

SHAUNESSY GOES WEST IN WINTER

By Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2012

Edward M. Drobinski

All rights reserved
Chapter 1

The predicted downpour started with a drizzle at dusk, enhancing the chill left by the early December overcast day. Lower Manhattan's streets were occupied by black umbrellas with varying kinds of legs. They shared a short, quick stepped gait, the primary objective of most, being to avoid a collision with another umbrella. This was a necessity of survival as an errant step could cause an offended umbrella to angrily use its ending metal spokes to pierce the thin black skin of the inept, resulting in a loss of protection and an undesired soaking.

Low, heavy, thundering black clouds quickly rumbled in, dropping the anticipated two inches of water in an unanticipated five minutes. The umbrellas congregated in doorways with overhangs and shrunk, revealing heads that looked almost humanly frustrated. They looked nervously up and down the streets that had become quickly moving streams, annoyed that they were temporarily unable to keep their busy important schedules. The eyes on the heads reflected its almost connected mind's preoccupation with their delays and the sickening necessity of huddling close to others, not allowing them to notice that the curb and street's moving water was washing away the prior two weeks' foul garbage, as the paper cups, candy wrappers, cigarette butts and dog shit excitedly bounced on the impromptu streams, imitating joyful small boats, unaware that their destiny was to be the whirlpool sewer.

Some of the heads looked up in disconsolation as if to absurdly opine in self-absorption; "God, when are you going to stop doing this to me?" The thunder reply boomed, but they couldn't take any meaning from the noise. The skyscraper's top floors were concealed, fully enveloped in the masses of dark condensation, happily affording a lack of visibility, in or out, for the penthouse umbrella heads.

As he left his fifth floor condominium in Kew Gardens, Queens, en route to another miserable job in Manhattan, his car splashed through the potholes on the single lane side streets, launching torrents of water onto the parked cars, which feared a cold submergence in the dirty delivery. His mind wasn't on their temporary petty problems as he struggled to keep the steering wheel straight through the obstacles put in his path, hearing the windshield wipers groan in their effort to give him some visibility.

"Son of a fucking bitch," he muttered to the ugly conditions and perhaps, to everything in general, as he bounced through another foot deep pothole. He thought; "These fucking bastards always just happen to call me out on some 'emergency' whenever the weather decides to be uncooperative. It must really make a huge difference to the dead. And of course, it's always imperative that I get there immediately because the beat cop needs instructions about the color of the tape needed and exactly where to put it, so that posterity is not confused about the corpse's precise placement. The morgue attendants need to be told not to fuck up the body. People have to be asked what they saw and the place gets roped off. Presumably no one will be bright enough to do these things until I get there and vocalize my brilliance. I wish I had some other job to piss and moan about."

He double parked in front of 464 Avenue C on the Lower East Side. "Loisaida," as the natives call it, is mostly a series of dilapidated three story brick buildings, with scary looking people sitting on the stoops, checking the terrain for easy pickings. Shaunessy thought of something he was told; "It is said that no police go in there because nobody there is doing anything legal. Therefore one has no business to go there unless they intend something illegal. So, therefore be prepared kiddies. At least that was what he was told by a career junky he arrested last year." Sounds more like a budgetary consideration. He ran up the three flights of stairs to find people scurrying about and screaming in the hallway near the open door to number 308. He painstakingly negotiated his way through the throng, entered and saw the gagged and neck-tied body dangling. It slowly revolved, doing a macabre waltz, on an orange electrical cord attached to a ceiling beam, the other end circling the victim's neck.

He could see that the nude carcass was male, but he wasn't sure of the race. The pool of blood beneath it probably now contained the body's capacity and resulted in a sickly gray skin color. He guessed that the corpse was not that of a black man and felt reasonably assured that the darkest patches evident on the chest and genitals were the result of a blowtorch.

The taciturn forty-ish cop already on the scene pointed to an hysterically crying Spanish woman who was lying on the linoleum floor, wrapped in a yellow blanket. She was being held and talked to by two other women, who knelt beside her.

The cop said; "She's been raped...... They tell me he was a crack dealer," now gesturing to the one without any feet on solid ground.

Tom Shaunessy looked around the fifteen by fifteen kitchen, the flagship of the apartment, noting the small 1950's refrigerator, a black metal folding table designed for card games being used as a kitchen table and the white plastic "outdoor" chairs used as seats. Two tiny olive-skinned girls emerged from a back room, eyes wide, with fingers in their mouths, holding their loved sleeping companions; worn and torn teddy bears. They stared, too young to know exactly what had happened, but felt somewhat safe as the swinging body didn't appear able to get to them. They ducked, hearing a loud creak, as the "victim" rotated, exposing a wide open, silently screaming mouth, now a home for buzzing flies.

Shaunessy hugged both of them and ushered them back to the dark room they had just left, saying; "You'll have to stay here for a while. Everything will be all right," full well knowing that he was lying of necessity. He thought, "They'll remember this forever, or at least until crying mama finds another crack head to hook up with." He wondered why new drugs had to be invented. Wasn't heroin good enough? At least it carried the possibility of a quick and quiet death penalty.

He was bewildered, not at the scene; as he had been a cop in Manhattan for more than thirty years and had seen a few similar places. He was bewildered about himself. Why did he choose a job that exposed him to the ugliest things? Or was he merely privy to the naked truth? He'd been thinking about the general subject for some time now and tonight he decided that he had his fill with this shit and wanted to see what other kind of shit that there was in the world. It would have to be an improvement.

The impassive cop on the scene again approached him, this time with questions about what to do now, but Shaunessy waved him off, saying; "Another detective will be taking care of this. Be patient." He pointed at Mr. Dangles and said; "He's not going anywhere."

The stoic cop threw his hands out to the side and implored; "Just tell me where to put the tape."

Shaunessy had to laugh at this one and in a jocular fashion answered; "Go out and buy a four by eight piece of plywood, hang it from the ceiling and put the yellow tape on that." He left, wondering what the new detective would find.

He drove back home in a drizzle, laughing to himself about how his actions, or lack thereof, of the evening would play out with the boss he considered a pompous jerk. He hoped that it would induce a Maalox binge. As he hit one, he said; "Goodbye, potholes."

He ignored the messages he found left on his answering machine, certain of their undesirable origin and went to sleep, the covers feeling warm and comforting to his cold, wet body. The first thing the following morning a determined Shaunessy drove to his longtime, home away from home, a police station in Midtown Manhattan. It was an almost pleasant leisurely drive in the morning sunshine, as at least he could see the road hazards coming and for once, he was on no one's schedule but his own. Upon arriving he quickly walked down the long straight hall, thinking that if he had a little more time to rationalize he might change his mind. He walked tall with his longish, now gray hair undulating in the heat duct zephyrs. He knew he was woefully out of style, but stubbornly refused to adopt the current baldy cut, preferring to show something he believed in; the sixties culture. He realized that most people no longer had an inkling as to what that was all about, but considered it their loss.

"Morning, Shaunessy" echoed in his ears, the greetings imparted by people hurriedly traversing the same area, carrying files, their heads down reading as they extended their cordialities.

He mumbled; "Morning," "Morning," "Morning" to no one in particular, not wanting to be accused of being in a bad mood and having to explain why to any of the friendly flock. That's an excellent way to get in one. No one seemed to understand the difference between being resolute and being angry, anyway.

The door he approached displayed a sign over the thick gray opaque glass which said; "RICHARD FITZPATRICK, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES." Not Richie, not Dick, not Rich, he was Richard or Mr. Fitzpatrick. Shaunessy always suspected that Richard must have had an unknown contact with someone influential, as the chief's capabilities and intelligence did not impress him or anyone else. Mr. Fitzpatrick answered the non-everyday questions by finding the most convenient area of the policy manual, the area indicating "No" and was never open to the parts that indicated "Yes." That could be risky for Richard. It also made him extremely predictable for everyone else, resulting in a dearth of inquiries. Maybe his genius was that this was precisely what he sought. Shaunessy used to amuse himself, whenever he was unfortunate enough to have to speak to the Chief, by thinking; "Richard Fitz Patrick or maybe it's Patrick Fitz Richard, in either case, quite a sight."

Richard was pushing forty, unmarried, had no known relationships with the opposite sex, lived in a one room condo on 23rd Street, that prior to the Manhattan gentrification craziness, was used as a single-room-occupancy welfare hotel and he was said to have over one million dollars in his contributory retirement account. He had a penchant for repeating a joke everyone politely laughed at every time they heard it. He would say; "Do you know the golden rule?" and answer it with; "He who has the gold makes the rules," no doubt thinking that he qualified.

Shaunessy made two loud knocks and heard "Come in." Richard's usually neat combed and oiled, wavy, black, short hair was in a bit of disarray, with a cowlick protruding near the small balding spot on top, looking as if it were trying to escape as the other hair had. His dark Brooks Brothers suit covered a white shirt strangled with a yellow tie, all the office fashion ten years prior. He demonstrated his busy importance by not looking up, continuing his "concentration" on some pressing matter the papers he held in his fidgeting hands, were apparently shedding much needed light. "Have a seat. Be right with you," he pertly said.

Shaunessy had seen the routine before and calmly said; "Thanks," and sat in one of the two available chairs, recalling that the "game" could only be survived if he didn't attempt to mimic Mr. Importance's contrived speed and merely stated his case with no regard for time.

Richard got up and stuck his head out the door, his hand doing its best to hold three somewhat rumpled papers and called out; "Vivian?"

His young secretary bounced right over. Her small eyes and plain face was topped by short dark hair combed straight back with more oil than Richard's. Her light brown pants suit leaned on the door frame as Richard held the papers up to her face and she looked at them with grave consternation. Richard said; "Call him and tell him that these pages will have to be entirely redone. It's not in conformance with policy." Her wrinkled brow became smooth and the corners of her mouth almost smiled, as she took the papers and charged off to use Richard's authority to attempt to terrorize someone.

Richard returned to his desk and sat down behind it, folding his hands in front of him, perhaps to appear restrained under the circumstances and said; "I understand that you exhibited very unprofessional behavior last night."

Shaunessy grinned and replied; "I suppose some would call it that, but it's really irrelevant."

Richard's face registered shock that someone would have the audacity to tell him what was or wasn't relevant, but he professionally controlled it with a small gulp and a tightening of his enmeshed fingers and said; "Walking off the job and telling the beat cop to go buy a piece of plywood is certainly relevant in my book."

Shaunessy couldn't help but laugh and said; "Did he actually do it?"

Richard's eyes widened and in a very serious tone, hopefully mock-serious said; "Under your authority. The result of which was a contamination of the crime scene."

Shaunessy struggled to contain his laughter, first visualizing Richard's imminent Maalox binge and then picturing the crime scene with taped plywood dangling and finally said; "I had heard that some of the career beat guys are really stupid, but I had no idea how much. Of course that was extremely obvious sarcasm."

"Then you admit you said it?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm going to have to write you up on an 'EXTREMELY POOR BEHAVIOR' form."

He had seen a few of these in his working days and certainly could care less about another one now. Shaunessy smiled at Richard, but quickly ended the farce with an unintentional snort.

Richard was confused and his round face went blank. He looked at Shaunessy and, he, too, saw nothing. He used his best tactic and repeated himself; "No joking matter; an 'EXTREMELY POOR BEHAVIOR' form."

Shaunessy feigned fear, popping his eyes widely and putting one hand in front of his face, making it quiver like Don Knotts. He said; "Okay, this is getting tedious. Write whatever you want, but I'm here to tell you that I quit and the policy manual tells me that I have to get the forms through you." He took his badge and gun from his pocket and gently laid them by Richard's still folded hands.

Richard's eyes blinked a few times, as he tried to remember if the official reprimand would serve any purpose under the circumstances. He tried a delaying tactic and said; "I think some amount of notice is required."

"I have accrued vacation time owed me. Use as much of it as notice may require."

Richard finished his mental calculations, determining that the reprimand was of no use to him and said; "You'll have the papers by mail in a week." He then stood up and showed Shaunessy to the door.

At 6'1'' Shaunessy was about five inches taller than the Chief and felt like getting in one last shot. At the door he stopped, turned and said; "Oh, little Dickie, if the correct papers don't arrive in one week, the union attorney will be on your ass. I understand he likes that position. Do be a good boy." He gave little Dickie a soft slap on the cheek and added; "Wish I could say it's been nice working with you," turned and left.
Chapter 2

Shaunessy's plane landed at the Albuquerque Sunport at 2PM and as soon as he stepped outside, he was greeted by a stiff breeze, making him wish he was carrying his heaviest coat to fend off the winter chill caused by the wind and the weak sun filtering through a uniform blue gray sky. He quickly walked five hundred feet to the rent-a-car emporium and was relieved to be hit in the face by the heat when he entered.

He approached the elongated desk where a young Spanish man was looking down at something. Shaunessy said; "I'll need a car for a few days, nothing fancy."

The clerk kept his eyes glued to whatever he was reading, held up an index finger and said; "I'll be right with you."

Thinking of his silly expectation that a desert was a hot place, Shaunessy nervously added; "And make sure the heater works. Damn, it's cold here."

The clerk smirked and calmly said; "It's winter........ Okay, what is it you need? We got Chevy's, Chryslers, Nissans, you name it."

"How about a small deep blue Chevy?"

Shaunessy ran the engine a while, at times gunning the gas pedal, shivering. When the temperature gauge passed into the red zone he gingerly turned on the heater and, feeling the warm air emitted, he turned it up full blast. He left the rental agency parking lot and followed the signs out of the airport. The roads were being used by only a few other cars and he happily found the travelling extremely easy by New York standards, as he watched for signs that would lead him to the interstate north.

After passing by the hotels and more car rental places adjacent to the airport, the road became somewhat strange to him in its diversity; small houses, car repair shops, a cemetery, open lots, convenience store gas stations, Fed Ex/Kinko's copy places and the University of New Mexico at the end of the road. Being forced to make a turn, he made a left onto "Route 66," which didn't look like any "Route" he had previously encountered, with the possible exception of his vaguely recalled short "vacation" here a few years prior. Its hodge-podge restaurants, clothing stores, furniture stores, jewelry shops and American Indian retailers of sundry "native" merchandise, made him think a name like "Broadway" would be more appropriate. Its twenty-five mile per hour speed limit, traffic lights and single lane with on-street parking reminded him of the shopping districts that existed back east before the malls put them out of business. He would later discover that Route 66 was also known as Central Avenue, at least the part where he had been. At any rate, his first thirty minute impression of his new home was three-quarters favorable; quaint, eclectic and easy to traverse, but he could easily stand a twenty or more degree increase in temperature.

After about ten blocks he saw the signs for the interstate and proceeded north as the meager sun displayed its last few filtered glows of the day to his left, possibly retiring in the cradle of thick black clouds. Shaunessy hoped it would get some much needed rest, so it could better perform its duties tomorrow.

Now on a three-lane-in-each-direction highway, travelling at seventy miles per hour, he concentrated on the road, keeping an indirect watch on the coming and going headlights necessitated by the poor light. Interested in hearing what the previous auto renter was into, he turned on the radio and didn't change the station, hearing be-bop jazz, though not that of Charlie Parker. This was a little softer and a little slower. He thought it was an interesting choice and was curious to hear the names of the performers, as he wasn't a Parker fan, preferring Coltrane's style by far. His strongest dislike of Parker was his usual fast and hard approach, which always reminded him of the aspect of New York he most disliked. The music kept coming without verbal interruption when he saw his destination, the "Vista de la Feria" exit.

It put him on the little town's main drag, Vista de la Feria Road. Making a left he saw a few commercial establishments mixed in with what he would come to know as Southwestern style houses; flat-roofed one and two story structures, with varying shades of mostly brown stucco exteriors and a few with pitched roofs of tin. With little traffic, he was able to crane his neck around and view the side streets while watching for a Moongate Road sign. He saw areas of new development which mimicked the old, some still under construction, but standing out as different due to their seeming regularity. Their lack of yard junk and the newly planted small ornamental trees gave the incorrect feeling that no one lived in them as lit windows were not required by the sedentary. He previously read that the town had become a mecca for retirees, who relocated from elsewhere, half of them New Yorkers. The town probably tolerated the newcomers because many came with some money, for one large reason the houses they vacated in "metropolitan" areas were sold for double and sometimes triple the local going rate. Based on his shadowy recollection Shaunessy thought that the growing 15,000 population of Vista de la Feria contained a mixture of cultures tolerant of one another; small town whites and Spanish, "rural" whites and Spanish, big city suburbanites of white, yellow and brown hue and the "old hippies" who moved here when it was cheap and chose to stay. He wasn't particularly worried about the accuracy of the impression garnered from the short opaquely remembered vacation. He realized many years ago that things always looked wonderful during a short stay, as it took time to discover where all the garbage was dumped. At his advanced age of 54 years he was finally in a financial position where he could always move again if it didn't meet his liking, just as easily as he left New York.

He came upon a garishly lit strip mall and instinctively knew that he should have made a right off the interstate, as he took this as a sign he had reached one edge of town or possibly had passed over into another. He made the best of the situation and since the strip mall had a convenience store, he decided to stop and pick up some supplies.

Shaunessy parked and entered the "Frontier Country Market," glad that someone apparently had a sense of humor, as the houses clustered on one acre lots made him think that the last time the place could truly be called a "frontier" was before at least three quarters of them were built. He loaded a four wheel cart with items he hoped would last him a few days and noticed that the other three shoppers only took one or two things and seemed more interested in making conversation with the chubby, blond, thirty-five year old woman at the cash register. The fascination eluded him, as she wasn't very attractive, had her hair sprayed into a helmet and had a surly look on her face, as if to say, "What are you bothering me for, cretin?"

When he was thoroughly loaded he wheeled the cart to the register and took his turn. The counter was merely a two foot by two foot non-revolving precipice between Shaunessy and the Helmet. He started to put some things on it, but stopped when he ran out of room. She didn't move. He looked at her, thinking; "It's your job to ring these things up, isn't it?"

Helmet sternly said; "New around here?"

He said; "Matter of fact, brand new. Have I already violated some local custom?"

"Well, most people only come here for a few items in an emergency. The prices are much higher than the discount stores at the mall."

"I'll pay them. I'm a bit strapped for time. I've been travelling all day."

Her thoughts were that here might be a person with money to burn and her tone became cordial, saying; "Are you going to be living in Vista de la Feria?"

"Yes."

"Did you buy one of those big new expensive houses?"

Surprised at the aggressive question directed at a stranger, Shaunessy decided to both attempt evasion and to make her disinterested by implying poverty. He said; "No, I'd call it more of a little old fixer upper and I rent it with an option to buy if I can ever find the money."

She derisively said; "Oh," and commenced ringing up the items.

He was happy to end the inquisition and as he unloaded more, Shaunessy said; "I think I made a wrong turn. Do you know where Moongate Road is?"

Helmet gave him a look that outdid her "Oh" and said; "You came off the interstate, right?"

"Yes."

"You should have made a right. It's back the other way and it has a very small street sign."

"Can you give me any landmarks to watch for? It's pretty dark."

She made her first smile of the encounter, though far from a jovial one and said; "Go back past the interstate entrance about two miles and on your right you'll see a very nice new development with an adobe wall entrance." She smirked and added; Moongate is the dirt road right after it."

"Thanks."

"Are you from New York?"

He was surprised and showed it when he voiced; "Yes, how did you know?"

"Your accent."

Shaunessy didn't previously realize he had one. He thought the rest of the country did. He was surprised and got a bit self-conscious.

His satisfaction at igniting disinterest was squelched when Helmet continued her investigative/judgmental repartee with; "I thought New Yorkers had a lot of money."

Shaunessy understood why some people liked to talk to Helmet; she asked them about themselves, everyone's favorite topic. However, he knew the game from being on the other end and had no interest in trying to impress her with his financial prowess. He gave her a faint smile, raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

She broke from her ringing and packing, gave him another stern look and had the audacity to say; "Well?"

He was now annoyed. He thought; "For God's sake, I just want to get my groceries and get the hell out of here." He decided not to say what he would have liked to, instead attempted to appear friendly and stupid and said; "Well, what?"

"Don't New Yorkers have a lot of money?"

Shaunessy was hoping that Helmet wouldn't have the audacity to repeat the question another time, but wasn't the least bit surprised that she did. He took a more aggressive stance and said; "Why ask me when you can get the precise answer on your computer? You do have one, I imagine. No doubt some can pay cash for a chain of small shops like this. Why the interest? Are you the owner and want to sell this place?" He gave her his first smile.

She said; "Everybody has a computer and no, I'm not the owner."

Shaunessy derisively said; "Oh, didn't think so."

As he drove his cache back the other way, he reflected on his first encounter. He hoped that Helmet was not representative of the area, as a brief meeting with her already necessitated him using the mental energy to fend off pushy nosiness. He had read of the area's friendliness, but didn't find what he expected if this was the form it took. On the positive side he found solace in the fact that at least he didn't meet any crazy killer crack-heads. Thank God for small favors. He made a mental note that the next time he saw Helmet, he'd ask her if she lived in Vista de la Feria, or just worked there. On second thought; bad idea, as it could provide an entrée to a conversation he had no use for. He knew Vista de la Feria was considered the status place in the area, but now gleaned that apparently the section he would inhabit was de classe, at least in some eyes.

Prior to her death, Shaunessy and his wife had half-seriously talked about relocating and visited some prospects on his vacations. They left each one with a feeling of; "It's nice, but.........." and did nothing but periodically resurrect the conversation. But after Margaret's death, Shaunessy found that their five room condo in Queens felt empty and everything about it and in it reminded him of her. For every piece of furniture or picture there he'd recall the ages Margaret and he had been when they bought it, what things were like back then, what they had expected for the future and why they liked that item. It was an intolerable inescapability.

