Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring

  “I’ve been so damn busy I can’t keep up. I’m going to resign from the board. This is my last year. I love ballooning, but I’ve served my time. You know we built the fiesta up from nothing. Time for young blood to come on board. And this year, well, you know, it’s been tough. Really tough. A lot of people don’t realize how important we are to the economy of the city. Hey, after the summer tourists and the state fair, we’re it. Twenty to twenty-five million a year into the city economy. And we’re growing. We’re growing.” He paused. “Hey, I’ve got to slow down. By the way, how’s your mom?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Good, good. And you—oh, you really pulled a neat one today. Have you listened to the news?”

  Sonny shook his head.

  “The modest hero.” Stammer smiled and leaned over the desk, a very satisfied expression on his face. “If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have given the order to fly.”

  Sonny shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for people going up as long as Raven was free. “I didn’t—” he began.

  But Stammer allowed no response; he continued. “Yes, you. The minute you landed I was on the phone to the board. They were all cheering you. We believe that if you went up and came down safely, so can our pilots.”

  Sonny groaned. It wasn’t what he had wanted at all. He stood, placed his hands on the desk, and stared at Stammer.

  “I was almost killed! It’s not safe to fly! Not yet. Not while Raven is still free.”

  Stammer jumped up and began to pace. “I know about the kidnapping, and I wish to hell I could do something about it. But I can’t. We have to fly. Don’t you understand?”

  Sonny closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “I knew you would. Look, I’ve been on the phone to the mayor. She assures me the police are putting every man they have into the search. They’re going to find this lunatic, and your friend, ah …”

  “Rita.”

  “Yes, Rita. She’s going to be safe. So’s the little girl. I have that assurance from the mayor herself.”

  So the man was trying to be helpful, but he didn’t know what they were up against. For that matter, neither did Garcia or the mayor.

  “You know about the dope deal?”

  “Yes,” Stammer said, walking back to his chair. “Madge told me everything. Told me what she knows.”

  Stammer’s expression changed; he grew calmer. “Ah, I see. You suspect her. Because—” He shook his head. “Because of her past. You’re wrong, Sonny, believe me, you’re wrong. She left that life behind her, and she’s led an exemplary one while she’s been with us. The board trusts her implicitly. Whatever the so-called dope deal is all about, it has nothing to do with Madge or the fiesta.”

  “How can you be sure?” Sonny asked.

  Stammer frowned. “Because I know Madge. And as you know, we have our own internal security. Aside from the guards you see on the field, we have undercover men in the crowd. Granted, somebody could bring in a little grass, but we have dogs that would sniff out even that. A shipment of dope, the kind you’re talking about? Impossible! There’s no place to hide it.”

  “Yeah,” Sonny said.

  “I think you should know,” Stammer continued, “when I called Madge this morning, her first response was to take care of you. She remembers you’re going to use your fee to help a homeless family.”

  Sonny nodded.

  “Wonderful, simply a fine gesture. The board has voted to help you in your effort, Sonny. So you didn’t catch Raven. Whatever his game, dope or whatever, at least now we know it wasn’t the fiesta he was after. Anyway, I hope the cops find him and hang him.”

  He stopped pacing and stood in front of Sonny. “I want to thank you. On behalf of the board, but also for myself. I’ve been hasty, but God, the stress has been there. Part of it’s personal, and I shouldn’t let it affect my work for the fiesta. I do want it to succeed.”

  He paused, returned to the desk. “We’ll send you a check. Believe me, the board wants to help.”

  “Thanks” was all Sonny could say.

  He felt empty, exhausted. He hadn’t come up with anything new, and the hopelessness of the situation gnawed at him. Stammer trusted Madge, they had a tight handle on security, and finally there really wasn’t anyplace to hide the drugs if they were brought to the balloon fiesta field. If?

  He reached for his chest, where he had grown accustomed to touching the medallion, but it was gone. Was his power fading?

  “Thank you for coming. My door is always open,” Stammer said. “Believe me, we’re going to make a go of it.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Sonny started for the door.

  “Anything I can do,” Stammer called after him, “just call.”

