by Don Travis
Nonetheless, I phoned Henry but got no answer. He probably couldn’t hear the thing ring or feel his cell phone vibrate while he was aboard the bike. He called me back ten minutes later, and I told him to keep an eye out for a Mercedes, probably a four-door and probably dark. He sighed in exasperation and counted four in the parking lot where he’d stopped to return my call.
“All right, I’ll watch for a Mercedes with my brother or a Chinaman in it. Okay?”
Detective Lonzo Joe phoned back shortly after noon. He’d driven to the tribal police’s Shiprock district office to interview Nesposito again.
“The old bastard said they use a whole range of drugs. Meth, because it’s cheaper and available.”
“That would burn Jazz up too fast,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s what he said too. They also use heroin, both injected and smoked. That’s a possibility, but he thinks they’d use crack cocaine on Jazz. Quick to addict. Pleasant high, even if the comedown’s hard. Simple to fix a pipe.”
“As I understand it, crack takes its toll on the body too.”
“They all do, BJ. Every last one of them’s poison to the system. But coke probably takes more time to do the damage if his pimps control the rate of usage. It accelerates, all right, but if they slow the rate of acceleration, they’ll get more use out of Jazz.”
Lonzo turned aside from the phone for a moment, and I heard another voice. Then he was back on the line. “Hard Hat says they sometimes use a bong with some cannabis added to bring the user down slower.”
“Didn’t know you needed vaporization for crack.”
“You don’t, but the bong with cannabis eases the stress on the body. You understand that’s not a scientific fact, just what the pimps believe. Look, they’re about to question Nesposito again, and I want to sit in. Talk to you later.”
AROUND TWO, the phone rang again. When I answered, all I heard at first was wind and road noise.
“BJ! You ain’t gonna believe it. I found him,” Henry blurted.
“You found Jazz?”
“Naw. I found the Mercedes. I’m on his tail now.”
“Give me his license plate.”
“New Mexico. Let’s see, 825-RLZ.”
“Great. Color? Model?”
“Older model, can’t tell you anything more’n it’s green.”
“Good. Now back off, and let the cops handle it.”
“No way. This guy’s gonna lead me to my brother.”
“Henry—”
“Uh-oh. Think he made me. He took off like he was goosed.”
“Let him go. Where are you?”
“Coming outa that same Albertsons parking lot.”
“How many in the car?”
It was hard to hear. The roar of Henry’s motor grew louder. Wind noise increased. “One. The Chinese fellow. I got a good look at him as he got in the car.”
“Can you ID him again?”
“You bet your ass!”
Henry went silent then as he pursued his quarry. Then, “Uh-oh. Jumped a red light. Hold on, I’m going for it.”
“Henry, don’t!”
The motor raced for a moment. “Shit! I picked up a cop. He’s hauling me over.”
“Stop for him, Henry, but don’t break the connection. Give him the phone.”
I managed to dial Gene on my landline by the time I heard a strange voice in my ear. Gene came on, so I held both receivers to my mouth.
“This is Officer Gillis. Who’m I talking to?”
“Officer Gillis, this is B. J. Vinson. I’m an Albuquerque licensed investigator, and the man you stopped is my operative. He was in pursuit of a vehicle holding a man involved in a kidnapping case.”
With my frustration building, I sought to make the patrolman understand what was happening. Gene, who could hear me speaking but not Gillis’s responses, finally interrupted and asked me to get the officer’s station and badge numbers. After telling Gillis I would be responsible for any fine Henry was assessed, I hung up. Henry called back ten minutes later. Gillis let him go with a warning after the officer held a protracted conversation with Gene.
I sat and took turns cursing and praying. Praying that the net Gene would have immediately thrown out snared the Mercedes and its driver. Cursing when I realized that if they failed, Silver Wings would have one more indication we were closing in.
