The Bisti Business

by Don Travis

  But now I was able to get a couple of fingers beneath the belt buckle crushing my larynx. My eyesight partially restored, I dimly made out Alfano teetering over me. His knees began to buckle; his shoulder glistened with blood. He dropped to all fours across my chest, struggling to maintain the pressure even as his strength ebbed. He was intent on killing me if it was the last mortal act of his life.

  There was a loud crash and the sound of wood splintering. Suddenly men poured into the room. Men and a woman. Dix Lee was the first person I recognized as she pulled a now unconscious Anthony Alfano off me.

  “’Bout… time,” I wheezed as she loosened the belt from my neck.

  “Had a little trouble with the lock,” she said matter-of-factly. “Had to smash in the door.”

  As Lonzo helped me to a sitting position, Dix took in my naked chest. “Nice.”

  “Thanks. How’s Alfano?” I croaked.

  Gaines handed me a glass of water. “He’ll probably live if they get the bleeding under control. Why did he try to kill you? He must have known he couldn’t get away with that.”

  “Because he’s an arrogant SOB who thinks money can buy anything,” Lonzo answered for me.

  Nothing had ever tasted as sweet as that water. Dix pulled away the glass before I was through. I protested.

  “Not too fast. Just wet your throat. Tell us what happened. The bug went dead. I take it from the state of the rag hanging off of you that Alfano found it.”

  I nodded. “But not the camera and the recorder in the attaché case. That got everything. He admitted it. Admitted he….” I coughed. “Admitted he killed them both. Norville and Santillanes.”

  “Well, he’s got another charge to face too,” Dix said. “And this time the FBI, the sheriff’s office, and half the FPD saw him. And there’s a good chance you’ve got video of it too.”

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  Epilogue

  FOUR OF us gathered in my room at the Trail’s End shortly after noon the following day. My neck was badly bruised but I was able to talk so long as I kept something at hand to lubricate my pipes. At the moment, that was one of the bottles of fine Alfano Zinfandel Aggie had located in a local wine shop. He and Lando spent an hour or so with me before heading back to Napa Valley.

  If either man was distressed with me for shooting his father and exposing him as a double murderer, he hid it well. I detected a certain grimness in Aggie, but I understood that was because he recognized that dreaded day had finally arrived. The whole weight of the Alfano business enterprise was now draped squarely across his shoulders.

  Lando, although his metamorphosis back into a full-fledged Alfano was complete, had a cloud of sadness clinging to him. It would take a long time before he got over feeling guilty about Dana’s death.

  Paul had chartered Jim’s Cessna as soon as he heard about the attack in the Courtyard, and Del, already studying a brief on his next case, returned to Albuquerque with Jim. Now, Paul sat on the bed beside me, sipping wine and inspecting the angry welts on my throat. The way Jazz and Henry, on the bed opposite us, eyed their drinks made it clear they were not fans of the grape. I thought of offering Henry a beer from the minifridge in the corner but didn’t.

  We had already watched a copy of the DVD from my surveillance tape. Much of the visual action was rendered into rubbish because the camera got tossed around during the melee, but the audio was clear and audible 95 percent of the time. I also told them my story, giving them details not contained on the DVD.

  Henry shook his head. “I don’t understand why he tried to kill you. The guy might have been able to weasel out from under everything if he hadn’t done that.”

  “I get it,” Jazz said. “There’s nothing a macho man hates more than having his testicles questioned. And a man with an ego like his—and the bucks to match it—would think he could get away with anything. BJ kept poking at him, making fun of him, attacking his manhood until the guy snapped.” Jazz flashed a brilliant smile. “But he’s not gay, is he?”

  “No,” I admitted. “He used rape as a weapon to dominate Dana. Intimidate him. And that means he was telling the truth about one thing, at least.”

  “What was that?” Henry asked.

  “He didn’t intend to kill Dana. He would never have left his DNA in him if he had. But when Dana said he was going to the hospital, Alfano knew he couldn’t permit that. The tables would have turned against him then.”

  “You took a hell of a chance, Vince,” Paul said, a note of censure hiding in his voice.

  “And almost got creamed for your trouble,” Jazz added.

  “My fault,” I said. “I counted on Alfano being arrogant and overconfident because in his mind he was just dealing with a fairy. Even so, I ought to have realized he’d have some sort of protection within reach. And his history with stun guns should have made me suspicious.”

  “Well, he made a mistake,” Jazz said. “He tangled with the wrong fairy. Too bad you didn’t kill him. He deserved it. Dana was a nice guy.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t. That would have been too quick. Can you imagine the humiliation of going from a Napa Valley powerhouse to a federal inmate? And when the feds are through with Alfano, the state of New Mexico wants its piece of him.”

  “I didn’t know they caught that guy Kinkaid,” Henry said. “Didn’t hear a word about it on the news.”

  “They didn’t. I lied to Alfano. But don’t worry, they’ll get him. Maybe those two will share a cell.”

  “Vince,” Paul said, still eyeing my bruises, “there’s something on that tape I don’t understand. Why was that buyout of the other vineyard so important? Like you pointed out, it wouldn’t even begin to close the gap between him and Sabelito.”