  Sonny got in his truck and drove into the valley. There’s got to be a leak somewhere, he kept thinking. An answer. Someone out there in the city knows what’s coming down, knows the connection. In the night, in the streets, in the small cantinas of North Fourth and the South Valley and along Central, wherever the denizens of the night congregated, there would be rumors, maybe an answer.

  It was time to go from bar to bar and hope that somewhere someone would let slip the clue he sought.

  He drove to the Fiesta Lounge, but the place was dead, then on to the Fourth Street Cantina, where he ordered a beer. It warmed him, relaxed the tension that was knotted in his muscles. It would take many more to ease the loss he felt in his heart.

  Maybe Raven had beaten him. He hadn’t recognized Raven’s real powers, this ability to travel as a raven, a spirit raven.

  And he had taken Rita for granted. Over the past two years, she had become part of him, not only his lover, but someone more important. With her gone, he felt empty.

  Was it his destiny to lose those he loved? Fate had beaten him before. His father died, a man in his fifties, still young, and there wasn’t a damn thing Sonny could do. Gloria had been brutally murdered, and only Veronica had paid for it. Others close to him had died. The image of his childhood friends rose before him.

  “Bolsas?” He whispered the name. Lord, he hadn’t thought of Bolsas in a month of Sundays. Still, it was the image of his boyhood friend that now appeared in the mirror over the bar.

  Bolsas and Ray. As kids they were compas, friends for life. They had tattooed the wicked cross of the pachuco on their hands, right between the thumb and the forefinger. Imitating the way of some of the old pachucos of the valley.

  Sonny looked at his hand for the India ink cross on his brown skin. His never took. A few faded dots were all that remained of the boyhood experiment.

  Ah, but there were a lot of good times growing up. School, the river in summer, baseball afternoons, football, their first dance in the eighth grade—then the roar of the pistol erasing everything good.

  A dark room. They had taken the pistol into the dark room and put one bullet in it. It was Bolsas’s idea. He was always pulling something crazy. But Sonny and Ray were as much to blame: they had gone along with him.

  Bolsas—snot-faced, bucktoothed, troublemaking Bolsas, who always had his pockets full of nuts and bolts, a pair of pliers, a slingshot, popsicle sticks, Mexican coins, a rabbit’s foot, pictures of the bunnies he cut from the Playboy magazines, and a million other things he carried in his bulging pockets. Crazy Bolsas had dared them.

  The explosion of the pistol had made them jump. Somehow they hadn’t expected it to really go off. Neither had Bolsas. Sonny remembered Bolsas’s startled eyes as he jerked back, the splash of blood spraying out the back of his head.

  Russian roulette. They had dared each other to play Russian roulette.

  What pistol had they used? Sonny had blocked that out, but it must have been his father’s pistol. Elfego Baca’s old, trusty Colt .45, the same pistol Sonny carried in his truck. Is that why he couldn’t fire the pistol?

  Had they sneaked into his parents’ bedroom and played with the pistol there? Had Bolsas been sitting on his mother’s bed, splatte
ring the bed with blood? He couldn’t remember. There were parts of the incident he had blocked out, forgotten forever.

  Bad memories, Sonny thought. He paid for his drink and left the bar. One drink was enough; he didn’t want to drive drunk. He headed toward Central. There were a few bars along the strip that served lines in the back rooms, lines for special customers.

  Special. “You’re special,” don Eliseo had told him.

  How was he special? “You haven’t told Mr. Baca about us brujos,” Raven had told Lorenza.

  Me, a brujo? Sonny thought. What does it mean? A brujo is a witch. No, a brujo is also a shaman, a man who can fly. A searcher after souls.

  “There are many ways to enter the spirit world,” don Eliseo had said. “Some people pray and fast, others meditate, some go in search of a vision, others use dreams. Some can just will it. Like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Some enter the consciousness of someone they know, and they travel to the spirit world, for healing. Lorenza will teach you to use your guardian spirit. Raven is an evil brujo who uses the power of his nagual to gain control over others. He uses the spirit of the raven. But he misuses his power.”

