by Robert Ward
As he entered the Red Sombrero he saw the Sons of Satan standing by a back door. They were complaining loudly to the Mexican waiter, a little man with a ratty moustache.
“You have it wrong, sir,” Lucky said, in a mocking way.
“I do not have it wrong,” the waiter said. “The back patio is already booked, sir.” He wanted to show he wasn't intimidated by six assholes dressed in black leather jackets, with faces like Visigoths and attitudes to match.
Jack moved between two other diners and got closer to the bikers. They didn't notice him at all because they were busy staring with venomous hatred at the short, bald keeper of the gate.
“Yeah, you're right about one thing, asshole,” Lucky Avila said. “The room is already booked. It's booked by us, dickhead. Who the fuck is out there now?”
The waiter sighed and looked down at his schedule.
“That would be the group from Blue Wolf Lodge,” he said.
Lucky Avila looked as though he would gag.
“Hey, fuck those dipshits,” Lucky said. “Tell ’em to shove off.”
“I'm sorry, sir,” the host said. “They use the patio every year for their council meeting.”
“Yeah?” said Lucky. “And when does the freaking council get their asses out of our seats?”
“I'm afraid they've reserved the room for the entire night. They'll be out there until ten thirty, or perhaps even later.”
“No,” Lucky said. “They won't be.”
The other Sons growled at the little man, and one of them, a short, wide guy named Zollie who looked like Yosemite Sam, knocked a painting of a black bull standing in a sea of flowers from the wall.
“I think we should, like, trash the Sombrero,” he said.
The other Sons mumbled agreement. But Lucky Avila only smiled, shook his head, and then pushed the waiter out of the way. He kicked the door open and crashed the festivities on the patio.
Jack eased around behind the gang and watched the collision. Bikers versus New Agers.
The first thing Jack noticed was that the Blue Wolf crew was the same aging group he'd seen when he first came into town. The ones who had been so surprisingly nimble as they worked out in the park.
Jack felt his hair bristle. If this was going to be a physical conflict the Blue Wolfers were going to lose, and lose badly.
Surely they must know this. But they didn't seem at all intimidated.
“Look who we have here,” said the white-haired leader who sat at the head of the table. “If it isn't the great outlaw himself, Lucky Avila. You're looking well, Lucky. Let me introduce myself. I'm Alex Williams, the president of the Blue Wolf council.”
The older man's hair was still thick, his voice strong.
“Like I give a shit who you are,” Lucky said. “Listen up, Williams. You guys have to leave. And I mean now!”
The old folks at the table looked up at the outlaw king and seemed amused. They smiled as if Lucky were joking with them.
“Really, and why is that?” Williams asked.
“Because,” Lucky said. “Me and my guys, we had the place reserved for two months.”
“Well, I'm afraid I've got you there,” Williams said. “Because we reserve the room one year in advance for our council meeting.”
“Fuck your reservation. We have an important dinner and business meeting scheduled for tonight, so I think you better take your little crew here and buzz off.”
“Sorry,” Alex Williams said, “we haven't even eaten our appetizers yet. But I do admire your aggressive stance, Lucky. Very manly.”
Williams thrust his hand toward Lucky, steady and strong, and Lucky seemed compelled to shake it. Jack watched as the older man's fingers enveloped Lucky's. The gang leader grimaced and tried to pull away, but found the old man's huge hand held him firmly in his grasp.
Panic crossed Lucky's face. He pulled backward as hard as he could, and then Alex Williams let go, catching him off guard. Lucky fell back against the wall, hard. He slid down it like a drunken cat.
The Sons of Satan looked stunned. They seemed lost, unable to make a move without their leader.
Jack watched as Lucky's face turned bright red.
“That was funny,” he snarled at Williams as he got up. “See how you like this.”
Contorting his face in anger, he raised his massive fist. But before he could strike the aged Blue Wolf president, Jack grabbed him and, a second later, had twisted his arm behind him and shoved his face up against the wall.
