The Bisti Business

by Don Travis

  “Let’s see if I understand this. Orlando Alfano, the son of a megamillionaire father and a billionaire mother, decides he needs to deal drugs for pocket change. And—”

  Gaines interrupted me. “Dana Norville didn’t come from money. He’s the one who put the deal together.”

  “You find any drugs on him? In the Porsche on the floor of the Rio Grande Gorge? Anywhere?”

  “Small amount of pot in his apartment, as a matter of fact.”

  “Recreational,” I scoffed. “And they weren’t going to haul $100,000-worth of marijuana around in the trunk of the Porsche. Besides, California is self-sufficient when it comes to the production of pot. And if they were going to buy some Mexican weed, Tijuana is a hell of a lot closer. You’re grasping at straws, Gaines. Haven’t you got this backwards, anyway? If, and I stress if, Norville was in a drug deal, he’d be buying, not selling. The $100,000 wouldn’t be in his bank account—it’d be in someone else’s.”

  “You’re right about one thing. It wasn’t pot. It was probably cocaine. Heroin maybe, but that’s less likely. And maybe he hadn’t had time to pay up before he was killed. In fact, that may be why he was killed. He didn’t have the money at the time.”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  Gaines rubbed his eyes wearily. “The way I figure it, somebody fronted the money to buy drugs. Using the Alfano heir as cover, Norville arranged a meet somewhere in New Mexico.”

  “This is too far north,” I objected.

  “They were in Carlsbad. That’s close to the border. And besides, deliveries are made in Chicago, Minneapolis, hell, Trenton, New Jersey, all the time. The border doesn’t mean much anymore when it comes to narcotics. At any rate, Norville arranged for the purchase on behalf of some third party who put up the money.”

  “Same argument—Tijuana’s a lot closer.”

  “Three of the four major abused drugs come to the States through Mexico—marijuana, heroin, and methamphetamines. That’s the heavy traffic through Southern California. But it’s a different cartel in control of Juárez. We’ve heard rumors they’re getting some cocaine through. That’s why I think coke’s the drug they were buying. Anyway, they took possession, stashed it somewhere, and failed to pay. Santillanes was bird-dogging them because he represented the seller. When Norville couldn’t pay, he killed the kid to pressure Alfano into telling him where they hid the stuff. Maybe he figured Norville came from a tougher neighborhood and Alfano would be easier to crack. But Alfano got the drop on him, or more likely called in help. So Santillanes ended up dead.”

  “But why is Alfano still in the area? Why wouldn’t he have left in that plane out on the rim of Black Hole Canyon?”

  Gaines waved my question away. “There’s no real evidence there was a plane out there at the time Santillanes was killed. And if there was one, it probably had nothing to do with Alfano and Norville. That strip’s an obvious contraband delivery area. But even if you’re right about it, maybe Alfano was double-crossed. He gave up the drugs, and they abandoned him out on the mesa.”

  I sighed in amazement. “You once said I concocted an elaborate story out of very little material. Frankly I think you’ve got me beat by a mile. And how do you think I figure into this if it was a drug deal?”

  “Are you looking for a missing Alfano heir or missing cocaine?”

  “I’m willing to show you the Alfano contract so you can see who my client is and what I agreed to do for him. But if any whisper the FBI is questioning me or my people as accomplices in a drug deal reaches the street, I’ll see you in court, Gaines. I’ll fuck up your investigation so bad you’ll wish you never passed through my door.”

  It was an empty threat, and a rash one to boot. Nonetheless, it made me feel better. Gaines’s expression didn’t change.

  “Look,” I said more reasonably, “ask me what you want, and I’ll answer what I can.”

  “Why don’t we go into the interview room?”

  He had at me for the better part of two hours, mostly plowing tilled ground since I’d been pretty conscientious about keeping him up-to-date. As he asked his questions in a dry, funereal voice, I probably learned more from the session than he did. He was clearly serious about this mythical drug connection. I also inferred from a couple of questions that he had found no previous drug history in Norville’s background. I wondered how serious an effort the FBI had made to trace the suspect wire transfer. Probably no more than to trace it back to the bank of origin, and in my experience, offshore transactions typically go through at least two banks to mask the identity of the sender.

