by Paula Paul
“So you did talk to him,” Irene said.
“Well, maybe a little. Over drinks.”
“Drinks?” Irene said. “They don’t serve liquor at the pueblo. You told me that yourself. You must have gone someplace, and you also told me you didn’t have a drink with him.”
Adelle picked up her wineglass again and took a sip. “Where on earth did you buy this wine, Irene? It’s a bit vinegary,” she said, ignoring Irene’s question.
“Adelle…” Irene looked at her mother with an accusing expression.
Before she spoke, Adelle gave Irene a grimacing, annoyed look. “Oh, all right. We went to a bar. A nice place. I had to get away from all that primitiveness.”
“A nice place? You must have driven all the way back to Santa Fe,” Irene said.
Adelle answered with a little shrug.
“What did you talk about?” Irene was pressing hard.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Irene, I don’t remember. We just chatted. What difference does it make?”
“You said this man mentioned Danny Calabaza,” Irene said.
“Only in passing,” Adelle said. “Isn’t everyone talking about him? Mostly we talked about civilized things.”
P.J. nodded. “Paris. Art museums.”
“Yes,” Adelle said. Her eyes shifted a little, as if she might not be telling everything even if she wasn’t lying.
“Auctions.”
Adelle’s eyes darted back to P.J.’s eyes. “No, we did not talk about art auctions, and don’t think I don’t know what you’re driving at. I have no reason to believe Hutch was in any way connected to the theft of Native American artifacts or the death of that Frenchman. Just because a person happens not to be from around here doesn’t make him a murder suspect.”
“Certainly not,” P.J. said.
“Don’t think it didn’t occur to me that there could be a connection. I’m not a babe in the woods, you know, but I assure you that, as far as I know, the man we’re speaking of had nothing to do with any of that shady business.”
P.J. was about to press for more of Adelle’s conversation when Irene spoke up.
“You called him Hutch,” she said.
“Did I?” Adelle drank more wine from her glass.
“I thought you said he didn’t tell you his name,” Irene said.
Adelle shrugged. “I suppose I forgot.”
“No, you didn’t,” Irene said. “You just didn’t want to tell the truth.”
P.J. glanced at Adelle, expecting an angry retort, but all she did was smile. Not sweetly, he thought. More like wickedly. “There are times when a woman need not be completely truthful,” she said.
“This is not one of those times,” Irene said.
“For heaven’s sake, Irene, must you always be so uptight?”
Irene leaned toward her mother. “Listen to me, Adelle, Juanita thinks some man came to her and tried to blame the Armaud murder on Danny and told her that if she continued to try to protect him he would die.”
Adelle shook her head and frowned. “What are you getting at? This has nothing to do with my having a drink with Hutch.”
“Maybe more than you think,” Irene said. “The man she talked to fits the description of this Hutch you’ve been talking about.” She had no idea if that was true, but she wanted to see her mother’s reaction.
Adelle shrugged. “I’m sure a lot of men would fit his description. He was, after all, rather average-looking. Nondescript even.”
“A nondescript man who knows something about art and Paris museums,” Irene said.
“What, exactly, did he say about Danny Calabaza?” P.J. asked.
“Nothing,” Adelle said, then added, “At least not directly.”
Irene and P.J. looked at each other. “What do you mean by ‘not directly’?” they both asked at once.
Adelle squirmed in her chair, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I did ask him if he’d heard about the stolen Indian artifacts being auctioned in Paris and that a local boy and his mother were implicated.”
“And what did he say?” P.J. asked, leaning toward her.
“He laughed and said Santa Fe’s a small town and what one person talks about everyone talks about,” Adelle said.
“That’s all he said?” Irene asked.
Adelle glanced longingly at her empty wineglass. “That’s all. After that we started talking about the disadvantages of living in a small town like Santa Fe compared to Paris.”
“He’s lived in Paris?” Irene said.
“At least he’s familiar with it,” Adelle said. “So am I. Remember, I lived there for almost two years with my third husband. So we compared restaurants and theaters, that sort of thing.”
