Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  “Well, I don’t know—”

  “Come on, Gene. You’ve seen his picture. This kid is special. And think about this. At eleven thirty this morning, Juan was able to give Paul his room number. That meant he knew the room was available. I doubt he rented the room before he came to lunch. No, this is a traffickers’ place.”

  “You could be right. I’ll check into ownership.”

  “Did you figure out who might have blown the whistle on the raid on the My Other Home?”

  “I’m no dummy, BJ. I know human trafficking is big business and generates lots of dollars. Some cops are susceptible to turning a blind eye now and then, but so help me, I looked at the record of every cop who took part in that raid and can’t find a one who raises an eyebrow.”

  “Cops talk. I’ll bet the whole department knew the raid was going down.”

  “True, but they wouldn’t know the details. Like when, for example.”

  “They could pin it down to a couple of hours, and that’s enough. What do you know about the Citizens’ Commission Against Human Trafficking?”

  “Like I told you, it’s one of those NGOs that’s the backbone of fighting trafficking. Across the nation, they probably do more to fight the problem than the police do. The board seems to be all upstanding citizens. Hell, one of our own, Chester Bolton, sits on it alongside Roscoe Haldemain and Bishop Gregory.”

  “Lieutenant Bolton’s on the board?”

  “Yep. For about five years now.”

  “Have you talked to him about the leak?”

  “Yeah, I talked to him. And calling it a leak is an assumption, you know.”

  “Do you doubt it? Those two kids didn’t point a finger at that seedy motel by mistake.”

  “Naw. I don’t doubt it. Somebody warned them we were coming.”

  “Think we’d be welcome at the next board meeting of the Citizens Council Against Human Trafficking?”

  “I can find out.”

  After the crime scene unit gave an unofficial opinion that the only fingerprints they found in Room 110 belonged to the cleaning staff, we all took our various frustrations, stresses, and problems home. All except Henry. He headed for the Blue Spruce and told us not to expect him back tonight.

  PAUL AND I took advantage of the privacy to cuddle on the sofa in the den and watch an episode of The Pacific, a ten-part series that grew out of Band of Brothers. But it was a restless time because Jazz Penrod haunted both our minds. While we lay in the comfort of one another’s arms, what was that kid going through?

  We were into the news, filled with references to Barack Obama and the antics of Sarah Palin, when my cell phone went off. Henry’s outraged voice filled my ear when I answered.

  “They hauled me down to the jail, man! No reason. Just invaded my space with guns drawn and threw me in the back of a car.”

  “Calm down. Are you at the police station or at the detention center?”

  “Police station. Been questioning me about weird things. Little girls and little boys on the reservation.”

  “Were you fighting or driving drunk?”

  “Naw. I don’t even have a buzz on. Besides, wasn’t riding. Came outa the bar with this girl I met. As soon as I threw a leg over the hog, five of them showed up with pistols drawn.”

  “Okay. Hang on. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

  “Can that Lieutenant Enriquez do anything?”

  “I’ll see.”

  I hung up and called Gene at home. He promised to see what he could find out. Paul and I raced around throwing on decent clothes and were in the front seat of the Impala when my phone rang again.

  “Something’s not right, BJ,” Gene said. “They got a call about a dangerous human trafficker with a gun at the Blue Spruce. Henry’s Harley-Davidson was described right down to the license plate. As soon as he showed up to reclaim it, they took him down.”

  “Did he resist?”

  “Not with half a dozen service pistols aimed at his head. I’m on my way downtown now.”

  “We’ll meet you there.”

  “We?”

  “Paul and I.”

  HENRY WAS a smoldering volcano when Gene and I entered the interview room. Paul remained in the waiting area. A husky detective with a blond buzz-cut I didn’t know conducted the interview. He looked startled at the invasion.

  “What are you doing here, Lieutenant?”

  “Trying to find out what’s going on.”

  “I’m interviewing—”

  “I can see that. But why?”

  “Sir, this is highly improper. Is this man the perp’s attorney?”