He couldn't stand the memories any more and before his trip to Vista de la Feria he sold it all in bulk to an "antique dealer," keeping only his clothing and the photographs. The pictures could easily be tucked away and pulled out at special times. The gruesomeness of being a cop in Manhattan added accelerant to the fire under his ass to get away. He and Margaret had visited New Mexico a few times and found out that Vista de la Feria was full of New Yorkers, so he thought that he wouldn't be the only oddball in the "heartland" and would have a few to speak the same language to.

He found this place, for rent with an option to buy and bolted before he could talk himself out of it. The house was a five room single story adobe "casita" with a flat roof. It sat on a "private acre" in the company of others much like it on Moongate Road and was a tad different than the development houses bordering one side, which were larger, newer and more manicured. He was anxious to see the heralded Sangre de Cristo views, explained to him as encompassing their entirety, from foothills to peaks. He was certain that, under any circumstances, he would not be going back to the Northeast. Besides, Vista de la Feria was desperate for a cop with New York experience to keep an eye on all the "unruly newcomers of the geriatric set."

He saw the adobe walls lining the entrance to the new development and made the next right onto dirt paved Moongate and softly said; "Margaret, we're almost home. What do you think of this place?"

Imagined non-committal response.

"I guess you want to reserve judgment a bit."

Imagined response.

"Not what you expected?"

Imagined negative response.

"Me, either."

Imagined response.

"Ah, let's give it some time. We just got to the Land of Enchantment. Maybe it takes a while to get that way. Look at that big one. It looks like it's got the shape of a "T", like a phony cross with no head."

Imagined disinterested response.

"Well, you know I'm not particularly religious, either. It's just an odd shape for a house."

Imagined response.

"I can see you're not impressed." He laughed and added; "Sorry, we don't have to stay. It's only a rental."

Silent pause.

"I know it's nothing like New York, but that was the point, right? Ah, number 28. Look at the mountain view."

Imagined surly response.

"Just a little joke. We'll see it better in the morning. We've been in worse places."

Imagined questioning response.

"No, I don't recall where. Give me time to think about that one. Where do I park? This one is weird. Must have been designed for access by horse."

Imagined jocular, off-color response.

"You laughed, I heard it. Maybe if I circle around the walls I'll find a driveway in the back ....... There we go."

He drove slowly through the opening and down a fifteen foot dirt driveway and stopped facing a portal that ran the entire back of the adobe structure. Visibility was provided only by the full moon, so he took a flashlight from the glove compartment and used it's assistance to open the faded blue back door. He reached around the door sill and found a light switch and then walked slowly inside noting the brick floor. The interior walls retained the original adobe contour and were all painted white. He took a quick look at the five rooms and not seeing any varmints, went back to the car to get his groceries, duffel bag and rolled-up airplane tripping cot. When they were in place he returned to the car again and mock-gallantly said; "Is my blushing bride ready? Let me carry you across the threshold. If I still can. It's good that you don't weigh much anymore."

Imagined dreamy response.

"You know I love you and here we........"

He heard a surprised male raised voice say; "You talking to me?"

Shaunessy stopped startled and considered what to reply as he put down his outstretched arms, dropping his invisible bride. He instinctively whispered; "Sorry," and pictured Margaret's face looking up at him with the same expression she had when, while painting the condo walls, he accidentally hit her in the face with a brush, saturated with wet scarlet paint. He again heard the male voice. This time it increased volume and said; "What?" His quick thinking mind told him that he would either have to say that he loved the stocky 5'8" bearded Spanish gentleman standing ten feet away with his hands in his baggy pants pockets and that he was sorry about it or say that he was talking to himself. There had to be a third option. His speedy processing system came up with something that somewhat addressed what was likely heard and provided an adequate defense. He decided to lie and said; "Jesus, you scared me. I love this place, at least up until now. I hope the hell you're the owner."

The Spanish man approached, extended his hand and said; "Yes, I'm Ramon Gutierrez. That's pronounced 'Gut-tare-ez,' not 'Goot-tea-air-ez.' I think we spoke on the phone once. You're Thomas Shaunessy?"

Thankful for the avoidance of a possible faux pas, Shaunessy shook his hand and said; "People call me Shaunessy."

"Why not Thomas? It's a good Christian name."

"I don't know. It's been that way since I was a kid."

"No brothers?"

"No, as a matter of fact. One sister."

"I got three brothers and three sisters. They all live around here." He waved his hand, perhaps indicating anywhere from the neighborhood to the entire Rio Grande Valley.

"What made you guess about my lack of brothers?"

"You couldn't both be called 'Shaunessy.' That would be confusing."

Shaunessy thought that was funny, though it really didn't make much sense. He dismissed a few possible responses, smiled and said; "I guess I can call you Ramon." He paused and got a nod, then continued; "How did you get in here, Ramon?"

"Through the front door. I live in the big casa; the one shaped like a "T". When I saw a car enter here, I thought it might be you."

Shaunessy was less than happy to hear that his new landlord would be in such close proximity, especially after having unpleasant experiences in the same situation years prior, so, with a sarcasm he said; "Oh, that's great. Someone can keep an eye on the place while I'm gone." As soon as the words came out, he hoped the sarcastic edge wouldn't be detected.

It was, mercifully either not detected or ignored, as Ramon said; "That's one of the good things about Vista de la Feria. People know each other and watch out for any garbage." He paused, then added; "That is, at least until all the New Yorkers moved here." Shaunessy grinned and at that point he assumed that the sarcasm was well understood and effectively disposed of.

Shaunessy felt strange. Here he was a grown male, with preferences which have been common to people he had known throughout his life and yet he seemed to be in the position of explaining his big town standardized "oddities" to someone who was more of a minority group than he was. Tolerance had been the surface and sometime sub-surface rule of the road regarding them throughout his lifetime, but now he felt he was in their position and, perhaps not tolerated. He decided that the role reversal was an interesting game and somewhat mock-defensively replied; "We're much more congested back east. So, privacy becomes the prize. I'm sure you can understand that."

Indicating that he probably could "understand" that, but didn't necessarily "agree" with it, Ramon countered with; "Maybe that's why you have so much crime."

Shaunessy waved his hands in front of his stomach in half surrender and laughed when he said; "Don't put me in the position of defending New York. If I liked it so much, I'd still be there. But, I have to add that Albuquerque is the per capita murder capital of the nation."

"Albuquerque's a whole other story. There haven't been any murders in Vista de la Feria in my lifetime."

"Then, why do you need more cops?"

Ramon chuckled; "More traffic, more speeding tickets."

Shaunessy thought that that was really one of the jobs he came here to do, preferring it to ugly murder investigations, but he was irked at the sneering tone he thought Ramon conveyed. He said; "I hope that's all I have to do. At my age, I don't need a hard job."

Ramon seemed pleased with the commentary and changed the subject back to traditional business and said; "The heat's on, water's running, electric's obviously on. Anything else I can do for you?"

With no sarcasm in mind Shaunessy said; "No, thanks, that's great."

"When is the rest of your stuff being delivered?"

"This is the rest. I sold everything else. I'll be getting new stuff here."

"A friend of mine owns a furniture store and I can get you a really good deal on........."

Shaunessy cut in on the paused statement, saying; "We'll talk about that some other time. It's been a long day and right now I just want to eat and sleep."

Ramon said; "Sorry, I should have realized that." He again extended his right hand, which Shaunessy vigorously shook. Both parties nodded approval or pleasant pretend approval. As Ramon exited, he looked back for a second and said; "You can talk to your bride again, but keep it low. I do that sometimes too. I don't get any argument that way and she's not even dead yet."

Shaunessy trailed Ramon out from a distance of ten feet behind and watched him walk toward his "T" casa until he disappeared into the darkness. Shaunessy whispered; "Oh, Margaret, it sure is going to be a change of scene here." He was sure that his resolute and questioning tone was answered with; "He's funny. I like him."

Shaunessy whispered; "Margaret!" picked her up again and added; "Let me show you the rest of the place."

After they strolled their new imperfect hideaway, Shaunessy put Margaret back on her feet and while he attempted to get his own on the ground, he noticed a small package lying in a corner. It was wrapped in soft blue velvety Christmas paper with red and yellow ribbons prominently on top.

"Should I open it?"

Imagined shrugging response.

"If it's not I can always re-wrap it.........Maybe it's for us."

Imagined cautionary response.

"I'll be very careful. Promise."

Shaunessy carefully undid the beautifully textured covering and found a box full of walnuts. He laughed out loud and said; "How very appropriate."

He heard no other opinion from Margaret.
Chapter 3

The Vista de la Feria Chief of Police took twenty-eight year old Lieutenant John Striker to the side of their cubicled open space office. Striker was on the force for six contented years, working by himself, with the exception of the first year when he learned the ropes from retiring Sergeant Anthony Armijo. The two easy going New Mexico boys saw most things eye to eye, at least the most important ones, for one, who gets to go in the one bowl bathroom first. This was decided in an unspoken mental calculation, which took into consideration many factors and had the highest weight on degree of need and whether the trip was necessitated by a #1, 2, 3, or combinations thereof. Mathematicians would have a difficult time defining an exact formula, but the two kindred spirits had no problem coming up with the right answer merely utilizing facial expressions. Another important comfort zone was that each made the other aware that they liked pussy, but never discussed whose, frequency of occupation, or precisely what they liked doing with one. Striker was no dummy and had been anticipating this conversation for at least a few months, as the population growth in Vista de la Feria had brought him to the point where most of his day was spent refereeing domestic squabbles, breaking up kid's fights and warning people about the public use of potty mouth. It seemed that these ill-trained, retired, doddering, refugees from "The Big Apple" had absolutely no sense of morals. On one occasion a settler from "Sin City," male, who looked all of 75 years of age, said "Shit" and "Fuck" to his canine companion within probable earshot of a house owned by an old time Vista de la Feria family of nice people who regularly attend Saturday service at the Seventh Day Adventist compound of worship, clean clothes, quiet ecumenism, bookstore, gym, storage facilities, furniture store and sometimes yard sale. The religious and commercial enterprises sit on a property immaculate of dog doo-doo, ensured by one full time employee assigned to the task and preventative patrol.

As a consequence of the newly imposed duties Striker had little time to police Vista de la Feria Road, the town's two-way, one lane in each direction, main drag. The posted 25MPH speed limit was now being violated by as much as 80 percent. He just knew that the perpetrators had to be members of the fossilized New York occupation force, who were still dumb enough to think that they had to get some place in a hurry. Witness their results. Natives knew that they weren't going anywhere and had the sense to take their time doing it.

Striker's 6'2", 200 pound frame towered over the Chief and he took the initiative in the conversation, venturing; "Let me guess. I'm getting a helper."

The Chief's 60 year old wizened, wrinkled and slightly chubby, cheerful face smirked and grinned before he said; "Sort of, except he, too, is going to be a Lieutenant. I'd use the word "partner" rather than "helper."

Striker pursed his lips and thought; "Strike one." Sorry for his giveaway facial expression, he attempted to appear unfazed and said; "What kind of experience does he have?" He quickly realized his silly assumption and added; "Or she."

"Thirty-two years, mostly as a homicide detective. And 'He' is correct."

Striker pictured himself as outgunned and thought "Strike two and shit," potty brain still legal in New Mexico. He didn't say anything and stared stoically at the Chief, unaware that his unease shone through as clearly as a spotlight.

The Chief slowly shook his head from side to side, forced a smile and said; "Don't worry about it. His name is Tom Shaunessy, he's almost my age, he's from New York and I think his biggest interest is semi-retirement."

Striker's face was now truly expressionless, probably due to the numbing effect of the Novocain injection something natural in him was wise enough to administer. His mind said; "New York!!!!! Strike three and fucking shit," the latter two unspoken words a severe form of potty brain reserved only for the most dire of circumstances. He did his best to affect an outward calm, given away only by his frozen face and said; "When will I meet him?"

The half-foot shorter Chief looked up at him and replied; "Later today or tomorrow, probably. I told him to come in whenever he got settled. A few days, one way or the other, doesn't matter at all."

Striker said; "Sounds good. I can use the help," and walked back to his seat satisfied that he had ended the conversation referring to the intruder as "help." He wasn't certain that the wording was worth anything to him, but under the circumstances, it was the best attempt at positioning he could think of. He wondered if the Chief's attitude would be so casual if he took a few days off to get something settled.

Striker sat at his desk and took documents from his drawers and pretended to diligently peruse them. He was blind to their significance, if any. He thought they were a good subterfuge to cover the fact that he just really wanted to think and stew. The Chief gleaned exactly what he was doing in so painfully obvious a manner, understood his feelings, said nothing and thought that the best thing Striker could do right now was think and stew quietly.

Striker previously envisioned this day, but didn't like to dwell on it, so it hit him full force today. Most importantly he was somewhat surprised and discouraged with learning of a more experienced "equal." He thought; "No way is this going to be an improvement. Best case is a neutral relationship with jockeying for position. Worst case was out and out contentiousness with an overbearing, more experienced, nervous ass who wants to be 'boss'. The best approach in either case is to be as surface co-operative as possible, while continually bringing to the forefront his strongest point; his knowledge of the area and its people."

His Vista de la Feria birth and rearing made him suspicious of the outsiders flocking to the place over the last ten years, especially those from the "garden of debauchery," New York City! Damn greedy local farmers and politicians got in on the New York money kicking around, not caring that this would culminate in the demise of the Vista de la Feria way of life. Look at Albuquerque. His father told him that when he was a little boy it was as Vista de la Feria is today. But see it now; a mini-den of depravity, with International Sexpos, pornography shops, drugs, weapons, criminals, weirdos, gangs, illegal aliens and any other work of the devil you can identify. His father thought it would soon rival New York, populated by people with no interest in or sense of local culture. He felt confident in saying that because he shopped in Albuquerque once a week, he had visited NYC for a week twenty years ago and he regularly watched news programs emanating from both places. Albuquerque's demise was not necessarily the work of only the New Yorkers, but of big city foreigners in general.

Striker got his mind back to the pressing matter at hand and decided that no matter how you slice it inevitably this new guy with more police experience would be competition. Striker's wife had already been whining for years about his need to make more money. The conversations came from all directions and he thought she had already covered north, south, east and west and every gradation in between. Now a new ramification from the east would give her fodder for more "nuance." His tall, lean hard body, weaned on youthful farm work, felt smaller and less relevant in the new-coming world of sophistication and standard operating procedures. He had often heard old people say that this wasn't any more their world, but God damn it, he was all of twenty-eight.

During their dating days his now bellicose wife had a "surprise" pregnancy, he thought only a surprise to him. Julia said she was on the pill. He did what he thought was the "right thing" and married the Catholic damsel in distress, who was adamantly against abortion. He felt like he was paying for his act of kindness ever since. The Marquis De Sade had a point. He didn't expect what was to come at all and at first, actually looked forward to being a husband and father. In a few years, when the second ideologically irreversible "accident" came along, he was already worn out from the daily, poorly veiled admonishments about the necessity of increased largesse. Christ, she knew he was a cop all along. Did she expect him to supplement a cop's pay with "protection" or some other kind of jail potential money? Women regularly work these days, but not her. She informed him, non-negotiably, that she had absolutely no intention of doing so, at least until the kids were eighteen. Imprecise, rough calculations told him that with any more surprise pregnancies that could carry her to near retirement age. He thought that, under the circumstances, she ought to be glad that she lived in a decent house and didn't have to field regular calls from bill collectors. Lovemaking had become virtually non-existent, the fuel of the ice fire constantly topped off by a mutual lack of trust in the other.

He spent the entire day shuffling papers under the Chief's watchful eye. All of his disgruntled thoughts stayed with him until he went home at 5PM, said he had a tough day, ate and went right to bed.

The following morning, sitting alone at the kitchen table, he wolfed down the remainder of his coffee as he heard his wife, Julia, enter the room, her slightly overweight frame covered by dirty white long johns, a deep blue pullover thermal top and a sloppy light robe that had once been pink and embroidered, now requiring the viewer's blind faith to appear that way. Her short dark hair was as the pillow had left it and appeared a bit lop-sided; some places puffy, some flat and some going in the wrong direction.

She flatly said; "Meeting your new partner today?" as she nonchalantly and sleepily poured herself a cup of coffee and fussed around the kitchen.

Striker rose from his chair slowly, pretending to suck the last drops from his coffee cup and trying to show her that he was in a hurry and said; "Probably, I'll soon find out."

"Maybe you can learn something from him."

He saw a flash of red and thought; "Here we go already." He decided to take her off her course by unusually responding in a churlish fashion and offered; "And who are you going to learn something from today?"

Her shrill voice said; "What do you mean by that? What am I supposed to learn?"

"I don't know. I guess we all could stand some new information once in a while."

She was facing the sink and as he walked by he gave her an obligatory quick kiss on the back of her neck, adding; "Gotta run, hon. I'll see you later." She didn't turn to watch him go toward the door, but she was compelled to remind him; "Robert's class is going on a field trip to the Acoma Pueblo. It's one hundred dollars."

He said; "Okay, give them a check," and went out to the police car waiting in the driveway. "Escape," he thought, making a mental note to cover the check with a cash advance on one of his well-used credit cards.

Shaunessy got to the police station early. Since this was his first day he did not yet have a key and waited in his car, engine running, to take advantage of the heater. It was what he would come to know as a typical slightly overcast Vista de la Feria winter morning, sadly reminiscent of New York. As he looked at the sky he was hoping for something new, but nothing got his attention until a police car pulled in and parked next to him. The driver, a young man, got out. Knowing the chief to be a much older man, Shaunessy thought this could his new partner. He got out and said; "Striker?"

"Yeah. Morning." Perplexed and disgruntled, he incorrectly thought that the man dressed in civvies was there to file some report, so he distractedly added; "You're a little early."

Shaunessy thought that Striker knew who he was and replied; "Yeah, I've always been like that," and he followed Striker to the door of the station and entered behind him.

Striker really didn't want to get bogged down in taking some report, so he said; "Have a seat out here. Our secretary will be here any minute," and he went through another door, closing it behind him.

Shaunessy didn't understand the possible brush off, but did as he had been told, glancing at the wall clock which said 8:12. He reflected on the brief conversation and concluded that Striker either openly didn't want to see him or didn't know who he was. The comment about the secretary suggested the latter, so he decided to attempt to have some fun.

He knocked at the door Striker had just closed and Striker called out, "Yeah?"

"I hate to disturb you, but I really have to use the restroom."

The door opened, Striker displaying a tight lipped grin and saying; "I didn't get your name."

"I'm Mark Schwartz, reporter for the "Vista de la Feria Times." I understand that a new cop is starting today and I wanted to do a little bit on him."

Striker nodded, allowed Shaunessy into the restroom and left him there. Shaunessy ran the water a bit, flushed and quickly came out to see Striker with his feet up on his desk, staring at an open book he held in his left hand. Shaunessy could see that his new office, which he assumed he would soon be sharing with the younger, so far less than competently deductive officer, was going to be a twenty by twenty open space with four put-it-together-yourself pressed wood desks, the laminated faux wood toppings, peeling and absent in places. The three chairs accompanying each were all different at first glance and seemed to be former residents of some thrift shop.

Shaunessy asked; "Good book?"

Striker looked at the tall, thin, graying older man, with hair not in style anytime during his 28 years. He made a quick conclusion based on the absurd hairstyle and his stated job and thought; "A stupid liberal." He grimaced, closed the book and said; "Nah, I haven't seen anything good in some time."

Shaunessy got his first inkling that he was going to have a partner who was hard-nosed and perhaps finicky. He said; "I recently liked one named 'Destiny's Station,' written by Irradiana Oblikowski."

"What's it about?"

"Overcoming obstacles."

Striker appeared not to understand and looked blankly, as if he required additional information. Shaunessy tried to elaborate in a different manner, saying; "You ever see the movie 'El Dorado?'"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact it's one of my favorites. Is this book a western?"

"No." Shaunessy saw he was dealing with someone very literal and mulled over his next response, while Striker got that glazed look in his eyes again. Shaunessy said; "I really don't know how to describe it, without telling the whole story and that would ruin it for you. It is sort of talking about it and at the same time not talking about it, focusing on the parallel truth in something else, like David Foster Wallace. I think it's classified as a psychological thriller, but I think it's more of a psychological adventure." Shaunessy realized that he had said too much, the book probably not being on Striker's must read list and not wanting his new partner to consider him a spacy intellectual. He added; "Are you familiar with 'The Pale King?'" referring both to DFW and his last book.

Striker dismissively snorted and snickered when he said; "No." He took out a pen and wrote something on a notepad, adding; "I'll check it out," wanting to sound somewhat polite, but having no intention of doing so.

Shaunessy correctly interpreted that as "end of interest or end of conversation," so he changed the subject, saying; "Well, what can you tell me about your new partner?"

"He's from New York," saying the last words with more than a hint of disgust. Catching himself in the strong inflection he had given in an unguarded moment, Striker wanted to correct any impression taken as many of today's Vista de la Feria residents were from New York and Mr. Schwartz might be one of them. He quickly added; "Not that I have anything against New York. It's just a bit of an impediment as it means that I'll have to teach him all about Vista de la Feria and New Mexico."

Shaunessy said; "Well, I've got something against New York, I hate the fucking place. That's why I moved here."

Striker put the probabilities together in his head and said; "You're not....."

Shaunessy extended his right hand and said; "Yeah, I'm Tom Shaunessy. Good detective work."

Striker smiled, rose to shake his hand and said; "You son of a ........See, you already almost got me using objectionable words." He outwardly laughed, but his second thoughts were more complex. Was Shaunessy being sarcastic with him about the "good detective work?" Maybe he should have suspected who the man was from the get-go. He also wasn't completely comfortable with his new partner starting out their relationship with a game.

He kept those thoughts to himself as he showed Shaunessy the office highlights and his new desk, right there across from his own.

