The Angels' Share

by R. R. Irvine

  “I thought maybe you might have a number for Heber Armstrong?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “How about working on breakfast?”

  “You’ve got ten minutes before it starts getting cold.”

  “Shit,” Traveler said, and headed for the shower.

  Thirty minutes later Traveler drove his father to the Chester Building, temporarily pulling into the loading zone out front.

  “You should have stayed home and rested,” Traveler said.

  “All I’d do is brood and maybe get drunk.”

  Traveler sighed deeply. He couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen. “I thought I’d look over the site where Maria Gomez found the body.”

  “It’s a bit late for that.”

  “Dad, you’re the old pro when it comes to crime scenes. Come with me. I might miss something.”

  Martin rubbed his throat. “I don’t know if it’s my imagination or what. But I feel better this morning. The old gal’s medicine bag must be working. The only trouble is, I’ll have to stay upwind of everybody.”

  “I’ve gotten used to the smell.”

  “Like hell.”

  “So I lied. I still want you with me.”

  Martin laid a hand on Traveler’s forearm. “I know you’re trying to keep me busy. I appreciate the effort. But somebody’s got to stay in the office once in a while.”

  “That’s what answering machines are for.”

  “So maybe I’ll walk around town and sightsee.”

  Traveler looked away from the pain in his father’s eyes. Martin wasn’t taking any chances on the biopsy report; he intended to make the rounds, saying goodbye to old friends and old haunts alike.

  Martin forced a chuckle. “For once I’ve got something that smells worse than Barney Chester’s cigars.”

  Up the street Mad Bill and Charlie Redwine turned the corner on Main and thumbed their noses at Brigham Young’s statue in the intersection before starting down South Temple toward Traveler’s car. Both men moved ponderously, as if wading through the heat waves rising from the sidewalk. The downtown temperature was ninety-four degrees. The air had a singed, ozone smell to it, as if lost souls were being raised from purgatory via baptism for the dead in the temple across the street.

  Martin opened the door and stepped out onto the melting asphalt. “Look at Mad Bill, will you, wearing a sandwich board on a day like this.”

  Bill and Charlie arrived at curbside, both sweating profusely. The sandwich board read TITHE ACCEPTED HERE.

  “I can smell them at ten paces,” Martin whispered.

  “Barney won’t let them in the door if I don’t run interference with my asafetida.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “You’re wasting your time. Murderers don’t return to the scene of their crimes in this kind of weather.”

  24

  GLENDALE PARK is a long, narrow triangle of land bordered on two sides by water, the Surplus Canal on the west and the Jordan River on the east. Its squat, one-story recreation building, as grim and utilitarian as an LDS ward house, marked the center of an area that had been marked off with yellow, crime-scene tape. In front of the building stood a white metal pole, its flag at half-staff.

  Though the murder was already forty-eight hours old, half a dozen uniformed officers were down on their hands and knees inside the taped barrier searching the grass. Outside the ribbon, a single policeman was doing his best to keep onlookers—children and their wide-eyed mothers, teenagers on summer vacation, and street people—from overrunning the site.

  Traveler stayed in the car studying his street map. Glendale Park, at Seventeenth South and Twelfth West, was about a mile and a half southwest of the most recent murder site, Jordan Park, whose western border was flanked by the Jordan River. Both were on the west side of town, in a deteriorating area that was fast being taken over by Orientals and Hispanics.

  When sweat began dripping onto the map, he got out of the car and took a deep breath. The park air smelled of cottonwoods and mown grass. Yet asafetida lingered with him. To escape the thoughts it triggered, Traveler crossed the grass and joined the crowd.

  His size drew looks of speculation, as if he might be there in some kind of official capacity.

  “Do you know what they’re looking for?” a woman ventured. She, like most of the other women, was wearing too much makeup, probably on the off-chance that television might decide to revisit the crime scene.

  Traveler kept his comment to a shrug.

  “Why don’t they use dogs?”

