Red Gold

by Robert D Kidera

  Behind me, a car barreled down Ybarra Place. Its radio blasted out Madonna’s Beautiful Stranger.

  “Good afternoon. I’ve come to see Ricardo Ramos. Is he here?”

  “Never heard of him.” She turned to go back inside, one hand on the door. I heard another groan, even more desperate than the first.

  “He wrote me a letter. Asked me to meet him here,” I said in an attempt to stop her retreat. I offered my card. “When he comes around, will you tell him I stopped by?”

  “No.” She ignored the card and slammed the door.

  The living room window blinds to the left of the door parted a bit. As I turned to walk back to my car, I felt curious eyes follow me past the chickens. On a hunch, I drove to the far end of Ybarra Place, hung four consecutive right hand turns and pulled to the curb three houses up from where I’d parked the first time. I slumped down in the front seat as best I could and waited.

  Five minutes later, a dust-colored Plymouth Horizon lurched out from behind 1142 and rolled toward me. Miss Congeniality sat behind the wheel, still decked out in terrycloth. A man, his face turned away, sat beside her. They flashed past, but I caught the first three letters of the New Mexico plate—ARF.

  I returned to the house and found the front door unlocked. One light shove and I stumbled inside.

  An oversized chair sat to my left. An empty gin bottle lay in the middle of a faded rug. An old couch, covered with crumpled newspaper and a pink flannel nightgown, sagged against the far wall. The acrid smell I’d noticed earlier now surrounded me; it was fresh and strong and turned my stomach. The odor increased as I moved through the living room and down a narrow shadowed hallway.

  In the first room to my left, I took a sudden step back, staring at the body that was stretched out, lying face-up on a bed.

  He could have been in his mid-50s. He was short, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and the tanned skin of a man who works outdoors. Duct tape covered his mouth. Thin wire bound his hands together above his head, tethering him to the bed frame. More wire secured his feet to the metal footboard.

  The front of his sweat-stained denim shirt was torn. Clots of blood from a wound in his chest matched his red suspenders. He’d soiled his pants and the mattress. I covered my face with my handkerchief, but it didn’t do much good. The soles of his feet, at least where the skin remained, were blistered purple and black. A whiff of smoke rose from his left foot. It had a thick, coppery smell I could almost taste.

  His terror-filled, unseeing eyes stared upward.

  Hit by a sudden wave of nausea, I turned away and braced my left hand against a wall to steady myself.

  A silver and black steam iron rested upright on a small bedside table. I bent down to touch it, but intense heat stopped me an inch away from its bottom surface. The cord curled round to a nearby outlet.

  A man’s wallet lay open on the floor in the far corner of the room. I pulled a tissue from a box on the bedside table. No money in the wallet and not a single credit card remained; an expired New Mexico driver’s license was all it held. I slid the license out and moved closer to the guy on the bed. I placed the photo ID next to his bruised and bloodied face. This was Ricardo Ramos, whose handwritten letter rested in my breast pocket.

  I put the license back and used the tissue to wipe off the wallet. Then, I wiped the bedroom doorknob, the wall where I’d touched it, and the front door. I double-timed it back to my car, drove a couple miles west toward the Rio Grande, and pulled into a mini-mall.

  My last quarter slid into one of Albuquerque’s surviving pay phones. I wanted to be a good citizen and report what I’d seen, but with airline reservations back to New York in two days, I couldn’t get involved in a murder investigation. I covered the bottom of the receiver, lowered my voice, and told the cops about a dead man waiting for them at 1142 Ybarra Place.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  4:15 p.m.

  After I found Ricardo Ramos’s body and placed the anonymous phone call, I drove back to Aunt Nellie’s, hurried inside, and double-bolted the door. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the sight of his mangled body.

  Five minutes at the bathroom sink didn’t wash the fear off my face or stop the trembling in my hands. I looped a towel around my neck and headed for the booze. Two shots didn’t help at all.