  “I agree it’s improper,” Gene said. “This is B. J. Vinson, a private investigator. And a former cop, I might add. My riding partner, as a matter of fact. BJ, meet Detective Charles Zimmerman of our Vice Unit. Detective, will you step outside so we can straighten out a couple of things?”

  As soon as we were in the hallway, Gene turned on the officer. “Zim, why did you bust this man at the Blue Spruce tonight?”

  “I got a tip this pimp was going to be there. Armed and dangerous.”

  “Where did this tip come from? Did it name Henry Secatero or merely describe him?”

  “Sir, I don’t report to you.”

  “No, you don’t. Would you prefer to answer my questions or have me haul your lieutenant out of bed and drag him down here so we can continue a conversation we’re going to have anyway?”

  Zimmerman, who was about thirty and looked to be bulked up from gym work, backed off. “It was from a confidential source.”

  “A registered source?”

  “No, sir. But I’ve used him before, and he’s always been reliable.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Sorry, but I can’t reveal his name.

  “What did he say?”

  “This guy was supposed to be the local organization’s connection to the Navajo Reservation. A lot of—”

  “I’m aware the reservation has a problem with traffickers. Did they call this so-called pimp by name?”

  “Yes, sir. Henry Secatero. Description too. That guy in there matches it to a tee.”

  “Was he armed?”

  “No firearm, but a knife that borders on illegal.”

  “Why did Vice make the bust instead of SVU if that was the info?”

  “Because I’m the one who got the tip. What’s the problem, Lieutenant?”

  “The problem is that man in there works in the coal mine on the reservation, and while he might chase all the women on the reservation, he doesn’t sell them. You’ve been given a bum steer, Detective, and I’d like to know where it came from. We’ll straighten this out tomorrow when your lieutenant’s on duty. Uh, today’s Friday, so make that Monday morning. Are you going to hang on to Mr. Secatero or cut him loose?”

  “If you vouch for him, I’ll cut him loose.”

  I noticed a slight hesitation before Gene said the words that released Henry. I understood it. After all, I was the one who knew Henry, not Gene.

  Once we left the stationhouse, Gene headed home while Paul and I took Henry back to the Blue Spruce to collect his bike. Henry went silent in the back seat of the car as we climbed the long hill eastward up what had once been Route 66 but was now East Central Avenue.

  “You gonna pick up your bike and come on home, or are you going back inside?” Paul broke the silence.

  “I go back in, I’m gonna end up back at the police station for busting some heads. How come they came for me like that?”

  “The detective said he received a tip about an armed and dangerous sex trafficker named Henry Secatero in the club. They set up a stakeout on your bike.”

  Henry tried to modulate his voice and almost succeeded. “Who’n the hell would claim that?”

  “Zimmerman said a confidential informant fingered you by name, rank, and serial number—so to speak.”

  “Juan knew about Henry. Figured out he was in town, remember?” Paul said.

  “I do.
And I think we just identified the informant. Which is interesting, because while the detective wouldn’t name the informant, he said he’d used him before and found him reliable.”

  “Go pry the name out of him,” Henry said.

  “Gene tried, but Zimmerman refused. Gene will contact the man’s supervisor Monday and see what he can find out. But if what happened this morning didn’t tell us we’ve been blown, this confirms it.”

  “Shit,” Henry exclaimed. “What does that mean for Jazz?”

  “Nothing good.”

  Chapter 12

  JAZZ ALWAYS knew when something was up. Silver Wings—who by now he’d reduced to simply Wings—gave him powder cocaine most of the time. But when the man wanted something special from Jazz, Kim always brought the glass pipe shaped like an erect penis. Jazz snickered the first time he saw it and asked if somebody didn’t understand which end got sucked on. The powder lasted longer but the pipe gave him the biggest, fastest jolt. This afternoon Wings promised the pipe when Jazz joined his swimming party.

