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

  “No,” Turco answered angrily.

  “Come on, prim’, I’ll arm-wrestle you for a drink.” Sonny egged him on.

  Turco’s chest was as round as a barrel, and although his touch was soft and damp, his arms were thick. He was unbeatable in the South Valley. And he could never resist a challenge.

  “’Stás loco?” He tried to dismiss Sonny.

  “No, come on, I’ll arm-wrestle you. Loser buys drinks,” Sonny said, rolling up his sleeve.

  “Shit,” Turco cursed.

  He looked at the two men. Anda, their expressions said, put down this puto primo of yours so we can get on with our business. Now he couldn’t back down.

  “Órale.” He nodded, slipped his jacket off, and handed it to his lady.

  “Cuidado.” She smiled, her white, even teeth a row of pearls behind her dark lips. “He looks muy fuerte.”

  Sonny smiled at her. It was time to rile Turco. “Hey morenita, maybe the winner can take you home.”

  “Hey! You don’t mess with my woman!” Turco responded, and with a sweep of his arm he cleared the table, sending bottles and glasses flying. Now he was angry. His lady had been insulted, or at least made part of the deal by Sonny. Machismo dictated that he stand up and fight.

  Turco tore the gold cufflink off his shirt and began to roll up his sleeve. “Te voy a quebrar el brazo,” he said to Sonny. Yeah, to rescue his honor he was going to break Sonny’s arm.

  The two men nodded approvingly. Turco’s woman smiled. “Ay que macho,” she crooned.

  “Cállate!” Turco shouted. He flexed his right arm. The fat rippled to life.

  Lord, Sonny thought, turning Turco’s arm would be like trying to roll over a tank.

  “Hey, Manny,” he yelled at the bartender, “call the paramedics.”

  “Yeah, call them.” Turco grinned and placed his arm on the table. “Sonny boy’s gonna need them.”

  No one laughed.

  Sonny pulled up a chair and sat across from him. The two men drew back.

  “You gonna miss your deal,” Sonny whispered, leaning across the table, looking into Turco’s eyes.

  Turco smiled. “There’s no deal, ese. Just having a good time with the compañeros.”

  Sitting there, Turco was the Olmec Turk, a fat, squat man who was nothing like his sister, Gloria. Nothing like tía Delfina, his mother, a high-spirited, good-hearted woman.

  Turco had none of their class. His eyes held the gleam of coke he had just snorted in the bathroom. For the moment, energy was flowing through his blood.

  “Bullshit,” Sonny replied. “There’s a big deal coming down. You know and I know,” Sonny whispered, resting his arm on the table. Both drew forward and clasped hands.

  “If you know so much, you know it’s not ours,” Turco replied.

  Sonny felt the strain on his arm as Turco’s hand tightened over his and he began to push.

  “Whose?”

  Turco laughed, a hoarse, low laughter of contempt.

  “You’re talking like one of Garcia’s narco putos. Anda, vato, get serious.”

  Sonny tightened his grip, feeling Turco’s soft flesh, but recognizing the strength of the arm, the massive chest that held the power.

  “They’ve got my woman,” Sonny replied, “and I don’t have much time …”

  Sweat popped on Turco’s forehead as he pushed. His voice grew strained as they locked hands and slowly tested each other’s strength. Sonny felt his muscles come alive, felt his arm tense and bulge as he held against Turco’s weight.

  “It’s not our deal—”

  “Who?”

  “Big men, big money,” Turco replied, his breathing heavy.

  “Gilroy?”

  They strained against each other, the energy of the two men vibrating as they locked in battle, muscles flexed to the breaking point.

  Sweat broke on Sonny’s forehead, his jaw tightened as he strained to hold back Turco’s massive weight and strength. Every tendon, every muscle swelled, making his arm, neck, and shoulders tremble with effort.

  “Anda, honey,” Turco’s woman encouraged him, massaging his shoulders.

  Turco grinned. He strained, breathing hard, slowly beginning to push Sonny’s arm down toward the tabletop.

  Turco was thick and heavy but Sonny was muscular. He held against Turco and slowly lifted his arm upright, held it in that precarious position a second, then slowly began to put the pressure on Turco.

  “What about Gilroy?” Sonny asked through clenched teeth.