“Did you give him your phone number?” Irene’s voice and expression were serious, as if she were questioning someone on the witness stand.
Adelle hesitated. “I may have. I don’t remember.”
Irene nodded. “Uh-huh. So, when he calls, invite him over here, and let me know when he’s coming.”
Adelle was silent for several seconds, her eyes never leaving her daughter. Finally, she spoke. “That’s not a good idea, Irene.”
Irene shook her head. “I need to know what this man knows. I need to be present when you talk to him.”
P.J. could have sworn Adelle’s nose grew longer as she looked down it toward her daughter. “My dear, I am more than capable of getting whatever is necessary out of a man. It would be foolish of you to doubt my expertise.”
Irene was about to reply, but her mobile phone rang unexpectedly. She retrieved it quickly from her purse. P.J. watched as she said, “Hello,” then again, “Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Who is it?” P.J. asked.
“Angel,” she said. “I think he butt-dialed me.” Before P.J. could reply, she held up a hand to silence him and listened intently to the phone she held to her ear. After a few seconds, she pressed the button to disconnect the conversation and stood up quickly. “He seems to be at the hospital. I think he’s in trouble.”
Chapter 16
Angel followed Juanita’s gurney through the entrance to the emergency room, but he was stopped as they pushed her into the treatment area and told to check in at the desk. He was waiting in line behind a weeping woman who had just had her husband wheeled away with a doctor calling for a heart defibrillator. The woman was doing her best to provide all the information she was asked for while she constantly glanced over her shoulder in the direction that her husband had disappeared.
Angel pulled his phone from his pocket to call Irene. She would want to know he’d taken Juanita to the hospital. He had just dialed her number when Ironman put a heavy, firm hand on his shoulder and pressed hard with his thick fingers. Angel slipped his phone into his pocket again without ending the call. As Ironman pressed harder, Angel felt a pain all the way down his arm and into his neck. It was all he could do to turn his head enough to watch the gurney disappear into the depths of the hospital. He was aware of Paco standing a few feet away, along with the two other gang members he’d seen with Ironman earlier.
“You goin’ someplace, guero?” Ironman asked. A string of black tears was tattooed on his face, and a mass of tattoos covered his arms. Angel had encountered Ironman before. The last time was when Ironman’s sister, Dolores, had been caught stealing candy and Angel had come to her rescue, telling police he’d told her to pick it up because he was going to pay for it himself. Ironman had thanked him profusely.
Angel tried to ignore the pain. “The lady. She’s my friend. She’s sick. I need to make sure she gets—”
“You don’t need nothin’ ’less I tell you you need it, pendejo,” Ironman said. “You coming with us.” Ironman took his arm and pulled him toward the exit and out to the sidewalk in front of the hospital.
“Que pedo?” Angel said as Ironman forced him into the parking lot. “I need to get back inside the hospital where Juanita is.” He spoke loudly, hoping by now that Irene had connected with
his phone and could hear him.
“I’ll tell you what’s happening,” Ironman said. “You a fucking relaje!”
“No mames! I’m no snitch,” Angel said. “Look, I’m just trying to get my friend into the hospital emergency room. She’s sick.”
“Yeah, so you got her in. Now you gonna answer to us.”
Angel glanced at Paco, who refused to look him in the eye. He looked as frightened as Angel felt.
“Why are you calling me a relaje?” Angel asked. “I never snitched on anybody.”
“Yeah?” Ironman said. “Then how come they came after Torres?”
“No se!” Angel said with a shrug, trying to appear calm.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know,” Ironman said. “You go with Paco to talk to Torres. You ask questions about Danny Calabaza, that fucking indio that kills people, and now Torres is dead.”
The two men with Ironman grabbed Angel’s arms. His head sprung back against the top of his shoulders as Ironman hit him. Blood made a warm streak down the side of his mouth.
“Besides being a fag, you turned into a punk,” Ironman said, and hit Angel again. “Used Paco to scout out a connection so you could feed him to the pigs. I always knew you smelled like bacon.”