  Jazz stood at the picture window and gazed at the pool across the wide lawn. Although he had no way of knowing for sure, he judged it was the weekend. Five men lounged on chairs or splashed in the water. Fuck ’em. He wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t “join the party” as Wings insisted. What could they do to him? Beat him? He wished they’d try. He needed to hit someone. He’d considered slugging prim, trim Kim when he refused to give up Wings’ real name. He knew Kim had the name. The slender Asian acted as butler, answering the door when callers arrived. Did everyone ask for Mr. Silver Wings? No, they asked for Mr. Smith or Jones or Winterbottom.

  He watched Kim’s graceful white-coated figure move among the guests, delivering drinks and lighting cigars or cigarettes. Did Kim know jujitsu or karate or any of that other oriental kickass shit? He might just find out one day.

  Jazz felt a stirring in his belly. His legs itched as if tiny sugar ants crawled across them. Wings told him the afternoon pipe waiting for him poolside was a bong with cannabis added. The time or two Wings provided a bong, Jazz liked the way he banged on the ceiling and came down mellower.

  He glanced at the bed where a skimpy scrap of red-and-blue material lay. That was supposed to be his swimsuit. It didn’t even have a butt to it, just a little cord that fit between his cheeks. Might as well just go naked.

  Jazz paced, jumped into the shower to wash off bugs that weren’t there, tried to sleep but couldn’t lie still on the bed. Nothing worked. Finally he gave in, put on the ridiculous bathing suit, and snugged a big beach towel around his waist before leaving the bungalow.

  Conversation around the pool ceased as he stepped through the doorway. His flesh crawled beneath the stares of the men as he strolled toward them. No one said a word until Wings indicated the chair beside him.

  “Reserved just for you. But shed the towel before you sit.”

  Fighting an uncomfortable feeling of something—mortification, probably—he dropped the towel and quickly fell into the lounge, feeling the weight of the strangers’ stares as he did so. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He wasn’t shy. He’d had lovers and was proud of his body. But this was different. He was on display. No choice in the matter. He opened his eyes when he heard Wings tell Kim to bring Jazz’s pipe.

  It was the bong. Great. Not only was the hit better, but nobody could crack jokes about the shape of the thing. He lit the pipe, inhaled deeply, and held the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. Immediately his nausea went away. He came alive. Aware of every pore on his body, the light sprinkling of hair on his arms, his nails on his toes. If he really tried, he could probably caress his soul.

  “You’ve got a winner there, Rex. Where’d you find him?”

  Rex? Was that Wing’s first name? It was a start. A flush of self-satisfaction warmed his cheeks.

  “He found me in a motel room.” Jazz was as startled as anyone at the sound of his own baritone. He hadn’t intended to say that. Say anything.

  “Well, lead me to that motel,” said a bulked-up man with a forest of graying hair on his chest and belly.

  “Don’t bother, Tom,” Wings—or Rex—answered. “There aren’t any more like him.”

  “My God, he’s incredible. I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as he is, not even a woman.” This from a slender man just crawling out of the pool introduced as “Doc,” a man who carried a professional air even as he was raking Jazz with steel gray eyes.

  Jazz felt his cheeks sting. Didn’t they know he could hear them? He took another draw on the pipe, and things seemed less personal. Let ’em look. He spread his legs more comfortably and heard muffled gasps. He closed his eyes again to concentrate on the smoke in his lungs.

  “What’d you pay for him?” a hard-muscled man lying with a youth on a double lounge asked. Jazz glanced in his direction and saw the kid wore the white brand in his hair. One of his long, thin hands rested on the man’s inner thigh.

  “Asked twenty-five, but I chiseled them down to twenty-two.” Jazz nearly jumped when Rex put a hand on his arm. “Well worth it, let me tell you.”

  “Big?” Doc asked.

  “Fucking A,” Jazz said, surprising himself once again.

  “From the horse’s mouth,” Doc contributed.

  “Appropriate comparison,” Rex said with a self-satisfied smirk in his voice.

  A burst of energy propelled Jazz out of his chair and into the pool. He tried swimming, but the uncomfortable cord buried between his buns chafed. He stopped and tore the tiny suit off, casting it over the heads of the startled men at poolside. Ignoring exclamations that sounded like cheers, he swam as if a horde of demons were on his trail.

