Garcia cursed. “That’s one arrogant sonofabitch!”
“They know about Gilroy.”
“Of course they know about him! What do you take me for? A pendejo?”
“So why lie?”
“They’re trained to lie! They want to do the bust! Won’t give the local cops any information!” He glared at Sonny. “Why don’t you get the hell out of here!” He was pissed at Flannery and taking it out on Sonny.
“What about Raven?”
“We’ll get Raven,” Garcia muttered. “And we’ll find Rita. Now get a doctor to look at the cut.”
Sonny nodded. Rita. Raven would be out in the open, maybe make more mistakes. But that would also increase the danger for Rita. Raven was still holding the prize.
23
Sonny walked out of the crowded hotel lobby into the mellow, suffused light before sunrise. There was a chill in the air, but no frost. The Sandia Mountains stood outlined against the very soft pearl blue of the east. He looked at his watch. Wednesday. Within the hour the sun would rise, and with it, hundreds of balloons.
He got into his truck and drove to a Presbyterian Hospital emergency room just blocks away. A doctor washed his wound, stitched it, and gave Sonny a prescription for antibiotics. When asked how he got the cut, Sonny answered, “Bar fight.”
“Have your family doctor check this out in a week or so. He can take out the stitches,” the doctor said. “And just to be safe, you might want to get tested for HIV.”
“Sure,” Sonny replied. Family doctor? He didn’t have one. What would he say to one if he did have one? “I’ve got this problem. A man trying to kill me takes the form of a spirit raven. An evil one, not a friendly raven. He kidnapped my woman, and he wants to kill me. My friend the curandera says Raven is now in his circle of power. So he’s invincible. If I go there, I may die. But I have to get Rita back. And for that I need my nagual.”
“Nagual?” the doctor would ask.
“Yes, the coyote, my guardian spirit. You see, the only way I’m finally going to be done with Raven is to fight him on his own terms.”
“Raven?”
“Never mind,” Sonny would say. It’s too much to explain. Science had no world of spirits, and there was no time for doctors. Right now his only concern was Rita. And he was sure Lorenza could help.
He thanked the doctor and hurried to the balloon field. Alameda Boulevard was already choked with traffic. There were cops directing traffic into the parking lots, and at the main entrance sheriff’s deputies on horseback. A sense of excitement rippled through the bracing-cold air as families hurried onto the balloon grounds.
This was mass ascension day, hundreds of balloons rising, a cause for happiness after the damper the murders had thrown over the festivities. Thousands of people were converging on the grounds to enjoy the fiesta, thinking all was safe.
Sonny turned into the main gate. One of the deputies on horseback leaned in his saddle. “Hey, you can’t—” He recognized Sonny. “You still working here?”
“Hope so,” Sonny replied.
The deputy waved him through.
Sonny turned toward Fiesta Control, skirting the long line of tents that lent a carnival atmosphere to the fiesta. Already the tantalizing aroma of morning burritos and brewing coffee filled the air. Later in the morning the hungry fiesta-goers would flock to the tents to eat a variety of food, from pizza to tacos.
Beyond the tent street lay the balloon field, eerie in the predawn light. Row upon row of trucks lined the field. Crews gathered around their balloons, readying for flight. The first rows to the south would take off first, and there crews were already inflating their balloons with portable fans. Filled with hot air, still tethered to the ground, the balloons dotted the landscape like bright desert flowers.
Blossoms of cactus flowers, Sonny thought, some deep purple, some red, some yellow. A field of many colors. The Chinese lanterns that Ben Chávez had once predicted would dot the New Mexican landscape.
Loudspeakers from a radio station announced the beginning of the festivities. Other radio and television stations beamed out the news from their tents: the fiesta was back on schedule. The balloons were flying today. The entire city was awakening with a sense of joy. Today on the way to work, thousands of motorists would once again see the balloons over the skies of Alburquerque.
Sonny thought of Lorenza, and their near-death ride. He remembered what Lorenza told him. Communicate with Rita. Send the coyote thoughts her way, let her answer. A couple of times he thought he had heard her. He could see her in a dark room, almost a cave. He could see two forms huddled on the ground, holding each other. Rita and Cristina. They were still alive; there was still time.
