Albuquerque’s Far Northeast Heights

Whenever I visit my friend B in Albuquerque’s Far Northeast Heights, I am reminded of a passage in The Zozobra Incident where our hero, BJ Vinson, hauls Emilio Prada, the supposed bad-boy in the novel, to the extreme northeast heights area in search of someone who might have stolen the negatives of a group of explicit snapshots that show BJ’s client in several compromising poses. For those of you who have not yet reached a certain age…yes, there was a time when  you obtained photographs by developing and printing a roll of celluloid film impregnated with images you were interested in seeing. Take a look at the following partial scene:

###

     I glanced at Emilio sitting silently beside me in the Impala. He was leading us down a meandering road in the remote Far Northeast Heights. Lampposts were infrequent. My headlights were the only bright spot in the deep night. Sandia Peak with its corona of blinking, red-tipped TV antennas and the Cibola National Forest crowded us on the east. The Sandia Indian Reservation blocked the way north.

     This was one of the ritzy sections well outside of the city limits where front yards were left desert-wild, except for cement driveways snaking across the hardpan to anchor the buildings to the roadway. Most of the landscape was vacant, but an occasional rambling house hunkered down beside some dusty road with a name like Black Bear Lane or Calle del Oso. Albuquerqueans were big on bears.

     Although it occurred to me that the good-looking creep might be planning something, it was more likely he was simply lost. It was hard enough finding an address out here in the daytime, much less at midnight.

     “Crap,” he mumbled. “It all looks different.”

     “You leading me around by the nose?”

     “Naw, I swear man. I figured I could find the guy any time I wanted.” His teeth gleamed in the faint moonlight as he smiled weakly. “He give me a hundred-dollar tip. But this don’t look familiar.”

     “Okay, you’re coming home with me for the night. I’m going to lock you in the basement. We’ll try it again tomorrow.”

     “You can’t do that. That’s kidnapping or something.”

     “Maybe so, but that’s the way it is.”

     “Go on down the road. Let’s try some more. I got a woman waiting for me, man.”

     “She’s long gone by now. But we’ll give it another few minutes.”

     As we plowed on through the darkness, the first car we’d seen in an hour of wandering the foothills came roaring up on us from the rear. Its sudden appearance made me nervous, but the massive Caddy Escalade roared by in a cloud of dust as I pulled to the side of the road.

     “That’s him!” Emilio threw a wiry arm toward the windshield. “That’s the dude’s big tank.”

     “You sure?”

     “Yeah. That’s him, I tell you.”

     “Emilio, if you’re lying—”

     “I ain’t. I swear. Follow the Caddy.”

     Half a mile farther down the dusty road, the vehicle turned left at an intersection that was invisible until you were practically through it.

     “That rock. I remember that rock.” Emilio jabbed a finger at a huge boulder on the far side of the roadway. “Yeah, remember that rock.” The excitement in his voice convinced me he was on the up and up—at least for now.

###

B’s locale no longer resembles the neighborhood described above. She lives on a paved street with a signpost clearly identifying it by name. She has neighbors on all sides of her. Indeed, the only similarity that remains is many of the yards are left “desert-wild.” Cacti proliferate.

However, B lives west of Tramway Boulevard (which is mentioned later in the same scene). The fictional address in the book lies east of the four-lane artery. So I meandered to the other side of Tramway when I returned home the other day. There are changes there, as well, but I found a section that is still pretty well represented by those descriptions in Zozobra.

Those of you who can should take a drive through the area sometime soon before that part of Albuquerque’s history is left behind in the dust of progress.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

BEYOND

     The highway, rendered indistinct by rising heat waves, dropped on its undulating descent from the Continental Divide into the Middle Rio Grande Valley of New Mexico. Ron Godwin shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun and felt as if he could see forever. And forever was blue. At least the mountains on the eastern horizon took on a robin’s egg wash. The biggest one was likely Sandia Peak, which made the smudge rising from its base his destination—Albuquerque. Where a new job awaited his arrival.

     This part of the world seemed to be pretty much made of rock and sand and sage and cacti and sunflowers. But for some reason he failed to understand, he liked it. Maybe it was the thin air, which smelled fresh despite dust a light wind kicked up. Or perhaps it was the silence. The eerie quiet that rang in his ears while he stood leaning on the open door of his Mazda as if he were the last man left on the planet in a sci-fi doomsday movie. It should have frightened him. Instead, he felt liberated. A man standing where God could see him instead of hiding in a mob. This was the first time he could ever remember being alone…truly alone. It was almost as if he could see into the Beyond. Certainly nothing like LA where people and noise and urban odors clogged the landscape.

