dontravis.com
blog post #396
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If
you’re reading this, then I suppose the Prologue to the Cutie-Pie Murders did
its intended job. Seriously, I hope it worked for you.
Now
we go to Chapter 1 of the novel, and I warn you, it’s a long read. But I hope
you’re drawn in. If you want more, it might help the process if you emailed
Dreamspinnerpress.com and told them to hurry up and publish the full book.
Now
to Chapter 1.
*****
THE CUTIE-PIE MURDERS
Chapter 1
New Mexico State
Penitentiary, Santa Fe, Thursday, March 8, 2012
“B. J. Vinson, you’re an
idiot!” I told myself for the umpteenth time. Why in the hell was I driving up
to the state penitentiary to see an inmate I remembered well and detested
vehemently?
Why did Jose Zapata want to
see me? The lawyer who called last week to make the arrangements claimed not to
know, said he was merely passing on a request. Not sure I bought his answer. In
order to gain access to a Level VI prisoner, I either had to be on Zapata’s
visitor list or his attorney’s investigator, neither of which was true.
Zapata—better known by the tag
of Zancon because of his long legs and lanky frame—had been the underboss of a
vicious gang called the Santos Morenos, or Brown Saints. He’d played a
prominent role in the case file I’d labeled The Zozobra Incident. José
Zapata had kidnapped the human being I
treasured most on this earth, my life companion Paul Barton, and attempted to
murder him before I literally dropped from the heavens to put a bullet in
Zapata’s gut before he could accomplish the deed.
Committed now, I sighed aloud
and put the car in gear. When traveling from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, I
normally drive straight up Interstate-25 for a pleasant trip of something under
an hour, but the prison lay fourteen miles south of the state capital on the
Madrid highway—better known as the Turquoise Trail—so I pointed my Impala’s
nose east on I-40 through Tijeras Canyon and picked up State 14 North. Two lanes
instead of four; a twisting drive rather than one as straight as the proverbial
arrow but also more interesting.
For the first leg of the trip,
I turned on the car’s stereo to catch Kelly Clarkson warbling “Stronger”—or
what I knew as “What Doesn’t Kill You”—and a newscast dominated by speculation of
whether oil restrictions would end Iran’s nuclear weapons program. Wary of icy
stretches of mountain road where the sun didn’t reach—something unforeseen—I
snapped off the radio to concentrate on driving.
I manfully resisted stopping
in Madrid, a former coal mining town now turned artist’s enclave. Shortly thereafter
I had to quell a desire to take a turn around the tiny square of yet another
old western town called Cerrillos before eventually pulling into the visitor’s
parking area at the penitentiary.
Upon successfully maneuvering the
prison’s metal detector, a piece of equipment no self-respecting airport would
accept as adequate security, I addressed a corrections officer. “B. J. Vinson
for Inmate José Zapata, Number 79805. His attorney arranged my appointment.”
Although this was the new
state penitentiary, iron bars threw the same ragged shadows as in the old one, as
if emphasizing the blackness hiding in every man’s soul, be he inmate or
custodian. I mentally shook my head to clear photographic images of the riot at
“Old Main” on Cerrillos Road I’d been required to study at the Albuquerque
Police Academy.
Thirty-three inmates died and
two hundred suffered injuries in February 1980 in the worst prison insurrection
in US history. Endless streams of scholarly studies and airy articles and
outright fiction vied to describe in minute detail the overcrowding, poor food,
official incompetence, and lack of training that birthed the uprising. I’d gone
to school with a kid whose father died in the bloodbath. The family subsequently
moved out of town because of harassment. People can be real shits… even grade
schoolers.
The officer I’d addressed
scanned a list of names on a clipboard while metal doors clanged in the
distance and voices echoed up and down the hallway. A prison was never silent.
The man made a check mark on a
list he was holding before responding. “Yessir, I’ll have him brought up.” He
nodded to a man standing nearby. “This officer will take you to the interview
room.”
Nodding, I told him this
wasn’t my first time at bat before taking another look at the man’s ID.
“Simmons. Weren’t you with APD a few years back?” I referred to the Albuquerque
Police Department where I’d served for ten years.
“Yessir, it’s Detective B. J.