“We're gonna kill your ass, mister,” a huge biker named Terry said, moving toward Jack.
“Oh, yeah, you are one dead mother,” another biker, Popeye, added.
“That wouldn't be smart,” Jack said, releasing the pressure on the leader's arm a little. “I saw the bartender call the state police about two minutes ago. They're undoubtedly on their way here now. You haven't done anything chargeable yet. But if you hit Mr. Williams here you'll end up in jail, probably for a long, long stretch.”
“Yeah, but you twisted his—”
“It's all right, Terry,” Lucky said. “He had to do that to stop me. Mister, you just did us a big favor. What's your name?”
“Jack Morrison,” Jack said, using his undercover name. “Don't like to see a brother take a fall when he don't have to.”
“Who you ride with?” Lucky asked.
“Gypsy Jokers,” Jack said. “Out of Portland.”
“Come see me at the Coyote,” Lucky said. “We might do some business.”
Jack gave Lucky a little salute, and the biker turned and looked at Alex Williams.
“You were real lucky just now, old man,” he said.
“Sometimes it's better to be lucky, Lucky,” the old man said.
“Funny. But I got a feeling your luck ain't gonna hold,” Lucky added. Then he motioned to his men. “Out of here. Now.”
He nodded to Jack again and they all cleared out, like a pack of wild dogs.
Back at the patio, Alex Williams and the other Blue Wolf oldsters raised their glasses to Jack.
“To our benefactor and friend,” Alex said. “Thinks, Jack. We owe you one.”
“Nah,” Jack said. “Looked to me like you had the situation well under control.”
“Not at all. If Lucky had landed that blow he would have probably broken all the bones in my face.”
The others at the table nodded in agreement. Alex Williams introduced his dining partners.
“Jack, this is Ellen Garcia, one of the founders of Blue Wolf.”
Jack looked over at the white-haired Mexican woman whose right arm was in a sling.
“Nice to meet you, Jack,” she said. Though her face was lined, her blue eyes shone with intelligence and clarity.
“Good to meet you, too,” Jack said. “What happened to your arm?”
“Old age happened to it,” Ellen said. “But we've got some terrific new methods at Blue Wolf, and before long it's going to be just like new.”
Jack smiled and nodded, but wondered silently if she was just kidding herself. Still, he reminded himself, there were amazing new things happening every day. What did he really know about any of it?
“And this is Nigel Russell,” Williams said. “He's our program developer.”
Jack looked at the heavyset man with the big back brace, and smiled.
“Nice work, Jack. I thought for a second I was going to have to take the jerk out myself.”
The table howled at that, and Nigel gave Jack a mischievous grin.
Jack was then introduced to a woman who was all hunched over, Sally Amoros. Sally was the head of something called Ancient Ways.
“They gave me that post because I'm so fucking ancient,” she said. The group at the table cracked up, including Jack.
Jack then met the man with the cane, Desmond Phillips, and the man with the eye patch, Jerry Hoffman. Hoffman was an architect, and the head of new building for Blue Wolf, and Desmond Phillips was the comptroller of the corporation. They
, like the others, were witty and completely free of self-pity.
“You really saved the day, Jack,” Hoffman said.
“No problem. Maybe you people need some security.”
“Thanks, but we have it,” Williams said. “Anyway, these things rarely happen. Blue Wolf is a spa vacation spot and a deeply spiritual world. If we're involved in physical ugliness . . . well, it just isn't good for the resort's image or Blue Wolf's stockholders.”
“Not to mention our souls,” Sally Amoros said, and several other members added, “Amen.”
Jack nodded.
“You know, we don't usually get bothered by the bikers because they're busy hating their rivals, the Jesters. About twice a year they war and kill one another.”
The old man laughed a little as he said it.
“More entertaining than HBO,” said Sally Amoros.
“But seriously,” Jack said, “those are some dangerous guys. What if they come back? How will you deal with them?”