  His anger and need to get to Rita was his advantage, and Turco’s flush of coke was gone. His stamina was failing, the kill had not been quick. But Sonny would let him win if he divulged names, and in front of the men from Juárez, he had to win.

  “Tell me and you can break my arm,” Sonny whispered.

  “No sé!” Turco cursed, drenched in sweat, his arm beginning to spasm.

  “Who deals with Gilroy?”

  “No sé.” Turco grimaced.

  “Tell me, cabrón!” Sonny cursed through gritted teeth, and Turco knew he had lost the advantage.

  Turco groaned, his strength sapped. His tobacco-stained lungs didn’t have the air. With one final wrench Sonny slammed Turco’s arm against the table. The big man cried out as his shoulder popped.

  “Hijo de la chingada!” he cursed in pain.

  A switchblade snapped open and Sonny jumped up to face Turco’s companions.

  Turco groaned, pushed his chair away and stood. “Mátenlo!” he shouted.

  The Mexicanos circled Sonny slowly holding the knives low, making Sonny back up against the bar. He grabbed a beer bottle from the bar and waited for them to make the move. He could take one down, but the second one was going to cut him. It was only a matter of how bad, he thought.

  Just then the door swung open with a bang, and all turned to see Diego. In his hand he held Sonny’s Colt .45.

  “Órale,” Diego said, like he was surprised he had run into a fight. His voice soft, so as not to make anyone overreact. He aimed the pistol. “Mucho cuidao con las filas,” he warned the men holding the knives.

  “Quién eres?” Turco asked and peered at Diego.

  “Un compa,” Diego answered, moving slowly toward Turco, holding the pistol so the two men could see it until he was beside Turco and held the pistol to his head.

  “Tiren las filas,” he said. Turco nodded, and the two dropped their knives on the floor.

  Sonny leaped forward and grabbed Turco by the lapels. “Where do I find Rita?”

  “I told you,” Turco groaned, reaching for his aching shoulder with his good arm. “It’s not our deal!”

  “Tell me where she is!” Sonny shouted, his anger rising like a dark night crashing down on him. He was tired of playing games. Time was against him finding Rita and the girl. “You know Gilroy! He’s behind Raven, and he’s got Rita!”

  “Sí,” Turco cried, struggling to pull back, trying to relieve the pain in the arm. “Ask his woman,” he cried.

  “Who?”

  “The big shot who runs the balloons, pendejo!” Turco snarled, wrenching free from Sonny’s hold.

  “Madge,” Sonny whispered. What the hell did Turco mean? Madge and Gilroy? So that was the link.

  Turco laughed. “Yeah, it’s la blonde you work for! She belongs to Gilroy! Always a woman, qué no?” he said, looking at his own woman standing beside him.

  He spit on the floor. “You come here acting so big, vato, and you’re looking in the wrong place! They played you for a pendejo. You’re out looking for Gilroy and the balloon lady delivered the drogas under your nose.” He turned to his men and said, “Vamos.”

  “Hasta pronto,” one of the men threatened as he walked past Diego. We’ll even the score some other time, his look said.

  The door slammed shut and the bar fell silent. Sonny glanced at the bartender, who shook his head, wiped sweat from his forehead, and poured himself a drink. “Chingao,” he mumbled. Tonight they were lucky:
no blood on the floor. He would close up, go home to a quiet sleep, and thank the saints.

  Sonny turned to Diego. “Gracias, compa.”

  “De nada.” Diego smiled. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “I found Gilroy,” Diego said.

  “Where?”

  “I was checking the Central bars, and I dropped into the El Rey. I met an old friend, Chanclas. Maybe you know him. He’s in computers.”

  Sonny nodded. Joe Chávez came from a poor family in the valley. The soles of his shoes were always loose and flapping, so the kids called him Chanclas. He joined the army, learned computers, came back and set up a store, and made a fortune. Money went through his hands like sand; he liked gambling at the new Indian casinos. Gambling became his obsession, so his old lady split. End of his millions. Now he had a small business, customized computers. Sonny sometimes ran into him at Epi’s, drinking beer with the compas.

  “Chanclas was talking about this house he had wired in the Milagro Country Club. The man bought the best and fastest—enough, Chanclas figured, to communicate with the most sophisticated systems in the world. Yesterday the guy moved out and left Chanclas holding the bag. The man is John Gilroy.”