  When he finished, I shifted in my hard seat. “Satisfied?”

  “Sounds on the up and up. We’ll look into a couple of things, but you’re probably in the clear. I’m satisfied you didn’t know anything about the drugs.”

  “There are no drugs. You’re on the wrong track. And if you’re 90 percent convinced I’m who I say I am, doing what I said I do, you can call off your tail now.”

  Gaines stared at me blankly. “Tail? I don’t have a tail on you.”

  I was tempted to believe the denial, but on the other hand, you’d expect him to disclaim surveillance. “Okay. Am I free to go now?”

  He held up a long, thin hand. “Wait a minute. What about this tail?”

  “Probably my imagination. I took a corner too fast on the way over here, and that put the car behind me in a bind.”

  “Describe the car.”

  “Gray foreign make. Probably a Toyota. It darted into the alley too fast for me to be sure.”

  “How many in the car?”

  “Just the driver, but I didn’t get a good enough look at him for a description.”

  DEL DAHLMAN phoned me at the motel that evening sounding tired. He got down to business without much preamble.

  “The feds were just fishing. They asked a bunch of questions about your relationship with this Napa Valley wine mogul. What’s going on?”

  I told him the FBI in all their wisdom had decided this was a drug case and expressed my opinion they were on the wrong track. The $100,000 deposit was a red herring to make us think exactly what Gaines believed.

  “Not just anybody can throw away a hundred grand,” Del said in his familiar, husky voice.

  I briefly explained the pending De Falco Wines buyout. “People who are trying to consummate a $50-million purchase might consider it just a reasonable cost of doing business.”

  “And this kid holds the key to whether it happens or not?”

  “He influences the decision, at any rate.”

  “What do you think happens if he turns up dead?”

  “I don’t think his mother would be too interested in transacting business. Probably not for a very long time.”

  “You may have just put your finger on why he’s still alive.”

  I massaged the sore spot on my back the straight chair in the FBI interrogation room had rubbed wrong. “It could also be the reason why he didn’t reach out to the family when trouble came looking for him.”

  “Because someone in his own family’s after him?”

  “Because he’s smart enough to understand why he’s being bird-dogged but hasn’t figured out who it is yet.”

  “That must be some family. Who do you think killed Norville and that PI, Santillanes?”

  “I don’t have a clue. But as of this afternoon, someone’s following me, and he’s probably on the payroll of whoever did it.”

  “Be careful, Vince,” he said, calling me by his private name.

  “I will.”

  I hung up and immediately dialed Paul. He answered on the second ring. “What the hell’s going on, Vince? Hazel said the FBI might come by.” I smiled, pleased that Paul’s pet name for me was the same as Del’s.

  “Sorry, but it’s nothing to lose sleep over. I’ve talked to the agent up here and satisfied him, I think. They probably won’t be around to bother you.” I paused and suppressed a sigh. “Seems like you get mixed up in my cases one
way or the other. I know my line of work makes you nervous. After this is over, I’ll consider going into something else.”

  There were a few seconds of silence on his end. “Thanks, but no. What you do is part of what makes you so exciting. Don’t change a thing.”

  After hanging up, I threw on a windbreaker and headed out the door. There was no sign of my tail as I pulled out of the Trail’s End parking lot. Of course, he didn’t have to stay close if he had planted a GPS tracking device. I pulled into a service station and let the automatic pump fill my tank while I went through the motions of checking my tires. Actually I was searching for an electronic bug. I found it in the rear wheel well on the driver’s side. Leaving it in place, I went inside to sign the credit card slip and buy a few items.

  I returned to the motel and backed into the parking space in front of my room. On my way inside, I snagged the nasty little bug from the fender and dropped it in the gutter where it would not be crushed by a car’s tires. The area was poorly lit, so chances were good my action was not observed, but anyone watching would see my bag of goodies and hopefully conclude I had a sweet tooth in need of feeding.

