan said. She watched Sanchez, dressed in motorcycle leathers and heavy-soled boots, cross from the back of the room to their table.
“Ola, Suzy,” Sanchez shouted. He bent down and tried to kiss her on the lips, but only brushed her cheek when she turned her head.
Sanchez had positioned himself between Susan and Roger’s chairs. He didn’t acknowledge the others, even Barbara, who he’d known at least as long as he’d known Susan. Susan tried to see Roger’s reaction. She was embarrassed by Sanchez’s rudeness, but she was also embarrassed to admit to him that she was here with someone as nerdy as Roger.
Sanchez finally nodded at Barbara, then turned back to Susan. “Who’re your friends?”
Susan pointed at Henry. She shouted, “Henry Simpson, meet Leno Sanchez.” She tried to see Roger, but Sanchez blocked her view. “Roger Smith is behind you,” she said just as the band finished the song and announced they were taking a break.
Sanchez turned slightly and glanced down at Roger. He snorted, turned back to Susan. “What are you doing with this pinche joto?”
Susan’s first instinct was to tell Sanchez to get lost, but she said nothing. She instantly felt badly about her cowardice; she felt even worse when she saw the disappointed look in Barbara’s eyes. About to try to redeem herself, she heard Roger say, “Hey, Mr. Leno, you want to explain to me what you meant when you referred to me as a joto.”
Sanchez smirked at Susan, then turned around and said to Roger, “Joto, maricon, twinkle toes, it’s all one and the same.”
Roger said, “So, you used the word joto in a derogatory sense, assuming that I am of the homosexual persuasion and therefore deserving of ridicule.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry, Mr. Leno. Did I speak too quickly or was it the multi-syllabic words that threw you?”
Barbara stood. “It was obviously a mistake coming here.” She grabbed Henry’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”
Henry hesitated for a beat, but then dutifully stood.
“Leno, I want you to leave,” Susan said. “Do you—?”
Roger said, “Excuse me, Susan, but Mr. Leno and I are having a conversation.”
“But—”
Roger’s voice dropped an octave. “Susan, I do not need your assistance.” Then he said to Sanchez, “I think it would be an appropriate and gentlemanly thing for you to apologize for your rudeness and for your use of a slur against the many fine people in the homosexual community.”
Sanchez laughed and said, “Fuck off, joto.”
Susan now stood and pushed Sanchez aside. She looked at Roger. “Our ride is ready to leave,” she said, and took a backward step away from the table.
Roger looked at Sanchez, then at Susan. “One moment, please, Susan.” He turned back to Sanchez. “You know, it’s quite interesting. Do you realize you’ve used a singularly Southwestern pejorative to raise suspicion about my sexuality with little awareness of the richness of the word? Joto actually originates from medieval Spain where it was used colloquially to refer to the jack or knave in a deck of cards. In its migration to Mexico, the word became disfigured and reformed in illiterate societies. Thus the knaves among your kind thought that, by injecting a socially disapproving sexual connotation, the word would restore its pejorative value. So now joto alludes to a closeted homosexual. I congratulate you on your perspicuity, but I want to correct you on one point: I am neither joto nor maricon, but you, Mr. Leno, are a joto in its anachronistic sense.”
Sanchez stared open-mouthed at Roger as though he had dropped into Blacky’s on a spaceship.
Roger picked up his coat and marched after the others to the entrance. They had just cleared the door when it was thrown open and Sanchez emerged into the freezing night. His forehead was scrunched into a confused series of tracks. “Did you just call me a joto?” he shouted.
“Bravo, Mr. Leno,” Roger said. “Something finally sank in. Did you come out here to apologize?”
“Like hell.” Then he threw a punch. His mouth opened and his eyes widened when Roger dodged his fist.
Susan stepped toward Roger. She extended her arms to pull him away, but he sloughed off her hands. Then, to Susan’s surprise, Henry grabbed her arm and told her, “Stay out of this.”
