by Ted Clifton
“Yeah, I figured that. Did they find anyone who saw anything?”
“Nah. The chief’s a great guy, and he was friends with one of the most famous street people in this town, but your average cop around here is the same as every other cop in every other town. They come at homeless people with implied threats and aggressive attitudes, even when all they want is a favor. Not the best way to get information. And if anyone did see anything, they probably moved along, just to avoid having to deal with the cops. I once had a cop tell me he couldn’t understand why ‘these people,’ as he called them, weren’t more cooperative with the police. ‘After all,’ he says to me, ‘they’re citizens, too.’ This was the same cop who just a few minutes earlier was hassling these ‘citizens,’ telling them to pick up their ‘shit’—his word—and move on, or he’d toss them in jail. ‘Citizens,’ my ass. These folks know they’re nothing at all to the cops—until the cops want something, of course.”
“Do you think there would have been people in the park at that time of night?”
“Oh, for sure. Cathedral Park is a prime location. I have no idea how many, or if they would have been sober enough to remember anything, but if someone parked a car there late at night and walked away, my guess is, someone saw it.”
“Do you think they might come forward?”
Butch gave Vincent a look that made him feel foolish. “Seriously? There’s nothing good in it for them, and plenty of bad. Ten minutes after they give the cops an eyewitness account of what happened, they turn into a suspect instead of a witness. Cops can’t help themselves. You find a homeless guy and accuse him of a crime, and it’s perfect. You’ve solved the crime, and no one gives a shit either way about the homeless guy.”
“How ’bout a five-hundred-dollar incentive?”
“Way too much. At those prices, you’ll get a couple hundred supposed eyewitnesses—and a few confessions, even. Let me put word out that a private eye is willing to pay a smaller reward for any information about what happened in the park that night. I’ll make it clear the information has to be useful and credible before anyone gets paid. You might get something.”
“You’re a good man, Butch—even with the funny beard.”
Vincent decided he’d drop into the Crown Bar next to see if Nancy had time for a drink with him. He knew she was working, and it was rude to just drop in and expect her to entertain him, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Vincent, good to see ya. You hear the news about Rick and Mariana?”
“Did they get married?”
“How did you—? Well, they didn’t actually get married, but they got engaged. Still, how did you know?” Nancy was grinning—unless he missed his guess, she was glad to see him.
“Hey, I have eyes. It was obvious, just watching them. How did Mary and Hector take it?”
“Mary may still be crying, but I think they’re mostly pleased.”
“I bet Cindy’s already planning the wedding.”
“Yeah, everyone seems happy about it. Mariana’s mom was really doubtful at first, but I talked to her and told her what a wonderful man Rick is, and she discussed it with Mary, too. I think she really bonded with Mary. Anyway, she seems to be okay with everything, now. What have you been up to?”
Vincent was about to answer when his phone vibrated. “Malone.”
“Mister Malone? This is Hank, one of the security guards at the gallery. We’ve got a guy down here who says he has a right to enter the gallery—not one of the two you told us about. And he’s shit-faced drunk. We stopped him before he could go inside, and asked him for identification. He got pushy, even attacked one of my men, and my guy shoved him to the ground. Anyway, the dude isn’t hurt, but he did start puking, I think because of how much he’s had to drink. What do you want us to do?”
“I’ll be there in about five minutes,” he told the guard, then turned back to Nancy. “Looks like my day isn’t over. Okay if we continue our conversation at home later?” He didn’t want to leave, but he needed to find out what was going on.
“That’ll be great.” Nancy gave him one of the smiles he longed for. He hesitated, but after a moment, he managed to leave.
“Mister Taylor, are you okay?”
Trent Taylor was a mess, lying on the ground, with vomit all over him. He’d been crying when Vincent arrived, and the guards were standing back, watching cautiously while the man collapsed in some kind of emotional breakdown.
