Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring Page 9

  “Let me swing on your swing.” Don Toto grinned. La Suzie liked the compliment, but her comadre Celestina, who was a real saint, reported don Toto to the priest. Some of the other ladies felt she was jealous because Toto hadn’t propositioned her.

  “Life’s too short to behave, padre,” don Toto said in parting and gunned his Chevy down Fourth to the nearest cantina. “Once a lover, always a lover,” don Toto rasped as he bought drinks for all the women. He had no preferences, he chased them all.

  “You and me are brothers, ese,” he once confided in Sonny while they were having a beer, “we like las mamasotas. You’re young, you can still get it up. Me, I modify!” He slapped his leg and laughed until he cried. “Modify! Get it!” And he laughed and coughed and lit a fresh cigarette. “I’m a modified lowrider!”

  Doña Concha was the best-known wheeler-dealer on North Fourth. She’d had a small home near the acequia, an adobe that had been in the family for years, the remnants of large acreage her family once owned. Her husband had died years ago, but not before a prolonged illness siphoned off their savings. Concha couldn’t pay the property taxes.

  “That’s how they get us, honey,” she explained, “raise the taxes and make us sell. Look at Santa Fe. Good-bye to los pobres. Now it’s the same here.” She had to sell the house and most of the land to pay the bills. She kept the chicken coop in the back, which she converted into a very comfortable small place for herself.

  “It’s all I need, honey. No le pido nada a nadie. I’m independent. Let my kids do what they want, I got a life of my own.”

  She was the most independent Chicana in the North Valley, totally free to roam the streets, visit friends, and she was happy. She was nearsighted and wore thick glasses, and she bumped into things. She had been run into twice by a car while crossing the busy street, and when asked about it, she would smile and say, “The third time’s the charm, honey. Cuando te toca, te toca.”

  She walked with a cane, which she used to swat mean Fourth Street dogs and naughty boys. She had outlived don Toto’s and don Eliseo’s wives, and now she had them to herself. She touched peroxide to her gray hair to give it a slash of red, which turned burnt orange. She wore falsies, cotton-laden bras that continually fell to her waist and which she continually pushed back into place. “If you got it, flaunt it” was her favorite saying.

  “Party time,” Sonny heard don Toto say as they pulled up chairs next to don Eliseo.

  “Ya era tiempo!” don Eliseo laughed.

  Sonny smiled. They would sit and sip wine and tell stories in the coolness of the summer night. He glanced at his watch. It was still early, and he knew he couldn’t sleep. His thoughts were swarming with images of the cattle mutilation, the mysterious Raven, and the Zia-shaped mountain compound where he apparently kept four wives.

  But Sonny knew he had spent the day without really probing the most disturbing question: Frank Dominic.

  He rose, took a quick shower, put on a clean pair of pants and a shirt, and went out.

  “Sonny come on over, honey,” Concha called. She was always happy to see him. Hitting eighty, she still dolled up on Friday nights to do the North Fourth bars with don Toto.

  “Buenas noches,” Sonny called back. “Can’t. Got some business.”

  “Girlie business,” Concha called back. “I wish I was on your list, honey.”

  “You are, Concha,” Sonny called as he got into his truck. “I think of you every day. Like my grandma.”

  “Grandma!” she complained. “Don’t be so cabrón.”

  “Cuidao con las brujas,” don Eliseo called as Sonny drove away.

  8

  Sonny drove into a North Valley night filled with the fragrance of alfalfa fields being watered, a release from the heat of the day. He drove across to Río Grande Boulevard and to Dominic’s place. Dominic’s Cadillac and BMW sat in the gravel driveway next to a red Corvette.

  Looks like the man’s home, Sonny thought. And he’s got company. Not a good time to knock.

  Sonny cruised by slowly, checking to see if the cops were watching the place, but no, Garcia’s boys didn’t apparently have a stakeout.

  “Garcia doesn’t think Frank’s a suspect,” Sonny muttered as he parked his truck a few blocks away and cut across a neighbor’s alfalfa field toward the house.