Vinson, isn’t it?”
“Not since 2005.”
The man loosened up a little.
“I remember you getting plugged when you and the commander were apprehending a
murder suspect.”
“Gene Enriquez was a lowly
detective just like me back then. And now you know why he’s in charge of the
Criminal Investigative Division and I’m not.”
Simmons laughed. “Yeah, he let
you take the bullet instead of him.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
My escort, a young corrections
officer named Pierce, took off down the hall, pulling me along in his wake. The
absolute absence of odor in the stark hallway tempted me to believe the institution
was pristine and sanitized… but I knew better. In the bowels of this concrete
and metal beast, the intestines would stink. We reached the interview room a
few minutes before Zapata.
When the inmate arrived in
restraints and with his own escort, as was required for Level VI prisoners, I
struggled to tamp down a surge of sudden anger. Not only had he manhandled
Paul, his gang had killed a young man named Emilio Prada by hacking him to
death in Santa Fe’s Fort Marcy Park while thousands of people gathered there for
the annual Burning of Zozobra ritual. Emilio had been a hustler, but he didn’t
deserve to die.
Now Zapata looked more like a
sick old man than the forty-four-year-old thug I knew him to be. My bullet
apparently hadn’t digested well. In the place of healthy—if malignant—swagger,
I now detected decay.
After the inmate was seated, his
guard checked Zapata’s handcuffs, leg shackles. and belly chain to assure
himself the prisoner was properly restrained. Then he and Pierce took up
stations on the other side of the interview room door.
Zapata didn’t wait for them to
exit before speaking. “Vinson,” he said in a gravelly voice stronger than
expected, given his appearance.
I settled into a chair on the
other side of a bolted-down metal table and addressed him by his nickname out
of habit. “Zancon.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Surprised to get a call. Even
more surprised it came from Brookings Ingles. Didn’t know you went for the most
expensive defense attorney in the state.” Brookie was long rumored to be a mob
lawyer.
Zancon waved a cuffed hand. “He
wasn’t my trial mouthpiece. I was a cooked goose then. But now he takes care of
things a man can’t take care of hisself. You know, when he’s locked up like
this.” His black eyes looked filmed over with something… exhaustion, disease,
hopelessness? “I got a brother with some coins, and he helps me out with the lawyer’s
bills.”
I took that statement to mean Zancon
had managed to hide some of his loot. The brother was merely managing the
inmate’s assets.
“I got a problem. At least, my
brother Juan has. But I figure you owe me, so I’m the dude putting the question
to you.”
“If you’re referring to the
slug I put in your gut, I owe you nothing. But if your brother has a legitimate
problem, I’ll listen to what he has to say.”
Zancon flushed, showing a
trace of the hood he was before he relaxed and spread his hands over the table
as far as his restraints would allow. “Fair enough. Everbody was shooting at
everbody that night you’n the cops ambushed us, but I’m the one who can’t eat
or take a crap like everbody else because of the lead poisoning you give me.”
“Now that’s out of the way,
what’s your brother’s problem?”
“Some son-of-a-bitch offed his
boy. And I want him to pay.”
I leaned back in the hard
chair. “A gang killing?”
He shook his head. “Naw. Kid
wasn’t into gangs. My bro ain’t either. Stayed righteous while I was outlawing.
He’s got a car lot offa South Coors.”
“So what happened?”
Zancon looked uncomfortable.
“Juan’ll give you the details. He’s waiting for your call.”
My antenna went up. “Look, if
you’re not straight with me, then I can’t—”
“I’m telling it like it is. No
gang stuff. Mateo wasn’t in no gang.”
“Mateo. He’s your nephew?”
He nodded and seemed suddenly
tired. The prematurely old man was ascendant now, but the gutter snipe was
still in residence. “Yeah. Mostly went by Matt.”
“How old was he?”
“Eighteen. Wasn’t but
eighteen.”
“Give me some details.” The
warning look returned. “Okay, at least tell me where he was killed.”
“Albuquerque.”
It was my turn to spread hands
over the table. “Hell, you don’t need me. ADP will take care of it.”
Zancon gave a sour smile.
“Yeah, right. They’ll see what you seen. Another gang member offed. Good
riddance.”