  Since the opposition was into electronic snooping, I tore through the room looking for some sort of listening device but found nothing. To convince my minder I was in for the night, I spent an hour reviewing my case notes and updating my expense log. Then I grabbed a fistful of flyers the local Kinko’s had made for me that afternoon. They contained Lando’s photo and name and a request to contact me on my cell with any information. The kid took a good picture, and the posed portrait Gilda had provided reproduced well.

  I rooted around in my travel bag until I found the Smith & Wesson 9mm semiautomatic I’d carried since my cop days, two extra magazines, and a heavy flashlight. Grabbing the bag of snacks, I slipped through the door, got into the car, and eased out of the parking lot with my lights off. Now I was ready for the real grunt work—physically searching for Orlando Alfano.

  The bug was not going to betray me; it was still lying up against the curb.

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  Chapter 26

  JUST TO be safe, I took a roundabout route to the homeless hangout under the viaduct where we had talked to Shifty. Parking well short of the area, I walked down to the clearing. Although it was nearly eleven, most of the homeless inhabitants of the camp were still awake, sitting singly or in pairs or groups around small fires. The night was chilly, and an erratic brisk breeze did nothing to make things more comfortable. I toured the place by the light of a heavy flashlight, drawing frightened stares and angry mutters when I pulled newspapers, blanket scraps, or foul-smelling coats from those already asleep. Lando was not there.

  Shifty and a buddy sat across the way, watching every move I made. I strolled over to them with my small bag of goodies in hand.

  “Shifty, how’s it going?”

  “I know you?”

  “Sure you do. Jazz and Henry brought me over.”

  “Oh, yeah. You was looking for Young’un.”

  I tossed the paper bag to him; he caught it deftly, tearing open the sack and rooting around in its contents. He came up with a giant Mr. Goodbar.

  “With peanuts. That’s the kind I like.”

  “Good. You and your friend are welcome. Either of you seen Young’un since I was here last?”

  “Who’s Young’un?” a dumpy figure asked. Surprised at the young-old female voice, I turned the torch on her. Big blue eyes blinked against the glare, and a grimy hand came up to shadow the face. I turned off the flashlight.

  Shifty nodded toward the bridge abutment. “You know, the kid that sleeps over yonder. One with the bruise on his head.”

  “Oh, him. The good-looking one. Or he used to be, anyway. His name’s Dana, but I just call him Cutie.”

  That gave me a start. “Dana? How do you know that’s his name?”

  “He’s always saying it. Like he’s trying to remember it. Don’t think he’s all there.”

  “Have you seen him tonight?”

  “Not in a coupla days.” In the uncertain moonlight, she appeared to be in her early twenties. She probably cleaned up pretty well, but the thick torso was too heavy for her heart-shaped face.

  “Any idea where he hangs out when he’s not here?”

  “Nope.” Shifty had wolfed down the candy bar and now munched a mouthful of peanut butter smeared on cheese crackers.

  “There’s a coupla places,” she said. “I seen him there from time to time.” She went on to tell me about other homeless hangouts.

  “You ever talk to him?” I asked the woman.

  It was as if I had pushed the wrong button. “I mind my own business.” The woman-child closed up: her eyes flashed; the muscles in her face froze; her voice grew hard. “Who are you, mister?” She yanked on Shifty’s sleeve. “You know this guy? Is he one of them?”

  “Dunno,” Shifty answered, totally engrossed in finishing off the foodstuffs I’d brought. “Probably is. They always coming around. CIA, you know.”

  The woman scrambled to her feet and fled, clutching the bag of potato chips Shifty had generously given her.

  “You shouldn’t play with them like that,” I said.

  He sat with his legs drawn up under him. “Why not? ’Sides, you could be CIA.”

  “Jazz vouched for me.”

  “Jazz could be too. They send all kinds a people out to fuck with us, you know.”