“Oh, positive energy forces, meditation . . . there are many ways, all of them nonviolent.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, “that's all fine. I have a lot of respect for nonviolence myself, but do the things you're advocating get through to the morons and the haters, the guys like Lucky who are born predators? I mean they see something, they take it if they can. Can people like that be influenced by . . . whatever you call them . . . good vibes?”
“A good question,” Alex said. “And one I don't take lightly. But at Blue Wolf we're working on much more than just good vibes. Come up and I'll give you a tour.”
“I'd like that very much,” Jack said.
He felt warmth toward the old man, and thought of his own dad.
“What are you doing down here, Jack?” Alex Williams asked.
Jack reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out the photo of Jennifer Wu, and handed it to him.
“I came down to see a friend, Michelle. She and her sister Jennifer were sightseeing the other day up in Taos and Jennifer disappeared. And the funny thing is, I was intending to come see you later today. Because Jennifer Wu works for you, as a nurse.”
“I know Jennifer,” Ellen Garcia said. “Terrific nurse.”
“So do I,” said Phillips. “Nice girl.”
“Yes, I've seen her around as well. Disappeared?” Williams asked. “What do you mean?”
“I don't know. Wandered off Or worse.”
“Kidnapped?”
“Possibly, yes.”
“You think Lucky Avila might have something to do with it?”
“I don't know,” Jack said. “But Jennifer's sister Michelle knows Lucky and they had a very unpleasant run-in a couple of days ago.”
“I see,” Alex said. “Well, he's a bad sort, no doubt. But I never heard anyone say he was into kidnapping. Anyway, I'll duplicate this photo and circulate it up at the resort. If she's anywhere near there, we'll find her.”
“I'd appreciate that.”
“Meanwhile, please come up and ask around if you want to. And you're more than welcome to use any of our facilities.”
“Thanks,” Jack said, and shook the older man's hand. Like Lucky, he was surprised by Alex's strength. The old man might have a lot of wrinkles, but he was still as strong as a man half his age.
Chapter Eleven
Phil sat in the apartment drinking his tequila, furious. The thing was, he wasn't some old guy. Hell, he was still in his forties. And he had made fifty mil in his business.
But now that he had the money, the sad thing was that his wife Dee Dee wanted younger men. Phil wished he had never started this swinger thing.
It had been fun for a while, sure. But now the bitch couldn't get off unless she had some new young guy in bed with her.
She craved, absolutely craved, sex with as many men as possible.
Now she was out fucking Ziko. Of course.
Well, two could play that game. He'd get himself down to the bar and see who he could round up.
Yeah, he'd find a hot new chick. There were some women who were more loyal, and some people who would think of a man in his forties as desirable.
Yes, sir.
She'd see, and in the end he would leave her and not give the bitch a dime.
He laughed and combed his hair straight back. Looked cool, like a young, prefat Brando.
Fuck feeling bad. What he needed was a little bar action.
Chapter Twelve
Though he felt guilty for interrupting Oscar's vacation, Jack called his partner at seven in the morning.
“Hey, amigo,” a sleepy Oscar said. “You having fun in Santa Fe?”
“Not exactly,” Jack said. “See, the case has taken a couple of weird twists, and it's more than one gringo cop can handle. Now if I had a really smart Latino to help me out down here, somebody I could trust . . .”
“I must be going deaf in my old age,” Oscar said. “I just had an auditory hallucination that you asked me to give up my vacation to come down there and help you and your completely untrustworthy criminal girlfriend in a kidnapping case. I'm telling you, Jackie, I think I need to go to the ear doctor.”
Jack started laughing.
“There's nothing wrong with your ears, Osc. The next Southwest plane leaves at ten o'clock.”
“Oh, Jack . . . I don't believe you're doing this.”
“Okay, Osc, you don't have to. You enjoy your vacation, which you wouldn't be having anyway if I hadn't saved your ass that time in Cartagena.”
“I can't believe you're bringing that up.”
