Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  Jazz’s stomach turned. For a moment he thought he was going to lose it. Some deep slow breaths dealt with the weird feeling crawling around in his blood vessels. His cheeks burned. Aware that Juan was watching him closely, he changed the subject. “How come Silver Wings thinks I’m eighteen?” he asked.

  “’Cause I told him you was. He likes them young. You tell him any different?”

  Jazz shook his head. “What’s the man’s real name? Calling him Silver Wings is stupid.”

  “That’s what he likes to be called. And the man who brings the pipes gets called what he wants, no?” Jazz nodded, and the man relaxed before casually saying, “Met a friend of yours yesterday.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “That Paul fellow. He’s damned good-looking. I dig that blond hair and blue eyes.”

  Jazz struggled to focus. That didn’t sound right.

  “Why you frowning, man?”

  “He’s not blond,” Jazz said.

  “Did I say blond? Black hair, right? He’s so sexy I don’t blame you for getting it on with him. Who gets to be top in that arrangement?”

  Jazz shook his head. “I never made it with Paul.”

  “Why not?”

  Alarm bells went off in his head. Something wasn’t right. Something he needed to remember. BJ! He glanced at Juan and found himself under scrutiny.

  “What’s wrong?” Juan asked.

  “Nothing.” He struggled to pick up the threads of the conversation. Man, he needed a pipe. “I wouldn’t have minded, but Paul was with somebody else last time I saw him. That’s a couple of years ago.”

  “You ain’t seen him since then?”

  “Naw. He lives in Albuquerque. I’m up in Farmington… well, before.”

  Juan’s scowl worried him. Had he screwed something up? He worked to keep from shaking his head to clear his thoughts. BJ. Good-looking, sexy BJ. That’s who was searching for him. Why? That part of his life was past. Why the hell would B. J. Vinson be looking for him? Then he remembered again. BJ was a detective. He looked for people. For lost people.

  Jazz couldn’t contain his frown. Was he lost?

  Chapter 9

  I BACKED the Impala into a parking space right in front of the Flying Star. Henry and I had a view of part of the outdoor sitting area, although it was below the level of the parking lot, which meant the restraining wall blocked a number of tables from our sight. I use my car for surveillance on occasion, so the windows were tinted a little darker than was legal. I know confidential investigators who won’t use tinted windows, saying they attract attention, but in Albuquerque, the windows on half the cars are opaque.

  “I didn’t see Juan’s Fusion,” Henry said.

  “There’s excess parking in back. Here’s Paul,” I said as a red Focus passed slowly between us and the restaurant. I checked my watch. Eleven twenty-five. “Right on time. Put the bug in your ear.”

  This time we had elected to wire Paul for sound. The Flying Star wasn’t the quietest place around, but neither was it the noisiest. Gene felt we had a good shot at overhearing the conversation between the two of them.

  “Where’s his cop tail?”

  “Probably already inside with Charlie. It’s Detective Carson. He’ll be sitting along the rail in the upper area where the power outlets are. He can hook up, look like a computer geek, and talk away without anyone thinking anything about it.”

  A moment later Paul apparently activated his mike, as we heard sounds from inside the restaurant. I imagined I heard his heart pounding from excitement. Mine was racing from fear.

  Five minutes later, a figure entered the restaurant by the lower-level door off the patio area.

  “Was that him?” Henry asked.

  “Yep. The party’s on.”

  Then we heard a rustle as if Paul got to his feet. “Hi, Juan. Glad you could make it.”

  “Looking good, man. You been waiting long?”

  “Nah. Just got here myself.”

  We heard some meaningless, getting reacquainted, sizing-one-another-up stuff. The Flying Star is a self-order place, but neither man went to order a meal. That was partially explained when Paul said he hoped Juan liked espresso, because that’s what he’d bought.

  Silence, and then: “You want something to eat, man?”

  “No,” Paul said. “Just want to meet and talk.”

  “Cool.” A pause. “That dude you asked me about, you ever catch up with him?”