Instead of going directly to Fiesta Control, he parked and wandered out onto the field. Crews and onlookers looked like bundled spirits in their parkas, scarves, and caps. There was no breeze, so the dust of the valley hung close to the ground. The loud blasts of the burners roared in the muffled morning silence as the kachinas of flight waited for the signal from Fiesta Control to rise into the sky.
Did the Hopi have a kachina of flight? Sonny wondered. He had yet to see one with wings. Maybe they had never had the yearning to fly, never the desire to leave Mother Earth. The gods came to visit the pueblo, and so flight was for the gods, not for man. It made sense.
It was cold, near freezing, and Sonny shivered. The scene was lighted in an eerie predawn glow, but the crowd and those flying today were in a cheery mood.
The crowd would feel joy when the release came and the colorful balloons ascended, but Sonny wouldn’t feel it. He saw instead a wasteland, shadows crawling around the balloons that glowed colorfully when the propane burners fired. He felt the eagerness of the people, most with cameras poised, drawing close to the balloons to take the perfect picture. All wanted to share in the magic of those who would rise and fly.
Sonny paused. Around him the blue burst of the burners going off intermittently filled the air with loud whooshes, the hot air inflating the colorful balloons until they appeared to be giant luminarias, the farolitos of October. Within the hour the ascension would begin.
Already the “zebras,” men and women dressed in black-and-white striped outfits, ran up and down the first row, shouting instructions, double-checking instructions on their mobile phones. The zebras were in charge of the ascension, coordinating the liftoff.
Sonny turned quickly and headed for Fiesta Control. He was sure the dope was in the city, courtesy of Gilroy, and some of it had to be here on the field. That was their plan, to draw every DEA officer and his mother to the field. Bring them in to a nonperformance.
He spotted a couple of DEA agents with dogs. They were moving slowly across the crowded field, the dogs sniffing the baskets, but Sonny knew the dogs weren’t going to find anything.
The Fiesta Control lobby was packed with reporters. Sonny pushed his way through and entered Madge’s office. Madge, her two zebras, and Jerry Stammer were huddled over a map. One of the zebras was reviewing wind-aloft speed and direction. Today, the Alburquerque box was perfect for flying. A soft breeze would carry the balloons south, and when they went higher, another breeze would return them to the field.
Madge looked up. Stammer also turned.
“Our wayward detective,” Stammer said. “You gave it a good run, buddy, but you came up empty-handed. Today we fly.”
The two zebras, sensing the tension, drew away to refill their coffee cups.
Sonny’s gaze remained riveted on Madge. She looked back at him, revealing nothing in her blue eyes.
“Gilroy’s dead,” Sonny said.
“Garcia called,” Madge acknowledged.
“It’s in the news,” Stammer added. “Too bad, but it means nothing to the fiesta.”
“It means an obstacle has been eliminated,” Sonny replied.
Stammer relaxed, then smiled. “See, I told you,” he said to Madge. “The crazies have eliminated each other. I said all along, the fiesta is
as safe as a Sunday picnic. We’re go!” He turned to the zebras and gave a thumbs-up signal.
“It’s not that simple,” Sonny cautioned.
“The hell it ain’t,” Stammer responded. “You just said the last obstacle’s been removed. I’m sorry about Gilroy, but whatever he was involved in had nothing to do with us!”
“Yeah, it does,” Sonny said. “Whoever killed Gilroy is flying the dope today.”
“You still believe that!” Stammer laughed. “Hear that, Madge, we’re flying dope. It doesn’t play, Baca! It just doesn’t wash!” he said in anger. “Anyway, for your information, there are DEA agents on the grounds right now! I personally invited them here.”
“But they’re not going to find anything,” Sonny shot back.
“Right.” Stammer drew himself up. “Because there’s nothing to find!”
Madge stepped between them and looked at Sonny. “I can’t say I’m sorry about Gilroy,” she said flatly. “I suspect whatever that was all about is done.”
“I’ve got a hunch,” Sonny replied.