Chief Kerry and Rhonda Armijo, the secretary, walked in together. The Chief, who Shaunessy thought looked twenty years older than his photo on Facebook, said; "I see you two have met. Good. Rhonda, go get Mr. Shaunessy his new uniform so he can start earning his paycheck." He evinced a broad grin on his deeply wrinkled sixty year old fleshy face as he shook Shaunessy's hand, saying; "And you let me know if this youngster gives you any trouble."

Shaunessy returned the grin, saying; "I'll do that," taking the conversation as mere pleasantries, but noting that Striker's face displayed a look which could have said; "Nobody told me that he's my boss and he's not."

Not very much later Striker announced that he would show Shaunessy some of the area, grabbed his coat and went right to the driver's door of the police car. As he opened it he facetiously said; "Mind if I drive?" and sat down.

Shaunessy waited until he was in the passenger's seat to reply, saying; "Of course not. You know the roads better than I do. But do me a favor. Turn up the damn heat. It's freezing in here."

Striker complied and entered the main road. He said; "All right. Beginning of your Vista de la Feria education. See the kids waiting for the school bus?"

"Yeah?"

"See that guy approaching them?"

"Yeah?"

"That's Bobby Ortega," as he indicated the short, chubby, sloppily dressed Spanish man with his left index finger. "His family owned a lot of property here and he's the one who got screwed out of the money. He stays drunk most of the time and walks around in circles, never getting too far from the bar."

"Public intoxication?"

"No. I don't care about that. Hell, if we started enforcing that law, half the town would be in jail. We just wanna make sure he's not looking for a young friend to tell his troubles to."

Shaunessy drew the intended inference and was surprised, not expecting to run into this sort of thing right out of the gate. To nail down the possibly oblique phraseology, he questioned; "Child molester?"

"Oh, no. At least not yet. We just don't want him to bother any kids. He seems like a good guy, but he's got a pile of problems."

Striker pulled the car onto the dirt shoulder and got out, saying; "Hey, Bobby." Shaunessy got out and observed the exchange.

Bobby said; "Hey, Striker. How you doon today?"

Striker replied; "Fine, Bobby. I'm just a little worried about you though. Isn't it a little early to get started?"

Bobby laughed and said; "Yeah, it is. Rough night, you know?"

"Family crap?"

"Always. My sister won't let me have any money." Striker had heard enough about the family situation to know that Bobby's sister had control of Bobby's money, "for his own good."

"What do you need it for?"

"Everybody's moving here and you know I'm a builder." He staggered to his right foot and added; "And a good one, too."

Striker said; "Yeah, I know it, Bobby. Hey, I want you to meet somebody. This is my new partner, Shaunessy."

Bobby and Shaunessy shook hands and Bobby said; "Shaunessy? What kind of name is that?"

Shaunessy said; "Irish."

Bobby said; "I know that. Don't you have a first name?"

Shaunessy had forgotten he had one some time ago. Even his wife called him Shaunessy. With a raised voice, resulting from surprise, he said; "Tom."

Bobby said; "That's more like it, Tom. Listen, Tom, if my damn sister would give me the money that's rightfully mine, I could make a fortune in this real estate market. Nobody thinks I can do anything except drink. That'd show 'em."

Shaunessy was rendered speechless by Bobby's self-awareness and his propensity to see the drunkard's position. Striker interjected; "Ah, you might lose your ass, too."

Bobby said; "Oh, come on."

Striker slapped Bobby's shoulder and watched him rock back four steps before coming to a balanced halt and said; "I know you can. But you've got to get yourself steady first. You know what I mean?"

Bobby drew out; "Yeah, I know." He laughed at something no one else will ever know and added; "I think I could use some more fortification, right now."

Striker said; "Don't kill yourself, buddy, I'm rooting for ya'." He went back in the car and Shaunessy followed him, waving "Bye" to Bobby and feeling strangely sad.

After they watched Bobby stumble down the road, they drove away and Striker said; "He just needs somebody to talk to and it's better that it be us than some little kids."

Shaunessy, who, due to his college education in an era when few cops had one, had always been a detective, never a beat cop, had never before performed this type of "police work" and thought about it. When Striker first stopped Bobby, he was thinking; "Why bother this man? He's committed no crime." Then later in the conversation he thought Striker was acting more like a psychologist than a cop. He settled in on a mindset of; "I've got a lot to learn about small town life. This is what I wanted to see. Give it a chance. Maybe this is how one 'keeps the peace.'"

Striker knew by Shaunessy's silence that he was mulling over something that was new and unusual to him, but glad that he got no complaints or commentaries about how this was not done in the Big Apple. As he drove he'd periodically look at Shaunessy out of the corner of his eye to see the man craning his neck around, taking in the local sights. He decided to be direct and said; "Not standard operating procedure in New York, I bet?"

Shaunessy said; "Frankly, no, but I like it. So far, so good. I think that in New York we've got too much actual crime to get involved in prevention."

Striker replied; "We've got our share of 'actual crime' here, too."

Shaunessy regarded the comment as being that of one unaccustomed to daily stabbings, rapes and murders, but didn't want to appear contentious in bringing that up. Instead, seeking further education, he asked; "What are the big crimes in Vista de la Feria?" expecting not to hear anything impressive.

Striker calmly said; "Methamphetamine, outlaw bikers, gang activity, theft, illegal alien trafficking..... I could go on."

Shaunessy was surprised at the answer and suspected that it was an exaggeration, at the very least, in the implied degree. He didn't expect to find any major problems in his new "safe" home.

Striker pointed up a side road and said; "Little Manny lives there. He's the head of the Bandidos."

"Bandidos?"

"Bike gang that controls the local meth business, among other things."

Shaunessy thought; "Okay, he wants to show the New Yorker what a bad ass he and the area is and are. I'll have to filter everything through that. Silly, retarded game people I knew stopped playing at around age fourteen. Hope it's not endemic." He said; "You know that and he's not in jail?"

Striker replied; "Can't prove it. He's slick."

Shaunessy grimaced and said; "Can't you get any of the cunts who work for him to turn?"

Striker said; "You'll learn more about it in time."

Shaunessy thought; "What's to learn? Police procedure is police procedure," but he didn't press.

The rest of the day was spent introducing Shaunessy to Vista de la Feria business owners, talking to local eccentrics, meeting some of the relocated geriatric set at the Senior Center, none of whom seemed to be holding any concealed weapons, though some of the language used over the pool table was ribald and giving out a couple of traffic tickets for non-moving violations.

Shaunessy got home as darkness started to set in. He said; "Hey, Margaret. How'd you like your first day alone in nirvana?"

Imagined pleasant response.

He caught himself, turned on all the lights and did a cursory inspection of each room, hoping not to find a landlord or a landlord's relative. When reasonably assured that he had no "guests", he continued talking to Margaret.

"That good. Meet anyone new and interesting?"

Imagined negative laugh.

"Ah, maybe tomorrow." ....."What did you do all day?"

Imagined shoulder shrug. He tried to picture what she might have done under the circumstances and drew a blank.

"Maybe there's a book club that reads something other than rehashed mysteries and romance novels."

Imagined smile, culminating in a small laugh.

"I thought you'd like that one. My day was pretty exciting, too. My new partner, Striker, is trying to convince me that this place is the crime capital of the country."

Imagined concerned response.

"Yeah, I'll be careful. After I eat, I'm going to go out and buy a few things. I saw a store in town with genu-wine New Mexican items, some made last year in Texas, some from India."

Imagined derisive laugh.

"Ah, when in Rome. They're a mixture of traditional, Spanish and Native American motifs, with crummy paint jobs."

Imagined interested response.

"Yeah, likewise. So cool, we don't care. It's so bad it's good and all that kind of stuff."

Imagined cautionary response.

"Ah, try it. If you don't like it, I'll bring it back or get rid of it. It's not expensive." ....."Besides, it'll give us something to talk about."

Imagined encouraging response.

Shaunessy spent the next few, bitterly cold weeks learning more about his new duties. More interesting observations were provided by his partner, Striker, who Shaunessy thought he was beginning to better understand and respect. "He's an extremely practical man and despite that seems to have a tendency to think he'll encounter negative, unexpected events, though he tries to anticipate them. Some things must have gone very wrong for him."

Margaret didn't raise any vehement objections when Shaunessy brought home furniture and bric-a-brac of a Southwestern flavor. She was the calmly accepting, though at times discerning person he had known and loved, for what seemed, sometimes, as long as he could remember, or at least as long as he wanted to remember. Rather than deluge her, he'd return with an item or two daily. He thought; "Sometimes it takes a while to get comfortable with new things."
Chapter 4

The winter's black night sky ached to give way to the hoped for, soon to come morning light. The dense, always threatening, dark clouds again assembled overnight, fully concealing the minimal informative glow that heavenly bodies might have offered in less difficult circumstances, had they chosen to persist in their futile bleak season pursuits. The insurmountable, rocky Sangre de Cristo mountain range waited patiently, as it had done countless past frozen seasons, the peaks having learned to quietly suffer the sub-zero temperatures and 20º in their foothills. "The fiery ball is always somewhere," the experienced Forest Ranger thought. "Eventually it will get to us if someone or something intervenes in the congregation of naysayers, so confidently instilling everything with their deficiency of brilliance."

As the sun made his first incursion into the horizon, he saw that today he would again encounter the same old obstacles the ages had deemed appropriate for weeping salutations to any traveler unable to alter their monotonous path. If his illumination allowed it, he would hate them for their persistent unsightly, un-Godly drear, pervasive to the consciousness of all in their domain. "Didn't they realize their effects? Didn't they care? Were they just doing the job assigned to them generations ago? Or did they enjoy their work and use their free will to establish an affiliation of power and importance otherwise denied to tiny drops of water?"

This particular morning the sun selected the latter question as his primary focus. "The audacity of this multitudinous grouping of miniscule, self-righteous, miserable negations, to again attempt to stop me from doing my work. If I let them persist, they may well next attempt to elevate themselves to the status of a science or religion."

The orb of the day knew that someday he would burn out and become just another black hole, but today he saw no sense of prolonging his existence just to let these upstarts cripple his warmth. As he rose from the mountain he strained to fire on all cylinders, trying to generate the hottest passion he could. He was no longer a youngster, but once more wanted to show the complacent multitude his abilities.

As the increased level of heat hit the dark clouds they started to dry up and disappear into thin air, much as a vampire caught in a sunrise. The rainclouds initially reacted with disbelief, but as they lost more of their numbers, they decided to bail out and dropped their precipitation to the earth, their tears increasing the fragrances, filling the streams and warming the frigid air.

The triumphant sun first shone purple, then red and then pink as he consistently decreased his filtration through the dark vapors, finally standing alone and golden, watching the rainbows. As he took his time meandering through the sky he had reclaimed, he said to whoever may be listening; "I don't know how many more times I'll be able to do that. But, you have to admit that it was pretty damn good."

Striker closed the book and put it back on the Barnes and Noble shelf and thought; "This has to be some of the worst garbage I've ever read. He must look to the sky for his clues. I find mine right here in the dirt." He re-checked the binding and indeed, it did say "Destiny's Station" by Irradiana Oblikowski, the same title and author that his "new" partner had recommended to him. He was a bit incredulous at his use of the word "new" describing a decrepit fifty-four year old man. Perhaps "newly acquired partner" was more palatable. He didn't know any other cops who would have any interest in this kind of story about thinking clouds, mountains and suns and his initial reaction was further trepidation about his "big city" partner. However, after he gave it more thought, he came to a different conclusion; "I'm going to look very good and down-to-earth compared to this guy. I hope he keeps reading."

Since he still had time to kill before he was due at the office, Striker went to the "Mystery" section and perused the jackets. "Let me find something with some semblance of reality," he thought. He found the majority involved murders and missing people and that fit his bill, despite the fact that nothing like that had happened in Vista de la Feria during his six years on the force. Perhaps, being the pessimist that he is, he always unconsciously thought, that the bodies had just not yet been discovered.

A call was put into the Vista de la Feria Police Department by a construction crew working on the property adjacent to a fifty acre tree farm. The two room crumbling adobe structure on the one acre parcel was one of the oldest in town and was probably unoccupied for the last twenty years. The boarded windows and caving roof sat in defiance to the renovators not desirous of surprises. The backhoe stood motionless under the gray January sky, which continually threatened precipitation and periodically delivered five minutes of a drizzle, just to keep things interesting in the typically bleak Southwest winter.

Shaunessy's and Striker's police car brushed through the one time driveway, now host to two foot tan weeds. The officers got out of the car and saw a thin, bearded Spanish man resting against the backhoe smoking a cigarette. As they approached, two similar men, dressed heavily and topped by dark blue hooded sweatshirts ambled out from behind the structure, one finishing pulling up his zipper. Differentiating the three was difficult, with their similar sizes, baggy clothes and the hood only permitting the view of half faces; brown with a month's growth of black beards and mustaches.

Striker called out; "Who's Pedro?"

The cigarette smoker didn't move, but answered; "That's me."

Striker; "You made the call?"

Ramon; "Yeah, that's what I'm supposed to do when we find a body in a trunk, right?"

Striker nodded and said; "Yes, sir. Good man. Where is it?"

Pedro walked to the front of the backhoe and pointed at the hole in the ground. The other two came near, looking down, either because this was their usual demeanor, or because the drizzle had again started, or because they wanted another look at the bones, sitting in the cracked-open trunk.

The backhoe's shovel was a foot underground and rested against the seemingly human skull which impassively stared at the sky through its light gray sockets. Unexpected, but far less bizarre than some Halloween costumes, the group of five stoically viewed it, with nothing bright to say.

Shaunessy asked; "Who are you working for?"

Pedro took a drag from his cigarette, shrugged and said; "I don't know. The boss tell me to come here."

Shaunessy said; "Got your boss's number?" and pulled out a pad and pen.

Pedro said: "357-6363, he's called 'Kid.'"

Shaunessy said; "Let me see your IDs."

Three New Mexico driver's licenses were popped out of wallets and handed to him. Shaunessy took notes.

Striker said; "Looks like you all got them on the same day last month."

The silence prompted Striker to continue; "I don't think you're legal."

Pedro grounded out his cigarette in the dirt, grimaced, sighed and said; "Man, we workin'." His two friends didn't speak English, but their darting eyes, barely visible from under their hoods, showed that they knew what the conversation was about.

Striker looked at Pedro and said; "Tell your friends not to run," and then he used his cell phone to call Immigration.

Shaunessy was distraught but didn't want to contradict his partner. When the call was through, he put his arm around Striker's shoulder and pulled him back near the car, Striker keeping his eye on the Mexicans.

Shaunessy said in a low forceful voice; "What the hell did you do that for?"

"They're illegal."

"So is a quarter of the fucking state." When Striker didn't dignify his observation with a response, Shaunessy continued; "They did the right thing. They're just working. What's the problem?"

"Problem is that the towns that are tolerant wind up with all of them. When the town busts their balls, they go elsewhere."

Shaunessy recalled that many years ago New York became the only northeastern state to grant welfare benefits immediately upon residence and quickly had a gigantic problem. He wasn't sure if the same logic applied here, but said; "Oh, man. It just doesn't seem right. They're working. If they were hanging out looking for trouble, I'd think differently."

Striker shrugged, shook his head "no," then shook it "yes," while looking away from Shaunessy. He kicked at the dirt, not clearly indicating what he thought.

Shaunessy felt that he had already put in his two cents and went on to another subject, saying; "Now, where do we get the experts to properly investigate this site?"

Striker said; "Albuquerque Police Department will send out someone." He paused and sarcastically added; "Okay if I call them?"

Shaunessy looked at him with a combination of curiosity and respect and said; "You're a fucker, aren't you?"

Striker called Albuquerque and then again called Immigration, telling them that he apologized for the previous call. A language problem led to a misunderstanding and the people did have proper credentials. After he turned off the cell phone, he said to Shaunessy; "They did do the right thing."

Shaunessy nodded to him and slapped his shoulder, thankful that his partner reconsidered and deferred to his opinion. He would have felt like shit if he had to arrest the three.

They walked back to the fidgety trio and Striker said; "You're free to go any time, but the backhoe has to stay here. I don't want anything disturbed until the experts do their job."

Pedro said; "We can work here again?"

Striker said; "In a while, yes. I'll call your boss when the investigation is finished."

Pedro waved to his two friends and they piled into their brown 1982 Toyota and waved as they drove quickly away.

Striker said; "Think they'll come back?"

Shaunessy was tempted to say "Sure," but caught himself and responded, "I don't know. I still have a lot to learn about this place."
Chapter 5

Striker called the construction worker's boss" and found out "Kid" didn't know anything about the property and claimed to never have been on it. He said he had gotten the job from the owner of the last five years, a Mark Gentile of Santa Fe. Striker got Gentile's number, called it and left a message on the machine which said that he'd like to speak to him around mid-day.

Shaunessy said; "This shit's not supposed to happen in Vista de la Feria."

Striker was ambivalent on the subject, didn't precisely know how to phrase it and consequently poured out whatever popped into his mind; "I suppose it's not. Never has. But, I'll tell you that I'm not really surprised. I've always suspected that some things go on beneath the surface here. I wouldn't blink if the Albuquerque investigative team finds more bodies."

Striker commandeered the wheel of their police car while Shaunessy went right for the passenger's seat. They drove out of town watching the roads, which today held no pedestrians, as the sun almost broke through the winter cloud congregation. Shaunessy appreciated its efforts, as it relieved the drear he associated with flat, poorly lit land. As a result he felt strangely cheerful and wanted to further explore his "native" partner's knowledge of the area.

Before he could think of an opening line, though, Striker got on the currently, loosely driven interstate, where the terrain looked boringly similar to every interstate Shaunessy had ever seen. When he drove he tried to avoid interstate highways as much as possible, taking local roads, interested in savoring the charm or lack of upkeep in the little villages bypassed by progress. He forgot about what he was previously thinking, sighed and said; "These things look the same all over."

Striker wasn't sure what Shaunessy was referring to, but guessed; "Highways?"

"Yeah. Most domestic interstates that I've seen are a mixture of weeds, warehouses, gas stations and fast food. My brother-in-law had a travelling job and he told me that sometimes he forgets where he is due to the sameness."

"I've not yet been a big traveler. Tell me about it."

Shaunessy chose to ignore that this could be some ploy to get him to say something stupid. He said; "There's not much to tell. You can see it. It's the same franchises everywhere I've been and they always use the exact same architecture, whether they're in Hartford, Connecticut, Butte, Montana, or Champagne, Illinois; loads of plastic."

"I don't really like them either. They're just efficient. Everything is probably starting to look the same because, I guess, it's cheaper and easier that way. That's one thing I have to say for New Mexico, though. The houses, land and people are different from everywhere else. A few years back I met two elderly couples with some money, who said that they had lived all over the world, but chose to retire here because it was different and also their favorite. They found the 'sameness' elsewhere."

Shaunessy laughed at what he saw as the truth to the "different" characterization and said; "I can see that."

Striker was now curious about his moderately well-travelled partner's first impressions of the state that he had never been outside of and said; "So, now you like New Mexico?"

"Yeah. It takes some getting used to though. Everything different does. I'll probably wind up asking you a million questions about things you just take for granted." Striker's lack of follow up prompted him to say more. "Margaret and I had been talking about leaving New York for a good ten years now. She died a year ago, but before that we'd take vacations in places we were considering moving to. We spent time in California, Florida, Maine, Arizona, Seattle..... and some places I can't recall right now. I decided New Mexico looked the best. I want tranquility."

Striker gave him a look suggesting that the place was not exactly tranquil, so Shaunessy continued; "I know it's one thing to vacation in a place and another to live in it and I know I'm very new at that. If I find I don't like it, I can always leave. But, I can't wait to see the summer sun with everything green. It wouldn't be a fair trial without seeing that. You know, one funny thing I've found out about the place is that often we outsiders appreciate it more than you guys who were born here."

Striker looked at Shaunessy curiously, as he thought he was the one with the greater appreciation and understanding, smiled and said; "Where do you get that from?"

Unflustered, Shaunessy said; "The museums. I've been to a few in Albuquerque and I always buy books in the gift shop. Many things you locals thought of as junk and that are now marveled at, were popularized by people who came from elsewhere and saw them here; the native plants, the methods of building a "Southwestern" styled house, the unique furniture and the general unconscious arts and crafts nature of everyday items people used to make for themselves. You know, it's hard to get old New Mexican furniture, which was largely hand-made, because you local dummies used most of it for firewood, as soon as you could get stuff from Sears when the train-line came through. And, of course, D.H. Lawrence, who travelled the world settled here. I can't imagine a better endorsement."

Striker said; "You have an advantage over most of us. This place is dominated by farms and small family businesses and it's kind of expected that the sons get involved and eventually take over. Maybe most of us never fully appreciate this place, because we never get to see how rotten other places are." He laughed.

Shaunessy said; "That's an interesting way to put it. I never thought of that. Back east there are hardly any small family businesses left. They all sold out to the large, faceless corporations. People are pretty rootless."

"You sure that's not 'ruthless'?"

"That, too," Shaunessy laughed and continued; "I don't really know. Seems to me that most everybody takes advantage of whatever they can. Do the angels live here?"

"Only the ones from Hell that drive Harleys." Striker was amused and chuckled at his own comment, as did his partner.

Striker got off the highway and entered a town Shaunessy vaguely remembered from seeing it during a vacation with Margaret. The main strip of Santa Fe was a busy one, with new developments and businesses lining it. "Expensive?" Shaunessy asked, only vaguely recalling his own cursory investigation. "Yeah, right around here is the most expensive stuff in the state. There's a development right outside of town that's two million and up. I'm told all of the houses except one are empty. Movie stars use them as part-time homes. Gene Hackman is the only full time resident."

"And the groundskeepers, no doubt."

"More or less, I guess. They keep that place immaculate."

They passed the square occupied by store front merchants and Native Americans who sold things from the sidewalk. The Native Americans were out today as always. In the forty degree air, they moved around with arms folded, their breath visible, some huddling around a garbage-can fire. Striker said; "Good place to buy Indian merchandise. Only better at the reservation, but you have to drive some."