He opened his eyes and looked at Malone. “My mother is the greatest goddamned artist in the world, in the whole fuckin’ world—and, and nobody cares. How can that be fair? Fuck no, it’s not fair. I love my mother.” Taylor’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he blacked out.
Vincent, who’d had years of personal experience with drunks, went to find some paper towels to clean him up. After he finished that—a process the guards watched, but didn’t take part in—he asked for help putting the man into his car. As soon as he got in, he regretted it. Taylor was ripe, and his car would almost certainly smell like vomit for days. But it was too late to change his mind, so he drove to the free clinic. Butch helped get Taylor into the building, and put him in a bed with plastic coverings, set aside for just such situations.
“Doesn’t look like my normal street drunk,” Butch observed.
“No. His name’s Trent Taylor. He’s the business manager at the Howard Marks Gallery. I know he’s plastered, but I also think he’s having some kind of emotional crisis that may have prompted it. I want to talk to him once he’s sober enough to make sense. How ’bout I rent the bed, and when he wakes you give me a call?”
“Is he homeless?”
“No, not in the sense you mean. He’s not on the street.”
“Okay, fifty bucks.”
“Done.”
Vincent went home, although in his mind it still felt like going to Nancy’s. It was a very comfortable house, and after a few minutes of adjustment, he started to relax, digging out a beer and sitting outside to stare up at the sky. There were few lights in the neighborhood, which allowed for a decent view of the stars. It wasn’t long before Nancy came out with a glass of milk and joined him. Vincent had never been good at expressing his feelings, but he thought he should try.
“I’ve been thinking about how lucky I am to have found you.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing—how lucky you are to have found me.” She giggled.
“I guess you know that wasn’t funny.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“The guy at the art gallery was Trent Taylor, the business manager. Drunk as a skunk. Kind of out of his mind, saying stuff about his mother. I took him to Butch’s place, and rented a cot for him there. I have no idea what the guy was talking about, but he was in bad shape.”
“A lot of troubled people associated with that gallery. Do you think they made each other crazy, or are crazy people attracted to one another?” Nancy was lying on her back now, cushioned by the soft grass, watching the sky.
“Not sure in this case, but most of the people involved are just a wee bit odd. Maybe it’s inherent in a creative business. Back in my drinking days, during one of my moments of clarity, I realized most of my drinking buddies were normal. They were accountants, lawyers, salesmen, and they had wives and kids, and maybe a dog—normal, but hating it. They despised being nothing more than normal. They wanted to be special, unusual, gifted, great, super—anything but normal. By definition, most people are normal, but I think most of us don’t think of ourselves that way. We pretend we’re something special, even if we’re not. The drunks were the people who’d figured out the truth—they weren’t special. And it haunted them.”
“That’s pretty deep, Vincent. Have you taken up drinking again?”
“Hey, I was a deep thinker way before the booze.” He frowned. “I think a lot of murders are committed by those same people, the ones who wanted to be special but are confronted by the fact that they’re nothing but normal. It drives them nuts.”
/>
“Did you know that Uncle Butch is a genius?”
“Santa Claus is a genius?”
“Yep. He graduated from MIT at the age of eighteen. Certified genius—very, very special. He met a woman and fell madly in love. She left him for the star quarterback on the football team. The certified genius who knew everything spent the next twenty years drinking himself into a stupor every night, trying to forget the woman he lost. And he’s still not over it. I don’t know about special, or genius, or normal, but I do know most people live through grief. That’s when you start to really know yourself. In the middle of my uncle’s amazing grief, he decided he needed to help other people. He still got drunk, sometimes, but he committed his life to helping others rather than being a genius. Does that make him stupid?”
“Not sure about stupid. It does make him someone you can trust.”
“I love you more every day.”
Had a four-alarm alert in my head today. I’m too happy, there’s too much going right—watch your back! If there’s a fork coming up in the road ahead, I sure as hell hope I pick the right path.
Vincent looked at his vibrating phone. At six am? He answered it, quietly, so as not to awaken Nancy.