  My return flight to New York was two days away. I could go back as planned, or stay and…do what? I swigged the last of the whiskey directly from the bottle and tossed the damp towel on the counter.

  I refilled Otis’s water bowl and spilled some on the floor. No mop in the broom closet, but the sledgehammer that hung from a nail on the right hand wall gave me an idea. The four-pounder fit right in my hand as I walked through the back door and out toward the old barn.

  A murder of crows, huddled in some cottonwoods that provided afternoon shade to Carmen Flores’s next-door property cackled loudly and angrily, just like they do in New York. Their argument assaulted my ears all the way back to the metal barn.

  I took the hammer in both hands. Two hard swings shattered the rusted padlock on the sliding door. Metal screeched against metal as I pushed it open enough to squeeze inside.

  A shaft of sunlight filtered through the dust-covered windows and revealed several coils of old rope, rusted tools, and an assortment of 1940s New Mexico license plates on the walls.

  Pigeons fussed and flapped above my head. A vent against the far wall hung open, room enough for even large birds to enter the structure and take shelter inside. Years of bird droppings covered the dirt floor, the overhead steel beams, and the windowsills. I stepped inside with care.

  A tarp covered what appeared to be an automobile in the center of the barn. The mass of droppings on the tarp resembled a Jackson Pollack painting. I pulled off the tarp and discovered a step-down, 1948 two-door Hudson Coupe sporting a 1968 New Mexico plate.

  The driver’s side door opened easily. Car keys hung on a chain from the ignition slot. The hood release stuck at first, but a bit of jiggling popped it open. The engine was fairly clean and everything under the hood looked like original equipment. No modifications to the interior or to the body as far as I could tell. With the car up on blocks, even the tires appeared to be in good shape. Not showroom new, but remarkable for a car of this vintage.

  I closed the hood, stepped back, and studied her. Same model my dad used to have, the one we’d taken on so many family trips back in the day.

  There’s a bit of the car nut in me. I’ve never possessed the skills to fix up an old car and have never had the money to buy a restored classic. How incredible was this? Now I found myself with a collector’s jewel of my very own and money to spare. Back in New York, my ten-year-old rusted Taurus with over one hundred thousand miles was on its last legs. At least I had one reason to stay in New Mexico.

  I put the tarp back over the car, closed the barn door, and pulled my cellphone from my pocket. Rebecca Turner hadn’t left for the day.

  “Chavez, Lujan, Vigil and O’Connor, how may I help you?”

  I recognized her young-girl voice. “Gabe McKenna calling.”

  “Hello Professor, nice to speak with you again. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to wrap things up on my aunt’s estate.”

  “I see. Can you hang on for just a minute?”

  She put me on hold, so I walked back into the house. I felt warm and turned on the swamp cooler, entered the library, and sat down at the big desk. A pair of finches chattered as they worked together on their nest in the large bush outside the window.

  Ms. Turner returned at last. “Mr. O’Connor can see you tomorrow morning if you’re available.”

  “That would be fine,” I said. “What time should I stop by?”

  “We’ll come out to the house. Ten o’clock, okay?”

  I agreed and said good-bye. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to decide what—if anything—I should do in the meantime. The image of Ricardo Ramos’s body intruded on my thought
s.

  CHAPTER SIX

  April 3

  Maybe I slept for four or five hours. I staggered out of bed at 8:00, polished off two cups of coffee, watched the news to see if there was any information about Ramos, and then showered. After I dressed, I sat at the library desk and inhaled the pungent smell of the leather chair. Nothing on my cellphone: no calls, no messages.

  Otis rested on the ledge by the window and eyed the finches as they put the final touches on their nest. I walked over to the window, too, but the cat ignored me and continued to stare outside. I bent down and followed his line of sight just as a large silver Lexus pulled up to the curb to park across the street.

  I hurried to the front door and stepped outside. Rebecca Turner climbed out of the passenger’s seat, struggling with her skirt and an armful of folders. She paused on the sidewalk. Richard O’Connor sprung from the driver’s door and took the lead across the street, as Rebecca then followed two steps behind him.