“A hunch!” Stammer responded angrily. “You come to us with a hunch! You make me laugh, Baca!”
“Only a hunch.” Madge glared. “I agree with Jerry, that doesn’t help! Look, if you’ve got any information, tell us, or tell Garcia. We want to help.”
“The coke and the heroin are here!” Sonny whispered, his eyes darting from Madge to Stammer. “I know it’s here! I can feel it.”
“He can feel it!” Stammer shook his head in disgust and turned away. “You talk to him, Madge.”
“Sonny—”
He grabbed her arms and looked into her eyes. “I know it’s here! I’ve followed it around the city, and now I’m this close to it.”
“Where?” she shouted.
“Ah, Lord,” he groaned, and turned away, looking out the window at the sun, which was just about to burst clear of the mountain’s crest, a golden orb, the fire balloon of the gods coming to grace the valley. The grandfather kachina.
In his withered field of corn, don Eliseo would be praying in the morning light, lifting his arms to the sun, Grandfather Sun, the bringer of all life. “Bless all of life,” the old man would whisper, and with those simple words he would embrace the earth, planets, and cosmos.
In the river bosque the coyotes were calling, moving as a family down the well-worn paths, shivering in the cold October morning, their night hunt done.
I’m sweating, Sonny thought, rubbing his dirty hands on his jacket, looking down at his wrinkled jeans. The cut on his arm throbbed. He was sweaty, tired, exhausted. Maybe not thinking straight. Maybe I’ve lost it, he admitted.
The others in the room looked at him with furtive glances. Yes, he had lost it. They felt sorry for him, embarrassed. He hadn’t shaved, or combed his hair, and his arm hung loose in the torn, spotted sleeve. It was clear he was in pain, coming apart. He had nothing to go on.
“It was shipped in,” he whispered, and saw in his mind’s eye the UPS truck lumbering out of Raven’s nest, the deadly cargo in its belly.
“What?” Madge asked.
Sonny turned to the two zebras. “Did you receive a large UPS shipment recently? Yesterday? Or early this morning?”
“Yes,” the woman answered tentatively, glancing at Jerry Stammer. “This morning.”
“What was in it?”
“Normal stuff. A lot of extra propane tanks, repair materials, some flight maps, even a new balloon—” She laughed nervously and again looked from Madge to Stammer.
“You’re fishing!” Stammer interrupted. “That’s been the problem all along, Baca! You don’t know a thing, and you go fishing. Enough questions!” He turned to Madge. “Launch time!”
Madge looked at her watch, turned to Sonny. “We have to—”
“If you’re going to stay here and chat, I’m giving the signal!” Stammer growled, starting out the door.
Madge grabbed his arm. “Hey, you may be chairman of the board, but I’m in charge of the flight!”
Stammer glared at her. “You may not be in charge for long!” he rejoined. “It was your idea to bring Baca on board, and nothing has been solved. Okay, go along with him. But get those balloons in the air on schedule!”
Having delivered his ultimatum, he turned and walked out of the building.
“What about the propane tanks?” Sonny asked the woman.
“I wondered who would be ordering so many propane tanks. We received enough extra propane tanks to fly a balloon from here to Miami!”
“Yeah!” Sonny hit the table with a closed fist. “The tanks. Sealed tanks! The dogs can’t sniff it! Who are the tanks for?”
“I’ve got the invoice here,” the woman said, and flipped through her notes. She removed the UPS delivery invoice and handed it to Sonny. “This is the name of the pilot who received the propane. And it’s funny, because he was here this morning, waiting for the delivery.”
Sonny turned to Madge. “That’s it! The delivery! Can we stop him?” he said, shoving the list into her hands.
“Sonny, are you sure?”
“Why would anyone bring in that many extra propane tanks?”
Madge shrugged. “Christ, if we stop them and there’s nothing to it—”
“Madge!” Sonny slapped the invoice he held. “This is it!”
Madge turned to the zebra. “You’re sure you know who picked up the tanks?”
“Yes, that’s the name of the pilot and the number of his balloon on the invoice,” she replied.