  Ah, he hadn’t listened closely to the old man. Thought the old man’s ramblings were just old stories, old memories. Yes, the old man had at various times told him of the power of brujos, the evil ones and the good shamans. Don Eliseo spoke of the journey to the world of spirits, the preparation.

  “What can I do?” Sonny had asked, and don Eliseo’s answer came back: “Use the power in you, the power of your soul, whose essence is connected to the world. The guardian spirit resides in you, the power to move into the world of spirits resides in you.”

  Exactly what Lorenza had said.

  Sonny shook his head and spit out the window. Enough of these crazy thoughts. Manuel Lopez would say “Go for the facts.” Stay on the trail like a bloodhound, not a coyote. Coyotes are playful, they’re tricksters, they’re too easily distracted. The world of spirits is for philosophers like don Eliseo, not for a detective on the trail.

  But wasn’t Raven a trickster, one who loved games? Faces appeared in the swirling darkness of the bars he entered, old friends who had heard of the landing on the West Mesa, who knew Rita was missing. They offered to help, but they didn’t know Raven or his gang. No one involved in the dope deal was dropping in for a drink and company. They wished Sonny good luck and moved on.

  The swirl of dancers, strobe lights, smoke, and Tex-Mex music drowned the whispered words. People drank, danced, and had a good time while inside Sonny grew more frustrated, more depressed.

  Sure the vatos locos knew about the shipment, all the old veteranos knew, and they also sensed it was not the usual thing. It was big, and it was dangerous. Best keep quiet and keep away. Something like this came around only once in a long while.

  Finally at the Puro Pedo Bar on Coors, one old veterano from the fifties, a vato Sonny had helped get on a methadone program, whispered the clue.

  “You want to know the score on drogas? Pues, go to Turco, ese. Check out Turco. Ese vato sabe todo. Te das cuenta?”

  “Turco? He’s still alive?” The Juárez cartel had been looking for Turco since he ran off with their money in June.

  “Simón, ese. Turco knows. Pues, he’s the Juárez connection.”

  Yeah, por qué no? Sonny thought, and flipped some bills on the bar. Turco must have cut himself a sweet, if dangerous, deal to work off his debt.

  “Gracias,” he told his old friend, and hurried out.

  The night had turned dark and cold. A wind blew in from the west, the streets of the city emptied, and only a car or two occupied the parking lots around cafes and bars.

  Turco Dominguez was the head honcho of the South Valley drug trade. But working with Juárez would be a big step up. And Turco was his cousin. A cousin he hated to the core for what he had done to Gloria, but a cousin nevertheless.

  Yeah, it was time to pay Turco a visit. Time to check out his hangout in the South Valley.

  21

  It was after midnight when Sonny entered the Aquí Me Quedo Bar.

  Two flashily dressed Juárez mafiosos sat at a table near the bar. Near the jukebox stood three brightly dressed Mexicanas, ladies of the Juárez men. They were arguing over which song to play. Otherwise the place was dead.

  Three women, two men. “Turco’s here,” Sonny whispered, and sat at the bar. The mafiosos glanced at him, returned to their quiet conversation.

  “Hey compa,” Sonny greeted the bartender. “What are you running? A funeral home? Gimme a Bud.”

  “Sonny, haven’t seen you in a long time,” the bartender said, sliding a beer across the bar.

  Sonny peered at the man. He knew him. From where?

  “Manny Arroyo. Mama Lucy’s boy. I used to be in politics.”

  “Órale!” Sonny said, and extended his hand. The guy represented the South Valley till the governor put him on his hit list.

  “How’s business?” Sonny asked.

  “Slow. I heard about Rita,” Manny said. “Sorry.”

  Sonny shrugged. “So what’s coming down?”

  “Nada,” Manny replied. He knew Sonny was referring to the three men. “I keep my nose clean.”

  “Give me a shot of whiskey,” Sonny said, dug into his shirt pocket, and tossed a ten on the bar.

  He looked at the three women at the jukebox. Two of them were Freddie Fender groupies, ragged at the edges, but the third was a beauty, a Pedro Infante type. She had to be Turco’s woman. He thought he recognized her from his last run-in with his cousin. This was Turco territory, and the two men from Juárez were not at the Aquí Me Quedo to party. They were waiting. Waiting meant a deal was coming down.