  O’Connor bounded straight toward the house. He looked neither right nor left, his eyes laser-focused on me. His smile grew as he strode up the front path. His outstretched hand seemed to reach me a couple of seconds before the rest of him arrived.

  “Hello, McKenna. Getting used to the place?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You know Ms. Turner here.”

  “Good to see you again. Won’t you come in?” I held the door open.

  “Lovely day to do some business, don’t you think?” O’Connor crossed the threshold as he spoke. I stepped back, hoping he’d fall and break his hair.

  We entered the library. I sat behind the big desk and motioned for O’Connor to sit in the only other upholstered chair. Rebecca perched primly on an adjacent wooden stool.

  O’Connor spoke first. “So, Professor, will you be returning to New York soon?”

  “Actually, I’m thinking I might hang around New Mexico for a while.”

  His expression soured for just a moment, before the smile returned. “That’s fine, just fine. This state needs all the brain power it can get.” He winked at me. “Ms. Turner brought along all the papers to transfer title and finish disposition of the estate, etcetera, etcetera.” O’Connor reached for a batch of papers she’d carried in. “We also need to review the tax implications of your inheritance.”

  He recited my new financial responsibilities as the beneficiary of Aunt Nellie’s estate. My obligations would be more than I’d expected: property tax bills of just under five grand every six months, first payment due in less than a week; solid waste and water bills, gas and electricity; insurance on both properties. I would also need to continue the monthly salary of $1,500 for the caretaker out on the Catron County land.

  O’Connor concluded and handed all the papers back to Rebecca. He crossed his arms as his eyes lit up. “I just may have a client who is willing to buy this house and the entire Catron County property at full market value,” he said. “Our financial services division could put the sale proceeds into a sheltered annuity at favorable guaranteed rates, everything tied up with ribbons and bows. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, Professor.” He flashed a well-practiced 50,000-watt smile. “Ms. Turner!”

  The lawyer barely glanced in her direction. Rebecca plunged her hand into one of the manila folders to clasp another thick batch of papers. O’Connor reached for them and sat forward enough to straighten their edges against the top of the desk. His right hand swept into the breast pocket of his suit and with another wink produced a black Mont Blanc jeweled pen. He extended it toward me the way a sommelier offers you a bottle of fine vintage wine.

  “Mr. O’Connor, I appreciate all that you’ve done,” I said in a slow, measured manner. “But I don’t jump into water without first testing its depth. I need to go and check out the property in Catron County before I decide whether or not to sell it. I’d also have to check with my tax accountant back in New York. That is a lovely pen, though.”

  O’Connor shot me another sour look but then said, “Accept it as my gift. If you decide to sell this place and the ranch, you can sign off in style.” He smiled as he carefully laid the Mont Blanc on the desk.

  The hair on the back of my neck bristled as I stood. His oily ways had my early warning system on high alert. “I need time to consider my options.”

  “Of course, Professor, we understand. Take whatever time you need.” He made a slow move to get up and stood tall on the other side of the desk. “I hope you don’t mind a bit of professional advice. Don’t wait too long before you reach a decision. Not sure how long that client will wait.”

  We parted ways, like a couple of wary heavyweights who’d danced away the early third of a twelve round title bout.

  It was now lunchtime and my refrigerator and liquor cabinet were both empty. I locked up and drove down Fourth Street. Of the first five restaurants I passed, four were Mexican and one vegetarian, and neither cuisine appealed to me at that moment. I drove on to a string of brightly colored pennants that snapped in the breeze. The aroma of barbeque wafted out over the street and lured me to a single-story, ramshackle eatery. A massive red, white and blue sign above the front entrance brought me up short:

  C.J.’s Barbeque—Curtis Jester, Prop.

  Curtis Jester? I knew a guy by that name back in New York, during my three-year-long, ill-advised career as an amateur teenage middleweight boxer. Could this be the same guy? Curtis Jester and I trained at Gleason’s Gym on 30th Street in Manhattan. Against the wishes of both my parents, I’d pursued my dream of winning a Golden Gloves crown in Madison Square Garden.