  “Jazz? Uh-uh. And I’m getting a little worried about him. Nobody’s heard from him in a month or so.”

  “How you know?”

  “You remember his brother, Henry? I saw him the other day, and he said Jazz is still missing.”

  “His brother still in town?”

  “Yeah. So far as I know. Think he took a job somewhere.”

  “C&W?”

  “Don’t think so. Believe he’s a landscaper. Didn’t ask for particulars.”

  “Why not? He looks like a handful. They grow them good in that family.”

  “Don’t think he swings that way, and I’m not about to find out. He’d probably wring my neck if I tried anything.”

  “We can only dream, no?”

  I glanced at Henry’s flushed face. I don’t think he imagined ever being discussed like a piece of meat by a couple of guys. If he only knew. It probably happened at least once a day.

  “How about Jazz?” Juan asked. “He looks like a wet dream, but is he any good?”

  “You tell me. Is he?”

  “You never made it with him? Why not, man?”

  “Only met him once up in Farmington. It was sorta a business trip, and I was with other people. We just never managed to get any time together.”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “Place called the Sidewinder Inn on the south side of Farmington.”

  “Gay place?”

  “As far as I know there isn’t a gay place in Farmington. But Jazz hung out there. I guess word got around that if you mess with Jazz, you’ve got Henry to deal with.” Paul cleared his throat. “What happens now? With us, I mean?”

  Juan’s chuckle came across the wire. “You getting anxious?”

  “I’m getting hungry.”

  “Man, you oughta have boyfriends hanging all over you. Just crook your finger, and they’ll come running.”

  “Look. I’m careful, and I’m cautious. I don’t want every man I see. But when I see one I want, well….” Paul left the thought unfinished.

  “You steaming me up, man. I ain’t gonna be able to get up and look decent.”

  “And if you know where Jazz is, well, let’s just say that while I’m not usually into threesomes, I’d make an exception for him.”

  “Wish I did, dude. Last time I heard, he was all wrapped up in Mr. Silver Wings.”

  “Mr. Silver Wings? Who’s that?”

  Juan paused a beat. “Dunno. That’s all I ever heard him called. You see him on the scene from time to time.”

  “Scene?”

  “You know, parties.”

  “Parties? How do I get invited to that kind of party?”

  “Might be able to get you an invite. But right now, it’s just you’n me. And we come to the crunch, no? It’s different strokes for different folks. How you go, man?”

  “I’m a top.”

  “Like Jazz, huh?” Perhaps as if realizing his mistake, Juan rushed on. “Meet me at the Anasazi Motel at eight tonight. Room 110, and I’ll make you forget about parties. Hell, we’ll have a party of our own.”

  “So we’re compatible?” Paul asked.

  “Don’t you worry, guy. Juan will make sure we fit like a glove.”

  In seconds, Juan appeared at the patio door and vanished around the corner. I expected to see Carson on his tail, but instead I heard a commotion inside the café. The voices were muted, indicating the trouble wasn’t in Paul’s immediate vicinity. Then I heard my lover’s worried call.

  “BJ, inside!”

&nbs
p; I tossed the keys to Henry, yelled for him to follow Juan, and bailed to run for the restaurant. By the time I maneuvered the steps down to the patio level and reached the door, a man burst through, knocking me on my butt. I managed to snag his arm as I went down, dislodging the laptop he was carrying. It clattered to the concrete. Charlie was on his heels but tripped over my legs and almost went down. The fleeing man didn’t pause to pick up the laptop.

  Paul appeared and helped me up while disturbed and excited patrons took their seats again after witnessing an event neither they nor I understood. I began to fit things together when a disheveled Don Carson appeared in the doorway.

  “Fucker stole my laptop!” he exclaimed.

  “It’s there on the deck. Fell out of his hand when he barreled into me.”

  The detective lunged for the machine and picked it up gingerly. “Damn, hope this didn’t break. It’s my personal computer.”

  “What happened?” I asked as we walked around the corner to the rear parking lot to get away from curious ears.

