by Paula Paul
“Sort of?” Irene asked.
“I mean, well, yeah, but…”
“What are they doing here?”
“I talked them into coming. So they wouldn’t kill Danny.”
“Kill Danny?” Irene’s heart was pumping so hard she could barely hear her own voice. “Why would they want to—”
“They said he killed Torres, that drug dealer. I told them he didn’t do it.”
“The drug dealer? I think I saw that in the paper, but I don’t want to think he could do such a thing….Angel, we should call the police!”
“Ain’t nobody going to call the cops,” a voice said. Irene turned to see a young man Angel had once pointed out to her. His hair was short, and he was covered with tattoos, including what looked like black tears running down his cheeks and, on one arm, a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe embedded in blue and black symbols she couldn’t decipher. An elaborately decorated Christian cross adorned one side of his neck along with a snake that appeared to be slithering toward his heart. She remembered his name. Ironman. “Angel said you know who killed Torres,” Ironman said. “He claims you’re a lawyer and you can prove it. You got one chance.” Ironman spoke with a heavy Hispanic accent.
Irene had seen his kind before—young, defiant, unwilling to admit he was afraid of many things, but, above all, dangerous. “Listen,” she said and paused as she tried to keep her voice from shaking. “I don’t know who killed him, but I can tell you this much, Danny didn’t do it. If he’s still alive, you’ve got to let him go home.”
“He’ll go home, that’s for sure,” Ironman said. “In a coffin. I told you, puta, you got one chance. Angel said he could get you to talk. So talk. Tell us who killed Torres or Danny’s a dead man. Angel, too. He ain’t nothin’ but a fag anyway, and I hate fags.”
Cold fear replaced the blood in Irene’s veins. “I’ll help if I can, but I…I don’t know…”
“Don’t play dumb, gringa,” Ironman said. “Angel says you know who killed Torres.”
“You’re talking about that drug dealer. Danny couldn’t have killed him,” Irene said.
“What makes you think he couldn’t?” Ironman’s mouth was twisted into a snarl.
Irene hesitated, trying to think of something. Anything. “He wasn’t anywhere around when he died,” she said.
“Yeah?” Ironman said. “So where was he?”
“He…he was on the mesa, playing his flute, he—”
Ironman laughed. “Sure he was. And you can prove it, can’t you?” He turned to Angel. “You lied to me, guey. I gave you a chance ’cause I thought I owed you one for what you did for mi hermana, but you let me down. This puta don’t know nothin’. She’s just trying to save poor little Danny’s skin.” He turned back to Irene. “Poor Danny’s gonna die, and so are you, gringa, and so is Angel.”
“I didn’t lie to you,” Angel protested. “I didn’t say she knew, I said she knows ways to find out.”
“If she knows how to find out, then she knows who killed him. You’re a sick faggot liar.” He shouted something over his shoulder in Spanish. The door opened immediately, and another young man who had been waiting outside entered, this one carrying a gun. “We can’t do it here,” Ironman said. “Too many people out there on the plaza. Put both of ’em in the car, Paco.”
Irene tried to swallow her panic. She knew she had to think, and she had to think fast. She had to remember everything Juanita had told her about Danny, and everything Danny had told her himself the night he’d called her about the necklace. All she could think of was how frightened Danny had been. Frightened and stoned. And how desperate Juanita had been to find him and to get help for his drug habit.
She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. Tried to think. But all she could do was imagine Danny falling into an abyss. Going deeper and deeper into darkness. Hitchhiking to Albuquerque to make a connection, getting robbed and left on the street to die. The aging hippie who would pick him up, a lifetime panhandling with that druggie Johnny Holland.
“Wait!” Irene said just as Paco grabbed her and forced her hands behind her back. She glanced at Angel, who stood frozen with the barrel of a gun next to his temple. “Wait!” she said again. “I know where Danny was when Torres was killed. It happened the same night that Frenchman was killed. The one from the auction.”
“I don’t care about no Frenchman,” Ironman said. “They can all die in hell for all I care. Nobody messes with a Capitolista, though. Not Danny Calabaza for sure.” He shoved Irene toward the door. “Get out of here, puta.”