“Hey, Vincent,” Butch said. “Our guest took off sometime during the night. I got here early this morning, but he was already gone. No tip, no five-star rating, nothing. Sorry.”
Santa Claus really did get to work early.
“Wow. The condition he was in, I expected him to sleep ‘til noon. Anyway, not your fault, Butch. How about we go ahead with that plan we talked about yesterday? Put word out that I’ll pay for info about any unusual activity at the Cathedral Park the night of the murder, okay?”
“Sure, I’ll take care of it. See ya.”
Vincent disconnected, then glanced over at Nancy, who was still asleep, with a sense of real belonging. He got up to fix coffee and retrieved the Santa Fe and Albuquerque papers from the front porch. He knew that fewer and fewer people were reading actual newspapers these days, but it was one of his great pleasures to enjoy a cup of coffee while flipping through real newsprint, taking in the news of the day—an old-fogey habit.
“Good morning.” Nancy said, coming into the kitchen.
“Morning.”
“Thanks for making coffee. I love my coffee in the morning, but I hate making it.”
“So, that’s why you shanghaied me—my coffee-making skills.”
“Actually, I didn’t know about that skill.” Nancy leaned over and gave him a playfully passionate kiss, out of sync with the early morning sunlight. “Your coffee-making is just a bonus.”
If Vincent had been a young girl, he would have giggled—he almost did, anyway. For some time, they sat in silent bliss, drank coffee, and read the papers.
“Think I’ll make a quick trip down to Las Cruces. My drunk buddy slipped out of the clinic sometime during the night, and I think he might be headed there. If not, well—I want to meet his mother, anyway. Should be back, late afternoon at the latest.” Vincent looked up and saw Nancy smiling. “Are you smiling because I’m going to be gone today?”
“Nope, I’m smiling because you’re coming back today.”
“How about a date tonight at one of those famous Santa Fe restaurants you can’t get into at the last minute without a reservation, unless you call and sweet-talk them?”
“Done.”
Vincent took a quick shower and was on the road early. He had a nagging feeling he should visit Taylor’s mother, and he’d learned a long time ago to trust those feelings. The drive to Las Cruces took about four hours, and was not very scenic. Considering the number of miles involved, it amazed him how few towns he passed. After a long stretch of almost nothing after Truth or Consequences, he came to Las Cruces. He knew his exit was University Drive, and the gallery was only a short distance from I-25.
As he exited, he could see the campus and football stadium of New Mexico State University, a big school in a small town. He’d always liked that combination, ever since his OU and Norman days. He felt a pang of nostalgia as he drove by the large campus. Not far down University Drive, he spotted the Taylor Gallery. It was in a small strip center, mostly housing local mom-and-pop businesses. He pulled into a parking spot in front of the gallery.
If it hadn’t been for a small sign on a string saying the place was open, he never would have guessed. Of course, it might actually be closed—someone could have forgotten to change the sign. He tried the door, and it opened, so he went in.
The paintings on display were all very similar. The majority were landscapes, with lots and lots of flowers, mostly mountain scenes with large trees. Even without looking closely, he could tell that they’d all been painted by the same artist. Vincent was no expert, but to him the paintings had a period feel, like they’d been painted a hundred years ago. They weren’t bad or anything—just not very relevant.
“Oh, hello. I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you with something?”
Vincent could immediately see the woman wasn’t all there. Maybe that wasn’t the kindest way of putting it, but something about her voice and the look in her eyes suggested he was dealing with someone who had mental health issues. She spoke without stopping what she was doing, dusting the paintings with a bright yellow feather duster. The task seemed to occupy her attention more than Vincent did.
“Would you by any chance be Gloria Taylor?”
“Of course. Who else would I be?”
Vincent liked her logic. “I know your son, Trent, and I was passing through Las Cruces, and thought I’d stop and see if he happened to be here today.” Vincent realized he’d begun automatically to speak a little slower than usual.
“A friend of Trent’s. Isn’t that wonderful! Where is Trent?”