  Exasperated, I turned away to go find the other two locations the woman had told me about. I finally found one, smaller and with fewer people. As I walked over a hill, a birdcall sounded. The trouble was, it was some kind of tropical bird that didn’t live in these parts. Somebody needed a better signal.

  Or not. Half a dozen figures immediately scurried into the trees, leaving three men standing together in the center of a small clearing staring up at me. Apparently this was prime territory because the inhabitants were more aggressive in the defense of their ground.

  The man in front of the other two looked to be in his forties, or so it seemed in the faint light. He was heavyset, although the ankle-length coat they called a “duster” in Clint Eastwood movies probably made him appear bigger. It was ripped in several places and ragged in all the others. Long, stringy hair of an indeterminate color covered his ears and fell in strands across his face, which glistened in the moonlight with an excess of natural oils. I was suddenly grateful for the heavy flashlight in my hand and the S&W tucked into the belt at my back.

  “Get outa here,” he snarled. “We full up. Ain’t room for nobody else.”

  Showing fear or hesitation would get me nowhere with this bunch. I walked down the side of the hill toward the three. The night grew quiet. Not even the sound of traffic reached my ears. I could have been in the middle of one of those vast Northwestern forests facing down a trio of Sasquatch.

  “Not interested in intruding on your privacy. Just looking to take my nephew home.”

  “Maybe he don’t wanna go home. Where’s that, anyway?”

  “California.”

  The man asked a question over his shoulder. “He look like a California dude to you, Bugs?”

  “Shit no. He looks like local meat. Sounds like it too.”

  “I can show you some ID,” I bluffed.

  “Who’s your nephew?”

  “Kid named Orlando. He goes by Lando on the street.”

  “Don’t know no Lando. He ain’t here.”

  “Do you know everyone who hangs out here?”

  “You bet your ass. This is my place. Nobody here I don’t want. And that includes you ’n’ this fella Lando.”

  “He’s not quite right. Got hit in a fight and might be injured. Goes around asking for his friend, Dana.” I failed to mention Dana was a dude; somehow I didn’t think an alternative lifestyle would go over well with this group.

  “That shit pile,” the trio’s leader growled. “He come around, and I tossed him out on hi
s ass. Don’t need no more loonies. We got enough of that our own selves, don’t we, boys?”

  A ragged laugh acknowledged the man’s witticism. A few shadowy figures drifted back into the clearing. I sort of appreciated this homeless man’s attitude. Although he doubtless bullied the people around him, he provided a measure of protection as well.

  “I hear you, man, but when I find him, I’m taking him away. So when did you see him?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Me.”

  “Me, huh. That’s all I get?”

  “Except for a ten spot for valid information.”

  “Ten spot? I’ll tell you which way he headed, but not for no ten spot. Make it twenty.”

  “You make it worth twenty, and it’s a deal.”

  “Told him he belonged with them other loony toons down on the Animas.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Under the bridge where 64 crosses the Animas. You know, down at the south end.”

  “When was this?”

  “Not more’n a day or so ago.”

  “Okay, you earned the twenty, but I want to make you another deal. My name’s Vinson, and I’m staying at a motel on Main. You find this guy, Lando, and it’s worth five hundred if you can deliver him within twenty-four hours. The price goes down after that. In fact, I’ll probably leave town, and he won’t be worth anything. You bring him to me unharmed, able to stand on his own two feet, and you get the cash, no questions asked.”

  “How we supposed to find you?”

  I handed over a flyer. “There’s a phone number on there, but it’s an Albuquerque cell phone, so it’ll be a long-distance call. You better hold out enough of that twenty to pay the toll because these cells don’t take collect calls.”

  “Nephews oughta be worth more’n five hundred. ’Sides, I ain’t so sure he’s your nephew.”

  “Think what you want, but five hundred’s what I’m offering. We have a deal?”

  “We got one when I get my twenty.”

  After handing the man his money, I gave his two pals ten each. Then I faced the big fellow in the duster and held out my palm.