Susan was more than surprised to see how calm both Henry and Roger appeared. She felt she had to do something to stop the situation before Sanchez lost all control and pulverized her date. She came forward again, but Roger pointed at her and growled, “Susan, back off.”
The determined, calm look she saw on Roger’s face startled her.
Roger took one step toward Sanchez. “Mr. Leno, I would like to ask you a question. Did you refer to me as a joto because I am shorter than you are, because you outweigh me by at least fifty pounds, because I am Caucasian, or for some other reason?”
“What the fuck?” Sanchez grunted as he threw a left jab.
Roger slipped the punch and swatted Sanchez’s arm.
Susan was now dumbfounded. Then she saw the bar’s owner and two of his bouncers step outside. Henry intercepted them and said something to the owner. Whatever he told the guy caused him to stand and watch. She quickly turned back toward Roger just as Sanchez tried to connect with Roger’s skull with a roundhouse right hook. This time, Roger caught the bigger man’s arm and, using Sanchez’s momentum, sent him crashing into the grill of a gigantic pickup truck parked nose-in at the entrance.
The expression she saw on Sanchez’s face was pathetic. She almost felt sorry for him. But when he stood and charged at Roger, any sympathy she had dissipated. Apparently, Roger felt the same. He side-stepped Leno’s charge and crunched his thigh into Leno’s side as the man careened past him and flew into the cattle guard on the front of an SUV, not three feet away from where she stood. The effect of his head connecting with the metal guard made the sound of a dull bell. Sanchez was knocked cold.
Then the sound of sirens filled the night. The owner came over and said, “Henry, I think it would be a really good idea if you all called it an evening. I’ll deal with Sanchez.”
Henry thanked the man and said to Barbara, “You ready to go?”
She smiled. “Fine with me. The last thing I need in my file is an arrest for disorderly conduct.” Barbara waved at Susan while Henry collected Roger.
Susan wanted to say something to Roger on the way back to Piatanzi’s parking lot to get his car. She eyed him several times, but his attention was on the stre
et outside his window. She’d acted badly all evening and was truly ashamed of herself. Maybe she could think of something to say when they were alone in Roger’s car.
When Henry dropped them off, Susan caught Barbara’s blank stare. She knew she’d treated Roger poorly, but had also embarrassed Barbara. Probably Henry, as well.
Roger opened her door for her, then walked around the back of the car and slid behind the wheel.
They drove in silence until Roger turned onto her street. Susan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry about Leno. I guess he’s a bigger asshole than I already knew.”
“But he is big, strong, and handsome,” Roger said.
“What’s that mean?”
“I think you know exactly what that means. I’m obviously not your type, Susan, and I’m too old to believe I can change people. You’re a beautiful woman, but that’s not enough for me. At my stage in life, I want a friend; someone I can trust; someone who respects me and who I can respect.”
He stopped in front of her house and quickly exited the vehicle. By the time he reached her door, she’d already opened it and stepped onto the sidewalk.
Tears leaked down her cheeks. “I screwed up, Roger. I’m really sorry.”
“So am I, Susan. So am I.”
CHAPTER 51
By the time Race deplaned, it was nearly 11 p.m. and bitterly-cold and windy in Albuquerque. Snow had dusted the landscape in all directions. He turtled his head down into his jacket and put his hands in his pants pockets while he walked to his parked truck. Inside the vehicle, he checked behind the front seat to make certain his briefcase was still there, then he removed his disguise as he sat in the truck and waited for it to warm up. He tried to cope with the empty feeling that had come over him in Dallas. He didn’t like feeling uncertain, emotionally drained. All his life, he’d been strong—the one who everyone else leaned on. Even as a twelve-year-old, after his father died from cancer, he’d been the one his grieving mother could rely on. In the Army, he was the one the other soldiers looked up to, listened to. During his business career, the managers and employees expected him to solve problems, to set the path for the future. He’d been the bulwark for his wife and daughters. But now he felt uncertain, indecisive. He’d always, in the past, seen uncertainty and indecisiveness as something that afflicted weak people, not him.