“Uh, I’m not sure where he is just now. I was looking for him. Have you heard from him lately?”
“No, it’s been a few weeks since he was here. He’s very busy. He runs a large art gallery in Santa Fe—they sell a lot of my paintings. Maybe you’ve been there? My daughter’s usually here, and she’s better at answering these kinds of questions than I am.”
“Oh, I didn’t know Trent had a sister. That’s great. Does she live here in Las Cruces?”
“Who the hell are you?” came a loud, angry voice. A large woman was standing in the door, staring at him. Vincent was a big guy, but she had to be about his equal, not only in size, but in disposition, too. “I asked you a goddamned question, mister—who the hell are you?”
“My name is Vincent Malone. I’m a private investigator working for an Albuquerque law firm. I’m looking for Trent Taylor.”
“He’s not here. She hasn’t seen him in months. My mother gets things mixed up. I haven’t seen the bastard in a real long time.” The obviously angry, giant woman moved her hand toward her purse, and Vincent had the impression that there was a gun inside—and that she wouldn’t hesitate to use it. “I think it’d be best if you left.”
“Sure, not trying to upset anyone. Just doing my job. Are you Trent’s sister?”
She glared at him. “Half-sister. Now get out, before I hurt you.”
Some threats are hollow, but not this one. Vincent left. Now what? He had no contacts in Las Cruces. He didn’t think it would be wise to try to contact Gloria Taylor again today, what with her ogre daughter on duty. He had no desire to shoot the monster woman, and sure as hell didn’t want her to shoot him.
When in doubt, find a bar.
He headed away from the college neighborhood because bartenders around there would only know about sports and hookups, the two main matters of interest to college students. Passing into a less upscale part of town, he spotted his favorite source of information—a dive.
The Hill Top Bar & Grill was a living stereotype. It was the biker bar you saw in movies, although the real thing could be hard to find. Most bars, he thought as he approached it, couldn’t survive solely by serving the kind of person who would frequent a bar that looked
like shit both inside and out, but this place seemed to be an exception. There was a busy lunch crowd, judging by the number of parked vehicles. And it wouldn’t surprise Vincent to find out they made the best burgers in a hundred miles, and were visited around noon by business people who would never have ventured there at night. He entered, and bingo—suits everywhere.
He settled onto a barstool and ordered a Tecate, then went with his normal routine for these situations, laying a twenty down on the bar and following it with a question. The bartender gave him a blank look and went to another customer. Mr. Blank turned out to be a practiced conveyor of information and a driver of a hard bargain—it took a hundred bucks to pry loose anything useful.
The sister’s name was Joyce McGregor. It was rumored that she was the masked wrestler from El Paso known as “Bad Ass Mama,” who had a string of victories over women and a few brave men. The bartender provided the totally unnecessary advice that she should be avoided at all costs. Her father was some kind of famous artist from Spain who had moved to Las Cruces to teach at New Mexico State. Her mother, Gloria, was much younger than the old artist. She had been his student, and left her husband and son to move in with the old man. For reasons the bartender didn’t know, the artist ultimately killed himself—shot himself in the head. Joyce was born just before that, but the bartender didn’t know whether that had anything to do with his suicide. Taylor’s mother seemed to lose her mind after that.
Vincent asked how she’d opened a gallery if she was so out of touch.
“She didn’t open it. It was her son from her first marriage that did that. Opened the gallery and let her show her paintings. But there’s lots of bad blood between the siblings. Joyce almost killed him once with a baseball bat. She went to prison for five years for that. This is one seriously fucked-up family, man. Not sure what your interest is, but I’d avoid the whole lot of them like the plague, if I were you.”
Vincent tipped him an extra twenty—you have to respect talent when you find it. He got a burger to go and headed back to Santa Fe with some answers, but more questions. The return drive was, through some mystery of physics, longer than the drive down. He was actually a little shocked when he finally reached the Santa Fe city limits.