"Ever go?"

"Yeah, sure. My favorite, the Acoma Pueblo, is about two hours from Vista de la Feria. Good weekend trip."

"What's there? Grazing land?"

"No. There's a little village made up of old adobe houses, high on a mesa, some right on the edge, with forever views. The only Indians I saw though were the tour guide and the people in the gift shop." There was a silence for a few seconds as Striker watched the traffic and then he continued; "I remember the thing that most interested me about the village. Our guide said that the tribe purposely picked undesirable land in an effort to stay out of wars. The only way to get water back then, was to descend the thousand foot drop off and carry it back up. They theorized that the only true ownership of land came when nobody else wanted it. But you know the funny thing is, they got attacked by other Native Americans, I think Comanche and chased out anyway." He shot a look at Shaunessy as if he had just said something endemic to human nature.

Shaunessy considered the observation endemic to his new friend's point of view. He didn't totally disagree with him, but felt that to do justice to the topic, a protracted conversation would be necessary. He didn't want to risk losing the momentary cordiality and just asked; "How did the marauders get up there?"

"I don't know. Maybe the guide didn't tell us because he's afraid it'll happen again." They both chuckled and Striker added; "Maybe the marauders just waited for them to come down for water."

"Ummm." Shaunessy really didn't want to know that type of story, but couldn't deny the seeming logic behind the tactic. "Too bad the good guys lost. They should have tried coming down in mass, to take what water they needed."

"Maybe they were out-gunned."

"What the hell at that point. They could die in battle or die of dehydration. I think I'd prefer the battle and besides, there's always a chance they might have won."

"I think I'm with you on that one. Maybe they did do that. I really don't know the circumstances. The guide glossed over that part of the tribe's history. Anyway, they're back in their place now, so somehow they managed not to get wiped out."

"Maybe they gave up, left, poisoned the water supply and waited." At least Shaunessy thought he saw that procedure used in an old Western movie he saw as a kid.

"Sounds like a good maneuver. But, when they get their land back, they'd have to go even further to get water."

"I don't know. I'm just thinking out loud. I guess they'd have to establish colonies down in the valley to protect their supply. The elite get to live up on the hill. That's the American way, isn't it?" Shaunessy laughed, amused at where their momentary free thinking took them.

Neither made further comment, until Striker turned off onto Venture Way, home to large, two-story, Southwestern styled new houses. As they went up the incline, the evergreens became more dense; a mixture of pines, junipers and a few blue spruces. "Here we are." Striker said and after passing six or seven houses turned onto the paved driveway of number 256.

They saw that the fret-worked, black, iron gate was open. The view from the winding drive was of pine trees and the resident's house only. It was finished in a light tan stucco, erroneously appeared to be three separate two story structures and had two house-matching, walled-in, outdoor living areas, the eastern one entirely shaded by three, fifteen foot, ornamental blue spruces and the western completely open to the sun and sky.

A man, presumably Mark Gentile, was standing in the open door to the latter. The duo parked and eyeballed the fortyish black haired gentleman, hands in corduroy pockets, topped by a heavy brown and eggshell sweater. As they walked to him, Striker said; "Mr. Gentile?"

"Mr. Gentile is unfortunately away on business. Couldn't be avoided. I'm Frank Collangelo and I can probably answer any of your questions."

Striker couldn't help showing his disappointment and glumly introduced himself and Shaunessy. Both stopped at the entrance way, blocked by Collangelo's sizable body.

Shaunessy said; "What relationship do you have to Mr. Gentile?"

Collangelo replied nonchalantly; "Friend, sometimes business partner."

Shaunessy said; "Are you a lawyer?"

Collangelo said; "Yes."

Shaunessy said; "Are you aware that a dead body was unearthed on his Vista de la Feria property earlier today?"

Collangelo calmly said; "Yes."

Shaunessy said; "How did you know that?"

Collangelo grimaced, suggesting that he considered the question totally irrelevant, but said; "I got a call from Kid. So what?"

Striker said; "Are you representing Gentile in this matter?"

Collangelo said; "I don't know what this matter is. Is he being charged with anything?"

Striker openly laughed and said; "Not yet anyway, though it is a somewhat serious matter to have a dead body found on your property, don't you think?"

Collangelo ignored the generalistic question he could have answered with a simple, meaningless "Yes," instead responding with information that was publicly available coupled with a non-binding supposition and said; "Mr. Gentile acquired that property approximately five years ago as an investment. I'm informed that he hasn't visited it since the acquisition date."

Shaunessy said; "That doesn't mean that he couldn't have let someone else use it before the recent construction started. Would you know of any such arrangements?"

Collangelo couldn't absolutely deny the possibility and answered; "I'm not aware of any ...... Look, he's got no interest in it except to turn a profit. You know that Vista de la Feria has been booming. He got it cheap and stands to make a good profit, with its commercial zoning and the possibility that sewers might be installed on Vista de la Feria Road. That's all there is to it."

His logically presented case containing a now plaintive tone prompted Striker to again intervene and he said; "So, as far as anyone knows, no one has been on the property and no one is authorized to be there?"

Collangelo said; "Right."

Shaunessy said; "I'd prefer hearing Mr. Gentile say that."

Collangelo, somewhat exasperated, said; "I suppose you think that Mr. Gentile knew about the body and paid a construction crew to dig it up, just when he had a deal to cash in. That doesn't make any sense."

Shaunessy said; "No, it doesn't seem to make any logical sense, but maybe somebody fucked up something. It happens."

Collangelo used more sarcasm; "I suppose that he buried a body on his own land when there's so much other open land around to purposely tie himself to it."

Shaunessy replied; "It won't be the first time. Or maybe you had the body put there. You said you were sometimes Gentile's business partner. Maybe something would break in your favor if he were out of the fucking way."

The trio was silent, all entertaining their own thoughts, not compelled to say anything. Shaunessy saw that the productivity potential of more conversation was zero, so he said; "Mr. Collangelo, can we get a statement signed by Mr. Gentile saying that he has not been on the property since it was purchased and that he has not authorized anyone else to be on it either?"

Collangelo said; "That can be arranged. If there's any problem, I'll call you. Do you have a card?"

Shaunessy patted his coat pocket and said; "I must have left them at the office. Can you give him one of yours, Striker?"

Striker pulled out a card and Collangelo took it. Everyone more or less nodded at each other and the two policemen left.

After they were back in the car and half way down the driveway, Striker said; "What was that all about?"

Shaunessy said; "If Gentile signs something I've already got him in a lie..... He authorized the construction crew to be there. He'll say that's silly, but a lawyer can cast aspersions on him by asking if he's forgotten anything else he considers "silly."

Striker laughed and said; "But, what good does that do us?"

"Maybe nothing, but it could make them a bit nervous and nervous people make mistakes. And it won't hurt in court."

"By the way, how come you got so mad?"

"I wasn't mad."

"You said the f-word."

"So what? Everybody back east uses it in a number of different contexts."

"Out here it means you want to fight."

Shaunessy thought that sounded absurd, but made a mental note. "So, if I said; 'Get this fucking car out of here,' you would think I wanted to fight with you?"

Striker laughed; "Something like that. I'd figure you know better at your age, but I'd also think you were angry with me."

Shaunessy didn't like the part about knowing better at his age and replied; "Just for your information, I don't know any better, never did and never will. Can't learn me shit."

Striker laughed again and slapped Shaunessy on the arm and said; "All right, pop. You know, you're older than my father."

Striker returned to the highway and was going about fifty. Shaunessy said; "Come on, move the fucking thing. I've got to get to a bathroom. I'm just trying to make you laugh at this point. Cut me some slack. I haven't been here very long. Do you have any idea how hard it is to undo 54 years of training? I'll work on getting the choice words out of my vocabulary. I really will. You have my word on that. In the meantime, I really do need a bathroom, so, please, step on the fucking gas."

Striker smiled genuinely and broadly, saying; "As long as you say please."
Chapter 6

The Ninth Avenue Rescue Mission was housed in a derelict brownstone on the corner of 37th Street and Ninth Avenue in Manhattan, the heart of the city's transvestite and transsexual population. The pastor, Eartha Carpenter, was successful in making the case to the Catholic Church authorities that Jesus saw his flock as the lowest of the low and poorest of the poor, so why don't we follow his lead? She further stated that the population of what was once called "Hell's Kitchen" fit the bill. She was somewhat surprised that she was granted approval, though not surprised to see the tenement, which the Church already owned and didn't know what to do with and the modicum of funding they gave her, ensuring that she would remain with the poorest of the poor.

A scant two miles away someone else had her mind on the Ninth Avenue church. She knew the area all too well and though she wouldn't call herself a religious person, she was troubled by events in her life, couldn't find any solutions elsewhere and on a particularly bleak winter Sunday morning decided to give church at least a small try. She needed something to do, so that her mind wouldn't wander to the three quarters full bottle of pain medication in the bathroom vanity and consider how easy it would be to let the pills do their job forever.

She took the two mile subway trip to the area, feeling even colder in the unheated cars and sitting on the icy metal seats. She took a strange solace in seeing her few co-passengers, dressed in clothes that didn't show evidence of being washed in years, sneezing, coughing, some with bandages on an arm or leg. She was with her own. She tried to look at them without being obvious, as they made her feel that she was perhaps not the most unfortunate person on the planet. She felt sorry for them as she thought; "I know how badly I often feel. Imagine them." Her gazes became more direct when she saw that they all kept their eyes on the stained linoleum floor and paid no attention to her, lost in their own dreams, or more likely, nightmares.

She was roused from her reverie when the conductor's voice came through the ill-connected sound system saying; "Crackle, crackle, oomph, thoity-eighth, crackle, crackle."

She got up and took one last look at her co-riders, wondered where they were going, guessed that it was nowhere and that for some reason they merely preferred the rapid movement of the frigid train cars to the vapid stillness of the frigid concrete outdoors. For a moment she considered why they all remained solitary and immediately thought of many possible good answers, to her, the most likely one being; "No one could possibly understand or care."

She climbed the concrete stairs of the subway stop, which were resplendent in a colorful accumulation of the last month's vomit, frozen piss and garbage. The empty street was similarly decorated, perhaps the "World of Bizarro" equivalent of the rolled out red carpet enjoyed by the rich one percent. After carefully walking a block she saw the hand painted sign of the mission anchored above its heavy black painted wooden door. She climbed the eight patched granite steps and entered to see that a mass was underway in an open room at the end of the short hallway. The congregation sat on folded wooden chairs facing away from her and the civilian attired pastor, Eartha Carpenter, had just introduced a guest speaker, who was about to deliver the day's sermon. She took a seat in back, near the door, prepared for a possible quick escape.

The young black man was already behind the podium, taking a last minute look at his notes, as she found an empty seat at the rear. He cleared his throat and his confident voice said; "Good morning. I'm Michael Streets, from Paterson, New Jersey and I'm here to give you the minority report. I think I'm qualified because I have a lifetime of experience."

He paused, waiting for the anticipated polite laughter, but had to settle for blank stares.

Michael looked around the room at despairing and grimacing faces and said; "Tough audience. All right, now I know you're tough; let's see how smart you are. Can anyone tell me the name of the first trans-sexual?"

The crowd was very familiar with trans-sexuals and transvestites from the neighborhood and in some cases, from the nearest seat, but the reaction was one of surprise. Some mildly objected to the subject being discussed in church, but only mildly, as there was at least a grudging recognition of its reality under God's sun.

She thought this was an unusual topic for any church she had ever previously attended, but that was precisely why she was here and not there. Self-consciously it also crossed her mind that he might be directly referring to her presence, but looked around the room to see that she had plenty of company. Someone called out, "Christine Jorgenson."

Michael again surveyed the room and asked if everyone agreed with the answer. He looked for nodding heads and found many. He said; "I guess the rest of you don't have any idea." Hearing no other answers or objections, he said; "Well, you're all wrong. Now, point number two; Do you all believe that God is perfect, as they teach us in Sunday school?"

When the crowd was quiet, he added; "You know, always was, always will be, always remains the same, all-knowing, all-good, blah, blah, blah?" His smiling face again confronted his audience. He saw looks of discomfort, looks of disinterest and looks of "What the hell?"

He continued; "I'm going to answer for you, since you prefer to hold back. You all believe that God is perfect, or you really don't believe in him at all, no in-betweens." He raised his voice and went on; "I don't blame you. It's the clear doctrine of every religion I know of."

"What, you say, is the point of this sacrilegious preacher? I'm not being the least bit sacrilegious, I read the Bible. That's the source of the official dogma, isn't it? Well, let me ask you a logical question; If God is all-good and all-knowing, how can he allow a soul to be created that he knows will eventually burn in hell? He is either not all-good, or he's not all-knowing. I know, I know, I know, when priests are confronted with this they say that it's due to free will, whatever that means and leave it unsatisfactorily at that. But, okay, I'll play their game and take it another step. If God is all-knowing, why doesn't he know what will be done with that free will before it's done? It's inescapable, God is not perfect. He's pretty damn good, but he also experiments in areas beyond his grasp."

Michael paused to take a drink of water from the plastic bottle resting on the podium. "You probably think I'm still being sacrilegious. Wrong. The Bible is viewed as the word of God, correct? In it he admits his own imperfection. I'm just preaching the word of God, as that is accepted by Jews and Christians. So, what's the point with Christine Jorgenson, you probably ask? Simple. Eve was clearly the first transsexual and her very existence was the result of God changing his mind, an open admission of the incorrectness of his first judgment."

He again surveyed the room. "I can see that if I don't have your agreement, I have your attention. That's all I ask. Here's my case. This is from the very beginning of the Bible, the root, Genesis. I'm surprised no one read the chronology before. First, God made a living soul, man. Then he planted a garden, eastward in Eden, created four rivers and THEN put man in it, the garden, that is, not the river. We have to wait for John the Baptist for that one." Streets chuckled at his own attempted humor, glanced around the room and saw a smile on Eartha's face and curious, wrinkle-browed looks elsewhere. He continued; "Hey, that's an improvement and I'll settle for it. If I was any good at making people laugh I'd be on TV. Anyway, so we have this living soul, man in the garden and then, only then, God decided it was not good for man to be alone. Why didn't an all-knowing entity know this would happen to begin with? He tried to rectify that admission of an initial mistake by then forming every beast of the field and fowl of the air and Adam named them. When God again saw that that wasn't enough, he put Adam to sleep, took a rib and made a woman, called that because she was taken out of man and they shall be one flesh."

He paused and looked at his notes. The room was silent. "Well, that's my case, taken from God's own words. TWO CORRECTIONS OF PRIOR ERRORS. That doesn't sound so perfect to me. Woman was once part of a man and through what sounds like an anesthetized operation, was made. That's my understanding of transsexual. The mind changing is a further open admission of initial mistakes. It's either that or the very core of the most important book in the Judeo-Christian religion, perhaps the world, is wrong at its core. I don't want to believe that. It would mean that all the great minds that have studied it for centuries merely wasted their time with something ridiculously CONTRADICTORY, RIGHT ON PAGE ONE."

"So, the point is, be proud of whatever you are. God loves you and corrects his mistakes, after he's had some time to think about it. In the meantime, remember we are all of one flesh."

He collected his notes, put them in his pocket and left the podium. The audience was still silent, not sure if they should applaud, boo, or blow a raspberry. In any case, Streets thought that he had stimulated enough interest, that many would review, at least, the beginning of the Bible when they got home, which is the main thing Michael wanted.

She was favorably impressed in her back seat. She was embarrassed to and didn't ask it, but she wondered if God supported prostitution as a means of correcting his errors. She was compelled to say something or ask something, to prolong the comforting words. She wanted to hear more, so she called out; "I'm sorry. I didn't follow all of that. Could you say it more simply and succinctly?"

Michael was pleased he got her attention, but chagrined that she didn't understand what he considered fairly simple logic. He looked at her, returned to the podium and fumbled with his notes and considered reading them out loud, but dismissed the thought as he thought the result would be too sketchy. He decided to focus his main point in one sentence.

With some trepidation he said; "It seems abundantly clear to me that God took something that was male, performed some type of operation and the result was female, one flesh and an admission of error in initial judgment."

Rather than leave in the position of being the only one making a statement which could be picked apart, he wanted to have the audience formulate their own theories. So he issued a challenge, saying; "To those who don't think this is true, tell me or yourself why God didn't merely take the dust of the earth when he wanted to create Eve, as he did with Adam."

Ignoring Michael's intended direction, a gruff male voice called out; "Eve had children. Transsexuals can't."

Michael waved his right arm dismissively and calmly replied; "That's because God's a better surgeon." He raised his chin, peered downward at the audience and when he heard nothing more, he said; "That's what I thought," and left.

The Vista de la Feria day started out as bleakly as the rest Shaunessy had experienced in his new hometown's winter. He looked up from his desk as Striker said; "This is impossible. A forty year old white John Doe, 5'7", buried in a decaying, non-descript trunk three years ago on land held by an absentee owner. Cause of death- undetermined."

Shaunessy looked up from the file of New Mexico's missing persons he was reviewing and responded; "Patience. These things take time. We'll cover all the bases, rattle some cages, maybe someone will get stupid and the answer will be right in front of our faces...........Maybe somebody saw it and didn't know what they were seeing."

"Even if they did, do you think we'd get a good description three years after the fact? And before you answer that, how many others will vaguely recall something of no relevance?"

"I'm getting antsy sitting here, too. By the way, I got that statement signed by Frank Gentile. It came by courier just before you got in. I researched him and found out that though he's never been convicted of anything, he's been charged with two big ones; conspiracy to defraud and extortion. And Collangelo is known to be a mob attorney."

Striker said; "None of that surprises me, but so what?"

"So, maybe nothing, but now we're certain that Gentile and Collangelo are not above reproach. Why don't we put a tail and wire on them?"

"They probably think we already have and are acting accordingly, by staying close to home. But, if you think it will do any good, go ahead."

Shaunessy replied; "I'll make sure it's a loose one. I'm hoping that when Gentile doesn't see anything, he'll start trying to cover his tracks. If they've got a reason to be nervous they may not be able to control themselves. There's always one little detail to clear up."

Striker shrugged; "Sounds fine to me. Can't hurt anything, I guess." He put a call in to the Albuquerque Police Department and made the arrangements. He then said; "Shaunessy, do you want to come with me? I'm going to knock on some doors near the crime scene."

Shaunessy thought that his perusal of the missing persons file could wait and he was anxious to meet more local people. He said; "Yeah."

They put on their winter leathers and Striker first drove to the crime scene. They greeted the officers from the Albuquerque investigative unit, one digging with a backhoe. Striker purposefully walked the land, Shaunessy behind and curious. The older cop asked; "Looking for anything special?"

Striker shook his head slowly and said; "Nah. You know sometimes you can just look at a place with nothing definite in mind and you see something that just doesn't look right. I had kind of a weird thought, but I was thinking that we're assuming that the body was buried here at the time of death, three years ago. Maybe that's wrong. Maybe it was moved here recently. Maybe someone like Collangelo did it, knowing that it would implicate Gentile, benefitting him in some business way."

Shaunessy was impressed with his partner's thought process and shook his head slowly up and down and said; "Good point. Could be."

Striker added; "I know that's pretty far out, but we don't have anything else." His neck craned around as he walked slowly around the lot and a stiff breeze kicked up, moving the stubborn winter clouds enough to allow the distant sun to peek in and out for brief, but regular intervals, causing a kaleidoscope of changing perspectives, the most useful being the increased ability to see through the bordering clusters of elm trees.

From the overgrown lot the officers got glimpses of two houses; one right across the street and the other further down the dirt road. Striker said out loud, but really to himself; "Which one has the better view? Look at that one." He pointed at the larger, oddly shaped house on the other side of Vista de la Feria Road. "It's got three windows with a permanent vantage point."

Shaunessy looked in its direction and wondered who was responsible for the design. The gray stuccoed exterior was one level facing the road, devoid of any decoration other than the outline of a chimney. Its roof was flat. Behind and attached to it was a two level wing, the second story containing the three windows with a Vista de la Feria Road view, under a sloping red tile roof. What was front and what was back or side was not obvious. If viewed from the air it would appear a polygon with some limbs evincing stunted growth; while the two story segment attached to one created a lopsided countenance. He then eyeballed the house with the lesser view. It was a smaller mustard colored, stuccoed, one story, flat-roofed structure further down the dirt road and was octagonal, small and simple. The casita had one window facing the crime scene. He said; "All right, let's try the architectural gem first."

Striker told him; "Years ago, the owners lived in the one story section, but after selling off some land to developers built the larger two story structure behind it." They entered its driveway and went only about fifty feet where they were blocked by a jutting entranceway on one side and coyote fencing on the other. They looked at each other and shrugged, not certain if the entranceway was front, back, or other.

Striker stopped the car, knocked three times and got no answer, then did it again with the same result. He said; "Let's try another door. They're probably home," pointing at the two cars to the side of the gravel path; one an immaculate, newer, black, two-door Chrysler, the other a vintage four-door Chevy, with dried mud splashed on its lower half and a bit on the side windows.

As they walked they passed small thorny bushes, probably roses in season, planted close to the house. Beyond was an open field in all directions, currently host to twelve inch bent dirty yellow straw and dining cranes. When they got to the side opposite Vista de la Feria Road, they found an elaborate huge antique double door with faded blue paint. The wainscot panels were surrounded by borders with appliquéd carvings of lions and bears. Striker pushed the concession-to-modernity button and chimes played something soft, but slightly discordant.

The door opened and a thin old man in his sixties appeared. Striker said; "Ishmael, I hope we're not coming at a bad time."

Ishmael intended humor successfully and flatly said; "There's never a good time for police business." He gestured mildly toward Shaunessy with his right hand and in an amused tone added; "Who's your old assistant?"

Striker smiled, making no attempt to modify the joking question and said; "This is Shaunessy. He's pretty new here, at least in some respects."

