Red Gold

by Robert D Kidera

  “Won my first seven fights. Five by knock-out. It all ended at the hands of Marvin Johnson. Never saw a left-hander with his kind of punch. He put me down for the count in the sixth, then fought his way to the light-heavyweight crown a couple of years later.”

  C.J. stood, hobbled to a small refrigerator beneath his office window, and offered me a brew on the house. I accepted and asked him about his leg.

  “Right after I lost to Johnson,” he said as he sat back down, “my manager gets me a fight here in Albuquerque. Supposed to be a bounce-back fight against some palooka. Two hours after I get to town, I’m walking across Central. Some drunk uses his car’s right front fender to knock me onto the sidewalk. Three months in the hospital. They saved my leg. Had me up and walking again. But my fighting days were over.”

  “That sucks. But you stayed here? Why?”

  His eyes brightened. “Charmaine. A nurse’s aide. She helped care for me in the hospital. We were married the day I got out. Her father made me a wedding present of his barbeque recipe.” He spread his arms as if to embrace the entire establishment. “The rest is history.”

  “You’ve done all right, my friend.”

  “Better than I had any reason to expect. I never finished school. But I got thirty-three years, so far, with a woman who has kept me doing the right thing.” He popped open his beer and chugged. “So, what are you doing here?”

  I told him about Aunt Nellie’s death.

  “You lucked into an inheritance? Dog.”

  “Would you trade places with me?”

  “Charmaine wouldn’t let me.”

  We laughed. But then I told him about my wife’s death and the laughter stopped. He crumpled his beer can and tossed it into a wastebasket. “So,” he said, “how you like Albuquerque? Sure ain’t no New York.”

  “I spent some time here as a kid. I always liked Albuquerque. Such a welcoming, friendly place.” I blurted a laugh and said, “Course…that was then. Someone apparently doesn’t want me here now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I took the warning note I’d found on my windshield and Ricardo Ramos’s letter from my jacket pocket and tossed them on his desk. C.J. picked them up and read them.

  “You tell anybody about this?”

  “Not yet. I drove over to see Ramos at his house yesterday.” I paused for a couple of beats and considered how much I should tell him. C.J. was an old friend, a guy I used to trust back in the Big Apple. “I found his corpse. Somebody shut him up—permanently.” I told C.J. about the woman who’d answered the door and about the moans from inside the house. I told him how I’d later watched her drive away with a man whose face I couldn’t see clearly. “I did call the police to report the murder, but I didn’t leave my name.”

  C.J. let out a long, low whistle. “What’s next?” he said.

  “I don’t know. I’m tempted to sell my great-aunt’s estate. Go back to New York. Forget I was ever here.”

  C.J. snorted. “The ‘White Lightning’ I used to know had balls,” he said. “He didn’t ever scare. If you knocked him down he’d get up again.”

  “Yeah…well. Anyway, thanks for the beer.” I hoisted myself out of the chair.

  “Look, man, don’t take that the wrong way. Just saying…”

  I stopped at the door and looked back at him. “Know what? You’re right. I was that guy, once.”

  “Hey,” C.J. forced a smile. “Nice seeing you after all these years, Gabe. Stop by any time, okay?”

  “Sure.” I kept going until I reached my car.

  I pulled out of the parking lot and turned north onto Fourth Street. A gray Ford Explorer pulled close behind and hung with me for more than a mile, even after I swung west onto Candelaria Road. I veered right onto a side street, then left, then right again—straight into the glare of the afternoon sun. I gunned the engine for all its four cylinders were worth. The Explorer stuck with me. I tried to catch a glimpse of the driver’s face in my rearview mirror, but he was in shadow.

  Another turn put me on Rio Grande Boulevard with its posted speed limit of twenty-five miles per hour. An ancient farm tractor plodded on in front of me. Traffic in both directions crept along. I swerved right, onto a paved road that led me through a grove of cottonwoods, and begged my underpowered Fiesta for deliverance. Might as well have asked Mother Teresa for a shotgun.