“Jimmy Holland!” Irene said. “He was with Danny the night Torres died. Find him! He’s probably out there in the park panhandling right now. He’ll tell you.”
“Whitey Holland?” Ironman said, sounding derisive. “He’s stoned half the time. He won’t even know where he was that night.”
“No, but you do,” Irene said. “You know because you were with them, too. You sold drugs to both of them.”
“I never sold dope to nobody.”
“You did,” Irene said, “but you’re afraid to admit you were selling to Jimmy Holland and Danny because you don’t want anyone to know you were cutting in on another Capitolista’s territory.” She was guessing, hoping for a way to throw Ironman off balance.
“What’s she sayin’?” Paco asked.
“She’s lyin’,” Ironman said. “Just like she was about Danny being out on the mesa playing that damned flute.”
“You know I’m not lying,” Irene said, “because you were there, too. You and Jimmy Holland both. Torres found you, didn’t he? Found out you were cutting in on his business. That’s when you killed him.” Irene saw the look on Paco’s face as she spoke, saw him turn toward Ironman. She was still guessing, not sure of anything she said.
“You sure she’s lyin’?” Paco asked. “I never thought Danny had the guts to shoot nobody. He ain’t nothin’ but a mama’s boy.”
Ironman forced a laugh. “I wouldn’t lie to you, guey, you know that.”
Paco looked confused for a moment. “You was with Whitey,” he said, looking at Ironman. “I know that for sure. He told me. Told me he was with Danny, too. Said you was both high on meth and neither of you remembered what happened.
“Whitey Holland told me Danny killed Torres, but they were both too stoned to remember anything. Remember? I told you that,” Paco said to Ironman. Irene could see the sweat trailing down his face and his hands shaking. He was obviously afraid of Ironman. But her hunch had paid off, and now they were angry with each other. She could only hope that was enough of a distraction. “That’s why you’re after Danny now,” Paco said in a trembling voice. “I think maybe Whitey Holland got it mixed up. Maybe it was you that killed Torres, not Danny.” Paco removed the gun from Angel’s temple and aimed it at Ironman. “I never thought Danny could do it. Never thought he had the huevos for it.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, guey? Don’t point that gun at me. You don’t know shit about what happened.”
“Then why you so scared?” Paco asked.
In the blink of an eye, Ironman grabbed Paco’s gun hand and forced him to drop the weapon. Ironman picked it up quickly and pointed it first at Paco, then swept it around to confront all three who were in the room.
“Outside! All of you! You’re all going with Danny. I shoulda killed him when I had the chance. I knew he’d be trouble. Hands up! All of you!”
Angel, Irene, and Paco stepped outside, hands in the air. They’d gone only a few steps when a gunshot breached the silence of the parking lot, followed by a scream. With a quick movement, Ironman turned toward the sound, gun ready. Irene saw immediately that the shot had come from P.J.’s old pickup. She saw P.J. push someone—it had to be Adelle—down in the seat then step out of the car, aiming the gun at Ironman and shouting.
“Put the gun down! Now!”
There was the blast of another gunshot. A cry from Ironman. His gun fell to the ground. Irene saw that he
was holding his right hand, the one that had held the gun, with his left hand while blood seeped through his fingers. She turned in astonishment toward P.J. He had actually shot the gun from Ironman’s hand. In the same moment she looked at P.J., she saw Adelle’s head bob up in the pickup, then down again.
“Danny’s in that car behind you!” Irene shouted. “I’m going over there to free him.”
P.J. nodded and still kept his gun trained on Ironman. Irene found Danny in the backseat of Ironman’s car. His hands were tied behind him, and a piece of gray masking tape covered his mouth. She helped him out of the car and removed the tape. She was still trying to untie the rope that bound his hands when a siren wailed, and then another, the sound coming closer and closer. Within minutes four policemen bounded out of their cruisers, guns drawn.