  A middle-aged man wearing the layered clothes of a hobo, the outermost of which was a red quilted vest, answered. “I read she was cut up into little pieces. And you know dogs. They gobble everything in sight.”

  “That’s disgusting,” the woman said, staring all the harder at the crawling policemen.

  “A witness is being held in protective custody,” Traveler ventured.

  “I have a police scanner,” the man said. “I got here as soon as the reporters and we didn’t see anybody.”

  Traveler reassessed him. He was no hobo, though they’d become plentiful in Salt Lake in recent years. More likely he was a drug dealer who used a scanner to stay one jump ahead of the police. Or he could have been an undercover cop.

  “There was a tarp over her,” he went on. “But someone said she was naked underneath. It figures, if she was a hooker. They work this park at night, bringing their own blankets to save the cost of a motel room.”

  The Tribune had identified the victims, Alma Tucker, twenty, and Jan Gates, nineteen, as entertainers, an all-purpose euphemism in Mormon Country.

  Traveler gossiped for another ten minutes but learned nothing of interest. Once back in his car, he switched the air conditioner to its maximum setting and headed north.

  Cars were lined up to pass beneath the archway whose metal letters spelled out Jordan Park. As the scene of the most recent killing, still less than twenty-four hours old, it had drawn a bigger crowd than Glendale Park.

  Traveler bypassed the entrance and continued up Ninth West toward Little Mexico, which had been known as Mormon Tokyo until the neighborhood changed a few years ago. The moment he stepped out of the Ford he could feel the eyeballs clicking his way. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled until he was well inside Lee’s Market.

  Richard Lee’s dark skin and hair had enabled him to pretend to be half Oriental before the neighborhood’s most recent ethnic evolution. Now he wore a white apron with Ricardo Lee embroidered on the front. Actually he qualified for membership in the Sons of the Utah Pioneers, since one of his relatives had accompanied Brigham Young on the trek from Nauvoo.

  Lee was Martin’s age. Both of them had been members of the University of Utah’s tennis team.

  At Traveler’s entrance several shoppers left the store. Those already waiting to pay grew silent. Traveler got into line behind them and didn’t speak until he and Lee were alone.

  “My father sends his best.”

  Lee nodded in the direction of his disappearing customers and grinned. “They thought you were a cop. Come to think of it, you look like one.”

  He lunged across the counter to shake hands. “Ever since the killings we’ve had detectives in and out of here like clockwork. Now tell me about Martin. He didn’t sound himself when we spoke on the phone this morning.”

  “His throat’s bothering him.”

  “Tell him to take hot lemonade and vitamin C. If that doesn’t work, add whiskey. It’ll kill or cure.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “I still play tennis, you know. Remind him of that. Tell him I want a rematch as soon as he’s feeling better. After all these years, maybe I can beat him for once.”

  “He gave it up.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  Traveler had asked Martin the same question. His vague answer had been a smoke screen, behind which Traveler had sensed his mother’s presence.

  “Y
ou tell him to start practicing. A Lee won’t be denied his chance at revenge.”

  Traveler nodded. “Since we’re alone I’d like to ask some questions.”

  “Take your time. By now the word is out. I won’t do any business until you’re gone, not so much as a soda pop.”

  “You told Martin you knew Maria Gomez and her friend.”

  “Nice young women, both of them. Not typical, though. They came to this country to earn money honestly. When one of our local pimps tried to recruit them, they turned him down flat. That was right here in this store. I hate to think what might have happened if they’d said yes. They could have been killed, just like the woman in the Jordan Park. She was one of the pimp’s working girls, using the name Jan Gates, as if that would fool anybody into thinking she wasn’t Hispanic.”

  “It’s Maria’s friend, Rosie, I’m trying to locate.”

  “I hear things in this neighborhood. If I blab them around, I’ll be out of business.”

  “Isn’t there something you can do?”

  “Not on that. I’m sorry.”

  “What about the pimp, then?”