  A horse whinnied in the dark, a dog barked; otherwise the night was peaceful, filled only with the drone of the cicadas in the trees. A Russian olive hedge covered his approach. A dim light shone through the back patio doors. Yes, the man’s home, Sonny thought, and he prayed Dominic hadn’t already replaced his two Dobermans.

  He made his way around the back, crouched, and slipped toward the large plate-glass patio doors. He peered into the dimly lighted room. Dominic appeared to be alone, sitting at his desk; the only light in the room was a desk lamp. Beside the desk sat a small suitcase. Dominic was on the phone, smiling as he talked. The sliding door was partly open; Sonny strained to hear.

  Fucking cops aren’t watching the place, he thought, and he wondered if they had bothered getting copies of the telephone records. Who did Gloria talk to the few days before her death? Who did Frank talk with? Was Garcia, despite what he claimed, treating Dominic with kid gloves?

  Sonny heard a car on the graveled front drive, then saw the glare of the car lights on nearby trees as it turned from the street into the driveway, the crunch of tires, then the slamming shut of a car door.

  The ring of the doorbell made Dominic frown. He hung up the phone and disappeared into the dark foyer. Sonny jumped forward, pushed the open door, and entered. If he was going to eavesdrop, he might as well go all the way. He could hear the sound of loud voices in the entryway.

  “We have nothing to talk about!” Dominic’s voice rose, the irritation clear.

  “We have to talk,” the other voice insisted. Calmer, more measured.

  A man’s voice, Sonny thought, and glanced quickly around the room. The best place to hide was behind the large wall tapestry of the coat of arms of the duke of Alburquerque, a white oak on a dark crimson field. Dominic’s crest. I feel like Polonius in Hamlet, Sonny thought as he slipped behind the handwoven tapestry. Hope I don’t get stabbed.

  “Didn’t you hear me say we have nothing to talk about?” Dominic said, then a muffled response to which Dominic answered, “Very well, come in.”

  “It is only proper that I come to pay my respects,” the second man began as the two moved into the room.

  Sonny peeked around the tapestry’s edge and got a glimpse of the handsome Japanese man. Dressed as sharply as Dominic in a three-piece suit, he looked like that Japanese multimillionaire who was trying to build a computer chip plant in Alburquerque. Akira Morino? Yeah, sure as hell, it was Akira Morino. Dominic’s arrogant, irritable tone told Sonny the man wasn’t welcomed.

  “Respects?” Dominic scowled. “You have nerve, Morino.”

  Why so angry? Sonny thought. In the dim light he could see Morino’s face. There was sadness written on the rugged face. Sonny remembered the news articles on the man. He had climbed to the top of the Japanese banking world, then he had gotten into computers. Akira Morino had cornered the market on the new flat liquid-crystal display screens, which, it was said, were going to revolutionize the industry. Computer screens of the future could be hung on a wall like a painting. Sony already had such a screen, but Akira Morino was promising the city fathers that he would bring his plant to Alburquerque. If Sandia Labs and Los Alamos Labs could deliver on the promising concept of “bubble memory,” the central processing unit of a small computer could hold thousands of megabytes. Millions.

  This can happen in Alburquerque, Morino told the papers and the Chamber of Commerce. He wanted to build a computer corridor that would rival California, and rival Intel, which had already poured billions into its Rio Rancho plant west of the city. The Alburquerque politicos and business community were betting Morino could get Japanese backing quickly and compete with Intel.

 
Now as they stood facing each other, Sonny saw they were an even match. But there was sadness on Morino’s face, perhaps grief; there was none on Dominic’s.

  “I was very fond of Gloria,” Morino said, as if apologizing.

  “I don’t want to hear about that,” Dominic snapped. “What is it you really want?”

  “Fond of Gloria” rang in Sonny’s mind. Early on, Dominic had courted Morino’s money to finance the canal system he envisioned for downtown Alburquerque, and Morino refused him. Later the papers began to report that Morino was being seen around town with Gloria, accompanying her to social events here and there. Was it more than political maneuvering? Were Morino and Gloria lovers?

  “All right,” Morino said, “I’ll get to the point. I want to know what happened.”