  “I was sitting at the row of tables with power plugs for computers, watching Paul and recording their conversation. I have this Dragon program that translates speech to the computer. But I have to edit it to—”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “And this guy kept walking back and forth,” Don explained. “I didn’t catch on at first because he wore a hat, but I think it was Gaspard.”

  “I thought he was in custody,” Paul said.

  “I did too.”

  Charlie walked back from where he’d disappeared down the alley. “Gaspard got away. Yeah, it was him. Heard he bonded out this morning.”

  Carson picked up his tale again. “Anyway, all of a sudden, he shoves me off the stool and grabs my computer. Think he caught on to who I was.”

  “I’d say so,” I agreed.

  When we returned to the restaurant, I saw my Impala turn in off Juan Tabo and knew that Henry hadn’t been able to follow Juan. Our only links to the people holding Jazz had vanished. And they wouldn’t be easy to find again.

  Chapter 10

  NAUSEA AND a slight cramping in his gut pulled Jazz from a restless sleep. Surprised to find it was morning, he hugged his belly as he kicked off the light sheet covering him. The gagging eased, allowing him to stand. He drew on a pair of walking shorts and shrugged into a white T-shirt. At least they kept him clean. They. Who were they? Silver Wings, he supposed. He slipped his feet into thongs and prepared to face another endless, boring day. The big television set—the thing must have measured fifty inches—played only porn. Probably on a tape, since the films seemed to repeat themselves no matter what channel he tried, and there were only four of them. He disdained raw films that once would have titillated him but now were simply offensive.

  Kim the houseboy usually brought his breakfast before now. Half the time he didn’t want it. He was off his feed. Seldom got hungry… except for the pipes.

  The shy Asian servant must have been part of the “family,” because he sported a small white spot in his coal black hair. Jazz figured that was a brand. His own was located on the back of his head and required the aid of a mirror to see.

  He glanced toward the door and was surprised to find it ajar. He approached cautiously and swung it wide. A covered tray sat on the threshold. Had Kim brought it and left the door unlocked so he could escape?

  Jazz stepped over the tray and out onto the walkway, pausing to allow a wave of dizziness to pass. Should he eat something before he escaped? Nah. What afflicted him wasn’t hunger but his craving for a pipe. The thought of food turned his stomach. The pipe or the snow-white rows of powder would settle his stomach. Only the cocaine provided relief.

  The hacienda-style house blocking the far end of a broad, manicured lawn was the biggest home he’d ever seen. A castle without turrets or ramparts. A swimming pool lay close to the rear of the big house, glistening green and sparkly in the morning light. No one was in sight.

  Increasingly jumpy, Jazz inspected the tall wall that surrounded the place. Light brown stucco with no hand or toeholds. He was pretty sure a running jump would allow him to lay hands on the top, but it was rounded and smooth. Nothing to get a grip on. He scratched his arms to free his skin of tiny creatures that were not there as he wandered the yard, looking for something to give him an advantage. Nothing… until he spotted a light fixture near where the wall adjoined the bungalow blocking this end of the property.

  It took him three running tries to grasp the stubby fixture. Shocked that he lacked the strength to simply pull himself over the wall, he fell back to the grass. What was the matter with him? Why was he so weak?

  He tried again. By shedding his sandals, he was able to grasp the light fixture, walk up the wall, and eventually pull himself atop it. Exhausted and seized by sweats and tremors, he sat for a moment. No one stirred from the house. Jesus, he needed a pipe!

  Once he collected himself, Jazz got to his feet atop the wall with the strong scent of sage assaulting his nostrils as he searched for a good place to drop on the other side. A vast field of spiky cacti and other desert plants stretched to a distant line of green trees. That must be the Bosque he’d always heard about, groves of cottonwoods lining either side of the Rio Grande. He’d been right; he was on the west side of town.

  As he decided on a likely landing place, nausea struck him again, this time so sharply he almost doubled over. He paused to gather his strength before escaping.