“I can ground him,” Madge said, “but Jerry won’t—”
“Do it!” Sonny shouted. “If I’m wrong, I’ll take the heat.”
Madge hesitated. She was caught in the middle.
“All right, we can check it,” she replied. She looked at the list. “Number forty-seven.”
She handed the list back to the zebra. “Have security ground this balloon.” She turned to the man. “Get on the PA system and delay the flight. Don’t let those balloons go up! Let’s check number forty-seven,” she said to Sonny.
They hurried out, jumped into her golf cart, and shot toward the field. Startled spectators jumped aside.
Near the large KRQE announcing stand the first wave of balloons were ready to fly. Propane fires glowed blue as the pilots of the balloons shouted instructions to their ground crews. It was a festive day, a Mardi Gras of flight.
Today the modern-day Icarus, bored with the weekend football games and family trips to the shopping malls, dared to sprout wings over the desert landscape of the Río Grande basin. Flight into the golden dawn, flight over the shimmering cottonwoods of the river, flight over the serpentine river.
Then a voice boomed over the loudspeaker, across the huge field, holding the flight. Faces turned in the direction of the loudspeaker as a collective groan of disappointment went up.
“Here!” Madge pointed. “Forty-seven. Bobby Lee, from Dallas …”
The bright red balloon carried the name Avenger.
A freckled young man in a red parka, another young man, and two young women had just finished firing up the balloon. They were laughing, having fun, clearly juiced up on morning margaritas.
“Morning, y’all,” the lanky Bobby Lee said with a smile as Madge and Sonny pulled up. “You better stand back, we’re ready for liftoff!”
“Bobby Lee?”
“At your service, ma’am.”
“I’m Madge Swenson, flight control. Your flight is canceled!”
“I heard the announcement, lady, but I came to fly, and I’m flying,” Bobby Lee replied. His friends nodded and drew close.
“You’re not flying today,” Madge repeated.
“Bullshit, lady!” Bobby Lee’s voice grew mean. “I’ve been waiting all week to fly, and nobody’s going to stop me!” He turned to his friends. “Are we flying?”
“We’re flying!” they shouted back, laughing.
“We’re grounding your balloon!” Madge said forcefully. “I’d a
ppreciate it if you’d stand back—”
“You can’t ground me, lady,” Bobby Lee snarled at her.
Sonny stepped in front of him. “You heard her. She’s the boss. You do what she says. Just step back, real nice and easy.”
Two security guards appeared behind Madge, and Bobby Lee drew back.
Sonny looked into the basket. It was loaded with five propane tanks. He looked closely at the tanks and lifted out one with traces of white powder around the valve.
“Why so much extra gas?” Sonny asked.
“You have no fuckin’ right to take that tank from my basket!” Bobby Lee yelled. He looked at his friend and the women, but they were backing away. They had seen the DEA agents with dogs cutting through the gathering crowd to get to them. They turned and ran.
“I have the right,” Madge interrupted. “That’s in your contract.”
Sonny tapped the tank and smiled. “Sugar?” he whispered. He grabbed a wrench from the basket and started unscrewing the tank’s cap.
“Hey, mister!” one of the zebras called. “Don’t do that without releasing the gas pressure! It’s gonna blow!”
Sonny finished unscrewing the valve, and it fell to the ground. White powder spilled out of the tank. Nearby one of the DEA dogs growled deep and pulled at its leash, trying to push through the crowd that had gathered.
“Sugar,” Sonny said, looking at Bobby Lee. “Now why would a young man like you be carrying sugar? You can’t burn sugar.”
Sonny wet his fingertip with saliva and touched the powder. He tasted, then spit. “Uh-uh, Bobby Lee, that ain’t sugar, that’s pure coke. Enough to make you fly all the way to Dallas—”
“You sonofabitch,” Bobby Lee cursed, and hurled himself on Sonny.
Sonny blocked Bobby Lee’s blow and hit him as hard as he could in the stomach. He hit him again, and the fight went out of Bobby Lee. “Where’s Raven?” Sonny shouted, grabbing the man by the collar and slapping him hard. Blood spurted from Bobby Lee’s mouth.