  Dominic’s lips parted in a smirk. “Go to the police; they’ll tell you what happened. Now if you’ll excuse me …” He turned away but Morino grabbed his arm. Dominic spun and twisted his arm free, his face throbbing with anger.

  “Don’t touch me!” he snarled. He was ready to fight.

  “I have been to the police!” Morino shouted back. “Your friend Mr. Garcia won’t tell me anything! But you know what happened!”

  Dominic drew a deep breath. “What the hell are you getting at?”

  “Gloria’s death was a tragedy. I have to know the truth. Or there is no rest—”

  “No rest.” Dominic leered. “Yeah, there’s no rest for those who are guilty. You better leave or I’ll call the police.”

  Morino stared into Dominic’s eyes. From where he watched, Sonny could sense the anger. A surge of hate flowed between the two men, a rage about to explode. Then Morino backed off.

  “All right,” he said, pulling himself away. “I cannot force you. But I’m going to find a way to make you tell the truth!”

  “Out!” Dominic shouted, and if Morino had not finally turned and walked away just then, Sonny was sure they would have come to blows.

  Sonny heard the front door slam, then the sound of a car driving away. Dominic cursed, turned to the bar, and poured a drink.

  Sonny stepped out from behind the tapestry. Might as well stoke the fire while it’s hot, he thought.

  “Pour one for me,” he said softly. Dominic spun around.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he gasped, a scowl crossing his face. Dominic didn’t like surprises.

  “Looking for Gloria’s murderer,” Sonny answered and stepped forward.

  “Playing detective! And you dare to break into my home!” Dominic said and tossed down the brandy. “I don’t care if you are Gloria’s cousin, you have no right to come in unannounced. Now get the hell out, before I throw you out!”

  Dominic was ready to explode, fired up as he had been by Morino. The two faced each other, and Sonny knew he could take Dominic. But he hadn’t come to fight. Men like Dominic didn’t talk when cornered; they fought. Sonny eased back. Try a soft approach on the sonofabitch, he thought, go slow.

  “The door was open, so I walked in. What’s there to hide?”

  Dominic looked at him, then shook his head. He laughed. “I don’t believe it,” he said, “two crazies in one night.”

  “And one suspects you …”

  “You heard?”

  Sonny shrugged. “A lot of people are going to suspect you,” he added.

  “Including you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Screw you, Baca!”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “I gave a complete statement to the police this afternoon,” Dominic answered and stepped to the patio door.

  “And you think that clears you—”

  “Yeah, it clears me!” Dominic shot back. “But it doesn’t clear you!”

  Sonny took a step back. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Gloria told me about you two. All these years and you carried a flame for her, hated me. Jealousy consumes, Sonny, and it consumed you.”

  Sonny felt stunned. Gloria had told Frank about them. No, she wouldn’t. “You’re crazy,” he mumbled.

  “No, I’m not the crazy one. I’ve got an alibi. Garcia knows exactly where I was last night. But he doesn’t know where you were! If he knew about the little fling you had with Gloria, how all these years jealousy has been eating away at you, then he might pull you in and ask you a few questions!” Dominic laughed and poured another drink. He was playing Sonny like a cat with a mouse.

  Sonny clenched his fists, then relaxed. No, the man was insane and he wasn’t going to fall for it, but damnit! How did he know about him and Gloria?

  “How does Morino fit in?” Sonny asked.

  “It was in the papers. Everybody knows he wanted a partnership with me. I didn’t like his offer, so he started seeing Gloria. He became her, shall we say, escort.”

  “You were too busy.”

  “Gloria had a mind of her own,” Dominic said, his jaws flexing, as if he was remembering her. “She came and went as she saw fit. I didn’t like it—”

  “But you were coming and going too,” Sonny said.

  Dominic forced a smile. “Smart boy, Sonny. But what was happening between me and Gloria has nothing to do with what happened last night.”

  A door sounded and he paused and glanced at the stairway.

  “I can’t stay here. Gloria—Well, I’m staying with friends,” he said. “So good night, Sonny.” He pointed at the patio door.

  Sonny stepped to the door and paused. “Your friend, huh?”

