Blue Flower Red Thorns

by Ted Clifton

  She followed his career in graphic art from afar. He’d become a leader in computer-generated graphics for video games, achieving wealth and, in the narrowly focused gaming world, a measure of fame. He lived in Denver, and had his own company. He’d been married, but wasn’t anymore. When she’d reached out to him a few months before, he seemed friendly, but hadn’t given her any reason to think that they were anything but old acquaintances. She’d talked to him a couple of times, and he’d even invited her to drop by Denver if she ever had the chance. It wasn’t much of an offer, but she decided to treat it as an opening. So, here she was, off to Denver. She needed someone to talk to, and he was her choice.

  “In Denver? Well, that’s—that’s great, Ilse. Where are you now?”

  “I’m at the airport. I know I should have called before, but everything has been so hectic lately. I have this big show in Santa Fe next week, and I was going to be in your part of the world, so I changed my flight a little, and ended up here. An impulsive sort of thing—you know me.” She was having trouble making sense. She paused. He was quiet.

  “Ilse, is there something wrong?”

  “My whole life is wrong. I really need a friend.” She started to cry. She hated the resemblance to her mother, but she couldn’t stop.

  “I’ll come and get you.” He told her how long it would take, where she should be for him to pick her up, and what kind of car he’d be driving.

  “Thanks, Bobby.” Her own voice sounded pitiful to her.

  “I can’t wait to see you, Ilse. I think about you just about every day.”

  She gathered her luggage, and waited at the curb where Bobby told her, excited and nervous. Before long, she saw a car matching the description he’d given her, parking a few spaces away. When Bobby jumped out, all the feelings she’d had so many years before crashed over her like a wave. They embraced, and she started to cry again. She felt suddenly weak. Bobby helped her to the car and got her luggage. “Welcome to Denver.”

  All she could do was smile.

  Francis Mitchell had been Howard Marks’s financial advisor from the very beginning of his art gallery business. He’d helped Marks accumulate a substantial fortune, and in the process had managed to amass a tidy sum, himself. Since Howard’s death, though, under the management of his daughter—who, in Francis’s opinion, was frequently out of her depth—much of that wealth had disappeared. He was often angry with Anna Marks for more than her refusal to manage the business the way he thought it should be done, which was the same way her father had managed it. A lot of the anger was her constant criticism of him, both personally and of his handling of the family’s wealth. She would make one stupid decision after another, and when something inevitably went wrong, blame him, even if he’d specifically, sometimes pointedly, advised her not to do the very thing that caused the problem.

  Mitchell had experienced his own crisis when his alcoholic wife decided to divorce him and marry one of her bar buddies, with their future in drinking to be financed by alimony. While married, they had lived in Fresno, California, where her family and parents owned a large amount of land and were considered wealthy, although Mitchell knew they weren’t. They were part of the upper crust there, but it was an illusion.

  His wife had never done anything other than live off someone’s else’s money and drink. She’d treated him like a possession, and one she was neither proud of or really wanted, at that. He’d let her walk all over him because he was weak. When she asked for a divorce, over the phone and obviously drunk, he readily agreed, thankful to be rid of her. During much of their unhappy marriage, he’d spent considerable time in Santa Fe working with his top client, the Howard Marks Gallery. He’d purchased a small house in Santa Fe, which he considered his true home. His wife sought—and got—half of everything they’d owned, but he didn’t really care, so long as he got to keep the small adobe house. The divorce happened after Howard Marks died, and he’d certainly never shared the facts about it with Anna or anyone else at the gallery. It was none of their business.

  Francis spent most of his time in Santa Fe after the divorce, and started to investigate the local food scene. The number of great restaurants was unheard of for a town of such a small size. Tiny Santa Fe was frequently listed as one of the top cities in the country for great dining, and Francis became a regular at some of the best restaurants. It was his love of food that created a close bond between him and Clive Walton, another gallery staffer whom he’d barely known.

