Read Online The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel by John Vorhaus - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Vorhaus
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Mystery Fiction, Swindlers and Swindling, Men's Adventure, Santa Fe (N.M.)
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see her suspicion eyeing mine. “Vic, let me ask you a question. Did he
seem
rattled or
was
he rattled?” Allie opened her mouth to speak, but, “Face value,” I said. “I’m just confirming it.” Back to Vic. “You know, was he stuffing?” I used the grifter’s descriptive for representing a hope or fear you do not feel.
“Why would he stuff?”
“No reason. Was he?”
“Gut? No. He’s chased. After all, he
was
in disguise.”
“What disguise?”
“Santa Fe Trails bus driver’s uniform.” Vic chuckled. “Wonder where he got his hands on that.”
“I think he’s got good hands,” I said.
“Well, whatever. He said to meet him at Cross of the Martyrs if he didn’t catch up with you first.”
“What time?”
“When does anyone go to the Cross? Sunset.”
“Gotcha. Wanna roll with?”
“No,” said Vic contemplatively, “I think I’ll visit Zoe, investigate that whole nudity thing.”
Allie and I left shortly thereafter, and walked back to our cottage. I was distressed on a couple of levels. The one I could most easily finger was concern for my dad—and concern that I felt concern for someonewho, let’s face it, hadn’t earned it by his track record. The other was the constraint I felt on my freedom, like all of a sudden I had to justify my choices. A guy says meet me in a place, I don’t care who he is, your father, the pope, whoever, I’m going into that meeting eyes open, not slackjaw like a rube. Only now that’s not an option, ’cause it’s not the straight play. But this is a potentially hazardous situation, so which is more important, playing straight or staying safe? I voiced this to Allie. She said the two were not mutually exclusive.
“Of course we have to be careful, Radar. We just don’t get sucked up into any schemes.”
“You think that’s what he wants?”
“I think it’s what you want.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me,” she said. She didn’t say it aggro or anything, more like flattery, like
You’re smart enough to know your own mind
. It felt again like Woody quizzing me on plays against Vegas or, deep in my past, that telephone snadoodle. Like everyone wants me to figure out everything for myself.
So, okay …
“A grifter going straight,” I said, “is like an addict in recovery. He’s looking for an excuse to go out. Any one will do, so long as it’s, you know, acceptable to interested parties. A valid exception, like saving Sophie and Boy. By that math, I’m actually hoping Woody’s jammed up. I want to play hero again, just to keep playing.” I could feel Allie mentally awarding me a gold star. “But if that’s all true,” I continued, “then it serves my interest if his jeopardy’s for real. So then, why do I doubt?”
“Because you’re a complex person, too.”
“Screwed up, you mean.”
Allie kissed my cheek. “So aren’t we all, honey. So aren’t we all.”
At a quarter to sunset we hiked up the short set of paved switchbacks that led from Paseo de Peralta to the bluff above, where a twenty-five-footsteel cross presided over the plain of Santa Fe, memorializing the death of some people at the hands of some others. For cover (and on this I insisted) we tricked out as tourists, with cameras, water bottles, guidebooks, and new Santa Fe souvenir T-shirts. At the summit, we joined a handful of fellow travelers taking in the view, 270 degrees of pueblo panorama. The setting sun lit low clouds from beneath, energizing the pink of the adobes below. There wasn’t much else to look at up here, just brick paths with handrails circling up to the concrete apron where the cross stood, two unadorned steel girders painted white. Dirt paths ran off east, toward the remains of Fort Marcy, another monument on another bald hill. “Not a lot of cover,” said Allie. I knew what she was thinking. If Woody was traveling dark, it made no sense to meet in so open a place.
But sometimes you bring your own cover. We
seem
rattled or
was
he rattled?” Allie opened her mouth to speak, but, “Face value,” I said. “I’m just confirming it.” Back to Vic. “You know, was he stuffing?” I used the grifter’s descriptive for representing a hope or fear you do not feel.
“Why would he stuff?”
“No reason. Was he?”
“Gut? No. He’s chased. After all, he
was
in disguise.”
“What disguise?”
“Santa Fe Trails bus driver’s uniform.” Vic chuckled. “Wonder where he got his hands on that.”
“I think he’s got good hands,” I said.
“Well, whatever. He said to meet him at Cross of the Martyrs if he didn’t catch up with you first.”
“What time?”
“When does anyone go to the Cross? Sunset.”
“Gotcha. Wanna roll with?”
“No,” said Vic contemplatively, “I think I’ll visit Zoe, investigate that whole nudity thing.”
Allie and I left shortly thereafter, and walked back to our cottage. I was distressed on a couple of levels. The one I could most easily finger was concern for my dad—and concern that I felt concern for someonewho, let’s face it, hadn’t earned it by his track record. The other was the constraint I felt on my freedom, like all of a sudden I had to justify my choices. A guy says meet me in a place, I don’t care who he is, your father, the pope, whoever, I’m going into that meeting eyes open, not slackjaw like a rube. Only now that’s not an option, ’cause it’s not the straight play. But this is a potentially hazardous situation, so which is more important, playing straight or staying safe? I voiced this to Allie. She said the two were not mutually exclusive.
“Of course we have to be careful, Radar. We just don’t get sucked up into any schemes.”
“You think that’s what he wants?”
“I think it’s what you want.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me,” she said. She didn’t say it aggro or anything, more like flattery, like
You’re smart enough to know your own mind
. It felt again like Woody quizzing me on plays against Vegas or, deep in my past, that telephone snadoodle. Like everyone wants me to figure out everything for myself.
So, okay …
“A grifter going straight,” I said, “is like an addict in recovery. He’s looking for an excuse to go out. Any one will do, so long as it’s, you know, acceptable to interested parties. A valid exception, like saving Sophie and Boy. By that math, I’m actually hoping Woody’s jammed up. I want to play hero again, just to keep playing.” I could feel Allie mentally awarding me a gold star. “But if that’s all true,” I continued, “then it serves my interest if his jeopardy’s for real. So then, why do I doubt?”
“Because you’re a complex person, too.”
“Screwed up, you mean.”
Allie kissed my cheek. “So aren’t we all, honey. So aren’t we all.”
At a quarter to sunset we hiked up the short set of paved switchbacks that led from Paseo de Peralta to the bluff above, where a twenty-five-footsteel cross presided over the plain of Santa Fe, memorializing the death of some people at the hands of some others. For cover (and on this I insisted) we tricked out as tourists, with cameras, water bottles, guidebooks, and new Santa Fe souvenir T-shirts. At the summit, we joined a handful of fellow travelers taking in the view, 270 degrees of pueblo panorama. The setting sun lit low clouds from beneath, energizing the pink of the adobes below. There wasn’t much else to look at up here, just brick paths with handrails circling up to the concrete apron where the cross stood, two unadorned steel girders painted white. Dirt paths ran off east, toward the remains of Fort Marcy, another monument on another bald hill. “Not a lot of cover,” said Allie. I knew what she was thinking. If Woody was traveling dark, it made no sense to meet in so open a place.
But sometimes you bring your own cover. We
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