  The Explorer pulled alongside on my left and then edged a little bit ahead. Swerving toward me, its bumper slammed into my left fender. Twice. The second thump shoved me partway off the pavement. I struggled all four wheels back onto the blacktop and floored it. Sweat stung my eyes. I gripped the wheel and shot a quick glance to my left to see who wanted me dead.

  I recognized him by the Stetson—this was the guy I’d seen at the El Tapado Bar. The gun in his steady right hand obscured his face. Any second now. I popped my seatbelt and dove down onto the passenger’s seat as hard and fast as I could.

  It wasn’t fast enough. The impact of his bullet shattered the window next to me. A searing pain slashed the left side of my neck. My body bounced one time on the seat. Tires screeched as my car bucked and left the road. It hurtled into a curbside adobe wall with a harsh crunch of compacting metal.

  Then…nothing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  April 4

  I didn’t regain consciousness until the following day. The doctors called me lucky. Some luck. I had a deep cut on my neck, two busted ribs, and a face that looked like I’d lost a unanimous twelve-round decision.

  That same afternoon, Carmen Flores, Aunt Nellie’s friendly next-door neighbor, came to my room in full uniform. She looked good in blue.

  A brawny man in a tan trench coat followed. He finished the last of whatever was in his paper cup and tossed it into the wastebasket.

  “Hello, Mr. McKenna,” Carmen said. “How are you?”

  “Been better. Thanks for asking.”

  “This is Detective Crawford. He has some questions for you.” She backed away to let him step between us. Crawford moved right up to my bedside. His was an unpleasant face, scarred on the chin and cheek. Brooding, bloodshot eyes made him appear both weary and hostile.

  “We need to talk about what happened to you,” he said.

  “Now? My head is still a bit foggy about it all.”

  “I was told you were a tough guy from New York.”

  Carmen frowned at Crawford while he pulled up a chair and sat next to me.

  I reached for my cup of ice and let a small piece of it slide into my mouth. His eyes were on me all the way.

  “We received an anonymous phone call two days ago that led us to a house on Ybarra Place. We found a man there who’d been tortured to death.”

  I looked away and swallowed hard.

  “The medical examiner places the time of death at about 3:30 p.m., less than an hour before we received the call. We found a piece of paper in the victim’s pocket. It had your name and address on it.”

  “Oh.”

  “One of the neighbors remembered seeing a man get out of a car and twice go to the house. The second time he watched the man enter. He gave us a license number from the man’s car. We found out it was a rental. Want to guess who the car was rented to?”

  I swallowed hard and felt beads of sweat break out on my forehead. “I don’t feel up to guessing games. Why don’t you tell me?”

  Crawford stared at me. The tip of his tongue licked his lips. “It was rented to you, Mr. McKenna. Want to tell me what you were doing at 1142 Ybarra Place?”

  “I don’t know anything about why that man was killed.”

  Crawford’s stare said my answer was not good enough.

  “I didn’t ask you that. I want to know about the note in the dead man’s pocket. And why you were at the scene of a homicide. You arrived in town three days ago. Why would the decedent have your name and your aunt’s address in his pocket?”

  I considered protesting to Crawford that I was in no shape to answer questions. The
thought crossed my mind that I didn’t have a lawyer in this town. But I caved. “Okay. I made that call. But I didn’t know Ricardo Ramos. Didn’t know anything about him. When I found him, he was already dead.”

  “Why were you there?”

  I told him about the letter Ramos had sent me, which was now with my wallet and other belongings in the hospital safe. “Check with Patient Services if you don’t believe me.”

  “Officer Flores,” Crawford said as he turned to Carmen, “go down to the safe and get an inventory of what he’s put in there. I want a photocopy of any documents.” He looked at me and almost grinned. “With your permission, of course, Professor.”

  I nodded and watched Carmen leave the room.