  “I feel like dancing!” Sonny said loudly. It was time to make trouble, time to rouse Turco.

  The women turned to look at him.

  “Esas jainas,” he shouted at the three women by the jukebox. “Vamos a bailar!”

  “Órale!” Turco’s woman shouted back aggressively. “Why not?” Maybe the young, handsome vato was crazy. He had to know they were with their men. Or he had a lot of huevos, and they admired that.

  The two men at the table turned and glared at Sonny but made no move.

  Manny served Sonny’s drink and placed his hand on his arm. “Take it easy, Sonny. I want no trouble.”

  “Hey, I’m here to have a good time.” Sonny smiled and tossed down his drink. He looked at the two men. “Dónde está Turco?”

  They didn’t answer, but the menacing look in their dark eyes told him he was pushing his luck.

  The women at the jukebox grew quiet. The young man who asked for Turco was looking for a fight, and he didn’t have the brains to know their men were armed. He had just signed his death warrant.

  One of the two men stood. “Qué quieres con Turco?” He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket.

  But he didn’t come at Sonny. They didn’t want a fight, because then the bartender would have to call the cops, and just then, they didn’t want the cops. The man was giving him a chance to back down. If Sonny said no, he wasn’t looking for trouble, and turned away he could just leave quietly. All was cool.

  “Solamente para saludarlo,” Sonny answered.

  “Quién lo busca?” the man asked, his voice cold.

  “Su primo,” Sonny answered. He hated to call Turco his cousin, but so it was.

  The bartender groaned. There was going to be a fight. He had gone a week without a fight, a near record.

  The deadly silence was broken by the creaking bathroom door. It opened and out stepped a heavyset man who weighed over two hundred pounds: dark, pockmarked Turco Dominguez. He stood resplendent in a dark violet suit. Diamonds glittered from his fingers as he slicked his hair back. His sensuous nostrils seemed to sniff the air as he looked at Sonny.

  “Hey primo.” Sonny smiled, stepping forward. “How you been?”

  “Qué chingaos quieres, Sonny?” Turco replied, glancing nervously
at the two men at the table. He was in no mood to greet Sonny or anyone else for that matter. The two men with him weren’t his South Valley boys, but Juárez mafia, men sent to make sure whatever deal they were working went right.

  “Is that any way to treat a primo?” Sonny asked, smiling. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “I got no time.” Turco scowled, glanced at his woman, and went to sit down.

  “No time for familia? ’Stá, bien,” Sonny said, following him to the table. “But you know my lady’s missing.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with me,” Turco replied.

  “I hope not, ese, because if it does—” Sonny leaned over the table, his gaze boring into Turco.

  “Qué dices?” Turco asked, anger flashing across his dark face. Had he heard right? The puto was threatening him.

  “You heard,” Sonny said softly, the muscles on his face tensing.

  “Don’t threaten me,” Turco hissed, his eyes as intense as a jungle cat about to charge, his neck bulging.

  Sonny pulled back. Turco had to be armed, and he had two pistoleros with him. A fight wasn’t going to get him information. He needed to know what Turco knew about Rita.

  “Hey primo, easy. I’m hurting. You know—”

  Turco shrugged. “I told you, that has nothing to do with me.”

  “Anda, let me buy you a drink.” Sonny smiled. “Cantinero! Drinks for all my friends.” He bowed to the women at the jukebox, and they returned the compliment with smiles. Turco’s woman, the one in the red satin dress, had come to stand by Turco.

  “I remember you,” she said in halting English.

  “Morenita, I would never forget you,” Sonny replied.

  She laughed. “I like your primo,” she said to Turco. “He is muy guapo y muy valiente.”

  “Siéntate!” Turco snarled, and pushed her toward a chair. “I don’t have time for a drink,” he said to Sonny. “I’m with friends. So push off, Sonny.”

  “You don’t have time for familia?” Sonny said, acting incredulous. “Okay. Maybe you have time to arm-wrestle,” he said, slipped off his jacket, and began to roll up his sleeve, challenging Turco.