  “It was a big secret, but Alfano had put together a consortium to build a large commercial development on the De Falco land. He’d planned on doing that with Sabelito money as well. And he was right. The old man’s money would have helped him become as big or bigger than Titus.”

  “How does Aggie feel about that?”

  “You know, I kept asking Aggie why he opposed the De Falco buyout, and his reasons—while true—didn’t quite make sense. Before he left, he admitted he’d been working with a different group to buy the land and put up a similar commercial and industrial complex. His bunch was the other interested party Lando mentioned.”

  “So what’s the big deal?” Henry asked. “Let his old man do it, and he reaps the benefits anyway.”

  Again, it was Jazz who figured out the answer. “Because then it would have been his old man’s accomplishment, and he wanted it to be his own. Am I right, BJ?”

  “Dead on, my friend. Aggie has an ego too. If he’d pulled this off, he would have been free of his old man.”

  “Guess he is anyway,” Paul said. “Alfano’s out of the picture now—for good.”

  “And it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” I added.

  “Aggie turned out to be sort of an okay guy, despite all that,” Jazz said.

  “Yeah, he did.” I slid my hand beneath the pillow closest to me and pulled out two envelopes. “And he left these for you guys. Cashier’s checks for $5,000 each. More important, you made a very powerful friend for life—a couple of them.”

  “Right on. A guy can always use friends.” Jazz looked at his check and whistled. “I’ve never seen that much money before.”

  “Not of my own, anyway,” Henry agreed.

  “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  My decision not to pull out the beer proved to be prudent. The two brothers left shortly thereafter, leaving me alone with Paul. I endured the mandatory lecture on being careful—Paul’s plus the one he delivered for Hazel. Then he twisted on the bed and gave me a look.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You didn’t tell me what a looker Jazz was.”

  “I didn’t? I was sure I—”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. I’d have been red-faced and green-e
yed.”

  “You would have worried for nothing. I’ve got the looker I want.”

  “You already told me you were tempted.”

  “Yeah, tempted to drop the case and rush back home.” I turned serious. “But that’s the only battle I had to fight. You’ve got Jazz outclassed ten ways from Sunday.”

  Paul smiled. “Liar. But you get an A for effort.”

  “And what does an A get me?”

  “Come over here, and I’ll show you.”

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  Exclusive Excerpt

  A BJ Vinson Mystery

  By Don Travis

  Confidential Investigator B.J. Vinson thinks it’s a bad joke when Del asks him to look into the theft of a duck… a duck insured for $250,000. It ceases to be a funny when the young thief dies in a suspicious truck wreck. The search leads BJ and his lover, Paul Barton, to the sprawling Lazy M Ranch in the Boot Heel country of southwestern New Mexico bordering the Mexican state of Chihuahua.

  A deadly game unfolds when BJ and Paul are trapped in a weird rock formation known as The City of Rocks—an eerie array of frozen magma that is somehow at the center of the entire scheme. But does the theft of Quacky involve a quarter million dollar duck-racing bet between the ranch’s owner and a Miami real estate developer, or someone attempting to force the sale of the Lazy M because of its proximity to an unfenced portion of the Mexican border? BJ and Paul go from the City of Rocks to the neon lights of Miami and back again in pursuit of the answer… death and danger tracking their every step.

  Coming Soon to

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  Prologue

  Lazy M Ranch in the New Mexico Bootheel

  THE THIEF froze as a string of sharp yips ripped the quiet night. Both big Dobermans were darted and sleeping soundly out at the fence, so this yapper must be a house pet.

  A light flashed briefly as the back door opened. A furball with pointed ears bounded down the steps and made straight for him. The feisty canine latched onto his pant leg and whipped it back and forth, growling furiously. A growl was preferable to a bark, so he dragged his dog-impeded leg like a zombie in some old Hollywood movie.

  As he reached the poultry pen, all hell broke loose. A single quack built into a raucous caterwauling. Someone must have flipped a switch up at the house because brilliant light suddenly flooded the enclosure. He reeled backward, stunned by a sea of white.

  Ducks. Dozens of ducks. Hundreds. How was he going to find the right one?

  The dog attached to his pant leg shifted its grip and closed painfully on his ankle. Cursing, he gave an involuntary kick, sending the pooch over the fence and into the pen. The ducks scattered, opening a circle of dark earth around the confused mutt. The pup transferred its attention to the birds and began a joyful chase, dashing this way and that, parting its panicked prey in dizzying waves of undulating white and creating a living kaleidoscope of shifting shades and shapes.

  Then he saw her. In a coop all by herself. Like she was waiting to turn into a swan or something.

  A clamor from the house galvanized him into action. He vaulted the fence, threw open the cage door, and dragged her out by the neck. He ignored the claws raking flesh from his forearms as he fled through a horse corral at the back of the pen. He made it to the cover of some shrubbery before the ranch came alive. Moments later a woman’s agonized wail rose above everything.