  I described the warning note on my car windshield. I told him what I could remember about the car that followed me after I left C.J.’s. “I drove to Ybarra Place to get to the bottom of things.”

  Crawford stared at me, unmoved. “We’ve got a homicide. You should have come forward earlier. Instead, nothing but an anonymous tip on the telephone.” He looked down at a small notepad and wrote something. “Failure to report a felony is a crime. And if you tampered with any evidence, that itself is a felony.”

  “I did report it,” I said.

  “No, Professor. You really didn’t. When you’ve recovered, you’ll have to come in to make a full statement.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I have no idea who tried to kill me, or why.”

  “If that’s the best you can do you’ll make my job harder.”

  “I should have taken a closer look at the guy back at the bar,” I muttered to myself.

  “What?” Crawford’s eyebrows arched.

  “The guy in the car was probably the same guy who followed me into the El Tapado the first full day I was in town.”

  “Description.”

  “Mid-twenties, thin, average build, gray Stetson, and a bulge under his gray suit coat.”

  Crawford closed his notepad and let out a sigh. “No license plate. No tire tracks. Attack takes place on a lonely side road. Assailant apparently drives off right away. I’ve got no witnesses, no prints, and only a minimal description from the victim.” He snorted. “And if that guy has any sense, he’s ditched the Stetson. Better think hard while you lie there. The hospital will notify me when they release you. I may even give you a free ride down to the station.”

  “Great.”

  “Be seeing you real soon.”

  Crawford left. I felt more like a criminal than a victim.

  Rebecca Turner came to my room an hour later.

  “Feeling any better today?” she said from the doorway.

  “Not much. How did you even know I was here?”

  “My boss told me about your accident and asked me to see how you were.”

  “O’Connor? How’d he find out?”

  “He has friends on the force.” She brought her hand out from behind her back and handed me a small floral display sealed into its own plastic vase. “I brought you some flowers to brighten the room.”

  She came all the way into the room and set the bouquet on my bedside table. “I fed Otis and picked up your mail. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Get me out of here?” The best I could do was a weak smile.

  Rebecca promised to keep an eye on the cat and to check my mail each day. “I’ll look on you again when you get back home.”

  I took her concern to be genuine, as any guy in his fifties is tempted to do when a twenty-five-year-old beauty gives him more than the time of day. When she left, I gave her a genuine smile.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  April 6

  I wheeled my chair back into the hospital room and almost knocked over a Native American woman who stood at the foot of my bed. Her hair was a deep bronze color and spilled down over her shoulders; a turquoise and bronze necklace dangled down, touching the top of a brown silk blouse.

  She seemed amused by our near collision. Looking down, she smiled at me. “You don’t drive any better now than you did more than twenty-five years ago.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “You used to, but head injuries do strange things to people.” Her hand played with the necklace and she tossed her long hair.

  “My apologies,” I said, a bit embarrassed. “I’m not myself yet. You need to help me out a little.”

  “Nai’ya Alonso-Riley.”

  “Nai’ya! After all these years! It’s so good to see you again.”

  “It’s been a long time, Gabe. You were a hot shot academic on the way up, doing fieldwork on the Anasazi. I was in my first year of grad school. You plucked me from a summer course in archaeology to serve a two-week sentence as your student assistant. Fourteen days to breathe dust and work on a world-class sunburn.” We laughed together, as memories of those days rolled through my addled brain.

  She reached out and took my hand. The years had been kind to Nai’ya. The sparkle of youth was still there, along with a grace I remembered.

  “I would’ve come sooner, but I’ve been away. I’m only on campus three days a week now. I split my time as an instructor here at UNM, and Director of Education on Laguna Pueblo.”

  “That’s wonderful. I knew you’d be successful.”

  “I never thought we’d meet again. I saw a brief account of your crash in the police blotter of the Albuquerque Journal a couple of days ago.”

  “So I’m famous?”

  “Not really. Just a couple of lines, but it identified the injured man as Gabriel McKenna of New York. I decided to stop by as soon as I could to see if it was really you. I called around to all the hospitals until UNM told me you were here. What kind of accident was it?”