“I didn’t kill that French guy!” Danny said. “I didn’t! I know that now. That man did it, and then he tried to convince me I killed Torres, too. I believed him because I was so stoned. Meth. I was out of my mind, but it’s all coming back to me now.”
“Who?” Irene asked. “What guy tried to convince you?”
Before Danny could answer, one of the policemen shouted orders, telling everyone to drop their guns, raise their hands, and back up against the wall at the back of the parking lot.
While they all tried to comply, Adelle raised her head again and shouted from an open window of the pickup.
“I can explain everything! I know who killed Armaud!”
Chapter 20
It was late. The police were gone from the premises, but Irene and Angel lingered in the back room seated at the table. A bottle of inexpensive cabernet that Angel had bought from the café next door to Irene’s Closet sat on the table. He’d bought the wine illegally because at nineteen, he was underage.
“This is for Adelle,” he said when he brought it in. “I know she’s going to need it after she talks to the police.” Adelle was still being questioned about the murder, and she insisted that P.J. stay with her as her lawyer. Irene had not been permitted to stay with her. Danny had been allowed to go to the hospital to visit his mother. He was accompanied by a policeman because he was still to be questioned, not only about his knowledge of the murders, but about drug dealers he knew.
Finally, Adelle and P.J. came in through the back door from the parking lot. Adelle walked to the sofa Irene kept in the back room and collapsed on it with a dramatic sigh.
“What happened?” Irene asked. “What did you tell the police?”
“Really, my dear. That is police business. I’m not sure I should divulge—”
“You’re dying to tell us, and you know it,” Irene said.
“Well,” Adelle said with another theatrical sigh, “I’ll tell you what I can. You see, I knew who the murderer was…Is that cabernet? Not one of the better vintners, I see, but you know what they say. Any port in a storm. Does anyone have a glass?”
Angel produced a glass, seemingly out of nowhere.
Adelle turned up her nose. “That’s a water glass.”
“It’s all we have,” Angel said.
“Any port in a storm,” Irene reminded her.
Adelle sighed again, but she accepted the glass and let Angel fill it for her. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t allow time for it to breathe,” she said. “And don’t think I didn’t see how you rolled your eyes, Irene.” She settled back on the sofa, took a sip from the glass, and frowned, but only slightly.
“They questioned you for a long time,” P.J. said. It was his way of trying to get Adelle to let up on the drama and tell her story.
“They did, didn’t they?” Adelle said. “And I suppose you’re all waiting to hear who the murderer is.” She studied the liquid in her glass.
“Are you saying you really do know?” Irene asked.
“Of course,” Adelle said. “I’m sure you noticed, P.J., that when I went to your office just before the deposition, Hutch recognized me. I knew you had me there to identify the man I saw in the bar when I was with Hutch, so I wasn’t surprised when they walked in together.”
“Hutch recognized you,” P.J. said.
“I couldn’t help that, now, could I?” Adelle said.
P.J. turned to Irene. “She might have been surprised at seeing the man she knows as Hutch, but she was quite cool about it. I admire her for that. I was watching everything from inside my office.”
“It was nothing,” Adelle said.
“It was obvious he recognized her, just as she said,” P.J. continued. “When he saw her in the waiting room, Hutch spoke to her quite civilly. Acted as if there was no cause for alarm to find her there. I believe he actually flirted with her a little. I think he finds her attractive.”
Adelle preened and pretended to be modest. “Well, I don’t know…”
“Were you deposing Hutch along with the guy you called Leon Macy?” Irene asked.
“No, but the guy Adelle knows as Hutch accompanied him. Apparently Hutch is his lawyer. We wanted to depose Macy because we thought he might help us identify the man who was stealing Fairchild money from the auction. The big surprise was that he said it was Armaud who was the thief, and he fingered Danny Calabaza as the killer. Adelle knew he was lying.”
“How could Adelle know he was lying?” Irene asked. “You wouldn’t have allowed her in the room while you were deposing Leon.”
“We didn’t exactly allow her in,” P.J. said, “but she managed.”
“It wasn’t my fault you didn’t lock the door,” Adelle said.