  Dominic smiled. “That’s right, Sonny. We didn’t have a happy marriage, so I had a friend and Gloria saw Morino. Everything was discreet, until—” He paused. “But that has nothing to do with her death. Go on thinking what you like, just don’t come around. Next time I’ll call Garcia. Entiendes?”

  They were interrupted by someone at the top of the stairs. “Frank?” the woman’s voice said, then she came down slowly.

  Sonny peered into the shadows, watched the golden-haired beauty descend. A young woman, no older than Sonny, dressed in a red evening gown, high heels, her long, blond hair flowing around her head like a halo.

  “Someone here?” she asked and stepped into the light at the bottom of the stairs.

  Dominic’s friend, Sonny thought. He recognized her. He knew he had seen her picture in the papers. But he couldn’t place her.

  “He was just leaving,” Dominic said.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Sonny said, still trying to place the young woman. She was a beauty all right. The new duquesa for the duke of Alburquerque? Maybe Gloria had simply become too old at forty; she had lost the sheen of youth and Dominic was already working on a new trophy wife.

  “Adios,” Dominic said sternly and Sonny shrugged and stepped out the door. Dominic slammed it shut, locked it, and pulled the curtains.

  “Sonofabitch!” Sonny cursed. “Gloria’s not even buried and the man’s already hopping into bed with the new prize! A friend Garcia knows. Is that why he’s buying Dominic’s story? And accusing me! Damn him!”

  He walked back to his truck in the dark, kicking at the clods of dirt and alfalfa.

  Damn, he needed to talk to Rita, but her place was already closed, and feeling the way he felt, he wasn’t good company. He stopped by the Fourth Street Cantina, found a quiet, dark booth in the back, and ordered a beer and a shot of bourbon.

  He was going to drink until he could cry, somehow get the grief out. He needed to relieve himself of the deep sadness, or the fear he wouldn’t admit. He was going to drink until they closed the bar or he got in a fight, anything to let go.

  He looked at the full cantina, the booths packed with Friday-night partygoers. At the dance floor in the back, the musicians were ready to start a new set. He ordered another shot of bourbon and downed it, and a third right on top of the one he just had.

  Two Mexicanos sat at the bar, nursing their beers and studying the floor for women. Sonny also turned his attention there.

  Lord, th
ere were too many good-looking women in the city. The Fourth Street Cantina was packed with women. Young women, middle-aged women, old women, all pickled in the passion of the dry hot days of June. It was like picking apples: some had slight blemishes, others were perfectly formed, all were sweet to eat.

  They had a special beauty, a special flavor, something they got from the Alburquerque water, some said, or from the hot chile that flavored every Mexican meal. Hot, spicy, good-looking mamasotas, Chicanitas with Indita ancestors and with the spice of life in their blood. Mixed in with them were the Anglo cowgirls of the North Valley, saucy blondes who loved to dance country-western on weekend nights, drink beer, make love, and get home just before Daddy woke up.

  The city was alive with women, and summer was the season of love. The wide, expansive sky that stretched from the face of the Sandia Mountains on the east to the rim of Nine-Mile Hill on the west was a blanket of love laid over the valley. When the summer thunderstorms swept across the valley, the energy of nature was unleashed; so was the need of the hot blood to be fulfilled.

  Ah, Sonny cursed, and downed his shot of bourbon, I’m in no mood for a woman. Still, the rage he felt inside needed to burst out.

  At the other side of the bar sat three cowboys. Two lanky guys and a big heavyset man with heavy, dark eyebrows. The thin men looked vaguely familiar, maybe he had rodeoed with them, maybe one of them was Joe What’s-his-name, who ran the feed store up the street. But the big man wore a smirk on his face. He looked around the bar and seemed to sneer at the other patrons. He was built like an ox. He was ugly, Sonny decided.

  A few more drinks, Sonny thought, and I’m going to tell him I don’t like the way he wears his black hat.

  Though he was drinking to forget, the more he drank, the clearer Gloria’s image grew. He could smell her perfume, and suddenly the big cowboy with the big hat looked across the room at Sonny.

  Who’s the little fucker over there? Sonny was sure he had asked his friends.