“I know it's a cheap shot, but that's how desperate I am.”
“Shit, amigo. That is so low of you. But I'll be there. You bastard.”
“Love you, too, Oscar.”
Jack hung up, ashamed of himself but greatly relieved. He had half the day before Oscar arrived, and there was a lot he wanted to see at Blue Wolf.
The Blue Wolf Lodge was a slick place, with modern steel and glass buildings and a medical wing where celebrities and CEOs got face-lifts and tummy tucks while they looked out at the mountains.
As Alex Williams showed him around the place, Jack saw people getting treatments called Adobe Mud Wraps, green-tinted Turquoise Facials, Cornmeal Wraps, and Volcanic Clay massages. Other people, mostly older women, were having their feet pummeled gently by so-called Mystical River Stones, and still others were having their lymph glands massaged.
The whole deal seemed like a giant hustle to him, and he wasn't getting any closer to finding Jennifer Wu.
“Look, Mr. Williams,” he said. “I appreciate your showing me around. But what I really need is to find the Holdens. Phil and Dee Dee.”
“Of course,” Alex Williams apologized. “Sorry, I got a little carried away.”
“No problem,” Jack said. “I wish I was here on vacation.”
“No, you're right. I'll get you to them right now.”
They walked across the “campus,” as Williams called it, and Jack saw the vast and otherworldly cactus gardens and the Desert Rose Meditation Center. Finally, he and his friendly host wandered out to the parking lot, where tour bus after tour bus arrived with old couples in them. They came with crutches, canes, walkers, fancy wheelchairs, and oxygen tanks. Soon they had formed a line and were trundling along to check in at the Soul and Spirit Center.
“Let me guess, my friend,” Alex Williams said. “You're a little skeptical about all of this?”
Jack laughed and admitted that he was. “I see a lot of desperate people, closer to the end of their lives than they would like to admit. They come to these places for some kind of mud-wrap miracle.”
Williams shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We don't promise them that. Just renewal. It can be long-lasting or it can be short-term, depending on how serious they are.”
“Or how much money they spend?”
“Yes, that, too. Healing doesn't come cheap. Nor do the therapies we use. People study years and years to learn the disciplin
es we teach here. A great native healer, for example, has to undergo a long apprenticeship under a licensed medicine man from his tribe. It's no less than the kind of education taken by a Western practitioner.”
Jack smiled as a stunning pair of pearl-colored clouds moved overhead.
“Well, let's just say I'm more of a fan of Western medicine than you are.”
But Alex Williams wouldn't give in.
“You're wrong there, too. I have a medical degree from Harvard. What we try to do here at Blue Wolf is integrate both traditional Western practices and the best of all the other traditions. Remember, Asian, Mexican, and Indian cultures were all around thousands of years before we were and know many things we've yet to discover.”
Jack nodded his head, though Williams had scarcely convinced him.
As the older guests trudged past him to check in, Jack felt that he could see the desperation on all of their faces, and a terrible fear in their eyes.
They must know, Jack thought, that all this nontraditional, spiritual “medicine” was jive. Wasn't it obvious that having their legs pummeled with rocks from ancient stream beds wasn't going to do a damned thing for their failing hearts and crummy circulation? And didn't they know that having their skin exfoliated, and their imaginary third eye filled with some kind of fancy, heated olive oil, was going to mean absolutely zero in a fight against cancer? They must know; but they did it anyway. They had mud baths and Cornmeal Wraps, and ate lizard skins ground up in capsules, and they knew that at least some of the staff was laughing at them behind their backs while they accepted their over-the-top tips, but they went on with it, because “what if?” What if it somehow worked? What if the Cornmeal Wrap broke through some kind of molecular twenty-first-century fucked-up dying-cell cancer, and somehow stimulated youth in them? What if it worked in spite of their cynicism? What if there was some particle of truth to it all and it made them young again? Even if just for a month, or a couple of weeks or, for that matter, one weekend?
Why not give it a shot?