  One evening, when they were both working late, Francis casually mentioned he was going to head out because he had a reservation at La Boca. Clive jumped up and screamed like a child, “I want to come, is that okay?” His enthusiasm made Francis smile. They had a great evening discussing food in general and Santa Fe restaurants in particular. Soon they developed a routine of dining together two, sometimes three, times a week. They became friends, each surprised by how interesting he found the other to be.

  It was after months of these dinners that Clive made his first move. Francis was shocked, but didn’t withdraw, and they became intimate. Francis was confused by what was happening, but he was happy, too—happy like he’d never been before. He fell in love with the flamboyant Clive Walton.

  Clive moved into the tiny adobe house with Francis. It was a lovefest, but a secret one, augmented by a bond of antagonism toward Anna Marks. Francis also told Clive that Howard Marks, in his will, had left twenty percent ownership in the gallery to him, something he’d hidden even from his wife, which was probably illegal. But he didn’t care. It was going to be his retirement fund, if he could only figure out how to get at it. Very few people knew about Francis’ ownership other than Howard’s attorney and of course, Anna. Anna had screamed bloody murder at Francis when she found out, threatening him with legal action, and even death, if he ever tried to collect his share or mentioned it again.

  Francis had gone to Howard’s attorney, who assured him the inheritance was legal and enforceable—he owned twenty percent of the business, and there was nothing Anna could do about it. The problem was that, as in any small corporation, all power is in the hands of the majority shareholder, and that was Anna, and she could prevent him from ever profiting from his share unless she sold the gallery. She could take all the gallery’s profits out as her salary or pay it to herself in bonuses, and never pay a dividend on the shares she and Francis owned. So, while the inheritance was real, unless Anna went along with the idea, he’d never get anything from it unless she sold the business—or died.

  “She’s where?” Anna yelled into her phone. “That’s insane. She needs to be here, as agreed. When did you last talk to her? What! That’s two days ago. You’d better find her, and I mean now!” Livid, she disconnected.

  Trent Taylor spoke up from across the room. “Something wrong?”

  Anna looked at him like she wanted to kill him. “Of course, there’s something wrong, you moron.” She paced. “That was Ilse’s mother. She hasn’t talked to the evil brat in days. Ilse went to Denver for god knows what reason, and now she’s not answering her phone. Her mother and her idiot manager will be in Albuquerque tomorrow without her. So, yes, something is definitely fucking wrong!”

  Taylor hesitated to say anything more, but after a minute or two, Anna seemed to calm down. “What’ll we do if she doesn’t show up?” he asked.

  “The show happens, with or without her. All I can hope for is that if she’s not here, she’s dead. A dead Ilse would boost prices through the roof. I’m sick of this whole business, constantly kissing up to these people. Trent, don’t say anything to anybody, especially Clive, but this show goes ahead as planned, with or without the artist.”

  “Morning, Tucker.”

  “It is a good morning. How’re you today, Vincent?” Tucker was dressed and had brought out his small suitcase, ready for Vincent to drive him to Albuquerque.

  “Just got off the phone with George Younger, up in Durango. After we left him, he was attacked. Two guys he didn�
�t know surprised him and knocked him unconscious. He said they didn’t take anything and didn’t say anything. He thinks it might have to do with the Flores case.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Said he was taken to the hospital and apparently blacked out while he was there. The doctors thought there might have been some brain damage, and did all sorts of tests and kept him medicated for quite a while. That’s why he didn’t get in touch sooner—half the time, he was out of it. But he says everything checked out okay in the end, no problems.”

  Tucker looked thoughtful. “Why does he think it has to do with the Flores case?”

  “Mostly because he doesn’t have anything else really contentious going on. Of course, it could be something else, like an old case where somebody held a grudge, or maybe they really were going to rob him, and just got scared off. But he says they seemed like hired thugs. Most of the people he deals with handle their own dirty work, and most of them would have taken his wallet, just to make it look like a robbery. The guys who attacked him seemed to be delivering a message. It wasn’t personal.”

  Tucker frowned. “Sorry he got hurt. I’m not sure there’s anything we can do about it from our end. What d’you think?”