  “Chanclas told you?”

  “Yeah. And there’s more. Gilroy moved into the Pyramid Hotel. I couldn’t get hold of you, so I took a bus up to the Pyramid. I was just stepping off the bus when the balloon fiesta lady drives up in her Vette.”

  “Madge?”

  Diego nodded. “I followed her in, and in the bar she meets—”

  “Gilroy.”

  “Right.”

  “Ah,” Sonny thought, so Turco was right!

  “They had a drink, and I can tell she’s madder than hell. So they leave the bar and go up in the elevator. I watch for the floor, then I go up the stairs, walk down the hall until I hear them shouting. Really mad. It sounded like a double cross. She’s telling him to get the hell out of the city. Warning him. He shouted back that it’s none of her business. ‘I don’t want you near the field!’ she said. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it,’ he answered. And then a security guard came down the hall and I had to get out. That’s all I heard. I called Peter. He and Peewee are outside now.”

  “You did great,” Sonny said, putting his arm around Diego’s shoulder, and they walked outside. “I owe you. How’d you find me?”

  “Hey bro, I told you I know the streets. I couldn’t just sit and do nothing, so I hit a couple of bars. Pues, you left a trail a mile wide.”

  Sonny smiled. Thank the santos; thank the coyote spirit.

  Diego handed Sonny his pistol. “When I drove up, I spotted your truck and the Cadillac. Turco’s the only man in the South Valley who drives a purple Caddy with gold trim. Bad news, I thought. I knew you carried the pistol in your truck. Is it loaded?”

  “No,” Sonny replied.

  Diego grimaced. He had picked up the pistol in a hurry and hadn’t even bothered to check it. He had faced Turco’s bodyguards with an empty pistol!

  “Chingao,” he said, and they laughed. “Load it,” Diego warned him. “These people are playing for big stakes, and it’s nearly payoff time.”

  “Yeah,” Sonny agreed. “I will.”

  The glass-littered parking lot was deserted; the cold wind had stopped blowing but the air was still chilly.

  According to weatherman Morgan, tomorrow would be bright and clear. Perfect ballooning weather. The UPS van and the balloons would connect somewhere, the illegal parcels would be dropped to the chase crew trucks, then those trucks would head out of town. East, west, and not a state cop in the world would stop to check trucks carrying balloons out of Alburquerque. The red-blooded American boys would be going home from the big Alburquerque fiesta. Families enjoying one of the hottest sports in the country. The cops would wave them through while Gilroy and Madge sat somewhere in the city dividing the money and laughing their heads off.

  “Thanks,” Sonny said. “Right now you better get some sleep.”

  “And you?” Diego asked.

  “I’m going to pay Madge Swenson a visit. And what room was Gilroy in?”

  Diego reached for a crumpled note in his jacket pocket and handed it to Sonny. “I marked it here. Be careful.”

  Sonny nodded. He watched Diego drive away in the borrowed TV 7 van. Then he started his truck and headed for the West Mesa. On the way he dialed his answering machine at home.

  Messages from a salesman selling aluminum siding, and his mother saying she was well and asking if there was any word on Rita.

  At the end of the tape, Howard: “I lost her, Sonny. Damn! I lost her! She opened up the Vette on the freeway and she was gone! She knew she was being tailed!” There was a pause, then: “Sorry. I’ll head home. Call me.”

  So Madge knew all along she was being followed, Sonny thought. She hired me, made it look like a big investigation was going on. She hooked me up with the helicopter and sent me and Lorenza right into Raven’s nest. She made her own deal with Gilroy. Had the deal gone sour? And where in the hell was Raven?

  Madge Swenson lived in a condo in La Luz on the West Mesa. La Luz was one of the first new Pueblo-style compounds in the city. The townhouses snuggled against the slope of the mesa near the river bosque—adobe-style living for those who wanted to get away from the hustle of the city.

  But the West Mesa, too, was filling up. From the Río Grande to the Río Puerco, the developers were building hundreds of tract homes on the sand hills. The West Mesa was already looking like the Heights, full of traffic jams and shopping centers. The peace and quiet were gone, and if Frank Dominic had his way, even the river bosque would teem with hotels and gambling casinos. The natural landscape that made the city and the river valley distinctive would be gone.