To keep from going crazy, I used one of the databases available to licensed private investigators to run down ownership on the Mercedes, using the tag number Henry gave me. Within a minute the name Desert Enterprises, Inc. popped up on my screen. The information available was the bare legal minimum. An address in the 10000 block of Montgomery Street NE. Not Montgomery Boulevard, a major east-west artery that bisects the city as Montgomery on the east side and Montaño on the west, but Montgomery Street, which I knew to be an address just south of Eldorado High School in the far northeast heights area of Albuquerque. The sole contact for the corporation was a name familiar to me: Brookings Ingles, attorney for the local underworld.
THE FACT that Ingles agreed to meet Gene and me at my office on a Saturday afternoon put me on my guard. I didn’t think Brookie, as his intimates called him, would bestir himself on a weekend for anyone short of a cartel boss, yet Gene ran him to ground and prevailed upon him to grant us an audience. He would likely have commanded we come to him, but he probably didn’t want a lowly lieutenant and a private gumshoe infecting his home. Or his office, for that matter.
The first thing that caught my eye when Ingles walked into my office was something I’d forgotten about the man—the tufts of silver at each temple in his sleek brown hair. They looked like silver wings. Could this be the Silver Wings? He was connected and able to provide cover as well as defense. He performed those tasks daily in his role as a noted defense attorney.
Ingles fit the mold in just about every way. But did he have a pipeline inside APD to feed him details such as a pending raid on a west-side motel? He probably knew as many cops as Gene and I did. Had this man ordered the murder of seven children and three adults simply to protect his identity?
“Gene. BJ. What’s so urgent that I have to leave my family picnic to meet you two?”
“Possibly the life of a young man,” Gene said.
“Sounds ominous.”
In the barest terms possible, Gene sketched our predicament and turned to the matter of Desert Enterprises, Inc. at 10002 Montgomery Street NE.
“Who?” Ingles asked. “I never heard of them.”
“You incorporated them and are the contact of record.”
He waved a hand in the air. “Incorporated hundreds of companies I don’t have anything to do with except act as their lawyer.”
“You don’t know James Hillion or Matthew Friedrichs or Apollo Nava?”
“Ah, now it’s coming back. They’re the incorporators. But we did business by phone. Don’t know them.”
I spoke up. “What can you tell us about 10002 Montgomery Street NE?”
“Just that it’s a rent-an-office place in the northeast heights.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I signed the office lease for Desert Enterprises.”
“Does anyone live on the premises?” I asked.
“I dunno. You’ll have to ask the manager of the building. And before you ask, I don’t know who that is.”
Chapter 20
JAZZ WOKE to find Kim poking his chest with a slender finger.
“You get up now. Mr. Silver Wings say we go on trip today.”
Irked to be awakened from his first good sleep in days, he snapped, “Trip? Where? I don’t want to go to Mexico.”
“Not Mexico.” Kim fluttered a graceful hand. “West somewhere.”
Jazz sat up, taking note of Kim’s eyes on his naked chest. “What time is it? Hell, what day is it?”
“Sunday. The day is Sunday. Time is six thirty. You pack small bag. Mr. Silver Wings say we stay overnight. One night. Then we come back here.”
“I’ll just stay here.”
Kim’s voice hardened. “You stay, you stay without your pipes. How you like that?”
Jazz kicked back the covers, allowing Kim to see that he slept naked. The manservant did not leave until Jazz closed the door to the bathroom behind him.
After a shower, Jazz joined Silver Wings on the patio near the pool for a breakfast of eggs over easy, hash browns, link sausage, and rye toast. After only one egg and one link, he grew nauseated. He swallowed hard, struggling to keep everything down.
Wings chatted amiably about how much he would enjoy the upcoming trip while Jazz sought to control his breathing and his rebellious gut. Before excusing himself to go get ready to leave, Wings told Kim to bring Jazz a pipe.
Left alone on the patio with his crack, Jazz fretted over where they were heading. For all he knew, Wings might load him in a car and drive straight to Mexico. The smoke calmed his fears. He’d raise a ruckus at the border, and that would put an end to that.