Ishmael offered his hand and Shaunessy took it. Both displayed one quick nod of the head, Ishmael stoic and a broad grin on the cop's face, fully appreciative of the improvised comedic theatre. Ishmael said; "Well, come in. It's too cold to be standing here."

The duo followed him through an eight by ten foot hallway, decorated with paintings of bullfighting scenes hung on the green pastel painted adobe walls, into the living room and he said; "Sit anywhere you'd like."

Shaunessy and Striker chose to sit together on opposite ends of a dark traditional cushioned Spanish bench. As Ishmael pulled around a similarly styled armchair to face them directly, Shaunessy gazed at the adobe walls of light pink pastel and the paintings of Spanish men and women wearing eighteenth and nineteenth century dress apparel. He said; "Are the paintings of ancestors?"

Ishmael got his chair to the right position, sat and said; "No. My ancestors never dressed like that. Mine were likely dressed much more simply and carried swords." He didn't smile.

Striker said; "Let me get right to the point. I guess you know that a body in a trunk was found buried across the street. We know it was an adult male and he's been dead about three years...." He stopped talking when Ishmael's wife Theresa entered the room and the trio looked her way to see a thin, small Spanish woman in her sixties, with her still black, long hair pulled back into a bun. Introductions were made and she too moved a chair to the appropriate area and sat.

Striker again spoke; "A body in a trunk was unearthed across the street. It's been dead about three years. Can you recall seeing any suspicious activity there back then, or even subsequent to that? This house has the best view of the lot."

Ishmael blinked, turned his head to one side in thought, then again faced forward and replied; "Nothing."

Theresa added; "I don't think I've ever seen anyone on the property at all, until the backhoes showed up. You mean the one with the old junk house, right?"

Striker nodded. "Yes."

Theresa said; "No, sorry."

Unseen, their 42 year old, mildly retarded son was listening at an open door, extremely concerned with what he was hearing. Though he had difficulties understanding most things, many people who had used his gardening services failed to detect any impediment, as he spoke with the sound of complete understanding, when the topic was plants, trees, weather and their interactions; at times so impressive, listeners thought he was making larger, poetic statements. The investigative conversation at a momentary pause, the silence magnified the shuffle of his feet, now noticed by Ishmael, who called out; "Jorge, come on in here."

Jorge slowly moved his thin, muscled, six-foot, 185 pound body into the room, remained standing at a distance and said; "Dad!"

Ishmael faced the officers and said; "He probably wants to get across the street and work in Carla's garden." He re-directed his comments to his son, saying; "Oh, come on in. Carla already has the best tended garden in Vista de la Feria, because you're always over there."

Jorge said; "It's not always," his face blushing and his mind full of embarrassment and the fear that somebody might know his "secret," still not fully aware that some already did.

Ishmael continued; "No reason to feel silly, she's a fine looking woman. Anyway, Shaunessy and Striker are investigating a dead body found on the front property, the one with the old junk house. Have you seen anyone around there the last three years?"

In a high-pitched voice Jorge quickly answered; "No."

Shaunessy thought he detected something that didn't sound quite right, so he incredulously said; "You pass by the place regularly and you've NEVER seen anyone in there?"

Jorge felt eight eyes on him, wondered if they had all ganged up on him and somewhat angrily replied; "No, never."

Ishmael sensed Jorge's discomfort and said; "All right, son. You can go now."

They watched as Jorge did as he was told, while he casted a few wrinkled-browed glances back at the group.

Ishmael held up his right index finger to the group, got up and went to the door to see if Jorge was gone. When he came back in, he remained standing, while saying for Shaunessy's benefit; "Pay him no mind. He's not all there. Born like that. It's strange in a way; he knows everything there is to know about plants, trees, soil, gardening and weather, but everything else confuses him."

Striker rose and Shaunessy followed suit, Striker saying; "He's a good boy. Vista de la Feria is a much prettier place because of his work." He made a small bow to the still seated Theresa and added; "Thanks for your time. If you remember anything, please give us a call."

Shaunessy said; "Nice meeting you. Thank you."

Ishmael led them back to the double doors and asked; "You say the man has been dead three years, but that doesn't mean he was buried there three years ago, does it?"

Shaunessy said; "No, the body could have been put there last week, for all we know." He put his hand on his partner's shoulder and added; "This young genius clued me in on that."

They shook hands and the cops followed the trail of dormant rose bushes back to their car. Upon entering Shaunessy said; "The DNA research has run into an impasse. The corpse doesn't match anything on the national files."

Striker said; "Sounds like more of a dead end than an impasse."

"Not entirely. For the most part the national files only contain records of convicted criminals, so we can be pretty sure he's never been convicted of a felony. What I'm checking now are state records of DNA taken during 'missing persons' reports. It's slow going."

"How do you get DNA from a missing person?"

"Toothbrush or something. The one making the report is asked to give it and they usually do, because they'll be a prime suspect if they don't."

"What if it's an illegal alien?"

"Not likely, because he's white. But, if he's an illegal or someone who no one is looking for, we'll probably never find out who he is. Do you know how many people live alone in this country?"

"No."

"Neither do I. But it's a lot and it's one of the reasons I've almost hired a housekeeper. I've just about committed to the agency."

Striker laughed and Shaunessy continued; "I couldn't believe it. They told me she had nineteen kids. I'm going to feel guilty as all hell if I see her doing any work."

"Oh, you got Isabel. Don't worry, she won't do much. Guess how many kids her sister had?"

Shaunessy just shook his head side to side slowly and said; "And back east we stupidly think that the wild-west is over."

Striker said; "Gotcha, she doesn't have a sister," and gave him a backhand across the shoulder. "Ready to meet Jorge's girlfriend?"

Shaunessy simply said; "Sure," and he was reminded of Jorge's demeanor, wondering if the man's agitation was caused by a lack of understanding or too much of it.

The car crossed the road, the duo ceremoniously waving to the disinterested police crew monotonously combing the burial site and continued down the dirt road. Striker saw the two or three room mustard colored casita which seemed at odds with the million dollar landscaping, resplendent with stone paths, one leading to a desert oasis garden containing native and South American bushes and trees, unfortunately not now in their summer glory and an iced over pond brittle in its inability to move. Not at odds was the 2003 dented silver Toyota sitting on the crusher-fine gravel driveway. They parked behind it, got out and again felt the stiff breeze add insult to the injury of the cold dark day.

Carla Steeples looked out the window when she heard the sound of the tires, shut off the sound system, putting an end to David Bowie's live rendition of "Rebel, Rebel," and sighed, thinking "Oh, shit." She went to the door wearing her gray hooded sweatshirt and loose heavy black pants, her long black hair pulled back in a pony-tail. When she opened the door, she got hit with an icy blast. She kept it open only a crack and peered through it at the brown uniforms bearing ominous official insignias topped by open leather jackets. To her their slow silent march evoked the thought of a "visit from death." At least her position at the cracked six panel, red door would prevent the insistent cacophony of their knocking.

When they reached the small overhang she opened it widely and said; "Come on in quickly, I want to close this door."

The officers nodded, complied with her wishes and perched on the brick floor of her living, dining, family room and kitchen.

She gently closed the door; and Shaunessy said; "Please excuse us for barging in. May we have a few minutes of your time?"

Carla said; "Sure," and gestured to a plaid couch with her right hand, adding; "Have a seat." She squatted on the black futon opposite them, necessitating her to look up at their faces.

Shaunessy said; "I guess you know that a body was discovered on the lot of the abandoned house."

Carla said; "I've heard about it. Now I know it's true."

Striker said; "We think the murder happened three years ago. You know, I've never met you before. How long have you been living here?"

Carla said; "About three years. Do you know who the victim was?"

Striker said; "No. Are you from New York?"

Carla said; "As a matter of fact, yes. Why did you say that?"

Striker said; "Your accent."

Shaunessy laughed and said; "What accent?"

Striker said; "I've heard enough of them to pick it out. Do you live here alone?"

Carla replied; "Of course. There's hardly enough room for one."

Shaunessy said; "Let me come right to the point. We're desperate for leads. Have you ever seen anyone on that property?"

Carla hesitated a second, then said: "Not very often, but yes."

Shaunessy said; "Can you describe them?"

Carla said: "Not really. I try not to stare. I've seen some beat up old pickup trucks parked there and I've seen a few probably illegal aliens."

Striker said; "We don't mean in the last few weeks, but farther back."

Carla said; "That's what I'm talking about. I've seen them seven or eight times."

Shaunessy said; "How do you know they're illegal aliens?"

Carla said; "Sorry, I just made an assumption. All I could see was the baggy dirty clothes and olive skinned faces."

Striker said; "What were they doing there?"

Carla said; "I really don't know. Walking around with their hands in their pockets, mostly. I thought they might be using the old house for temporary shelter."

Striker said; "Couldn't you describe them better? Young? Old? Tall? Short?"

Carla said; "Like I said, it's only been seven or eight times in three years and I don't stare at people. They were probably on the short side, but I'm really not sure."

Shaunessy said; "Then they all looked the same?"

Carla showed a bit of frustration and said; "Look, each time there were two or three. They might have been the same people each time, might not. From a distance, they all look alike in their baggy clothes. They probably want it that way."

Shaunessy said; "Like you?"

Carla was uneasy about the possible implication, but chose to show bravado, pulled at her sweatshirt, smiled and said; "Like mine. I adopted the local style, I guess."

Shaunessy said; "What else do you remember about the beat up pick-up truck?"

Carla replied; "Only that it was a small one. White. Dented. With large letters across the back. I don't know what they said; maybe Toyota."

Striker said; "Same vehicle every time?"

Carla said; "I didn't see a vehicle every time, but when I did, it was always the same one."

Shaunessy saw Striker's eyes light up and said; "Thanks for your time." He looked at Striker and said; "Unless you have anything else."

Striker shook his head; "No." They got up, thanked Carla again and left.

When they got into the car, Shaunessy said; "What interested you?"

Striker said; "I think I know that truck."

Shaunessy just looked at him as he drove, so Striker continued; "I haven't seen it for a while, but I used to see it being used by the illegal aliens who work on the tree farm."

"I wonder why Jorge never noticed it."

Striker shrugged his shoulders and said; "I don't know. Maybe they're his friends."

"Do you think he might be covering up for them?"

Striker again shrugged at what he considered a premature question and said; "I don't know."

"Doesn't mean they did it."

"Right, right, I know. But at least we've got something concrete to go with, so let's focus on that. Maybe we can shake things up a bit. It's owned by Joaquin Gonzalez, at least he says that's what his name is, who lives in a trailer on the other end of the tree farm. I don't know if he owns it or just manages it. Property is in the name of a corporation with a lawyer's address."

"Not Collangelo?"

"I don't remember. We'll have to check later. But I do think Joaquin gets involved in some less than legal operations."

"Ever have enough on him to arrest him for anything?"

"No, just suspicions. He keeps things quiet and maybe he is only a tree farmer. I'm not sure."

Shaunessy said; "Let's make another house call."

During the half mile drive to Joaquin's trailer, Shaunessy asked; "How do you pick up 'New York accents'? I thought it was everybody else that had one."

Striker laughed at the implied admission, not sure if it was purposeful and said; "This town is now full of you guys and you all talk something that takes some getting used to."

"You all? How about y'all?"

Striker considered a few different replies, but decided on none. Instead, he got back to business, saying; "I think we can lean on Joaquin. He's pretty close to some crap, likes where he is and doesn't want any jail time."

"Who does?"

"A lot of the Mexicans here really don't care. In jail they get a warm place to sleep, regular food and medical attention for free. It's more than they get at home. In fact the medical attention is better than most working U.S. citizens get and they have to pay for it. It's just plain stupid. And some of the young Mexicans talk about prison like it was a college graduation. Surviving jail without being punked is proof they're a bad ass."

The car turned onto a dirt road bordering the tree farm and proceeded another quarter mile to an open gate fifteen feet in front of a white trailer. The acre property was also host to a number of other structures; tin barns and small buildings with coyote fencing exteriors. They all had one thing in common; smoke rising from the chimneys. There were ten to twelve vehicles parked at different spots, ranging from newer SUVs to well-used pickup trucks, to cars obviously not in running order. Not in evidence was the small white pick-up or any people.

They parked in front of the trailer, got out and Striker knocked hard at the jiggling light front door. Receiving no response he rapped again and called out; "Come on, Joaquin. I know you're in there. This is serious business."

The door opened and the officers were hit with a strong scent of burning leaves. Joaquin's forty-five year old, swarthy, lined face showed wide-eyed resignation and his mouth uttered; "It's medical, man."

Striker stepped in and Shaunessy followed. Striker said; "Let me see your card."

Joaquin said; "That's what I just been looking for. It's around here someplace." He walked to an antique or thrift shop cabinet of drawers, opened one and started pawing through a pile of clothes. A nervous, long haired, olive-skinned woman of about twenty-five cautiously entered the room and gently said something in Spanish. Joaquin responded more forcefully, saying what sounded like a rapid recitation of; "Tom Delay," and she went back through the door.

Striker said; "I guess she's got a card, too."

Joaquin answered; "She's not smokin'."

Shaunessy and Striker sat at the kitchen table and Striker said; "Forget that for now. Come on over here. We got more important things to talk about."

Temporarily reprieved, Joaquin took a seat and said; "What can I help you boys with today?"

Striker said; "Where's that beat up old white pick-up truck?"

Joaquin thought for a moment and in his usual evasive way, with which Striker was well familiar, said; "I got a lot of beat up trucks. I don't know which one you mean."

Shaunessy leaned forward and in his direct New York way said; "Don't give us any shit, asshole, or we'll ransack the place and run you in for drug use and trafficking in illegal aliens."

Joaquin said; "Oh, yeah, the white one."

Striker said; "Yeah, the one that was always used in the fields."

Joaquin said; "Junk yard, man. I got all I could out of it; 700,000 miles."

Shaunessy said: "No matter. The problem is that it was sighted at a crime scene; a body burial. What have you got to say about that?"

Joaquin threw up his hands, replying; "I don't know. I never drove the thing myself. Like Striker said, it was used by the field workers."

Shaunessy said: "It wasn't seen in the fields. It was seen on the lot of the old wrecked house where the body was buried."

Joaquin blinked his eyes a few times and said; "Maybe the workers got a bottle and wanted to find a private place for the day. You got to watch them like crazy. You know, one time....."

Shaunessy cut him off, saying; "You're not being very helpful."

Joaquin said; "I don't know what to tell you. I don't know anything about it."

Striker disgustedly said; "Okay, we'll need the names of the people who used the truck."

Joaquin said; "Jose, Jose, Jose and Jose. The workers come and go. I don't take names."

Striker stood up and said; "Okay, maybe your memory will come back while you're sitting in a jail cell."

Joaquin, desperate, pleadingly said; "C'mon, Striker. You know the game. 'Kid' brings them in and I use them. I pay 'Kid.' Maybe he knows their names. I'm just a tree farmer."

Striker sat back down and Shaunessy said; "Who owns the farm?"

Joaquin said; "I don't know."

Shaunessy stood up and said; "I'm running this stupid, dick-head in for drug use, trafficking in illegal aliens and hindering a police investigation. I've had it." He took out the handcuffs and walked to Joaquin, who said; "All I know is that once in a blue moon I get a call from this lawyer guy."

Shaunessy said; "Collangelo?

Joaquin closed his eyes and said; "Yes."

Shaunessy said; "What does he call you about?"

Joaquin said; "I haven't talked to him in a year. The last time he called he wanted to get rid of the trees as soon as possible, because the land was being sold to a developer."

Shaunessy said; "So?"

Joaquin said; "So, I sold them to a tree farmer from Santa Fe cheap and then the deal must have fallen through."

Shaunessy said; "So, who told you to replant everything?"

Joaquin said; "You know, man, you're gonna get me killed."

Shaunessy said; "We don't talk. Come on."

Joaquin said; "He's gonna know it was me."

Shaunessy again rattled the handcuffs and said; "I don't give a shit. When you get involved in bullshit, sometimes you pay the price."

Joaquin looked at the floor and murmured; "Little Manny."

Striker said; "What's he got to do with all of this?"

Joaquin said; "I don't know. But Little Manny knows everybody and he doesn't talk shit, you know what I mean."

Shaunessy looked at Striker and said; "Do you have anything else to ask Mr. Helpful?"

Striker shook his head no and the duo got up to leave. Shaunessy looked back and said; "Joaquin, it's in your best interest to remember things, especially about dead bodies. We can look the other way for our friends, but we could also come back here and have you put away for ten years. Think about it."

Joaquin stared at the uneven linoleum floor.

Back in the car Striker said; "You really like that F-word, don't you and now a D-word has been added to your vocabulary, too."

Shaunessy said; "I spoke a language he understood well enough. And, in a way I was ready for a fight. If he didn't come up with something useful, I would have run him in."

Striker shrugged the slightest bit, indicating no large objection, but not complete approval, either.

Shaunessy said; "I've about had it for today. We can look up some more people tomorrow."

"I'm with you. Sounds good to me."

"I think his name came up a few weeks ago, but my memory isn't what it used to be. Tell me, who the hell is Little Manny?"
Chapter 7

Striker dropped him off in the Police Headquarters lot and Shaunessy first went to the woodworking shop. He and the owner rope tied it to the top of his newish, maroon Volvo. He drove home slowly, unfastened it in the driveway and with difficulty, brought it in the house. He exhaled with relief and said; "Well, Margaret, how do you like the trastero?"

Imagined discerning look.

"It's a copy of one at the old church. I had it custom made and it wasn't cheap."

Imagined grimace and more intense scrutiny.

He opened the double doors of the blue-painted, seven foot cabinet, standing on four sturdy pine legs and said; "It's going to be the focal point of this house, right here in the living room. The original was probably used in the kitchen for food storage, but times change."

Imagined satisfactory response.

"It's a mixture of traditional Spanish styling utilizing Native American motifs, executed by someone who wasn't a professional cabinet maker; New Mexico folksy. Getting used to the other stuff yet?"

Imagined wishy-washy response.

"Good, at least you don't dislike it anymore. See, it grows on you."

Imagined joking response, having to do with feminine hygiene.

"I've got to say that it's a hell of a lot more interesting than the Scandinavian contemporary things we had back east."

Imagined strong agreement.

"I didn't think you could argue with that one."

There was a knock at the door. Shaunessy said; "That's probably Isabel Rodgers. I'm going to need a housekeeper."

He opened it to see a short, dark haired woman wearing a dirty red quilted coat, which seemed to cover most of her body. She was removing the matching hood when he said; "Good evening, Mrs. Rodgers."

Her direct, hurried voice responded with; "Nice sentiment, but there isn't a lot good about this one."

He looked at the gray fluffy clouds scooting across the sky, propelled by a brisk northern wind and said; "Looks like you're right. Please come on in."

As they walked toward the new, made to look old, cowboy styled kitchen table, he said; "Have a seat. Call me Shaunessy."

She removed her coat, draped it over the back of one of the black painted, quadruple splat backed, Spanish influenced, distressed kitchen chairs and sat on it. She used both of her olive hands to fluff up her medium length hair and said; "Can I have some coffee?"

Shaunessy said; "Sure," poured one for her and one for himself. "Milk or sugar?"

"Black."

"Me, too." He sat across from her and said; "Well, you know I'm looking for the usual stuff. It should be pretty easy as I'm the only one here. How long have you been doing this kind of work?"

"As long as I can remember." She laughed for some reason, reveling a twinkle in her un-made-up green eyes and a grin on her red-painted lips.

"You have references?"

She reached into her light brown, suede, saddle styled pocketbook and pulled out a wrinkled list and pushed it across the table to him.

He viewed the list of thirty names and phone numbers and pushed it back to her, saying; "I guess it's all right. I've never hired anyone before. When can you start?"

"As soon as you'd like." Considering his confession of being a first-timer, she said; "Divorced?"

"Widowed."

"Sorry. I think my husband is going to live forever. Kids?"

"Two grown ones who don't live anywhere near here." Though Shaunessy had heard the story elsewhere he was still somewhat incredulous and wanted to hear it from her lips and said; "You?"

"Nineteen, all of them right around here or in Iraq."

That was the highest number Shaunessy had ever heard and he took a closer look at her, looking for evidence of damage. He didn't see any, but was still concerned and said; "Are you all right?"

She laughed again and said; "Sure. It's easy after the first one."

He said; "Damn..... What ages?"

"The oldest boy just turned thirty and my baby girl is now fifteen. She takes care of herself now."

Shaunessy did the math; nineteen in fifteen years and queried; "Any twins?"

"Three sets."

"Oh my God, you have to be Irish."

She pointed at her olive skinned face and said; "Look Irish to you? I'm Spanish and my husband is a mixture of Spanish, different kinds of white, maybe even some Indian."

Shaunessy was still amazed and said; "I guess you don't have enough to keep you busy at home anymore."

Isabel said; "That's pretty much it. You're a cop, right?"

"For thirty some odd years. I could be retired, but without Margaret around to argue with, I need something to keep me busy all day." Realizing that he was bordering on territory that begged a customary showing of sympathy, he returned to business and asked; "Can you start tomorrow?"

She responded; "Yeah, sure."

"Okay. Tomorrow it is. I'm generally gone from 8AM to 6PM. You can have the house to yourself all day. Make your own hours."

Isabel said; "Fine. Now, how about my pay rate?"

He knew the customary arrangement was fifteen dollars per hour. He also felt that after all of her experience, this woman deserved something extra and the number of kids was stuck in his mind, so he said; "Nineteen dollars per hour."

She broadly smiled and was pleased. She got up and said; "I'll be here tomorrow at 9AM," as she put her winter coat and hood back on. Shaunessy got up and walked her to the door. As she walked out, he said; "Thanks." Then he paused and felt in his pocket. "Oh, here, take my spare key."