“She heard Leon say he and Hutch saw Danny shoot and kill Armaud on the first day of August. That’s when she burst into the room and called him a liar. She said Hutch couldn’t have seen Danny kill Armaud because she was with Hutch on the night Armaud died. Talk about stunned! We all were when she did that!”
“I can imagine!” Irene said.
“Leon lost it,” P.J. said. “He stood up and called Hutch a son of a bitch. Said Hutch should have told him he was with Adelle instead of making up that story about the two of them witnessing a murder. That’s when Adelle told both of them the police were on to them because of the matching bullets.”
“Wait a minute!” Irene said. “Let me get this straight. You say you were with Hutch the night Armaud was killed. I thought you just met him that day at the Green Corn Dance.”
Adelle smiled weakly. “Well, I did meet him there, but I’d also met him before.”
Irene gave her a questioning look. “That night you told me you were playing bridge with your friends?”
“Well…” Adelle blushed. “Hutch and I did at least talk about bridge that night I told you I was with the girls. He seemed to know a lot about bridge. I told you, he was quite a well-rounded and erudite man.”
“Erudite? So erudite he was helping plan a murder,” Irene said.
“Well, I certainly didn’t know that at the time,” Adelle said huffily.
“Danny was stoned on the night of the killings,” P.J. said. “Passed out in Jimmy Holland’s apartment. You saw them leave the plaza together, Irene.”
“And Hutch was with Adelle,” Irene said. “So who killed Armaud?”
“Hutch did, of course,” Adelle said. “All Leon Macy did was tell Hutch where he was, then Hutch killed Armaud after I left him. I didn’t spend the entire night with him. No one can accuse me of being that kind of woman.”
“How do you know he killed Armaud?” Irene asked.
“My dear, I’m not sure you’ll understand the intricacies of this,” Adelle said.
“Try me.”
“My first clue came from a newspaper,” Adelle said.
Irene gave her mother a surprised look. “A newspaper? I didn’t know you ever read newspapers.”
“Well, you leave them lying around all the time, and I have to pick up after you.” Adelle sounded huffy. “And when I do, I glance at them from time to time. You must have seen that story about the investigation that told about Armaud being k
illed with a bullet that appeared to be handmade or something like that.”
Irene responded with a confused frown.
“Not handmade, milled,” P.J. said.
“Oh, yes! Now I remember,” Irene said. “The bullet that killed Armaud appeared to have been modified to make it more lethal. I tried a case once in which a gang member did that. Made the end blunt so it would explode and be more deadly.”
“And it made you think that gang Angel belongs to might be involved,” Adelle said.
“I don’t belong to a gang,” Angel said.
“Oh, never mind, dear,” Adelle said, “and the bullet wasn’t from a gang member’s gun anyway. It was Hutch’s gun that killed him. He makes his own bullets. Or mills them, if that’s what you call it. He has his own shop. I’ve seen that shop myself.”
Irene gave her a surprised look. “What?”
“I told you he was a Renaissance man, didn’t I? He dabbles in everything. Painting, gourmet cooking. He even writes poetry. I just happened to see his shop when I was at his house. I don’t think he intended for me to see it, but I was wandering around looking at things, and there was this door, so I, well…”
“You saw where he was modifying bullets?” Irene asked.
“He said they were for some kind of antique gun he has. I think it’s called a Bell or something.”
“Do you mean Lebel?” P.J. asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” Adelle said. “Hutch said it’s a French antique and he can’t get ammunition for it, so he makes it himself. He was probably just trying to impress me, since you say he was only modifying ammunition,” Adelle said. “Of course, I was surprised that a man like him would be interested in guns. I mean, he appeared to be so sensitive, and he did assure me it was the only gun he owns. That antique thing, I mean. So that explains why he would use that old thing to kill Armaud.”
“But it doesn’t explain why he actually killed him,” Irene said.
“Apparently Armaud was onto him. Hutch and Macy were stealing from my client as well as from others,” P.J. said. “But he tried to pin it on Danny. Even convinced Danny he killed the man when he was alone with him on the mesa.”