  “It was no accident.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m so delighted to see you, Nai’ya. Has it really been a quarter of a century?”

  She broke off eye contact and looked away. “You know, Gabe…I had quite a crush on you back then. But you returned to New York.”

  “Back to my career.”

  Nai’ya reached into her handbag and gave me a small card. “I have a class in twenty minutes,” she said. “That card has my work and home phone numbers. Call me if you need anything. Take care, Gabe.” She rested her hand on my shoulder.

  I placed the card on the bedside table. “Thanks for stopping by. It’s wonderful to see you again. And I will definitely be in touch. I’ve decided to live here now.”

  Nai’ya paused like she might say something more, then simply smiled and left. Five minutes later, I made a phone call to order a home security system installed as soon as I was released. Then I called C.J.

  “Where have you been, man?”

  I filled my old friend in on all that took place after I’d left his restaurant.

  “They got you in the same hospital I was in. Need somebody to spring you?”

  “I should be out tomorrow, if my final scan comes back clear.”

  “Call me when you’re ready. I’ll swing by and drive you home. Ain’t going inside though. I hate that place. I’ll meet you at the hospital’s front drive, okay?”

  “Beats a ride home with the cops. Thanks.” I looked out the window and noticed the sunshine for the first time that day.

  “Hey, Gabe, I’m sorry if what I said the other day ticked you off.”

  “I’ve had lots of time to think about it. You were right. I’m staying in New Mexico. Nobody’s going to run me off.”

  “I’ll be in your corner, pal. See you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  April 7

  An orderly wheeled me outside the hospital. I shielded my eyes from the sun and felt the warmth of the breeze. C.J. waited in the hospital traffic circle, his left arm dangled outside the open driver’s side window of a black Cadillac hearse.

  “Pine Box Taxi Service. Need a lift?”

  I laughed, but my neck burned and my ribs hurt.

  The orderly opened the door for me and he
lped me from the wheelchair.

  “How you doing?” C.J. said.

  I winced in pain as I slid in. “I’m okay. I’ve been much better.”

  C.J. crouched over the steering wheel as he gunned the Cadillac onto Lomas Boulevard and turned west. His right leg rested on the hump in the floorboard that ran down the middle of the vehicle. His good left leg switched from the accelerator to the brake and back again as he wove in and out of the heavy, bumper-to-bumper morning traffic.

  “Jeez!” I blurted.

  “What? You don’t like the way I’m driving? That’s the only good leg I got left. Sit back, Gabe. Enjoy the ride.”

  “How the hell did you ever get a license?”

  C.J. laughed.

  We made it to my house in less than ten minutes. I invited him in for a drink.

  “Love to, but I can’t. Got to get back before the lunchtime crowd arrives. Tell you what. I can come by with some ribs tonight if ten-thirty’s not too late.”

  “Great. In the meantime, I’ll try to figure out why somebody has it in for me.”

  “You need a gun? I got a bunch.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. Not yet, anyway.”

  C.J. nodded and drove off. I walked inside and turned on the swamp cooler just to vent the stale air. I poured out some whiskey, careful to keep it short with all the painkillers I was on.

  Otis sat on the kitchen window ledge and watched me take my first swig of the day. The disdain on his face almost made me feel guilty about drinking this early. Almost.

  I walked into the library and stopped short. A vase of beautiful red and yellow roses graced the top of the big desk; a small white envelope was taped to the cellophane wrapping. The handwritten note inside read: Get well soon! Rebecca Turner.

  Nobody had threatened me today. Nobody had used me for target practice. I had a drink in my hand and flowers from a beautiful woman. Shelves of books surrounded me on three sides. For the moment, I relaxed and felt safe.

  Aunt Nellie had filled her shelves with an extensive collection of books, maps, and papers about the American Southwest. But no copy of The Mystery of the Anasazi. I should have sent her one.