He was dozing when Kim appeared at his side and told him to get his bag. Within five minutes, the three of them piled into a Mercedes—not the green one Kim drove—and headed west on Interstate 40 until Wings instructed Kim to exit the freeway and head north on a bumpy dirt road. Five minutes later, a house appeared on the road before them. Beyond that was a bigger building that looked to be a hanger. A white twin-engine aircraft sat in front of it. His stomach clinched. They were flying somewhere. His fear of Mexico rose again, but he did as instructed and climbed into the back seat of the plane. He didn’t know what kind it was, but it had what looked to be cargo space between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats in front and two side by side seats in back. Bolt-holes made him think some seats had been removed.
Wings walked around the plane with a man Jazz never saw before, checking things out. Then he climbed into the plane through the back door and made certain Jazz was buckled in before making his way to the front and claiming the left seat. Apparently his jailer was also his pilot. Moments later, the left engine cranked, and when it was running smoothly, the second coughed to life. Once they were airborne, Kim came back and handed Jazz a second pipe. It was the cock-shaped glass pipe he’d first used with Juan in what seemed a lifetime ago. Where was Juan? He hadn’t seen his former lover in days… or was it weeks? He’d lost count of time. Once they achieved altitude and talk became possible, Jazz shouted to ask where they were going.
Wings spoke over his shoulder. “Got business in Gallup tomorrow. Going over today to see some sights, have a good dinner, and rest up for my meeting.”
Jazz considered the answer. Was it true? The hollow feeling in his belly made him wonder. He glanced at Kim. All he could see of the small man was his head. He seemed relaxed. Calm. Jazz snorted to himself. That meant nothing. Kim was always calm.
Occasionally the two men spoke, raising their voices rather than using earphones. Finally a question the houseboy asked snagged his attention.
“Same place we dumped the Vespa?”
As Jazz struggled to understand those words, Wings shook his head.
“That’s up in the wilderness area. We’re over the malpais. The lavalands. What’s he doing?”
Jazz quickly closed his eyes as Kim’s head moved. Breathing through his mouth, he willed his taut muscles to behave.
“Seems asleep.”
“This is as good a place as any. Nobody’ll find him here.”
Jazz peeked through half-open lids as Kim climbed out of his seat and headed his way. There was a long pause as Kim struggled with something. Jazz looked again and was horrified to see the houseboy open the aircraft’s cargo door. The atmospherics changed as the seal was broken, and the plane wobbled for a second.
Then Kim’s hands were on him, unfastening his seat belt and tugging at his torso. “You come. Kim show you something. Come.”
Jazz got to his feet. If Kim tried to shove him out of the aircraft, he’d take the fucker with him. He blinked, wondering why he wasn’t scared out of his wits. That pipe hadn’t tasted right. They’d put something in it. Shit!
He quit cooperating and felt the strength in Kim’s slender, muscled arms as the man backed toward the gaping doorway. He needed to be ready when the Chinaman tried to turn and put him in the doorway. Still without a plan, Jazz felt panic rise in him. He began cooperating and felt Kim’s grip loosen.
“Show me what?” he mumbled, gathering the mental and physical strength he was going to need.
“Something pretty. Beautiful. You see. Come with Kim.”
Jazz took a step and felt as if he and Kim were dancing slowly toward the open hatch… toward eternity. He felt Kim’s arms tighten and knew this was when the man would swing him into position before the door.
At that moment the plane’s right wing dipped alarmingly, hurtling both of them toward the gaping hole. The maneuver was so sudden and abrupt that they had no opportunity to prepare. Just as they reached the doorway, Jazz threw his arms wide and spread his legs. His action broke Kim’s hold on him. Jazz saw the horror in the man’s eyes as he dropped out of the hatch and was snatched away by the wind and the prop wash.
Jazz desperately spread-eagled against the fuselage as gravity and the rush of air sought to pull him outside. His back bowed. His spine creaked painfully. He hung on for as long as he could, but his strength was fading. He thought of his mother and his brother and all those who would never know what happened to him. A little moan escaped him as one arm partially gave way, pushing him farther out of the craft.