  Dozens of other young men from the Metro Area shared that dream. Curtis, a young kid from the Bed-Stuy neighborhood in Brooklyn, was one of my main sparring partners at Gleason’s. He and I had gone dozens of rounds together and developed a kind of closeness, like two gladiators who shared a dream, pained by the knowledge that someday we’d have to face each other when it counted.

  That day came on March 6, 1977. In front of both my parents and several thousand fight fans, Curtis Jester and I threw our one hundred and fifty-five pounds of controlled violence at one another for three furious rounds. His devastating right hook prevailed and propelled him along his way to the middleweight amateur crown and a pro career. I’d lost track of him over the years.

  Surely he hadn’t wound up running a rib joint in New Mexico!

  Curiosity and an empty stomach compelled me to find out. The parking lot was packed, so the food had to be good, or cheap, or both. I found a spot on the street and walked in the front door.

  Smoke from a poorly vented barbeque pit in the center of the large single room stung my eyes. It hung like a cloud over everything and gave the room a dreamlike, velvety-blue aura.

  A young Latina waitress approached me with an armful of menus.

  “One,” I said.

  I followed her to a small table beneath a smoke-stained sign that showed the way to conveniently adjacent bathrooms.

  I ordered a half rack of baby backs, a side of extra-lean brisket, and a Dos Equis lager. The food arrived so fast I assumed the chef was psychic.

  I leaned forward in my chair to get a better angle of attack. The ribs were excellent, the brisket a bit dry, which necessitated a second beer. I concentrated on the rapidly dwindling pile of meat on my plate until a shadow fell across my table.

  “Is everything satisfactory?”

  I looked up into a large black face with a broad forehead and scar tissue around both eyes.

  “C.J. guarantees your satisfaction.”

  I stared up at him. “C.J…Curtis? Curtis Jester?”

  “Yeah, I’m C.J. I own this place. Have we met?”

  I laughed. “Oh, we’ve met before. My jaw met your right fist many times, often in rapid succession. Last time I saw you I was flat on the canvas.”

  C.J. furled his brow and looked down at me.

  I helped him out. “Madison Square Garden? 1977? Golden Gloves semi-finals? 155-pound division? You won.”

  C.J.
’s face lit up. “White Lightning? Gabe?” C.J. shook his head. “I didn’t recognize you with that chin hair. My God, that was more than thirty-five years ago.”

  He paused before continuing, “You were good, man. Not the hardest puncher I ever faced, but you knew your way around the ring. Hey, when you’re done with the meat, come join me in the back office.” He gave me a playful punch on my shoulder and stumbled away. His right leg dragged noticeably.

  When there was nothing left on my plate but a pile of bare bones, I took him up on his invitation.

  His cluttered office told the story of a boxer’s life: to the right of the door stood a glass cabinet filled with at least a dozen trophies. One wall displayed framed clippings from what I recognized as the New York Post and New York Daily News, which recounted a young boxer on the rise. Photos of C.J. with celebrities dotted the walls. A couch with a pillow and blanket rested against the wall to the left of the door. C.J. waved me to a seat across from his desk.

  “Damn, Gabe, never thought I’d see you again. Especially all the way out here.”

  I laughed. “Neither did I. You realize I have you to thank for my teaching career?”

  “How’s that?”

  “After you turned my head into a cabbage in the Golden Gloves, I listened to my folks and gave up the sweet science. Finished college, spent a couple of years in the army, then back to grad school. Earned my Ph.D. from N.Y.U.”

  “No shit.”

  “Can you believe it? Then, for better or worse, it was on to a career as a history professor. Don’t know if my students ever appreciated what you did for them.”

  C.J. shook his head. “Funny how you can start from the same point and travel different paths. You know I turned pro after winning the Golden Gloves?”

  “Sure do. I followed your career until I left for the army in 1979. How did you do after that?”