  “That’s easy. His name is Garth Jensen. He hangs out at the Chi-Chi Club. Just wave the greenbacks and tell him you’re a customer.”

  ******

  With blond hair, blue eyes, and dimpled chin, Garth Jensen looked like a cherub about to audition for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. He eyed Traveler up and down and said, “If your cock’s as big as the rest of you, I’m going to have to take out cunt insurance.”

  Traveler handed him a card.

  “If you’re not after a fuck, get out.”

  Traveler took back the card and replaced it with a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Shee-yit.” Jensen crumpled the bill and tossed it at the bartender, who caught and pocketed it in one smooth motion.

  At the sight of Traveler the Chi-Chi Club, like Lee’s Market, began to empty of what few noontime customers it had. Despite frigid and breezy air conditioning, the place reeked of sweat and stale beer.

  “This is my turf,” Jensen said. “What I say here goes. If I raise my finger, you’re out on your ass.”

  Traveler looked around a room that was having trouble holding two pool tables. Except for the bartender, he and Jensen were alone.

  When Traveler glared at the bartender, the man immediately raised his hands above counter level to show they were empty and began backing away. He kept right on going until he disappeared through a swinging door with a porthole window.

  “Talk to me about Jan Gates.”

  Jensen licked his lips. “I don’t care how big you are. You don’t scare me.”

  Traveler grabbed a fistful of shirt with one hand and punched with the other. The pimp’s eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to suck air, but the muscles of his diaphragm were momentarily paralyzed. As a linebacker, Traveler had gone through the same kind of agony when sucker-punched by offensive linemen.

  He released his grip and the pimp slid off his stool and onto the sawdusted floor, where his face started turning blue. When his legs began to thrash, Traveler took hold of his belt and worked him up and down like a bellows.

  Jensen started breathing and got sick at the same time. Once the retching stopped, Traveler rolled him to a relatively clean spot on the floor and knelt beside him.

  “The second time is worse. Your lungs feel like they’re on fire. You think you’re never going to breathe again. Sometimes you don’t.”

  “You’re a bastard like the rest of them,” Jensen croaked.

  “Are you speaking in the plural?”

  “Did they send you to check up on me?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Go back and tell them I haven’t said a thing.”

  “But you will.” Traveler pushed his fist forward until it touched Jensen’s nose.

  The pimp’s eyes lost focus. “I’m living up to our bargain. You tell them that. Please.”

  “Whose bargain?”

  “Jesus and Mary. What have I done?”

  Traveler dragged the pimp to his feet and set him down on the bar stool once again. “We can pretend we’re bowling. You’re the pin. I set you up and knock you down.”

  Jensen shrugged. “If I open my mouth to you, I don’t survive. Not in this town. Do your worst. I’m probably a dead man already and don’t know it.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a head start.”

  Jensen glanced toward the door. “They sent you to kill me, didn’t they?”

  “You said you were dead already.”

  The pimp backed toward the exit. When he got there he shouted, “You’re a fucking pussy. A couple of more punches and I would have told you everything.”

  With that, he turned and ran. Traveler didn’t bother chasing him. He figured he already knew what Garth Jensen was afraid of.

  25

  GESTURING FRANTICALLY, Barney Chester dashed from behind the cigar counter and grabbed Traveler’s arm. “There are cops waiting for you upstairs.” His voice soared with excitement.

  Traveler allowed himself to be pulled out of line of sight with the elevator, where Nephi Bates was listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir with his eyes closed, and into an alcove that held two old-fashioned phone booths and the entrance to the men’s room. Blocking all three doors were Mad Bill and Charlie, both sitting cross-legged on the marble floor and rolling a pair of handmade cigarettes.

  “Goddamn it. That had better be tobacco.” Barney’s voice sounded distorted because of the cigar clenched between his teeth.

  “Peyote is legal for Indians,” Bill said. “It’s part of their religion. As for prophets like myself, who’s to say what’s lawful?”