She turned back to him. Her half hidden face displayed a hint of amusement and she said; "Thank you." He watched her walk to her recent model, cream colored SUV and drive away, waving goodbye as she did, still somewhat incredulous that she seemed so perky after all those kids. He closed the door and said; "Margaret, did you hear that?"

Imagined comedic response about dropping sugar bags.

He pictured the size of a five pound bag of sugar and shuddered. Then he visualized two at a time and decided to perish the thought. "Well, somebody will be here to keep you company all day. You might get to like her."

Imagined agreeable response.

Shaunessy arrived at the office early on another day of December dismality, however Christmas lights were in full display, brightening up things appreciably. This was formerly his favorite time of year, especially when the kids were small. He thought; "Too bad they have to grow up. ..... Me, too ..... And Margaret ..... Dammit. Well, today's work will keep me occupied with some kind of characters."

He opened the door of the police station and was surprised to find Rhonda and Chief Kerry already there, both on the phone. Most often he was the first to arrive. He went to his desk and pulled out more missing persons reports, this batch from California and shuffled through them, waiting for Striker.

The Chief put down the phone and said; "Morning, Shaunessy."

Shaunessy attempted humor and said; "Thanks. I thought it was afternoon already."

The Chief made no reaction and asked; "Hard work?"

"Yeah and I think there's going to be a lot more."

"Not getting anything good?"

"Not really. We've been questioning some people and some things don't sound right, but I could be just reading too much into it. More pieces have to fall in place.

"Like?"

"Well, Carla Steeples, who lives near the crime scene, has been here three years and her move here coincided with the murder. Her 'boyfriend', Jorge, who also lives in the same area, seems nervous. Mark Gentile has an interest in various Vista de la Feria properties, including the crime scene. He'll only talk to us through his lawyer, Collangelo, a mob attorney, who also has an interest in the tree farm, possibly in partnership with Gentile. Some of their interests could be conflicting. People who have worked on the tree farm have been sighted on the crime scene by Carla Steeples. She also ID'd a truck we traced to Joaquin Gonzalez. Kid and Little Manny have some type of involvement; Kid, at the very least supplies the tree farm, Collangelo might own, or owns as a front for someone else, possibly Gentile, with workers; and there is also an unclear tie to Little Manny. Joaquin Gonzalez is in the middle of the whole thing, claims to not know much anything, but, under pressure gave us some of what we know. My instincts tell me that he is a dirty pawn in the bigger game."

Chief Kerry sighed, making Shaunessy wonder if he was pleased with the "work" done so far and said; "A lot of people moved here three years ago. That was probably the height of the real estate boom. Jorge's not all there; cops might have scared him. Gentile's been around awhile; never got him on anything."

"I can imagine. That's what I'm alluding to when I say more work is necessary. Today we're going to look up 'Kid' and 'Little Manny.'"

Striker walked in with the clock reading 8:45 and said; "I thought I was going to be the early bird."

Rhonda hung up her phone and her orange lips said; "You've never been the early bird in your entire life, Striker."

Striker laughed and tried to continue the frivolity with; "A man can change, can't he?"

Chief Kerry chimed in with; "Not much."

Rhonda stood up, giving everyone a full view of her red Christmassy dress with its snowflake white embroidered trim. She saw that she had everyone's attention and ran her hands along the sides of the crimson garment, saying; "Everyone like?" as she circled around to give all a multi-angled view.

She received a general mumbling grunt sounding something like "Umnnn, yeah, great," but not completely decipherable. Nor was it clear to her who said what. She sat back down, saying; "Bunch of grumps," and got back on the phone.

The guys smirked at each other and Shaunessy said; "Ah, Rhonda, it does brighten up the place." He paused a bit and in an attempt at humor, added; "A little."

Chief Kerry clucked and grumbled; "Mmmmm, I guess." The three regarded each other a few seconds and the Chief suggestively said; "Don't let me keep you boys."

Striker looked at Shaunessy and said; "Ready?"

Shaunessy got up and responded; "Ready to meet some more of Vista de la Feria's bad asses."

Striker noted the possible sarcasm in his partner's voice and walked out, Shaunessy following. Striker got in the driver's seat and when his partner was seated said; "Let's try 'Kid' first." He made a left on Vista de la Feria Road and went six or seven blocks, where he made a right at the "Sandia Bar," a small, deep brown, one level structure with crumbling stucco revealing the ancient adobe construction. He pointed at the green ranch style house with aluminum siding that aped clapboard and said; "He's probably either at home or in the bar." He drove the short gravel driveway as Shaunessy eyeballed the place to see that the plain flat lot was circled by a chain link fence, the only growth sporadic three foot high weeds and almost hidden among the weeds were two motorcycles, one a Harley cruiser and the other a Harley racer. Both were black, shining and relatively new. Shaunessy thought; "They probably cost more than the house. I wonder if they're three years old, the result of money paid for some risky deed of the time."

Striker knocked at the white metal door, which was doing its best to approximate six paneled wood. A man of about fifty opened it. He was wearing a brown bathrobe over a T-shirt and long johns and he was holding a cup of coffee. He brushed back his long, straight, brown, greasy hair with his free hand and said; "Striker, you need help nowadays?"

Striker said; "Meet my new partner, Shaunessy. There'll be more people on your ass now."

"Kid" said; "Everybody's always been on my ass. I'm used to it. What do you think I've done this time?"

Striker, with a facetious tone, shrugged and said; "Murder? Improper disposal of a corpse? General mayhem? Can we come in?"

"Kid" looked behind him, thought a second and said; "My kitchen is hereby authorized for your use. Entre vous."

Shaunessy and Striker followed him straight back and the three took bent chrome and plastic green seats at the table, which was hiding beneath a white cloth with yellow fringe and hosted an ash tray, a pack of Marlboro's and the remains of last night's dinner, or maybe it was from the night before that.

As Shaunessy glanced around the room, taking interest only in the twelve paneled, pine grain chest, stained darkly, which was large enough to hold a few bodies, Shaunessy said; "We've been talking to people about the corpse found on the property of the junk house and Joaquin says he gets his illegal help through you."

"Kid" said; "I can't believe he said that and if he did he's talking garbage. I'd like to hear him say that to my face."

Shaunessy said; "Don't get excited. We're not accusing you of anything. We need to know the names of people who have been working for him and we hoped that you might be able to help us out."

"Kid" appreciated change in tone, but was still reticent to discuss the issue, seeing no advantage in doing so. He scratched at the white handlebar mustache on his well-lined oval face and then sipped his coffee, looking at the Sturgis poster hung on the wall.

Shaunessy said; "I'll take that as a yes. Before we get started, I've got to ask you something else though. I had a good buddy back east who was into motorcycles and I know those two beauties you've got out front are something special. How fast can that racer go?"

With the conversation now on his second favorite subject, "Kid" perked up a bit and said; "One-eighty. I've even had the cruiser up to one-twenty."

Shaunessy said; "Are they new?"

"Kid" incorrectly took note of the possible theft inference and said; "No. I got 'em cheap from the estate of a collector three years ago. You want to see the papers?"

Shaunessy now knew what he wanted to and tried to continue the discourse in a friendly, indirect manner, saying; "No, no. I was just curious. Do they make any now that can beat one-eighty?"

"Kid" said; "I've heard some custom jobs can get near two hundred."

Shaunessy said; "You guys got more nerve than me. I wouldn't want to be going twenty with nothing between me and the concrete."

"Kid" liked talking "biking," but his continued wariness diluted his passion. He said; "You got more sense than me, is what it is. I almost died under a truck." He opened the top of his robe and pulled up his T-shirt to show a chest that looked like a battlefield with gouges from mortar explosions and a long indentation down the middle resembling an undulating river, now without water.

Shaunessy said; "And you still keep riding?"

"Kid" raised his voice to falsetto, as if he had just heard the dumbest question ever and said; "Hell, yes."

Shaunessy said; "Do you ride with the Bandidos?"

"Kid" said; "I ride with a lot of people."

Shaunessy said; "Do you wear their colors?"

Kid said; "Sometimes."

Striker was losing interest in the conversation and said; "What's all this chit-chat about? We know that whether he admits it or not, he's a member of the Bandidos and is involved with their crap."

"Kid" and Shaunessy looked at Striker, neither having a desire to make any response.

Striker got right to his point in the silence, saying; "Look, 'Kid,' you know we don't come down on you, because the junk is kept out of Vista de la Feria. But this time we've got some junk in Vista de la Feria and I need some names."

"Kid" said; "You don't come down hard because you got nothing. You want names? How about Peter, Paul and Mary?"

Striker wasn't old enough to know the folksingers and wasn't inclined to that type of music anyhow, but knew he had been given some dismissive answer. He said; "Kid! Some name for someone pushing fifty. Look, man, don't give me any of your wise-ass answers. Who did you bring in three years ago?"

"Kid" replied; "I could probably make a few insights about your stupid name, but they're obvious anyway. Look, jerk, let's just say that somebody, even like you, is running illegals. Why would anyone give a shit about their names? All you care about is '20 year old, strong, healthy male' or '40 years old woman slowing down,' and like that."

Shaunessy smiled at the seeming logic and saw Striker's face redden with the lack of a follow up. He slapped his thighs and said; "Makes sense to me." As he rose, he added; "Oh, 'Kid,' I should ask one more question. If somebody brought in some illegals three years ago, would you ever have seen them talking to each other, maybe calling each other by name?"

"Kid" responded; "Not me personally, but I'll check around. In a small town, everyone knows everybody."

Shaunessy completed his ascension and offered his hand to the still seated "Kid," who took it of instinct more than desire. He curiously looked into Shaunessy's face, with a "What game you playin'?" countenance.

As a still perturbed Striker got up staring at "Kid," who wasn't looking his way, Shaunessy walked out, saying; "Take good care of those bikes. They're beauties."

In the car, Shaunessy detected Striker's quiet, controlled anger and broke the silence with; "Go ahead. Give me my performance evaluation."

Striker wanted to respond, but his mind was primarily on "Kid"'s attitude and Shaunessy's "tactics" were a lower priority. Now that he was compelled to re-focus his mental energy, he didn't like his partner's approach at all. He seemed to be relying more on co-operation than force, his personal savoir-faire. What he came out with was; "With was that all about? You know why it's called Police FORCE, don't you?"

Shaunessy wasn't surprised, but still fumbled for the correct reply. He thought for a few seconds and said; "The way I see it, the 'Kid' has never been even charged with anything, despite your knowledge of his illegal activities. So much for your force. Hoping for co-operation is all that's left. Or tell me what I missed?"

Striker shook his head, side to side slowly, not able to come up with a reply. He watched the road as he changed the subject and said; "Little Manny is little. About five foot four. He says he's Cuban rather than Mexican. Makes a point of it. He says Cubans are higher class. The biggest thing about him is that when he was a kid, he could kick everybody's ass, despite his size. He appears easy going, but if you push him, he will push back."

"What could he do?"

"He's tight with the mayor. If he tells him he's being harassed for nothing, somebody will have some explaining to do."

Shaunessy smiled and said; "Hmm. I've been there before."

Striker looked at him with raised eyebrows, which Shaunessy interpreted as him having sounded too nonchalant. So he continued; "Not on purpose, of course. Sometimes it's just inevitable." After another lull in the conversation, Shaunessy re-iterated something he already knew, saying; "He's the head of the Bandidos, you say. You mean 'local head,' right?"

"It's more than that. He is the local head, but he has a lot of influence statewide and even a little out of state."

Shaunessy said; "A politician?"

"Yeah, that's probably a good description."

Striker turned onto a side road of substantial houses; large, well-styled, mountain views, the whole nine yards. Striker stopped at the closed gate of number 511 Camino de la Sol. When he got near the iron bars, he was greeted by two black Dobermans barking and showing salivating teeth. He talked into the intercom on the side, saying; "Manny, where's your 'Beware of the Dogs' sign?"

His response came from a voice he didn't know. It said; "Somebody must have stole it. Bad neighborhood. What do you want?"

"This is Striker. I want to talk to Manny."

"Hold on." There was silence for a minute, excepting the dogs. The officers viewed the sprawling single story cream ranch, topped by a sloping red tin roof. A thin young Spanish man with a manicured mustache and goatee appeared. He clapped his hands and said; "Good dogs," and they ran off somewhere. The gate slowly creaked open, the fashionable rusted ten foot poles supporting ovals depicting a lion on the left and a lamb on the right. Striker got back into the car and the man waved him on. He followed the Belgian block lined gravel driveway up to the entrance, where Little Manny was waiting, hands in pockets.

Shaunessy and Striker got out and Little Manny said; "I don't know a thing about the body. Jerk should have buried it out on the mesa like everybody else."

Striker said; "This is Shaunessy. Shaunessy, this is Little Manny."

They nodded at each other and Little Manny continued, directing his speech at Shaunessy; "This is embarrassing. You're new here and some jackass tries to give the place a bad name."

Shaunessy climbed the three brick steps to the covered landing where Little Manny stood, a broad smile covering his oval short-nosed face. Shaunessy said; "They didn't do it to greet me. It's been there three years."

Little Manny invited them in and led them straight back, into the simple hallway, which had no objects detracting from the space and again through a formal kitchen, which mixed hard edged modernism with traditional Southwestern decor, its only condescension to frivolity, the six different colored, structurally identical chairs. They passed through open French doors to an unoccupied indoor rectangular pool. The three took seats at a white metal table with a seemingly useless overhead green umbrella, presently in repose.

Little Manny lit a cigarette and said; "Very sloppy and unprofessional, anyway. You're not looking for somebody who knows what they're doing. You're looking for a solo nut case. Maybe no longer around."

Shaunessy was impressed with the logical thought process shown and agreed with it, but added; "Or somebody got nervous and made a mistake."

Little Manny leaned back in his chair and nonchalantly took a puff, eying Shaunessy and said; "It's a better percentage play my way."

Two boys, probably less than twelve years old, were laughing and shrieking as they ran by the table and jumped in the pool.

Little Manny loudly called out; "Vámanos!"

The kids looked at him, dawdled, their laughing shrieks turned to moans and grumbles, hoping for a change in the call.

"Vámanos!" Little Manny repeated a bit louder and the kids dejectedly, with heads down, walked back into the house proper, the same way they had come, eventually shifting their gazes from the ground to their father.

Little Manny directed his attention back to the cops and said; "They're good kids. They listen ...... most of the time." He smiled.

Striker said; "Like mine."

Shaunessy added; "Mine always listened. ..... and then went off and did exactly what they wanted."

Little Manny said; "What else can I help you gentleman with?" and he extended his arms, covered by a swirling, multi-colored button up shirt, across the table.

Striker said; "We're trying to find some people who were working at the tree farm three years ago."

Little Manny said; "Why?"

Striker said; "They've been placed at the scene of the crime."

Little Manny said; "Well, I've got no idea who they were. Could be just smoke, anyway, you know."

Shaunessy said; "I've considered that. The person most likely to see them didn't see anything and someone else did, a number of times."

Little Manny said; "Who do you believe?"

Shaunessy said; "Nobody."

Little Manny smirked and said; "Is there anything else?"

Shaunessy said; "Yeah, where is your bike?"

Little Manny replied; "Bikes. I've got eight of them in the garage. I'm becoming more of a collector than a rider." He got up, tugging at his white khaki pants and led his visitors to the nearby garage. He flicked the light switch and the officers beheld two recent vintage Mercedes, one red, one white and the bikes. Shaunessy looked at the black and chrome trophies positioned against the walls and his one thought was "expensive."

The three walked the perimeter silently. Little Manny pushed another button and the garage door opened. They exited and walked to the police car. Shaunessy said; "I can't think of any more questions. How about you, Striker?"

Striker said; "No. It's a shame that those things just sit in here."

Little Manny didn't want to entirely give up his biking "credentials" and replied; "I take 'em out sometimes and in a few year my boys will be old enough to ride them."

Shaunessy again directed his conversation at Striker, saying; "This guy's too smooth and has too much going for him to get involved in some messy stupidity."

Little Manny showed one of his wide, carefree smiles, until Shaunessy added; "You did have all this stuff three years ago, right?"

Little Manny was mildly annoyed to have prematurely shown his delight, made a grimace and sternly said; "Most of it."

Shaunessy said; "Did you live here then?"

Little Manny sarcastically responded; "No, I traded down."

The officers got in their car and the trio exchanged mutual brief, unsmiling hand waves. They were let out the massive gate and Shaunessy said; "Place has gotten prosperous over the last three years."

Striker said; "The place has always been all right. Things kind of exploded when you guys started coming."

Shaunessy said; "New Yorkers really changed local lives, didn't they?"

"Everybody except me has more stuff." He looked at Shaunessy and gave him a half-hearted grin.

"Sorry, man. I guess we don't work for just anybody."

Striker glanced at Shaunessy with raised eyebrows and questioned; "What next?"

"I don't know. We've rattled the cages and maybe something will move. In the meantime, maybe we should go back to the office and check DNA against the missing persons reports."

With resignation, Striker said; "Okay."

Shaunessy left early, wanting to be alone to think about what he had heard and seen. His instincts told him that somewhere in the information he had the answer existed. He just had to slow down and weave all the threads together and find out which ones didn't fit. When he got home he saw Isabel's cream SUV in the driveway and said; "Oh, shit" to the windshield. Upon entering, he saw the back of her 5'4", 110 pound body, leaning over the roughly hewn "country" kitchen table, the scent of furniture polish masking the usual mustiness of the room.

Without breaking stride, Isabel said; "I don't know why I always get stuck working for slobs."

Shaunessy took that as a playful comment and said; "That's the kind of remark I'd expect from a wife."

"God forbid. This table is raw wood and you must get your food all over it."

He recalled a few instances of having done precisely that, watched her body busily shaking in its tank dress covered with faded flowers and said; "I like that 'lived-in' look."

She turned to him and in quick cadence said; "I like lived in, too, but I don't need stains."

"All right, well, clean 'em up. It's your job."

She said; "You really should put some lacquer on this."

"That'll ruin the look."

She walked to the light pine, Spanish influenced, simple kitchen cabinets, grabbed one brass handle, opened the door and put the polish and rag inside. She said; "I've had it for today. If you were my husband, you'd be getting good talking to."

"God forbid." He smiled at her and continued, "Did you ever notice that this place hit the lottery three years ago?"

"Yeah, somewhere around then. For me, I started getting a lot more work offers."

"I've just been thinking about some of the things our investigation has turned up, which isn't much. I don't believe in coincidences and it seems that just around the time the body was buried, a lot of people came into sudden wealth. Have you ever heard any stories about anything out of the ordinary happening back then?"

She was donning her green quilted jacket while listening and she zipped it up as she said; "People are always telling me stories. It's hard to remember what I heard and place it at a specific time."

"Well, did you overhear anything about a murder?"

"No."

"How about any kind of 'big deal' going down?"

"No, not really. The stuff I hear is more about romance and none of your business."

Shaunessy said; "One more thing. Have you ever heard any stories about Little Manny or 'Kid'?"

Her expression became solemn and serious when she said; "People know better than to talk about those two."

Shaunessy understood, but chose to push her once more with a stupid "Why?"

Isabel said; "C'mon. You know who they are." She opened the door and said; "Don't slob up the table," as she closed it.

Shaunessy went to the table and rubbed one finger in the fragrance and saw the potent greasy polish on his finger. He said; "Now I can't even use it. Margaret, do you like that woman?"

Imagined, extremely agreeing, smiling response.

"I suspected you would." He smiled and said; "I do too. You know what happened today?"

Imagined and real silence.

"Dumb question. I found out that two of Vista de la Feria's notorious ran into money when the body was buried."

Imagined nonplussed shrug.

"You know I don't believe in coincidences."

Imagined disinterest.

"I know it could be one. Sometimes you're so literal, it's annoying. How about the possibility that the lady who lives nearby purposely sent us on a wild goose chase?"

Imagined testimony to the possibility of error.

"No, she can't be mistaken, as she says she saw the same truck a number of times."

Imagined question of corroboration.

"No, nobody else did."

Imagined question.

"She's new here."

Another imagined question.

"Three years, the magic number."

Imagined "Well, there you go" look.

Shaunessy paced around and talked to himself or Margaret the rest of the evening, coming up with nothing else of any use. Three hours after sundown he went to bed, held his pillow and said; "Wish you were here, girl," and slept.

He was back in Manhattan, only this time not as a cop, but he was just like everyone else walking Fifth Avenue on a sunny, pleasant fall day. The feeling of leisure was overwhelming, like a tourist, eyeing all the goodies displayed in the high priced windows, knowing that he had enough money to get anything he wanted. All he had to do was find the right store.

His slow walk enabled him to also see the other people, in preponderance, visiting from elsewhere and overhear snippets of conversations by people often trying to inform those within earshot of their high level of sophistication. He was genuinely amused, but was without condescension, if anything, feeling personally privileged to have always been near here. He recalled an interview he had seen with some rock star. When asked about his take on various places he had lived, he gave jovial descriptive answers about the other places, but when the subject got to Manhattan, he did a long pause before saying; "That's an adult dose," with a disparaging tone. When he heard that, Shaunessy immediately came back with; "You're a little old for a child's dose."

He saw a thin man standing on the corner of Forty-Fifth Street mumbling something he may have been reading from a miniscule two inch by two inch book he held up to his face with both hands. The reader made no eye contact with anyone, preferring the safety of someone else's printed word. Unable to make out any specific words from a distance of five feet, Shaunessy was blessed by seeing the attachment of a piece of cardboard to the reader's back which said; "Men's Liberation." Shaunessy thought; "What point is there to discuss? Some are, some aren't." Further reflection gave rise to a further evaluation of the street performer's act. "Maybe he's speaking softly to the denizens of Oshkosh. More productivity could be gathered by dressing as a holy man."