“That’s not the way things
work, and you know it. They’ll give it their best shot.”
He leaned forward and tapped
the table with a long fingernail, determination back in his eyes again. “Maybe
so. But I know you, Vinson. You’re a damned good detective. And I want you to
finish him.” He dropped his voice. “You know, like with Puerco.” He referred to
the Saints’ top man whom I’d shot to death the night I wounded Zancon.
Now it was clear why this hood
wanted me on the case. He wasn’t interested in APD finding the killer. He was
offering to hire me to settle with the murderer. Why did these guys always
judge others by their own lights?
Zancon studied my face and
must have assumed he was losing me. “Talk to my brother.” He held my gaze for a
long moment before dropping his eyes. “Please.”
“All right. Do I work through
Ingles?
“Naw. All I wanted the lawyer
for was to get you in to see me. Work with my brother. Juan’s a straight-up
guy.”
From what he’d told me, Juan
Zapata was a used car dealer, and I wasn’t sure the two things held together.
But maybe I painted with too broad a brush. We’d let time determine that
factor.
“Do you know who killed your
nephew?”
“Naw. One day he was doing
good at the university, you know, UNM, and then the next he was dead.
“Okay. How do I contact your
brother?”
Zancon lurched to his feet and
cited a telephone number before shuffling to the door and tapping it with his
knuckles.
The same clank of metal, the
same hollow, echoing voices, the same ghosts from Old Main followed me all the
way out of the prison. I took the quick way back to Albuquerque—Interstate 25.
“Why would you give that creep
the time of day?” Paul asked later when I told him of my meeting. “Forget about
him nearly shooting me, I damned near choked to death on the gag he stuffed
down my craw.”
When I’d found Paul that night
almost six years ago, he’d been trussed up with a rag in his throat held in
place by a handkerchief over his mouth. I grinned at the handsome hunk glaring
at me with hands on hips, stance wide. “Maybe Zancon is right. Maybe I do owe
him.”
Paul’s mouth fell open and he
dropped into an easy chair in our den. “Huh?”
I reached out and tousled his
dark brown hair. He batted my hand away. “If he hadn’t kidnapped you, I
couldn’t have ridden in on my white horse and saved you, earning your
everlasting love and gratitude.”
“Ha! Ha! I was scared, Vince.”
Paul called me Vince. The rest of the known world addressed me as BJ.
“As I recall, you were
spitting mad.”
“That too. But why do Zancon a
favor?”
“Not a favor. A job. Remember,
there’s an eighteen-year-old kid lying on a slab somewhere. I don’t like killers,
particularly those who kill youngsters before they’ve had a chance to try their
wings. Believe me, I’ve seen more than my share of adolescent corpses.”
My lover gave me an uncertain
smile. “Can’t cure the world, Vince.”
“No, but maybe I can catch
whoever did this one killing. See he doesn’t do it again. Regardless who pays
for my time, it’s Mateo Zapata I’m doing it for… providing I take the case.”
“Mateo, huh? I remember him as
a little guy.” Paul was a South Valley kid who’d avoided joining a gang, and
like most of the neighborhood, grew up to be a decent, law-abiding citizen.
“Matt was nine or ten years younger than I was. Cute kid. Smart.”
“How about his father, did you
know him?”
Paul brushed a stray lock from
his brow. “Juan? I remember him as a solid citizen. He’s about ten years on the
other side of me.”
“Was he close to his brother?
To Zancon?”
“Yeah.” He thought over his
answer. “In some ways. Always got the feeling he stayed away from the Brown
Saints. Skirted the gang stuff as much as he could.”
“And now he’s a used car
dealer.”
“Last I heard. Who knows?
Maybe he got his start pedaling cars the Brown Saints stole.”
*****
Sure hope that caught
your attention and motivated you to contact Dreamspinner and ask for the novel.
Feel free to let me know what you think of the book so far.
Next time? Who knows at
this point.
The following are buy
links for my last BJ Vinson mystery The Voxlightner Scandal.
Barnes
& Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-voxlightner-scandal-don-travis/1132632844?ean=9781640809260
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!
My
personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting
remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE
THAT ONE.)
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Buy
links to Abaddon’s Locusts:
See
you next week.
Don
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