  With a flourish Charlie struck a wooden kitchen match on the marble floor and lit up. The smoke ring he blew at Barney’s head disintegrated just as it was about to become a halo.

  Barney backed up a step. “That shit will get you sent to jail, not heaven. There are cops are all over the place today.”

  “That’s not funny,” Bill said.

  “They’re after me,” Traveler explained.

  Charlie doused his cigarette with spit and then swallowed the evidence.

  Barney said, “Get that Indian out of here before he throws up on my floor.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bill said. “Charlie’s done it before. Instead of getting sick, he talks to his gods. Sometimes he lets his Sandwich Prophet listen in.”

  As if on cue the Indian’s eyes rolled into his head, leaving only the bloodshot whites behind. Traveler suspected it was part of a well-rehearsed scam, though to what end he couldn’t guess.

  Barney held out his hand toward Bill, palm up. “I don’t want you in a trance, too. Now give me that cigarette.”

  Bill struck a match against his sandwich board. “A couple of puffs. That’s all I ask.” He, too, began blowing smoke rings. Only his were too ragged to look like halos.

  Figuring relaxation by proxy couldn’t hurt, Traveler took a deep breath. “How many cops are there?”

  “Three at first,” Barney said without taking his eyes off Bill. “Two uniforms and a detective.”

  “And now?”

  “Damn it, Bill,” Barney said, ignoring Traveler’s question. “You’re stretching my patience. Either you get rid of that, or you and Charlie are out on the street.”

  The Sandwich Prophet took one last puff. “Anything you say, Barney. You want me to flush it down the toilet?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Bill helped the white-eyed Indian to his feet and then pounded him on the back. The impact jiggled Charlie’s pupils back into place.

  “I am a Lamanite,” Charlie said. “The lost tribe of Israel.”

  “Come on. It’s time to take a pee.”

  Bill led his Navajo disciple into the men’s room. As soon as the door closed behind them, Barney took a fresh cigar from his shirt pocket and lit up. Once he had it going properly he moved aro
und the alcove, blowing smoke into every corner to camouflage the marijuana.

  Finally he sagged against the wall and grinned. “To think that you, a man named after an angel, is about to get himself arrested.” He held out his hands like a criminal awaiting handcuffs. “Is your life flashing before your eyes, Moroni?”

  “You’re stalling, Barney. Who else is upstairs?”

  “I tried to stop them, but they showed me a warrant.”

  “Who, Barney?”

  “That so-called friend of yours from the Hotel Utah.”

  “Willis Tanner?”

  “The way he walked in here, you’d think he was one of the Twelve Apostles.”

  “What’s the charge against me?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I should have read the warrant, huh?”

  Traveler edged around the corner of the alcove until he could see the rest of the lobby. No one had come in after him, and there was no sign of a police car in the street outside. Even so, three cops and Willis Tanner added up to more than assault on a pimp.

  “I’d better go up and see what they want.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Bill’s always said he wanted to be a martyr. Now’s his chance.”

  Barney pushed open the door to the men’s room. “Step out here, William. Sainthood is at hand.”

  Mad Bill and Charlie, both of whom had splashed cold water over themselves, dripped across the alcove to where Barney stood.

  “The police are waiting upstairs to arrest Moroni,” he told them. “Willis Tanner is with them.”

  Bill placed a wet hand on Traveler’s head as if giving benediction. “ ‘Behold, we are surrounded by demons, yea, we are encircled about by the angels of him who hath sought to destroy our souls.’ ”

  “That’s him,” Barney said.

  “Religion is a dangerous business, Moroni. I’ve told you that before.”

  Barney’s head bobbed. “Exactly. That’s why we want you to go upstairs first and find out what’s happening.”

  “To hell with that,” Traveler said.

  “Like Daniel, I’ll go into the lion’s den.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Charlie said. “I’ll go. If they try anything with me, I’ll have every civil rights lawyer in town on their asses.”