  Just as suddenly, his store of energy evaporated, leaving him tired and weak. He clung to the side of the pool and yelled for Kim to bring him his suit.

  “Oh no,” Rex said. “You threw it away. You go get it.”

  Jazz scanned five pairs of eager eyes. Fuck it. He pulled himself out of the pool and strolled to the chair where he’d left his towel, bringing a cascade of dripping water with him. He picked up the terrycloth and buried his face in its softness. As he lowered the towel, he saw to his horror that he’d left his pipe smoking. Jeez! He’d wasted most of it. Still exposed to the men’s stares, he picked up the bong and sucked the last of the smoke into his lungs. Then he threw the towel over his shoulder and leisurely strolled back to the bungalow.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Jazz looked around for something to punch. He pummeled the cushions on the sofa until his energy ebbed again. Then he threw himself on the bed and put an arm over his eyes as waves of shame swept over him. His belly fluttered. His heart stuttered… raced. What was the matter with him? Why did he parade around like that? That wasn’t like him.

  He listened to the door open and close without removing his arm to take a look. Which one would it be? Did it matter?

  “That was quite a show you put on out there.”

  It was Tom, the man with the gray chest and belly hair. Jazz lay with his eyes closed, face half-hidden by his arm.

  “The bidding really shot up after that display, I can tell you.”

  Jazz took a breath and exhaled.

  “You haven’t finished drying off. Here, let me do it for you.”

  The man brushed his body with the soft towel. The swipes soon became caresses, and before long, Tom cast the towel aside and substituted his lips. Jazz lay without making a sound as the man took what he wanted. He willed his flesh to fail but felt himself grow firm. Jazz concentrated on listening to the blood sing in his veins while Tom brought him to climax.

  Chapter 13

  SATURDAY MORNING I was in the den reading a follow-up story about the January 12 Haitian earthquake that killed 230,000 people and made 1,000,000 citizens homeless when Gene surprised me with a phone call to inform me the Citizens’ Council Against Human Trafficking would hold a board meeting at eleven Monday morning in Roscoe Haldemain’s corporate offices boardroom.
We were invited to attend around eleven thirty after the routine stuff—like the reading of the minutes and such—would be out of the way. Paul and Henry both fumed in frustrated silence because they couldn’t go to the meeting with us.

  Gene chose to walk to my building on Monday, and after he collected me, we hoofed it a block and a half to the Plaza Tower adjacent to the Hyatt Regency at 3rd and Copper NW. Del Dahlman’s law firm, Stone, Hedges, Martinez, etc., also known as the Blahs—as in blah, blah, blah—took the entire top floor of the tower. Del was my first long-term lover, who fell away when he couldn’t deal with my getting shot on the job with APD. After some rough times, we managed to salvage a friendship, for which I was grateful. In fact, he was my best client. He threw a lot of business my way.

  Haldemain and Haldemain, Attorneys-at-Law, LLC were anything but ambulance chasers, but they must have been slightly lower on the lawyer scale because their offices were on the floor below the Blahs. That was still a better address than most of the horde of attorneys in Albuquerque could manage.

  “Two Haldemains?” Gene asked as we exited the elevator and headed for the suite.

  “Yeah, his older brother, William P., started the firm. Roscoe joined him soon after. I get the feeling William does the work and Ross—as he likes to be called—is the public or PR face of the team. It’s a successful firm. I’ve done some work for them from time to time.”

  We pushed through the heavy double doors and walked into a sumptuous waiting room to confront a spectacular brunette receptionist. She apparently expected us because she immediately ushered us into a large conference room occupied by four men and one woman. The windows of the Haldemain conference room framed the same Sandia Peak and Manzano mountain chain as did the Blah meeting room… minus ten feet of elevation.

  Ross performed the introductions, although Gene and I already knew everyone, at least by sight. The woman was a bouncy, five-foot-two dynamo named Betsy Brockmire. The story was that her Chicago commercial builder husband died a few years back and left her enough money to come west to pursue her passion as an activist for women’s rights.