Shaunessy continued uptown and saw a tall buxom woman of about thirty-five walking down Fifth Avenue. She was about six feet tall and 155 pounds, much of which was displayed under sheer stockings. Her tight micro-mini skirt and high heels were very out of step with those nearest her, with whom she, like the reader, disdained making any eye contact, looking straight ahead with a bored expression, as if she expected to soon be in a different place. Shaunessy violated one of his own customs and stared at her, feeling in good company as everyone else was doing that, too.

For some strange reason he looked at her face to see that it wasn't the creation of someone adept at the skill. But her bumped nose, uneven teeth and lack of a cheekbone, made her even more attractive, so very vulnerable to criticism and doing exactly what she wanted to. He stopped, turned and watched her walk from the back, wondering where she was headed.

He continued his own path when the view became too small and came to a sloppily dressed window of a store which sold men's suits. Despite the haphazard layout, the items for sale were of the best quality and included French and Italian cuts. He went in and without much fuss or trouble purchased a light blue, white pinstriped specimen from Paris.

Excited with his unique toy, he wanted to go home and show Margaret. He tried to remember where he lived, to no avail. He opened his eyes and saw that it was Vista de la Feria, New Mexico.
Chapter 8

The phone rang and though Shaunessy didn't feel like answering, some instinct made him do so. He glanced at the darkened window, picked up the receiver and said a bored, "Hello?" dragging out the "o".

"Hey, it's Striker. I've got something set up for tomorrow."

In a desultory tone, Shaunessy said; "Oh, great."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Which of the words do you not understand?"

Striker was silent a few seconds, then said; "More of that stupid New York sarcasm, I guess."

Shaunessy realized that he was behaving poorly and said; "I'm sorry. My sincere apologies. I've just been thinking about the case, fell asleep and was having a nice dream. Your call kind of jarred me back to reality. What have you got?"

Striker knew it was pragmatically best to accept the apology gracefully, though he had his reservations. He was initially excited, calling about a new plan and almost wound up in an argument. His exuberance now gone, he thought he may as well have been talking to his wife. He was compelled to put in one little jab and said; "Be a little careful, partner. Remember who your friends are. You might need them someday. Look, I'm calling because I've set up a meeting with one of my informants, Teddy Geloso. He gets on the fringes of a lot of questionable things, acts like he knows everything that goes on and sometimes does."

"Big talker?"

"Right. But, he doesn't want to be seen talking to cops, so wear your civvies and bring your car. You can chauffer me for a change."

"He knows I'm coming?"

Striker laughed; "No, but he'll quickly like the increased attention."

"That's a sign that he doesn't know anything."

"He might not, but what else have we got?"

Shaunessy's silence prompted Striker to add; "Pick me up at my house tomorrow at 8AM. We're meeting him by the river in Albuquerque at nine."

"I'll be there and hey, sorry, man. I'll become a New Mexican yet."

"See'ya," and Striker hung up.

Shaunessy said; "Margaret, remember how we used to meet on the Hudson? Now, I'm going to meet some Teddy Geloso at the Rio Grande. Why'd you leave me here?"

Imagined response inclusive of love, wistful mirth and an airtight alibi.

"It wasn't my fault, either, but I'm the one left in the garbage."

Imagined chastising response.

Shaunessy sighed; "Selfish?" ...... "I guess." ...... "I just miss you." He slept.

At dawn Shaunessy got up, made coffee and drove his recent model maroon Volvo into Striker's driveway, to find his partner waiting at the front door. Striker bolted to the passenger's seat and said; "I couldn't wait to get out of there."

Shaunessy felt fatherly and gently replied; "You might be sorry someday."

"I look forward to it."

Shaunessy shrugged and said nothing. He hadn't met Striker's wife or kids, but had difficulty imagining them as badly as his partner made them sound; and at Christmas time, too! He thought; "Striker is still so young, at least relative to me. He still has a lot of time to learn. My mother used to tell me what a shame it was that humans are so stupid. We manage to learn everything after the knowledge is useless."

He took directions from Striker, traversed the highway and passed through what once must have been the main thoroughfare prior to the interstate, noting what he considered to be a disparate arrangement of structures, ranging from stately gated homes, to elementary schools, to horse farms, to fast food outlets. He wondered if there was any kind of zoning in place, but rather than bring it up now decided to save the question for some future date. The morning's promising, but weak display of sun had already given way to a mild breeze which brought back the dark clouds, maybe the same ones that congregated yesterday and the day before and the day before.....

Striker said; "Pull in here," and Shaunessy made a quick right into the paved entranceway of something. The pavement quickly ended and the car rolled down an incline ten feet below road level, into a flat rectangular two acre dirt lot. It was obviously a parking area, evidenced by frozen tire tracks and one empty car. They exited and were immediately hit with a cold gust of wind. On one side of the lot was a ditch holding ice water and on the other was a gradually sloping terrain with bushes, weeds and trees, now devoid of any warm weather growth, the vegetation wearing their winter browns. Any pretense it may have once had to being a garden was now overwhelmed by its current most important function; stoically providing the river with separation from the busy and refuse strewn main road.

Striker led him down a small embankment and Shaunessy got a view of the high running river, which ignored the miserable conditions and was diligently doing what rivers are supposed to do; flowing. They stood silently at the edge by a still inlet used by fishermen, which was still covered by a bubbling sheet of ice and waited. The wind off the water prompted Shaunessy to say; "Damn. I'm going to have to learn to dress better, at least get a wool hat." His predominantly gray hair was standing up and shifting at the whim of the changing breeze as he admired the drab, dark blue piece of fortification tightly covering Striker's scalp and ears. Striker had taken the woolen cap from his jacket pocket when he exited the car. He said; "It could be worse. At your age you could have a bald head and then you'd really feel it."

Shaunessy bit his tongue, as one of his pet peeves was the way people often say; "It could be worse," as if you really didn't have anything to complain about. No matter the situation, there was always some way in which it could be worse. Therefore nobody had any right to complain as one more adversity could always be added. If there were anyone capable of making such judgments, there was only one person in the world who that could not be said to; the one with the most problems, but no one knew who that was; many thought it was themselves. In some sense, however, even if we knew who the most disadvantaged person on earth truly was, somebody could always give him one more problem. Isn't that the area of expertise practiced and preached by the Republican Party? The gigantic toothed group could do the job without straining. Experience and tradition count. But, maybe that's the point of the popular reaction; No one gets any help with their problems and to return the favor, nobody gives a shit about your complaints and nobody wants to even hear them. Too bad; New Yorkers complain all the time. It's almost a way of life for the petulant seekers of perfection.

He said; "If this wind keeps up it'll probably blow the rest of my hair away. Where is this ass...." Shaunessy caught himself on the verge of saying "asshole," and finished the sentence with; "informant anyway?"

Striker grinned approvingly, looked at his wristwatch and said; "It's 8:50 and we may be here a while."

Shaunessy couldn't help himself and said; "Shit."

Striker laughed out loud as he watched Shaunessy's pale Irish skin grow blotches of pink. He said; "A few years ago a girl froze to death near here. I thought it sounded suspicious, but it's not my jurisdiction."

"I'm not suspicious. Sounds like an easy thing to do in this weather."

"The circumstances were strange. Supposedly this girl was living with some guy. They had an argument and in this kind of weather, she is said to have charged out of his house at night wearing only a shirt and jeans. She was seen at some other people's house. When questioned, they said she came to the door asking for help. They didn't want to let her in, fearing some kind of scam. So, they told her to wait outside and that they would bring her a cell phone. They say they went inside to get her one and when they came back, she was gone. She was found dead in a dry ditch the next morning by a dog walker fifty feet from another house. Sometimes it seems like people here watch every damn thing, but when their watching might have proved helpful, they miss that one." He paused, looked at the hard, frozen ground, shook his head and added; "Young girl .... Nineteen."

Shaunessy said; "Sounds strange to me, too. Wouldn't her boyfriend be out looking for her? Wouldn't the people whose door she knocked at be doing the same? Wouldn't the people in the house near the ditch have heard or seen something? Not finding any help, wouldn't she have gone back to the boyfriends' house, at least to get warmer clothing?"

Striker said; "Yes, yes, yes and yes. But they say no, no, no and no. Some kind of garbage happened and some crime was committed. I'd like to have handled that case."

"Me, too..... Hey, is this him?"

Both cops looked in the direction of the footsteps, unmistakable in the leaf covered ground. A huge portly figure stood at the top of the drop off. He was dressed for the occasion in a black woolen ski mask, heavy gray quilted jacket and tan, lined hunter's pants. His hands were in his pockets.

Striker said, "Is that you, Teddy?"

The newcomer said; "I don't know yet. Who's your friend?"

Striker said; "Shaunessy, my new partner."

Teddy backed up a step and said; "I didn't say it was okay to bring anybody."

Shaunessy said to Striker, "I understand. I can go sit in the car with the heat on." He moved in that direction, not minding in the least.

Striker said; "No, stay." Shaunessy grimaced and went back to his dutiful space. Striker then to Teddy; "He's all right. It's just like talking to me. He already knows who you are anyway."

Teddy looked around for any other surprise guests, secretly anxious to play to a larger audience and said; "Fine, you gotta do what you gotta do."

Shaunessy said; "I know that accent. You're from New York, right?"

Teddy answered; "Yeah, but it's been a long time. I don't sound like a South westerner yet?" He pulled up his ski mask and revealed a round red face, a nose bump that looked the result of a fight and small, squinting alert eyes.

Striker said; "You don't look like one, either. Listen, we've got a corpse that was buried three years ago and we're looking for some direction."

Teddy said; "What's in it for me?"

Striker said; "What do you need?" as he and Shaunessy climbed the embankment and stood next to Teddy. Shaunessy, on his first visit to this location, scanned the expanded view allowed by his elevated status; beautiful, gigantic, rocky mountains; the Sangre De Cristos in the distance. He could see them from his house, but that was a close-up of only a small portion. Now, he saw three times more of the picture and was amazed at the size, both horizontally and vertically. He now knew the true meaning of "purple mountain's majesty," as the vigilant sun made a brief and tiny appearance, it's rays enough to provide color. Shaunessy was still in awe of the giant rocks, after weeks of daily observations, as he favorably compared them to the meager hills he remembered inhabiting the outskirts of New York. He wondered if his expanded view would provide him with a viewpoint sufficiently wide to detect a path from bottom to top of the seemingly un-climbable giant. His eyes followed a dark, curving line and before he could follow it all the way up, he felt Striker's arm on his shoulder and heard him say; "Are you all right?"

Shaunessy's gaze re-focused on his partner and Teddy and saw them looking at him with curious expressions. In an agitated manner he said; "Yeah, yeah. Christ. Am I supposed to be staring at your two ugly mugs? Damn. Well, let's get to it." Directing his speech at Teddy, he said; "If you want favors, we better get something good."

Teddy just silently raised his eyebrows at Shaunessy, as if to say; "This ain't your ballpark," looked to Striker and said; "I got a buddy in Albuquerque up on charges for pot sales."

Striker said; "First offense?"

Teddy said; "Hell, no. But it's bullshit because he's a legal grower; got the card and everything. He sold some to a guy who showed him a medical card that must have been fake. Then this guy gets arrested for possession of a stolen car and he turns in my friend."

Striker said; "Sounds do-able. Depends on what you've got for me." He looked at Shaunessy after he demonstrated his elementary "savvy," as if to sarcastically say; "Okay, chief?"

From past experience Teddy knew that Striker would keep his end of the deal, so he said; "I really don't know anything about the corpse, but I got some ideas who might have had an interest in making him one."

Shaunessy said; "Give it a shot."

Teddy said; "Three years ago construction was through the roof and illegals were doing most of the work."

Striker said; "Teddy, tell me something I don't know."

Teddy said; "Getting there, this is for Shaunessy, too."

Shaunessy affected a bored sound and disparagingly said; "Even I know that."

Teddy grimaced and said; "Tough audience. Okay, here's the shit. Illegals get paid $7 per hour and the guy who brings them in usually charges the builder $25. Things were so hot it was up to forty and a lot of independents got in the business. The result was that the rate dropped back to $25." He looked at the two cops whose facial expressions mutely said; "So?"

Teddy went on; "Okay, this is what you probably don't know. Little Manny put out a warning that this was his exclusive franchise and that he would snuff any competition. The competition made themselves scarce quick. Maybe one of the slow and deaf ones found out that Little Manny doesn't talk shit." He laughed solo at his own choice of words. He shrugged, grimaced and added; "You know, like the slow and deaf one became very slow and very deaf." When he saw that he was still the focus of stony stares, he slowly shook his head side to side, settled on a water view and informed the river that; "Fuckin' cops got no sense of humor."

Shaunessy flatly said; "That was real funny. You can't see the laugh because my face is frozen. Great show, man. No shit. Now, really entertain me and tell me who were these independents?"

Teddy grimaced and said in a high pitched voice; "Aw, you know, man. They use names like Big Tex, Crazy Carson, Shotgun Renaldo and bullshit like that."

Shaunessy said; "You don't know anything else about these people?"

Teddy said; "Don't know where they came from and don't know where they went to." He paused, grinned and said; "Well, maybe, now I know where one of them went to, but so do you." He eyeballed Shaunessy and Striker who were blankly staring at him and said; "Yeah, I know, frozen faces. Damn." Affecting an upbeat voice, he added; "Hey, maybe some of the builders know more."

Shaunessy and Striker managed to move their faces somewhat, resulting in tiny smirks, finally thinking that they had heard something mildly amusing. So Teddy continued; "I'm not giving you any garbage. Some of these builders might talk because Little Manny threatened them, too, saying he'd cut off the illegal supply. At the time they didn't give a shit because they were making money like crazy. They're small operators and probably figured they'd cash in and split if necessary. If they're still building they probably got some shit on the illegal deals and maybe they suffered some way for defying Little Manny back then."

Striker said; "Do you know any of the builders?"

Teddy smirked and said; "I don't think I know anybody semi-legal."

Striker said; "What are you up to these days?"

Teddy said; "Nothin' really; peddling information, helping out pals." He shrugged his shoulders.

Striker said; "Thanks. If this leads anywhere, your friend is home free. If not, maybe. Depends. Maybe your memory will get better after we leave. You've got my number."

Shaunessy said; "Thanks," and shook Teddy's hand.

Teddy rolled the ski mask back down and said; "Give me a few minutes to get out of here first. I don't need to be seen with any undesirables." He walked quickly into the parking area and the duo watched a recent cream Lexus pull out.

Striker said; "Sounds like he knows what he's talking about this time."

Shaunessy said; "Sure, he's a New Yorker."

Striker punched him in the upper arm, laughed and said; "Let's get the hell out of here before numbness sets in."

Shaunessy took one last long look at the red, brown and yellow leaves being blown into the river by small dust devils, where the never-ending current carried the still floating, involuntary passengers to their final resting place, wherever that was; cold, wet and brittle, struggling not to be submerged.

Back in the car heading back to Vista de la Feria, Shaunessy initiated the conversation with; "Do you know the builders?"

Striker paused, looking for a concise answer and came up with; "There were hundreds back then, some not around anymore. I knew a few."

"Hundreds? Not that many houses went up."

"Some only put up two or three."

"Weird."

"Not really. If they do it right they make enough money to own their own home, mortgage free and maybe even have something left over."

"They don't want more?"

"Some want more time to do what they like. They don't measure everything in dollars like people from a certain un-named part of the country."

Shaunessy heard the joke-criticism loud and clear. This time he fully agreed with Striker, as it was one of his qualms about his place of birth. He made a short, snorting laugh and said; "I never met anyone above the numbers in New York. That's a unique sub-species. How do the ones above it all spend their days?"

"Beats me. I'm stuck in the numbers. I guess some drink, some drug, some fool around with motorcycles, some play chess, some read, some argue with their girlfriends, some look for trouble, some have hobbies and some do all of the above. Whatever interests them."

Shaunessy paused a few seconds and replied; "Sounds like it could potentially be an improvement over 'chase your tail' New York, but not necessarily. Personally, I always thought people would be happier if they did more of what they liked."

"No doubt. But the funny thing is that when they get the freedom to do it, at the same time they need to get some discipline."

"I know one huge un-disciplined story like that back east. These four brothers won what was, at the time, the largest Lotto payoff. They bought a gigantic farm and then didn't know what to do with themselves, started drinking, then heavily and now they spend their lives with health problems, in and out of rehab."

"I know of similar smaller scale stories here. A lot of people have to be taught how to handle complete freedom, or it winds up a curse. I'd sure like to give it a try, though."

"I could retire on my pension. I put in thirty-two years, but without Margaret, I wouldn't know what to do all day. So I got this job. I guess I like figuring out puzzles. What would you do if you had all the money you would ever need?"

"Get a new wife." Striker smirked at his own statement and quickly added; "That was half a joke. HALF. I love my kids though. Maybe I'd bug them to the point where they wanted me to go away. I really don't know. I guess it's something I don't expect to happen, so I don't think about it."

After a lull Striker's very practical side showed up and he said; "What I am thinking about is what to say to these builders, if we can find them." He affected a tongue-tied manner of speech when he self-mockingly added; "Do you know any dead illegal alien transporters?" He laughed at his own lack of ideas.

Shaunessy smiled, glanced at Striker making a contorted face and said; "Maybe that is the best approach. Shock 'em right up front. Maybe they'll accidentally blurt out something they otherwise wouldn't have said."

Striker furrowed his brow and just looked at his partner. Shaunessy continued; "Hell, I have no idea what to ask them either, but they are where the trail is leading us." He paused and then added; "Ah, you're probably right. What if we ask them if they know any dead illegal alien smugglers and they merely look at us and just resolutely say 'No'? What's the follow up? 'Thanks for your time'? and leave?" They both shook their heads, but with an amused demeanor.

Striker said; "Let's ask the Chief. He gets paid a lot more than us, presumably because he knows more and is able to do something useful. Let's seek his expertise."

Shaunessy said; "I like it. We'll keep him informed and I've learned that every once in a while I can use a good bailout." Both cops were amused and thought they knew how they would spend the rest of the day; listening to the Chief.

In the warmth of the car the cops savored their own thoughts, silently viewing the parade of metal warehouses and national fast food franchises adjacent to the highway, as they attempted to withstand the blowing onslaught of cardboard boxes and shopping bags coming their way, with nothing to stop the trash on the flat, brown, defoliated, terrain. Shaunessy reflected on his hasty choice to come to New Mexico and Striker pondered his lack of choice in being born there and his predilection for staying put, fearful of being totally out of place elsewhere.

Once again back at the station house, hot black coffee jolted them back to the chirpy effervescence necessary to perform their next task, in the pleasant fashion required. They nodded at each other and approached the Chief. They took the two chairs opposite him and the Chief thought; "Uh-oh, trouble." He broke away from his expense reports, looked up at them and said; "What can I do for you boys?"

Attempting amusing chit-chat, Shaunessy smiled and answered; "I appreciate that. I don't think anyone has called me a boy in more than thirty years."

After the duo updated him on the results, or lack thereof, of their investigation, Striker said; "The route is now to the builders. How should we approach them? And do you have any favorite ones or methods?"

The Chief shrugged his shoulders and sighed. He shook his head slowly and said; "I don't know. Even if they have something useful, at this point they're not going to admit having knowledge of a murder."

Shaunessy said; "Maybe we don't have to ask them that. Maybe we can just try to get the names of the illegal runners who are missing."

The Chief dryly said; "They're all missing."

Striker said; "Maybe there are more bodies nobody has unearthed yet."

The Chief said; "That's all we need. But until someone finds the others, we'll have to work with the facts we have. It really doesn't make much sense, either. At this point the most likely suspect is Little Manny and I know he gets involved in a pot load of different kinds of garbage, but, at least up until now, he's always kept it out of Vista de la Feria."

Striker said; "Some meth business goes on here."

The Chief replied; "Some meth business goes on everywhere. Little Manny takes a cut for controlling it and he doesn't let things get out of hand."

The trio was momentarily talked out and after a few seconds of silence, staring thoughtfully at their shoes or Rhonda chatting on the phone, the Chief again spoke; "Tell you what. Make an unannounced trip to see this Gentile character again. Maybe you can catch him without his lawyer. Tell him it's in his interest to help us, because the site he wants to build on will be kept off limits as a crime scene by me until this is solved. There's nothing to stop me from doing it. Every square inch will have to be combed for possible evidence. After that, hit the missing persons reports again, or maybe someone will get a better idea by then."

Striker and particularly Shaunessy were very impressed with the Chief. He was brief, clear, useful and didn't feel a need to consult the contradictory procedures manuals. Shaunessy thought; "If Kerry would replace Fitzpatrick, it would be a distinct improvement for New York."
Chapter 9

The duo changed into their uniforms and took the police car. Striker peered at the digital clock and said; "Lunch time. Let me show you some of the local sights."

Shaunessy said; "Fine," in an offhand manner, not looking forward to a possibly contentious, useless talk with Gentile.

"You've got to see this place in Albuquerque called 'The Boobie Hatch.' The prices are a little steep, but it's worth it once in a while."

Shaunessy had heard of "The Boobie Hatch" previously. He had never been in one as his New York attitude toward porn, or anything else for that matter, was one of; "If you're going to do it, do it." He didn't have much of a desire for watered down, half-assed presentations. He didn't want to say anything disparaging, however, so he feigned ignorance and replied; "The Boobie Hatch?" I hope that's not something with cattle calling competition."

"No, you have to get out into the country to see that. This place is very human. The waitresses wear only bikinis and they have to have big ones to work there. The town zoning commission won't allow anything like this in Vista de la Feria."

As Striker steered the car onto the interstate and went up the ramp, Shaunessy put his hands on his chest and quizzically said; "Really big ones?"

"Yeah."

Shaunessy said; "You're surprising me. I thought you were against all this big city corruption."

"I am, but I didn't say that I was a perfect saint. Put it this way; If it weren't close I wouldn't go out of my way looking for it. But, now that they put the sirens right against my ears, you know.............I'm human. It's weird. Sometimes I feel so out of date at the advanced age of 28. Families go there,......You know, husband, wife and kids; little ones and these waitresses are barely contained in their outfits bending over making cutesy baby talk with the toddlers."