“You’re wrong.” Angel had a hard time forming the words with his swelling lips. “I was just trying to find out about Danny. Gotta help him.”
“Danny?” Ironman laughed. “Too late to help him. He’s dead. He was another punk. Just like you.” Ironman pulled his arm back to hit Angel again, but the scream of a siren stopped him. The two men holding Angel’s arms dropped him to the ground and, along with Ironman and Paco, fled deeper into the forest of cars in the parking lot.
Angel was only dimly aware of being helped to his feet a few seconds later.
“You all right, buddy?”
Angel tried to answer the man who helped him, but his head ached and he couldn’t remember the words to use. Lights flashed, making him dizzy, and the squawk of a radio disoriented him.
“Good thing we got a call from your friend, kid,” the policeman said. He had him on his feet now and was leading him to a police car. “Otherwise, you could be dead by now. Said she heard what was happening because you forgot to turn off your phone when you called her. You’re lucky, kid. That’s all I can say. You’re lucky.”
—
Irene turned off her phone after talking to the policeman and turned to P.J. “Come on,” she said. “We’re going to the hospital. The cop said he’d meet us there.”
“Give me time to change my outfit,” Adelle said. “I’m going with you.”
“Take all the time you need, but I’m not waiting,” Irene said on her way toward the door. She hurried to her car with P.J. beside her. By the time she was behind the wheel, P.J. was seated next to her, and Adelle was in the backseat.
“No way are you going to make me miss this,” Adelle said. She looked down at her elaborate robe. “I probably look better than anyone else who’ll be there anyway.”
Irene sped the whole way, briefly thinking how lucky she was not to have been stopped when she reached the hospital. She parked the car and sprinted into the emergency entrance, following P.J., with Adelle following close behind her. Adelle had gathered up the long skirt and trailing train of her robe and was holding it in her hand to give her more freedom to run. She held her high-heel slippers in the same hand to run barefooted. She used her other hand and arm for balance as she tried to keep up with the two in front of her.
“Can I help you?” A nurse at the check-in desk asked when she saw P.J. and Irene running into the emergency reception area. “You will need to check in before…” The nurse stopped speaking when she saw Adelle in her long dressing gown pulled up above her knees. She was walking gingerly as if every step hurt the tender bottoms of her bare feet. “Ma’am,” she said when she saw her, “do you need…”
“We’re looking for Juanita Calabaza,” Irene said. “She was checked in here a few minutes ago.”
“What I need is a good foot massage,” Adelle said to the reception nurse, who was still staring at her.
“Foot massage? I’m sorry, we don’t provide those services. Perhaps you’ve mistakenly come to the wrong—”
“This is a hospital, isn’t it?” Adelle asked with a note of sarcasm. “If you don’t provide those services, you should at least redo your parking lot. All those stones in the asphalt!”
“Stones in the asphalt?”
“My feet are quite tender.” Adelle was on her feet again, walking gingerly toward the reception desk. “If I could find a decent place to sit, I could put on my slippers.”
“Just have a seat over there.” The nurse pointed to an empty seat in the reception room.
“Certainly not!” Adelle said, then whispered, “Those people are possibly diseased!”
“Have a seat, ma’am,” the nurse said.
“Don’t treat me condescendingly,” Adelle said. “I can have you investigated.”
“Are you ill, ma’am? I can have someone with you in moment, but first, I must—”
“You have no idea!” Adelle said. “The last few days have been like torture. Sometimes I think I’ll go out of my mind!”
“Have a seat, ma’am,” the nurse said as she picked up a phone. “Assistance needed immediately at emergency check-in.”
“We’re looking for Juanita Calabaza,” Irene said. “She was brought here a little while ago.”
“Are you related to Mrs. Calabaza?” the nurse asked without taking her eyes off Adelle.
“No,” P.J. said, “but we—”
“Yes,” Irene said at the same time. “I’m her sister, and this is her cousin,” she added, pointing to P.J.