Then the plane righted itself, and the terrible pressure eased. He had almost recovered his balance when he heard Wings call out.
“Is it done, Kim? Is he gone?”
Shocked back into his senses, Jazz willed his paralyzed muscles to respond. He crawled on all fours back to his seat and hid in the narrow space behind it.
“Jazz, you okay?”
Wings’ voice almost shocked him into replying, but he covered his mouth and nose with a hand as the terrible awfulness of what happened penetrated his sluggish mind. Wings had deliberately killed his manservant. His right-hand man. And the bastard thought he’d gotten rid of him at the same time. What would Wings do when he discovered that wasn’t true?
He froze as he heard the click of a seat belt. Wings was coming back to check for himself. See if he’d been successful.
“Too bad, Kim,” he heard a hollow voice say. “You were a good man, but you knew too much.”
Jazz started at Wings’ next words but controlled the urge to rush the man and shove him out the gaping door. “Sorry, Jazz. You were the greatest fuck I’ve ever had, but people are closing in on me. Need to clean things up. If you’d agreed to go to Mexico without causing trouble, you’d still be alive.”
The door thumped, and the atmospherics changed again. He heard Wings return to the pilot’s seat. Almost immediately the plane banked again. Jazz guessed they were now heading back to the airfield they’d departed from.
His head ached, and his limbs lost all strength. Fright? Or was it something they put in his pipe? Jazz fought to stave off unconsciousness, but his world grew smaller and smaller until he was oblivious to everything.
HE WOKE with a grunt as the plane hit the airstrip. He glanced beneath the seats to see Wings manipulating the instruments, but the engines were so noisy, the man couldn’t have heard him. Should he rush Wings while he was occupied or wait until they came to a halt? Wait. Was that a decision or inertia?
But once the engines shut down, things grew quiet. Wings fooled him again. He exited by the door at his shoulder. Jazz lay as he was, hardly able to believe he’d not been detected. Then he heard Wings and the man who’d attended them at the takeoff talking.
“Short flight. Got a call to come back for a meeting.”
“Too bad. Everyone deserves a Sunday off. Where are your passengers?”
“Dropped them in Gallup. One of them has relatives there.”
“Oh, the Indian guy, huh? Quic
k for a trip to Gallup.”
“I didn’t even shut down the engines, just dumped them out the door and got clearance to take off again.”
“You want me to put the bird to bed, Mr. Haldemain?”
Haldemain! Was that Wings’ real name? Jazz strained to hear more, but the two moved away.
As he waited to make sure Wings was gone, Jazz was surprised to feel movement. It took a minute to figure out the stranger was pushing the craft into the hanger. He heard another voice, a woman’s, calling instructions. Eventually the big building cast a shadow over the plane. Heat in the stuffy interior eased a bit.
Now? Should he reveal himself now and ask for help? They might have a phone, so he could call someone. Who? The police? He heard the two speaking again, right beside the plane.
“I don’t like that man.” The woman’s voice.
“Don’t much like him either. But I ain’t about to cross him. His money’s good, but I got a feeling he’s a man you don’t cross.”
“I hear you on that.”
Mindful of the unseen man’s caution, Jazz remained where he was until discomfort and his bladder forced him to move. He was unable to stand straight in the confines of the cabin, but movement felt good. He took sadistic pleasure in pissing all over the pilot’s seat and the control panel. He hoped it shorted out every wire in the whole damned airplane. But the truth was that without any liquid since breakfast, he probably wouldn’t do more than stink up the place.
After that he climbed out of the stuffy craft into the heat of the tin-roofed hanger. He had no intention of leaving until dark, but he satisfied himself the side door to the building could be opened from the inside before he settled in a corner to wait.
The nausea and cramps didn’t show up until almost sundown, but his nerves prickled, and he scratched at unseen insects an hour before that. He managed to remain where he was until dark by pacing the building and railing in whispers about Wings and Kim and Juan and all the rest of the fuckers he’d ever seen or heard of.