  He turned into La Luz and parked against a row of Russian olive trees. The West Mesa was quiet, asleep. The moonlight wove magical shadows into the dark blue of early morning. Near the river a pack of coyotes cried. From Suzy Poole’s rambling adobe estate a dog answered, then all was quiet again.

  Sonny ran to the wall of the compound and pressed himself against it. He had been to a party at Madge’s condo when he had worked for the balloon fiesta. He knew there was a security guard on the grounds, so he had limited time before his truck was spotted.

  He located Madge’s patio, leaped the wall, and crouched against it. There was a light on in the upstairs window. Her bedroom? Was it possible Gilroy was here? When Diego returned the pistol, Sonny had slipped it back into the holster and put it in the glove compartment. Now he wished he had kept it. It was too late to return for it. He didn’t have much time.

  He moved toward the sliding glass door of the patio. It was locked, but when he pushed and lifted, it snapped open. He slipped quickly into the den. Jazz music floated through the house. Gillespie, Sonny guessed. A light shone in the upstairs area. Slowly Sonny made his way up a flight of polished wood steps. The faint light cast shadows on the paintings and rugs on the wall, on the steps.

  The bedroom door was open; the light and music from within flowed softly into the hallway. Sonny waited, listening for sounds he might recognize, but there were none. She was alone. He approached the door and looked in.

  Madge Swenson was sitting up in bed, reading. A lighted cigarette sat on the ashtray of the bed table. Beside that, a bottle of white wine and a half-empty glass. She was engrossed in the book. Her short, blonde hair fell around her cheeks; her breasts rose and fell beneath the silk gown.

  Sonny stood watching her until she felt his presence and looked up. She gasped, reached for the night table, then smiled.

  “Sonny, you scared the shit out of me. Forgot your manners?”

  “I’m in a hurry,” Sonny said, and stepped into the room.

  Madge put the book aside, patted the bed, and asked, “Glass of wine?”

  “You know why I’m here.”

  “To make love, I hope,” she answered, and stood. Her silk gown revealed he
r figure against the light. Her warm breath was tinged with wine. Her blue eyes were also warm—small crystals that reminded Sonny of the blue cat’s-eye marbles he had treasured as a kid.

  “First, why don’t you tell me about you and Gilroy?”

  “Nothing to tell,” she said, a frown crossing her face.

  “Level with me, Madge!” Sonny’s voice rose with anger. “You were in Gilroy’s room at the Pyramid! The man is running the dope! Two plus two is four!”

  “You have no right to insinuate—”

  “Yes, I do!” Sonny shot back. “Remember, I was hired to find the killer! I nearly got fried to a crisp in Juárez by your friend Gilroy! And then nearly frozen or crushed chasing after him and Raven!”

  “Stop!” she shouted, and slapped at him. He grabbed her wrist and held her, felt her trembling rage.

  “You’re running dope and you hired me to take the heat off!” he shouted in her face.

  “I’m not in the deal!” Madge shouted, trying to pull out of Sonny’s grip.

  “Prove it!”

  “I was with Gilroy tonight,” she responded, her eyes brimming with tears as she stopped struggling. “But I swear, I’m not in the deal.”

  “You knew about it!” Sonny insisted.

  Madge nodded, her body went limp. Sonny let go of her hand, and she sat on the edge of the bed. A mixture of anger and arousal swept through Sonny as he looked down at her.

  “Yes, I knew.” She reached with a shaking hand for the glass of wine and took a sip.

  “I don’t have much time,” he said, thinking of Rita and wondering how long Raven would keep her and the girl alive.

  “I didn’t want to see John tonight. Believe me, I didn’t!” She reached out and took Sonny’s hand.

  “He and my ex used to do business. John flew in coke, and everybody was happy. I was using it, too—high like everybody else.” She paused. “Until I woke up and left. I thought I could just walk out, but it wasn’t that easy. Gilroy had his claws in a lot of people, including me. My ex wasn’t completely stupid. He had made me do the buying. Gilroy is not stupid, either. He recorded the buys. Blackmail, Sonny, blackmail. He’s got his claws in me.”

  “So you made one last deal.”

  Madge shook her head. “No! Maybe I should have,” she whispered. “It’s a big shipment. But I said no.”