For the first time the nurse took her eyes off Adelle and frowned at Irene. “Sister?”
“From the Jewish side of her family,” Irene said.
“Jewish side?”
“Both of us,” Irene said. “We’re both from that side.”
The nurse shook her head. “No, I’m sure Mrs. Calabaza is not…Over there!” she said, pointing to Adelle, when two young men in scrubs entered the reception area. “That one!” she said. “The one in the Halloween costume.”
While the nurse was distracted and Adelle was busy trying to convince the attendant she just needed to sit down to put on her high-heeled bedroom slippers, P.J. and Irene looked at each other and hurried toward the door behind the nurse’s station.
Rows of curtains greeted them. Irene pulled one back slightly and peeked inside. A woman lay sleeping fitfully. It wasn’t Juanita. P.J. was looking behind curtains along the row across from her, obviously with the same result. When she looked behind the next curtain a man was sitting up in bed.
“Well, come in, honey. There’s room for both of us,” the man said and patted the mattress beside him. Irene stepped away and pulled the curtain closed with a quick snap. Behind her she heard a woman scream and knew that P.J. was having the same kind of luck.
A nurse adjusting a patient’s IV line looked up with an annoyed expression on her face when Irene opened the next curtain. “Close that curtain!” the nurse barked.
“Sorry,” Irene said. She tried to take a step backward but bumped into something.
“Ouch!” P.J. said.
Irene turned around to see P.J. holding a hand to his face while blood dripped through his fingers. “Oh, my God! What happened to you?”
“The back of your head hit me square in the nose.” P.J.’s voice was nasal and muffled.
“Get out of here, you two,” the angry nurse said.
Irene dug a packet of tissues out of her purse and pulled several out to hand to P.J. “Do you need a doctor?”
P.J. shook his head and accepted the tissue while at the same time pulling a handkerchief out of a back pocket to catch more of the blood. Irene couldn’t understand what he said behind the wall of tissue and handkerchief.
“I’m calling security!” The nurse r
eached for a buzzer on the wall behind the patient’s bed.
“No! Please, we’re just looking for our aunt…mother…Juanita. Juanita Calabaza,” Irene said.
The nurse looked annoyed as she pulled her hand away from the security button and scowled at the two of them. “Next compartment,” she growled. “If you’re not related, you have to get out.”
“We’re related,” P.J. said. “She’s our mother.”
“I know Juanita, and I know her family,” the nurse said. “I’m calling security.” A groan from the angry nurse’s patient demanded her attention. Irene and P.J. used the diversion to slip away and open the curtain on the next compartment.
Juanita lay in the narrow bed asleep with a mask covering her mouth and nose and whooshing, gurgling oxygen attached to the mask. Irene walked to her side and touched her hand as she spoke her name. There was no response.
“We should let her rest,” P.J. whispered.
“Yes, I know.” Irene also spoke in a whisper. “But one of us should stay here to make sure the police don’t arrest her.”
“Just how do you propose to do that?” P.J. asked.
Irene wore a perplexed look as she shook her head. “I thought maybe you could use your influence with the police.”
P.J. snorted. “I have no influence with the police. It’s prosecutors like you who have all the influence.”
“Surely you must—”
“You shouldn’t be in here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The voice interrupting Irene was not a whisper. She turned to see a tall, commanding presence in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck. He had dark hair with just enough gray at the temples to make him appear even more authoritative.
“She’s being moved to intensive care. Only family is allowed to visit.”
“Yes, but we’re…” Before Irene could finish telling the lie, the doctor turned away from her and gave P.J. a nod.
“Mr. Bailey. You’re her attorney, I presume,” he said.
“No, I’m…I mean, yes. Yes, of course, I’m her attorney,” P.J. said.
“The police have been notified, but I’m sure you’re aware that legal proceedings will have to wait. She’s quite ill. I’m moving her to intensive care for a few days, and before you ask, I don’t know how long it will be. You and your secretary will have to wait just like everyone else.”