     A stream of speeding semis and cars trapped behind them rushed past, shattering the illusion. He got back into his Miata and eased onto Interstate-40 East. He was reaching to turn on the radio when he noticed a figure walking at the side of the highway about a mile ahead of him. He didn’t usually pick up hitchhikers, but this was a new world with new people and new customs. Maybe it would be an Indian who could expose him to a culture he knew nothing about. Or a Mexican up from Chihuahua seeking to reunite with his family.

     He swallowed his disappointment when the hiker turned out to be a young white guy about his own age. Still, maybe he could learn something about this land he intended to make his new home. The stranger accepted the offer of a ride and settled into the passenger’s seat before extending his hand and offering his name in a clear baritone.

     “Zack Jansing. Nice wheels.”

     Ron offered his thanks, his hand, and his name before throwing the car into gear and pulling back onto the highway. Within half a mile, he was convinced he’d made a good choice. Zack was a talker, a fount of useful information. Twenty miles down the road, Ron knew as much about Albuquerque as any Chamber of Commerce brochure would have revealed. The companionship was good and easy.

     Before long, an overpass loomed ahead of them. Ron blinked when Zack told him to take the exit ramp. Instinctively, his foot hit the brake pedal, slowing the Mazda.

     “Hey, man, I don’t mind hauling you to Albuquerque, but I’m not up for a side trip. I’ve been driving since early this morning."

     “Just do it,” Zack said.

     Something in the other man’s voice caused him to glance over. Zack was holding a small semi-automatic pistol leveled at Ron’s chest. The hitcher’s flat gray eyes told Ron all he needed to know. He tromped on the accelerator. The powerful motor responded, pressing them both against the seats.

     “No way,” Ron shouted. “If you’re gonna shoot me, you’ll have to do it while we’re doing a hundred.”

     “Don’t be an idiot. I just want your money and your wheels. Pull over.”

     “Uh-uh,”

     Zack shoved the pistol into Ron’s ribs, causing him to flinch. The speeding car veered, but he regained control.

     Ron gave the other man’s arm a sharp jab with his elbow. “Get that thing outa my side!”

     That’s when things went wrong. A pop little louder than a cap pistol filled the cabin. Something punched him in the side. He had time to smell cordite and feel the pain in his chest before he lost control of his arms.

     The raspberry-colored Miata meandered left across a lane of traffic, plunged into the median, and bounced into the westbound traffic before losing to the laws of physics, rolling over…and over and over.

###

     Ron sat quietly in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel in downtown Albuquerque watching people go about their business. They were all strangers, of course. He knew no one here. But there was something different about them. Or maybe it was him. No one paid him any attention. Not one person glanced his way. Not one eye met his. In fact, for a moment, he thought a woman was going to sit on his lap before a man called for her attention.

     He glanced at his watch. Odd. He didn’t have one. His diamond signet ring was gone, as well. He realized he had no personal possessions at all. Something else. The noises people made as they passed seemed oddly hollow. Eerie. Other-worldly.

     His eyes fixed on a clock on the far wall. At 4:52 p.m. on Thursday, June 26, Ron Godwin understood something profound. He was dead. Then why was he here? Alone like this, observing the world he had been born into from the Beyond.

     Suddenly, he heard a deep, commanding voice. “Ah, here you are, Ron. You eluded us there for a moment.”

     Instantly, he was swept up in a blinding white vortex.

###

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

How Do You Spell Trouble? C-o-n-d-o-m

First, an apology. I have been amazingly (for me) faithful to publishing on this blog in a prompt and timely manner. This morning, I failed…for reasons that might make a decent post. So with a shame-faced grin, I ask you to please forgive me and read my short fiction piece that follows:

###

THE CONDOM

     Kenny stared through ten-year-old eyes at the flat, round object lying in the dirt while his ten-year-old brain made certain connections. He knew what it was, of course. He’d seen one of Byran’s. Bryan was his older brother. It was a rubber. An unused rubber. The realization sent tingly sensations into his “parts” as he snatched the pack from the dirt. This stand of trees at the edge of the farm was a make-out place for kids old enough to drive cars and to…well, do it. His dad always complained the place needed a traffic cop.

     Had some guy’s girl refused to cooperate after he lost his protection? Kenny imagined a worked-up dude’s frustration at his own carelessness. Oh, well, that fellow’s loss was his gain. The package holding the thing was kinda pretty, like a big, extra thick gold coin glistening in the afternoon sun.

     His chores for the day finished, he’d been headed over to the Morrison farm to meet Thomas. He could hardly wait to see what his best friend would say about his lucky find. Kenny halted mid-stride. Maybe he oughta hike back and hide out in the hayloft to think about things first. He shoved the gold clad rubber deep in his overalls pocket and reversed course.