  “Nah. Risks of the trade. And he’s okay. He did say that he’d poked around a little, and gotten some info from some of his lowlife buddies. Seems Ken Simpson’s disappeared. His trucking company office in Telluride is closed up, and no one’s seen him in days. According to George, word on the street is that he’s back in Denver. He also dug up some interesting legal filings. Apparently, Simpson and Franks Junior had a lot of business connections to certain companies in common. George says that within the last few days, Franks has dissolved most of those companies or removed Simpson as an officer. So, some kind of breakup is going on between the happy couple. George thinks the situation with Rick Flores attracted too much attention, and caused some kind of rift.”

  “Well, maybe that’s good for Rick. If they are fighting amongst themselves, then they’re not focused on him.”

  “That’s probably right. One last bit of news from Younger; the feds and the attorney general are interested in Simpson, which in turn could touch Franks. Younger heard it’s about violations in his trucking business, and insurance fraud.”

  Tucker was a murder defense attorney—other crimes, especially lesser ones, didn’t interest him much. “It may not be absolutely necessary, but I still think you should go to Denver and have Rick Flores give a sworn statement about what happened. He may be at risk just because there’s so much law enforcement going after Simpson. If they find out about what happened to him in Durango, I bet they’ll want to talk to him.”

  “Yeah, I agree. Once this art show’s over, I’m going to Denver. Should be just a few days.”

  With business matters settled, they chatted a while about politics and the weather. They’d become friends and enjoyed each other’s company. After more coffee and a muffin for Vincent, Tucker said his goodbyes to everyone at the Inn, and they headed to Albuquerque.

  “Jack Hill asked me if you would do some work for him,” Tucker said once they were on the road. “I told him I thought you’d probably be okay with it, but that I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. I think he has something specific in mind.”

  “I have to say, Hill makes me nervous. You know I’m not some kind of righteous bastard, and I prefer to work with hard-hitting, take-no-prisoners attorneys.” Vincent made a gesture indicating he meant Tucker and others like him. “Hill’s different, though. He’s sneaky. He’s not the kind of direct, in-your-face person I work best with. He’s always working the angles—which I don’t like. I don’t think I can count on him being straight with me.”

  “A fair point—that’s Hill to a ‘T.’ Most of what he does is behind the scenes, not in the courtroom. I’m not sure what he wants you to do for him, but he can be a great contact if you’re going to stay in New Mexico. I wouldn’t burn that bridge.”

  “Yeah, I know. What are you doing for him?”

  “Not much. I’ve advised young lawyers in his office on a couple of criminal cases—more like a coach than anything else, never appeared in court. He seems to think I’m some kind of criminal defense guru who can remake any young lawyer into F. Lee Bailey. Not going to happen. I can advise them and critique their performances, but neither of the two I worked with had the fire in the belly you need to be a good criminal lawyer. Hill wants to take corporate lawyers and turn them into asshole defense attorneys, but that just doesn’t work. It’s a whole different breed. The take-no-shit defense attorney he wants in his office wouldn’t work for him in the first place—he’s way too establishment for that. But with all that said, I like Jack. I think he’s actually an honest man, most of the time. I also think he’s a very powerful person in this part of the world, so you either work with him or you very delicately tiptoe around him and hope you don’t offend.”

  Vincent spent some time thinking about what Tucker said. “Tell him I can be bought, and my price is reasonable. I’ve worked with a lot worse than Jack Hill—no reason to get picky this late in life. If it gets uncomfortable, I’ll move to Phoenix as planned, and find a job sweeping floors.”

  “You’d have a hard time finding a job sweeping floors. You’re too abrasive. Janitors need to be at least halfway pleasant.”

  Vincent and Nancy had decided to meet for a late lunch after his trip to Albuquerque. He’d talked to her several times, but hadn’t seen her since he’d gotten back from Durango. They’d arranged to meet at the Coyote Rooftop Cantina, not far from her place, and one of several rooftop bars in Santa Fe. Although the winters could pose challenges, they did a good business year-round.