  Escape to where? To what? He had no ID, no money, no telephone. Hell, he didn’t even have shoes. They were in the grass on the other side of the wall. Ahead lay a terrain guaranteed to cut his feet to pieces. Behind, lay comfort… and a pipe.

  He wasn’t certain if it was by design or if the mischievous Coyote nudged him, but he toppled backward. He hoped he broke his neck in the fall. But the jolt as he hit the ground merely knocked the breath out of him. As he lay stunned on the grass, movement caught his eye.

  Ants. A column of ants marched across the leafy grass not a foot from his nose. Ants. Silver Wings’ castle wasn’t perfect. He had ants. Like everybody else, the man had insects. Jazz giggled.

  A shadow covered him, causing him to glance up. Silver Wings loomed over him, a smirk on his broad mouth. “Going somewhere?”

  Jazz didn’t bother to answer. He just smiled and pointed. “You have ants.”

  “So I do. It’s good to see you smile, Jazz. It’s a great smile. Makes you more handsome than ever. Would you like your pipe now? Think we’ll try a bong instead of the glass pipe this time with a little cannabis mixed in. Makes things higher and the comedown mellower.”

  “Cool.”

  Chapter 11

  HENRY WAS almost to the point of needing a straitjacket. The failure of his first investigative case made Paul morose. But I didn’t have time to flail or brood. I needed to find another way into the traffickers’ family—and quickly. After our Flying Star fiasco, they’d ship Jazz out of the country, if they hadn’t already. Another thought chilled me. Or kill him if he presented a risk to them.

  I left Paul trying to reach Juan by email and walked the two blocks from my office building to police headquarters on Marquette. Gene, Don Carson, and I sat in his office and listened to a tape of Paul’s meeting this morning and read the automatic transcript Dragon made of the conversation. The laptop wasn’t damaged, and we sat analyzing the exchange between the two men.

  “Paul made a mistake right there,” Gene said when my lover asked if Juan knew where Jazz was.

  “Possibly, but it didn’t seem to bother Juan any. And Juan made his share of them, especially when he acknowledged that Jazz is a top.”

  “Is he?” Gene asked with a laugh lurking in his eyes.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Yeah, right. This Juan’s not gonna show up at the Anasazi tonight. I hope you know that.”

  “I do. What happened between Don and Gaspard took care of that.”

  “But we’ll be there, j
ust in case. Room 110, right?” Gene said.

  “I hope that damned Gaspard shows up,” Don put in. “I owe him for a scraped elbow and a skinned shin.”

  NOT SURPRISINGLY, Paul failed to receive a response to any of his email messages. Without much hope, Paul, Henry, and I set out for the Anasazi Motel on East Central not far from downtown around seven thirty. Don Carson and a backup detective left before we did to get into place—just in case. At the same time Paul knocked on the door to 110—with Henry and me hovering just out of sight—Don and his partner entered the motel office and demanded to know who was registered in that unit. No one answered Paul’s knock, and the manager, an untidy man with a scraggly beard, insisted the room wasn’t rented and readily handed over keys to the two detectives. That, of course, ensured that the place was scrubbed down and would give us nothing. Even so, Don called in a crime scene unit to see if they could raise any fingerprints that might prove useful.

  Gene joined us in the parking lot while the forensics people worked on the room. The mood was sour even though the results were not unexpected. As Gene and I leaned against the fender of the Impala, I gave the motel a once-over. It wasn’t a bad place. Not upscale, but not a run-down joint, either. I wouldn’t have felt out of place taking one of their rooms for the night. Apparently Gene’s thoughts ran on a parallel.

  “Hard to see this motel as a part of the circuit.” I understood he meant one of the safe locations for the traffickers. “Too expensive.”

  I nodded even though I wasn’t convinced. “Possibly, but think about this. Anyone coming to meet Jazz Penrod wouldn’t go to a run-down dive.”

  “He’s that special, is he?”

  “Without a doubt. Anyone controlling Jazz—or another man or woman like him—would charge escort-type prices. They’d never put Jazz on the street for $20 or $50 or even $100. Nope, they’d ask a thousand dollars for a night with Jazz.”