     After settling down behind a bale of hay in the loft to examine the profile of the helmeted warrior embossed on the pack, he remembered him and Tommy looking up “Condoms” on the Morrison family computer. They’d snickered over claims like extra stimulation, ultra thin, lubricated, spermicide. But the one that had got to them was “Flavored.” Why would somebody want a flavored rubber? Then they went red-faced at graphic drawings demonstrating the proper way to don a “love sleeve.” Tommy’d paid a price for that when his old man discovered where he’d been searching.

     Now, as he lay in the hay examining the thing, Kenny considered trying it on. But it was too neat to break open. He’d hang onto it, and the next time the gang did a coin toss to decide something or the other, he’d flick the pack into the air with his thumb and catch it in his outstretched palm. He tried the maneuver and called tails. Oops, there wasn’t a tail. That majestic-looking warrior adorned both sides. Great, a two-headed coin. Nah, that wouldn’t work. They’d catch on too fast.

     Involved in clearing up that point he missed the last toss, and the pack bounced on the bale and disappeared over the edge into some loose hay. While he was scrambling around trying to find it, something crunched beneath his boot.

     The thing didn’t look so pretty now. It was squashed flat. The gleaming yellow surface, now crumpled and smudged, had lost its luster…and attraction. He peeled away the top and looked at the rolled-up condom. Wasn’t anything pretty about it. Gray and kinda loathsome, really. He held it up to the light to inspect for damage. Looked okay. Since it was out, he might as well try it on. He was disappointed…and kind of bothered…when the blessed thing fell right off.

     Kenny’s mind flew in less erotic directions. Some of the older boys at school last year had filled rubbers with water and dropped them on students from the roof of the building. Thinking of nothing better to do with the ugly, penis-shaped thing, he scrambled down the ladder and peeked out into the yard. No one in sight. He slipped around the corner of the barn and shoved the condom beneath the spout of the hand pump they sometimes used to fill jerry-cans with water to take to the fields.

     He started pumping and pumping…and pumping. The blessed thing grew enormous, stretching and stretching without bursting. He overfilled it and had to let a little water escape in order to tie the ends. Once that was done, he held the big balloon in his hand while his mind proceeded to the goal it had been pursuing all along. In a few minutes, Bryan would be coming to the barn to pitch fodder for the animals. The temptation was too great. It took some doing to get the heavy, sloshing rubber—now in the shape of an elongated balloon—up the ladder without popping it, but Kenny managed.

     Once in the loft, he waited at the big double hay doors, easing them open when he heard the pump at the side of the barn. His brother was getting a drink before coming inside the barn. Kenny grinned. He’d closed the door down below, so Bryan would pause right beneath him for just a second. And a second was all he needed.

     Positioned now, he hardly dared breathe as he waited. Then there was movement. A brown hat cleared the corner of the barn. One…two…three…go!

     A fraction of a second after he released the bloated rubber, he recalled something about Bryan going into town this afternoon to check out a job at the hardware store.

     Plop. Splash.

     “What the hell! KENNY!” his father roared

###

Well, there it is. Sorry for missing my deadline. Thanks for reading.

Don

Next week: I’m concentrating on not being late again, not the subject matter.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A Snapshot of Beautiful New Mexico

When I started looking around for something in THE BISTI BUSINESS to talk about today, I came across the following scenes early in the book. BJ has been hired to locate the son of Napa Valley wine mogul and his traveling companion. Given that the two young men are gay and the father’s attitude is definitely homophobic, BJ wonders if the two haven’t disappeared on purpose. Nonetheless, he sets about doing what he’s been hired to do. In the following passage from the book, he contacts his old partner at the Albuquerque Police Department with the intent of picking his brains. I chose this because it gives you a flavor of downtown Albuquerque and some of the state’s other interesting points.

###

Gene Enriquez, my old partner at APD, had recently made Lieutenant, and he sometimes chaffed at the rein the promotion put on his field work. When I called, he indulged in some bellyaching about being swamped but agreed to meet for a cup of coffee at Eulalia’s in the La Posada on Second and Copper, a short walk for each of us.

The central core of my building opened onto an atrium soaring through all five levels. As the elevator doors parted on the ground floor, my eyes automatically swept the waxed tiles. A year ago, a man had died on those hard clay squares when he went over the railing after attacking me on the landing outside of my office on the third floor. Sometimes I still saw smears of blood on the floor, but it was an illusion. The blue-black terracotta was scrubbed spotless and polished to a high shine.

I exited the building and headed east on Copper, pausing to say hello to the “Sidewalk Society,” nine life-sized bronzes by the Santa Fe based sculptor, Glenna Goodacre, that were grouped on the corner sidewalk outside the Hyatt Regency. After greeting the cast figures almost daily for the past few years, I had reached a few conclusions about them. The young woman with a briefcase was said to be an up-and-coming CEO, but I’m convinced she was a 1950s lawyer. The construction worker and his foreman, who sported a battered, old-style broad-brimmed hat, represented the thirties or forties. It had taken me some time to tumble to the fact the statues reflected different time periods in Albuquerque’s more recent history.