  Remembering he was to deliver the duck alive, he loosened his hold on the feathery neck. The bird immediately set up a loud protest that could have awakened the dead but wasn’t enough to overcome the clamor of the hundred or so other birds. He turned and headed for his pickup. Best get out of there before Millicent Muldren’s drovers filled him full of lead.

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  Chapter 1

  Ten days later. Albuquerque, New Mexico

  I JERKED the cell phone away from my ear and looked at it as if it had lost its mind—or its chip.

  Del Dahlman, a local attorney, wanted me to drop everything and run down to the UNM Emergency Center to interview a man named Richard Martinson. When he told me why, I assumed he was kidding. He had to be.

  “You want me to go question a ducknapper? There’s no such thing. He’s just a plain, ordinary chicken thief.”

  “Whatever,” Del said. “BJ, I need you to catch him before he leaves the emergency room.”

  He always called me Vince, a carryover from the days when we were a couple. Anytime he resorted to addressing me as BJ like the rest of the world, he was pissed. But this was simply too good to let go. “Have you called in the FBI yet?”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Del snapped.

  “Donkeys, now? What is this? A menagerie run amok? Who did it? The pigs? Good Lord, it’s Orwell’s Animal Farm come to life.”

  “Dammit. I’m serious. This is serious. I need you to get over there right away.”

  I stared at the bright blue sky on this cloudless Saturday afternoon and considered hanging up on him. I was standing on the fourth tee of the golf course at the North Valley Country Club with Paul Barton. Although we lived together, it was a rare occasion when Paul and I could share the daylight hours. Between my confidential investigations business and Paul’s schedule—UNM grad school summer courses and an aquatic director’s job at the country club—we were the proverbial ships passing in the night.

  I resented Del’s intrusion, but he and I go back a long way—some of it sweet, some of it bittersweet, and some downright sour.

  “You need to get a move on,” he said. “You’ve got to get to him before they let him go. His name’s Richard Martinson, but… but they call him Liver Lips.”

  Del didn’t like playing the straight man.

  “Liver Lips? Calves’ liver or—No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Goose liver.”

  “You’re wasting my time.”

  “Hey, you called me. Right in the middle of my backswing, as a matter of fact.”

  “You’re a private investigator. Are you going to go investigate or not?”

  I sighed. Del was one of my better clients. “Okay. Give me the details. There’s really a lawsuit on this thing?”

  “It’s not actually a suit… yet.”

  “Then why is your firm involved? More to the point, why are you involving me?”

  He went defensive. “We’re New Mexico counsel for the Greater Southwest Ranchers Insurance or GSR, as they like to be called—and the VP handling their problem and I are old friends. At this point I’m simply doing this as a favor to him. At any rate, the missing bird’s name is Quacky Quack the Second. This—”

  “Quacky what?”

  “Shut up, Vince.”

  I snickered through the rest of his briefing, hung up, and turned to my golfing companion. Paul got as good a laugh out of it as I had. In fact we both broke up a couple of times during the retelling.

  I DO not like walking into a situation I don’t understand, and I damned well didn’t understand this one. But I had no trouble locating Martinson in the waiting room at the hospital. Liver Lips. The young man’s nickname described him perfectly. His thick, purple-hued oral projections drew my eye like a magnet. It was only later I noticed he was skinny, seedy, and carried a generally disreputable air. Gray eyes darted here and there as if he were constantly searching for a bolt-hole. The man’s scalp glistened through thin strands of frizzy blond hair. Whether talking or listening or simply idle, his dark tongue periodically snaked out to wash those heavy lips.

  Seldom had I been so thoroughly repulsed by another’s physical appearance.

  He looked at me blankly after I handed over my card and introduced myself. Then he read the card aloud.

  “B. J. Vinson, Confidential Investigations. A private eye, huh? What you want with me?”

  “I need to ask you a few questions.” I nodded at the bandages covering
his forearms. “What happened?”

  “Got in a fight with a thorn bush. Frigging bush won.” He went for humor, glancing up through thin, colorless lashes to see if it worked.

  I pointed to the red veins snaking up out of the white bandages just short of his elbows. “Thorn bushes didn’t give you that infection. That’s blood poisoning. How’d you get it?”

  “Tangled with the wrong bush, I guess. Didn’t get it treated, so it turned bad on me, I guess.”

  “Come on, and I’ll give you a ride down to my office where we can talk in private.”

  “Ain’t got time. Gotta get outa here. I been here six frigging hours.”

  “Okay. I’ll call Lt. Eugene Enriquez down at APD, and we’ll have this talk in his office.”

  He blinked rapidly three times. “No cops, man. Don’t need no cops. I ain’t done nothing, so leave me alone.”

  “What are you doing up here? You live down in Deming, don’t you?” I drew on the thin biography Del provided.

  “Ain’t no law against a man visiting the city. I guess that’s why they do all that advertising on TV for. You know, to get me to come up here and spend my money.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  “About what?” He seemed genuinely perplexed by my question.

  “About stealing a valuable… bird.”

  If I’d said duck, I’d have burst out laughing.

  “Don’t guess I know what you’re talking about.”