  Vincent was enjoying a beer, glancing at the menu, when Nancy showed up. They hugged, and he wanted to hold on to her, but settled for a kiss on the cheek. Nancy settled in and ordered iced tea.

  “Sounds like everything worked out in Durango,” she said. “I’m glad for Hector and Mary. They must have been really worried.”

  “Yeah. Rick was awfully lucky to get out of a mess that serious without any real problems. Or at least, we don’t see any right now.” Vincent wasn’t sure if he was picking up something or not, but he felt a little tension. “Everything okay?”

  “Oh, sure.” Nancy smiled, but she didn’t look happy. “I’m sorry. Guess I’m a little distracted. It’s just money. The bar is doing great, but there was some equipment I needed to replace, so I’ve been working on my financials to get ready to see the banker and ask for a loan, and it’s depressing. I really do great business, but it’s so hard to make a profit. Anyway, you really don’t want to hear this stuff.”

  “Sure, I do.” He didn’t want to seem happy that she was having problems with her business, but he couldn’t help feeling relieved that they had nothing to do with him.

  “You know I put in long hours, and I almost never take time off. I have a lot of money invested on top of my time, but what I actually get to keep as salary and return on my investment is shockingly small. I could make more money just working as a manager for some of the restaurants in town, and invest in something else, and get a decent return. And it wouldn’t be so draining on me. I’m not sure why, but suddenly this morning, when I was looking at the numbers, I found myself wondering if I should borrow more money, or whether it would be better to just sell out and do something else.” She looked like she was on the verge of tears. She’d bought the bar with her late husband, so it had to mean a lot to her. And he knew she did put in very long hours, and probably had no one to vent to about her struggles.

  “You know, I don’t know the restaurant business, and I’m definitely not a financial kind of guy, but it sounds like this involves more than just money.”

  Nancy got up and left without a word. Judging by the path she took, he figured she headed to the restroom. Had he said something wrong? Vincent knew he could be abrupt—he wasn’t a subtle man. If he’d upset Nancy, he surely di
dn’t intend to, but he felt immediately nervous, worried that he’d screwed up for the millionth time in his life. At one time he would have been able to blame his drinking for his poor choices, but he didn’t drink enough at a sitting anymore for that excuse to hold water. He waited and worried. Eventually, she came back.

  “Vincent, I’m sorry.” She paused. Vincent wisely kept his mouth shut. “You’re right. It has to do with my life, my husband, my age, you, not having children, feeling like I’m alone—everything. What you said was sensible, and right. But for some reason, it made me cry. I hate it when women cry for no reason, or over tiny things, so I went to the powder room. I’m not a baby, and I’m not weak, but for some reason, right now I feel isolated, alone. And it seems like it’s not going to change. I guess I’m scared, and don’t know what to do about it.”

  Vincent had spent a lifetime saying and doing the wrong thing, inviting pain in the process. But today, for once, he had the good sense to be quiet. He reached out and took Nancy’s hand. Once she seemed more in control, he offered his thoughts. “There is no one more important to me than you. I’m alone, too. And scared, just like you. I want us to be more than friends. And I want you to rely on me for whatever you need. I want to be a part of your life—the good, and the bad. I’m not much, but no one could care for you more than I do.”

  The tears came again, but she stayed. Vincent stood up and pulled her into a hug, holding on without worrying about what the other patrons might think. Most of them smiled, anyway. And a few had tears of their own.

  Cindy came into the kitchen. “Just got a call from Trent Taylor, the business manager for the Marks Gallery. He’s a lot easier to deal with than Anna. He gave me the itinerary for the guests arriving tomorrow—minus the artist herself, though. He said she’d be here later, no details. We’ll need to coordinate with Vincent to have them picked up at the airport in Albuquerque. Also, he said he wants to come by in the morning, before the guests get here, and walk through arrangements for the reception. Not sure if it means that Anna won’t be part of it, but I’m fine with that.”