Gene yelled for me to wait for him as he strode briskly across Civic Plaza. “You always talk to statues?” He was a little breathless after running to beat the light change at the intersection. A stocky Hispanic with regular, pleasant features that seem vaguely Polynesian, Gene always appeared slightly frazzled; a consequence of dealing with the Albuquerque Police Department, a wife, and five kids on a daily basis.

I accepted both his hand and his ribbing. “Every time. Get some of my best answers from them.”

“I keep expecting one of the rookies to arrest the kid.” He motioned to the bronze of a teenager with a skateboard.

We entered the La Posada by the north entrance and stepped into another world. The interior was done in Spanish Territorial with aged wood copings, corbels highlighted in scarlet and turquoise, and heavily carved lintels. Nichos, small shelves in the white plastered walls, held carved wooden Santos and ornate Mexican tinwork. This hotel had once been part of the Hilton chain—Conrad’s first in New Mexico, as a matter of fact—but had been recently sold, yet again, and was scheduled for a makeover in the near future.

Gene and I selected a heavy oak table stained ebony by the passage of time, and claimed a pair of sturdy straight-backed chairs padded in green and gold. We spent a few minutes bringing one another up to date on our lives.

After making a brunch of the restaurant’s éclairs and a wedge of superb lemon meringue pie dribbled with chocolate, Gene was through chitchatting. “Okay, so what do you want?”

“What makes you think I want something? Can’t I call a pal without having an ulterior motive?”

“No.”

I pretended to think for a moment. “Okay then, I’ve got a client looking for his missing son and the kid’s traveling companion.” In less than two minutes, I’d briefed him on the situation.

“So they’re like that, huh?” He wiggled his hand back and forth, a gesture that was supposed to convey something. Gene knew me too well to be sensitive about my sexual orientation.

“You mean are they gay? Yeah, I’d say so.”

“And you want to get in their hotel room.”

“Seems a logical place to start since one of their fathers hired me to represent the family.”

“These two, they’re emancipated, right? Adults.”

“Both are twenty-one, according to Alfano.”

“Hmm. Alfano gonna file a missing person’s report?”

“He will if you think it’ll help.”

“Naw. We’ve got enough to do without looking for a couple of kids who’ve run off to play hanky-panky. But if they strayed across the border into Arizona, they might be cooling their heels in some county sheriff’s jail as we speak. They take that shit seriously over there.”

“Possible, but not likely. They could be in real trouble, Gene. Alfano keeps a tight rein on his boy, and the fact he’s looking for him is troubling.”

“Maybe the colt got out of the family pasture and is feeling his oats. But okay, have the old man file a report, and I’ll see if I can get us inside the hotel room. Unofficially.”

I picked up the tab to see what kind of damage Gene had done to my pocketbook. Anthony P. Alfano’s pocketbook, actually.

Gene caught me peeking at the check. “Come on, you can afford it.”

“Maybe so, but it’s not my expense; it’s my client’s, and I don’t know how picky he is.”

Gene Enriquez is a good detective and a smooth-talker, at least smooth enough to get us access to the room occupied by—or held in the names of—Orlando Alfano and Dana Norville. There was little to see. The pair had taken their traveling bags with them, leaving behind nothing personal except for two bundles of clothing destined for the laundry, the only sign they intended to return. One set of duds was expensive Abercrombie and Fitch, the other bundle was GAP. It wasn’t hard to figure which clothes belonged to what dude.

The breast pocket of one shirt held a carefully folded Chamber of Commerce brochure extolling the virtues of El Moro’s Inscription Rock and the Ice Caves near Grants. A rumpled pair of trousers—the expensive ones—gave up a not-so-neatly folded tourist road map of the state.

The bell captain remembered the two men asking his advice about the Enchanted Circle in the Taos area. They had specifically asked about white water rafting along the Taos Box.

The clerk in the gift shop remembered the pair because, she blushingly admitted, they were both so handsome. Shortly after checking in, they had picked up several pamphlets from her, expressing interest in the Turquoise Trail, a sixty-two mile National Scenic Byway up Route 14 to Santa Fe studded with quaint, historic villages. Orlando and Dana had been especially curious about Valles Caldera, the seventeen-mile wide crater of an extinct volcano south of Los Alamos, the Atomic City. Unfortunately, they also asked about Lincoln County and Carlsbad Caverns to the south and east, as well as Mesa Verde and the Bisti Badlands in the northwest corner of the state.

###

How’s that for a swift glimpse of our little piece of paradise. Thanks for reading. Please let me hear from you.

Don

Next week: We’re back to “who knows” again.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.