"Oh, come on, you're just trying to justify yourself. The place is probably really filled with drooling, filthy old men with bugging eyes, their busy hands under the table."

"No. No lie. I might have missed the sick old farts, because I'm not interested in them, but about half the tables are taken by real families. Surprised me too."

"How often do you go make these societal observations?"

"I know you're fooling around, but only like twice a year. It's kind of expensive."

"Really big ones?"

"Yeah."

"All right! I've gotta see this."

The patrol car negotiated the twenty mile trip at a steady, five mile per hour rate above the sixty speed limit, passing and being watched by others determined not to get a ticket. Shaunessy idly looked out the passenger's window, seeing a plethora of metal warehouses, vacant land and car repair establishments, looking neglected in the dismal winter non-light. The gray sky periodically flashed some indirect sun through the high haze, only to be gone right after it was noticed. One of Shaunessy's surprises after moving to New Mexico was the simple fact that a desert was merely a place with little precipitation, whereas he previously associated it with sun, heat, sand and cactus, probably the result of seeing too many cowboy movies.

Striker broke the silence after a few minutes, saying; "What are you daydreaming about?"

"It's hard to explain. I was kind of thinking back to what I expected before I moved here and what I've seen."

"Disappointed?"

"With some things. Pleasantly surprised with most."

"What did you expect?"

Shaunessy breathed deeply and the corners of his mouth turned up. He sighed and was amused at his own folly, when he replied; "Shangri-La."

Striker laughed and said; "That's somewhere near Tibet, isn't it? I never had an urge to find it. It's freezing up in those mountains."

The car exited the highway and the duo quickly saw the revolving electric sign saying "The Boobie Hatch". Striker said; "Speaking of mountains, here they are." They stopped in the half empty -- or was it the half full? -- parking lot, one hundred feet from the entrance and saw an obviously freezing, bikinied young white girl, seemingly distraught, standing with a dark, young Spanish man, who agitatedly was trying to make some point with a loud voice and frantic hand gestures. Striker jumped out of the squad car, charged over to them and said; "Is there a problem here?"

The Spanish guy said; "No problem, man," as the girl remained quiet, perhaps a tear in one eye that she turned from the officer.

Striker aimed his forefinger and said; "I'm talking to her."

The guy said; "Hey, man. You're not a cop here. So why don't you mind your own business?"

Striker calmly looked at the young man, grabbed his green, New York Jets, number fifteen football jersey and pushed him into the establishment's wall. He said; "I feel like talking to this girl. Are you gonna stop me?"

The embarrassed Spanish guy offered no resistance and put up his hands, palms forward, as if he were about to catch a football.

Striker let go of him, turned to the girl and said; "Is everything okay?"

She clucked her tongue, shook her head and replied; "Yes. He's my boyfriend. Sometimes he's an asshole."

"Are you sure, because you shook your head 'No,' but you're saying 'Yes?'"

She laughed, saying; "I'm sure he's an asshole."

The Spanish guy turned his head to one side, rolled his eyes and laughed, too.

Striker said; "All right. But I don't want to see any garbage going on here. You're disturbing customers."

The guy said; "All right," put his arm around the girl's shoulder and lead the jiggling, cold girl away. Shaunessy said; "Get some clothes on. It's only forty degrees."

By this time the young couple was laughing to each other and the Spanish guy called back; "I got some blankets in the car and she ain't goin' back in there," pointing at "The Boobie Hatch."

Striker turned to Shaunessy, raised his eyebrows and said; "Lucky guy."

The law enforcement duo entered the establishment and was greeted by the sounds of dropping cutlery, a deep base musaak version of "You Can't Always Get What You Want," and, most importantly, a very well developed Spanish girl of about twenty in a white bikini and white high heels. She saw how the two smiled at her and smiled back, bending forward slightly to pick up two menus from a small, three foot high table. She said; "Two?" as she adjusted a strap.

All of a sudden words took on different meanings, as Shaunessy and Striker looked at her two, Striker finally smirking and saying; "Yes."

This interchange was standard operating procedure for the girl, who had gone through it thousands of times, so she merely turned and led them to a table, Shaunessy fascinated by how much the addition of heels added to the sexiness of a woman in a bikini and focused on her rippling panties, wondering what was under them and Striker was looking higher, in awe that he was able to see some of both boobies from the back.

They were seated and she again leaned forward to place menus in front of them, saying; "Your waitress will be right with you." They both mumbled "Thank you" and their eyes stayed on her behind until the view was blocked by customers sitting at tables.

Striker said; "Told you, man."

Shaunessy made a very contented smile and nodded. His gaze panned the room and he said; "Yeah, I'm really surprised that I do see families with little kids eating here. The world must have changed sometime when I wasn't paying any attention to it."

Carla was the waitress assigned to the area and her short day was now preoccupied with a volume of thoughts and fears when she saw her new patrons. She considered asking someone to cover for her, or playing it as if she didn't know them, with the hope that they wouldn't recognize her undressed, or saying "Good to see you again," and playing it straight, or just going home pretending an immediate violent illness.

She tried to imagine it from their viewpoint. She guessed that this visit probably wasn't a mistake. Though she couldn't recall having told them where she worked, she surmised that cops have ways of finding out such things. She feared that if she got someone else to cover for her, or if she pretended not to recognize them, or quickly left, it would be seen as a guilt-inferring attempt to be evasive. If their visit was a coincidence, too often a bad bet, they might recognize her anyway, resulting in any evasive tactic unnecessarily raising questions about her. In any case she surmised that the inevitable could be closing in and the best thing she could do was meet it with the valor with which she prided herself. The best, but, she thought, unlikely case, was that maybe they just wanted to see her close to au natural and, if so, perhaps she could turn that to her advantage.

"Hi, gentleman, I'm your waitress, Carla. Did you make the trip to see little me? What can I get you to drink?" She immediately realized that she just nervously blurted out three things and that she should have waited for a response to one before going to the next.

Again, another language took the mental forefront, but the duo didn't spend much time on words, as they admired the 40D's. She was probably in her upper twenties, about 5'8" and weighed 140 pounds, 40 of them in her breasts. Her pink bikini was more of a G-string and the top showed cleavage from above and below, the nipples obvious. She had wavy black hair, parted in the middle, which ended in the middle of her back.

Striker suddenly thought he recognized her, helped by the "little me" remark and said; "Carla?" When she curtsied, he added; "I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

She wondered if this was a ploy and did her best to affect a polite smile.

Striker said; "You don't look like the same person; quite an improvement." His eyes were on her, as they elevated from floor to ceiling.

She smiled and did a wiggling pirouette for the mesmerized audience.

"I'll take a Bud," Striker ordered without making eye contact, as they had found a temporary resting place on her 40D's.

Shaunessy uttered; "Make that two," immediately realizing that his mind had reverted to the other form of speech, as Carla shot her eyes skyward, having become accustomed to dozens of two "jokes" daily, smiled, then wrote on her pad.

As she turned to walk away, she rolled on one of her white high heels. The patrons watched as she quickly corrected herself, noting all the pale white skin and a rectangular square jawed face, with only artificial colors of red lips and heavy blue eye makeup.

Shaunessy asked; "Are you all right?" as he got up and held her forearm gently.

Carla was a bit embarrassed and said; "Yeah, thanks. These heels take some getting used to," and immediately wished she had said something else, or cut the gab at "Thanks." She also wished that she hadn't been nervously moving too fast to begin with, causing the slip. She had been in this profession for two years and had seen many waitresses move too quickly and lose their balance, but she didn't want to call attention to her clumsiness right now.

As they had spoken, making contact at eye level, Shaunessy noted her distinct Adam's apple. He recalled working vice as a young cop, being with his older partner on Ninth Avenue behind Port Authority. The six lane street was littered with delivery trucks and "girls" dressed in the skimpiest of outfits, much as Carla wore today walking right up to them in the middle of the street and carrying on some conversation. There must have been fifteen of them on the one block in the 9PM summer darkness, dancing from truck to truck under the tall street lights. He excitedly said to his partner; "Look at those girls," to which the more experienced man replied; "Those aren't girls." Shaunessy thought for a few more seconds and realized that they were patrolling an area with more than a few gay bars and sighed; "Oh, shit." His wiser companion informed him that; "The transvestites and transsexuals have an Adam's apple. Real women don't."

Shaunessy sat back down and smiled broadly as Striker again said; "What did I tell you?" The older cop decided that it was better not to blemish his young partner's day with an unwanted reality and better not to bullhorn what Carla probably considers none of anybody's business.

Carla quickly came back with their drinks, leaned over and slowly poured the bottles into glasses, as Striker's eyes assumed the expected vantage points and Shaunessy reconfirmed the throat protuberance, then looked down to see that her high heels were about size eleven.

"Ready to order?" she asked, perhaps continuing the double entendre game.

Striker said; "What's your favorite meal?"

Carla noted that the game took a step up, overtly glanced at his now tight dark brown pants and surveyed the uniform of authority, always to her liking. She calmly said; "Married?" hoping the answer was yes.

Taking it as a put off, Striker said; "Yes, ma'am. For six long years, with two kids who can't sit still and a wife who can't do anything else."

Carla decided to go to the next level and replied; "I like the sausages. I can eat them all day and they always make me feel full."

Shaunessy interrupted with; "Exactly the kind of girl a man would design," and looked at her face.

The comment made her feel a bit uneasy and she looked at him coldly and curiously, annoyed that the dialogue was now a trialogue and fearful of the vague inference connoted by "man would design."

Striker took Shaunessy's comment as a compliment to her, but was also mildly annoyed at the interference from the widower. He shook his head and muttered; "My partner here must remember the old days."

As he was now certain of his-her sexual charade, Shaunessy decided to get off his track before he would risk stepping on Striker's toes and unnecessarily upsetting him. He was not certain if Carla was a transsexual or a transvestite. He was briefly amused picturing Striker finding out that it was the latter. Aiming at more frivolity, he said; "An old man's dream." He put his eyes back on her focal points and added; "I'll have two of your jumbo hamburgers with all the trimmings."

Carla smiled and appeared relieved, while she wrote down the order. She turned to Striker and used her left hand to adjust her top, the result of which was a short lived nipple revelation. She said; "I really recommend those sausages. They give you a lot and if you can't finish them, I'll be glad to help you out."

Striker liked the cuisine review, but was also a bit intimidated by the flash and what he interpreted as unexpected directness. Not wanting to appear "all talk" to his new buddy, he said; "I like what you recommend." As she wrote it down, he added; "We should become better acquainted."

She said; "You boys know where I live and I'd really like company." She reached forward and touched Striker's "Vista de la Feria Police Department" emblem, sewn on his shirt pocket.

Striker said; "Can I come any time?" as he ogled the contour of his-her low pelt.

"Any time. I might need to make a police report."

Shaunessy silently thought about the new information and how it might fit into the investigation. Nothing useful struck him. The thought that seemed most likely to him was that Carla merely didn't want her private business known and that Jorge was aware of the situation and was afraid that his involvement with Carla, whatever that was, would become public knowledge.

Striker said; "I'll be there. You know we're working right in the area."

Carla said; "Everybody is. The corner house is now full of construction people."

Striker said; "That's the Albuquerque forensics squad, still trying to find some evidence regarding that skeleton."

Carla had just heard the last thing she wanted to discuss, sensed that her face was displaying fear and searched for the right thing to say, with one cop's eyes on her tits and one looking at her face.

Trying to moderate her expression from fear to concern, she said; "I've heard there are unmarked Indian burial sites around."

Striker said; "It doesn't look like that......."

Shaunessy cut him off, saying; "And chatty Mr.Striker has already said more than he should concerning an ongoing police investigation and his sausages are getting cold."

Striker nodded at him and said; "Probably, but you're wrong about the sausages."

Carla was still unnerved and said; "Can I get you another drink?"

"Another Bud."

"Another Bud."

Carla nodded "yes" and again managed to roll one high heel as she turned to leave. This time Striker jumped up and unnecessarily supported her by putting his arms around her exposed waist. He softly whispered in her ear, unheard by anyone else; "I'll see you soon."

She responded in a low-spoken, overly formal tone; "I'll be looking forward to it," and walked away, second guessing her so far, seemingly successful plan, wondering if under the circumstances it was better to have a close cop friend, two close cop friends, or none at all.

She handed in the order and knew she had to get out of there to do some quiet thinking, but she didn't want to rush out now and give the appearance that something was wrong, so she told the manager; "I'm not feeling well. I'll finish off the two cops and then I'm going home."

He said; "Okay, feel better. Let me know as early as possible if you're coming in tomorrow."

She said; "Sure," as she watched him, now with an excuse to go to Donna and put his arm around her and ask for a favor flesh to flesh. Carla re-confirmed her belief in how easily distracted men were and needed to distract two herself and she thought she knew how.

The sausages and burgers sat on a tray rolling her way. She retrieved two bottles of Budweiser from the refrigerator and carried it all to her customers. She slid down particularly low as she placed the plates in front of Shaunessy and Striker in each case placing almost bikini-top covered, shaking melons close to their faces, happy when Striker was compelled to move forward and concerned when Shaunessy coldly kept his distance. She giggled and jiggled as she poured their beers, said; "See 'ya soon" to the general audience, turned and added; "You guys remember the TV show 'Three's Company?' I always liked that one." She slowly licked her lips, smiled, eyeballed the ceiling and walked away, with four eyes on the bikini bottom that found a resting place deep in her crack.

As soon as she arrived at the common dressing room behind the scenes, she hurriedly put on a deep blue dress and sheepskin winter coat, went out the back way to her 2003 dented silver Toyota and blasted down the interstate at ninety, hungry for the solitude of her house.

Striker was very pleased with himself and was content to make small talk, eat, drink and watch the flesh parade, comparing each to Carla and finding her the winner.

Shaunessy made the small talk, but had lost his appetite and picked at his burgers, wondering what, if anything, he should say to his partner. Some things seemed strange and needed substantiation, but he was sure that Carla was born a man. What if he said that to Striker? What would it accomplish? He decided that there was no percentage in discussing it with the younger man. If he did, Striker might conclude that it was just stupid nay-saying, a twisted mind, jealousy; professional or otherwise, or that he was out to spoil the fun. If he didn't tell Striker, what would be the worst thing that could happen? Striker would get it on with Carla and somehow the town of Vista de la Feria would become aware of it and that she was a he and laugh about it. No problem for Shaunessy. He didn't have to admit that he knew.

His appetite returned when clarity appeared. He too watched the skin show and also concluded that Carla, who was missing for some reason, was the best of the bunch. He wondered why people get so hung up on technicalities. She looked and sounded like she would be one hell of a good time. He decided to ponder that question some leisurely day, as he remembered his own open display of unease, when Carla last leaned over their table.

Carla's decisions were not as easy. She screeched into the driveway of her little house, rushed inside and shut the door. The silence was comforting. She liked it here and didn't want to leave. She guessed that DNA would eventually identify the skeleton, but it was unclear what police action, if any, would come next. Could they directly link the skeleton to her? Jorge might know part of the story, but no one else did and he loved Carla's body and she his. Maybe he knew a place she could hide. But if she left now, wouldn't that prompt suspicion? No brainer; clearly yes.

Think, Carla, think. You've overcome big problems before. This is no different.

She turned up the heat and took off her clothes and looked at herself in a floor mirror. She thought; "Go back to the beginning." This is the body she wanted and she had gotten it. She'd just had no idea of the complications and price tag that would come along with it. It was unfair that it seemed unavoidable. "Whoever made me ought to go back to school for some more architecture courses."
Chapter 10

Shaunessy was feeling well, slightly buzzed from the beer, while Striker enjoyed the same sensation and the pleasant anticipation of soon making a new good friend. Soon Striker had the car up to eighty and the duo failed to notice the usual dismal appearance of the adjacent land with its plastic and tin structures, both minds entertaining warmer thoughts, though Striker's dreams concerned flesh and Shaughnessy envisioned warmer weather and precipitation. Their like mindedness was not yet obvious to them. Shaunessy looked at Striker as they passed other cars and saw that the speedometer was up to ninety. Striker saw the look, clucked his tongue, grinned and said; "Let's get this crap over with."

The wind caused an opening in the persistent dark bulbous clouds, momentarily producing a highly localized splash of radiance, giving Shaunessy a small glimpse of the spring yet to be experienced, seemingly eons away in the throes of December. Striker slowed down as he negotiated the curving exit ramp, soon putting them in an area with variously aged adobe houses of all sizes and shapes, some flat roofed and some with sloping tin. Shaunessy eyed the smaller old houses still gracefully standing, accustomed to many seasons of icy blasts. He liked the quirky little houses that showed they would last forever if someone took care of them, now the beneficiaries of the direct glow of the cloud beleaguered sun.

He recalled a recent dream he didn't understand wherein he went to some kind of religious show or gathering. He entered a large plainly decorated hotel type of structure and saw signs directing him to the far side of the first level. Two doors were open and the thirty by thirty rooms were full of people standing or milling about with no obvious purpose, perhaps waiting for the speaker to appear. He noticed that the people there seemed to be in pairs, unlike him, making him, a solitary man, feel out of place.

No one looked his way, which was comforting under his perceived circumstances, so he watched them, unable to comprehend their words. Most were casually chatting and politely making small laughs in front of deep brown stained, wainscoted, windowless walls. He entered one of the rooms and was able to see a bar lining one wall, the artificial dim lighting doing nothing to convince him that it wasn't still evening, though he remembered the outside street clashed with the perception.

He got the notion that he was looking for someone he didn't see. What he did see was a table, uninteresting to the others, on which sat a number of pliant rubber masks. Without inspecting them all, he put on the face of a pretty blond female with a turned up nose. He was surprised that still no one looked his way. He again looked around the room and continued not seeing the person he was seeking, though he wondered how he could possibly recognize someone unknown to him.

He left the room and entered another, identical to the first, but without a bar. Again, no one paid any attention to him while he surveyed the contents of the room, not seeing anything of interest. He took off the mask and watched the leisurely couples, went back to the first room and put the mask back where he had found it. He eyed the people one last time, before leaving with a vague sense of failure. Returning to the sunlit street he thought; "Maybe I couldn't find the person I was looking for because they, too, were wearing a mask."

Striker turned into Venture Way and said; "Hey, wake up. We're almost there."

Shaunessy, mildly perturbed at being pulled from his reverie, straightened up and said; "Sometimes I think I'm the only one here who is awake."

Striker wasn't sure if that remark was directed at him personally or if Shaunessy wasn't just in one of his weird moods. He was getting used to Shaunessy, so he chose to pay no attention to it, instead saying; "You feel all right?"

"Yes, yes. The beer made me a little sleepy, that's all."

"I thought you said you were awake."

Shaunessy was embarrassed at the apparent contradiction, but thought of; "I didn't say that I was asleep. I merely said I was a little sleepy. Inglais?"

Striker was glad to see that his partner was back to his old cantankerous self and said; "Ready to give 'em hell?" as he went through the open gate and up the driveway of number 256. Accosted by nothing other than mature evergreens, they pulled right up to the gray front door, exited the patrol car, pushed the button beside the entranceway and heard melodious chimes.

No answer. Shaunessy pushed the button again, saying; "I like the sound." Still feeling silly, he kept pushing the button every few seconds, saying; "I know that song. I just can't place it."

Striker just looked at him, not knowing what to say, when the door swung open.

They saw a small thin man of about eighty with approximately twenty long strands of white hair disheveled on his bumpy head. He was fastening the belt on the brown bathrobe that covered most of his white cotton pajamas replete with a thousand small blue caricatures of George W. Bush.

Shaunessy's silliness remained and he said; "Is your son home?"

The little man said; "My son's in Key West and I hope the hell he stays there."

Trying to clear things a bit, Striker said; "That's Mark, correct?"

The little man said; "No, that's Jason. I'm Mark. What is it that you want? I had a few beers and fell asleep."

Striker was momentarily taken aback as he hadn't pictured the probable mob connected, successful businessman looking like this and was silent.

Shaunessy asked; "What song do those chimes play?"

Mark, sounding exasperated, said; "'La Vie en Rose.' What the hell is this, 'Name That Tune?'"

Shaunessy laughed and said; "No, just an aside. We're here again to ask you a few questions about that lot you own in Vista de la Feria. May we come in?"

Mark stepped aside, allowing them entry, but continued his exasperated tone with; "What do you mean 'again'? I didn't see you the first time."

Striker said; "Right, your lawyer spoke to us, saying you were away on business."

Mark said; "I haven't been away on business in ten years. That crooked asshole just wanted an excuse to bill me for more hours."

Mark turned his back and led them through the pink-orange tiled, half center hall, muttering; "Son of a bitch" as Striker felt a twinge of mirthfulness and Shaunessy admired the pedestals holding the bronze heads of some Italians he didn't recognize. Mark passed through an ornately carved deep brown wooden door to a "greeting room" with a long thin trestle table, seats on both sides. He sat on the far side and gestured with a sweeping right arm for the cops to take seats on the other. As he again adjusted the belt on his bathrobe, he said; "I guess you mean the lot with the dead body on it. I own a few lots in Vista de la Feria."

When the cops nodded yes, he continued; "I'm sorry I ever bought the piece of shit. I thought I had finally gotten rid of it and then on the first day of work the construction crew I committed to for a month hit the God damn corpse."

Striker said; "What do you know about it?"

Mark's voice went up an octave when he said; "Just what I've already said. I didn't want to buy some fucking graveyard."

Striker said; "Well, it wasn't a graveyard when you bought it. It became one three years ago under your ownership."

Mark said; "So, I got Boris Karloff for a trespasser, too. Go find Igor."

Striker didn't like the reply and didn't know what movie it applied to, if any, so he sternly said; "Look. It's in your best interest to help us solve this. We can keep the place roped off as a crime scene as long as we like."

Mark didn't like the idea of the threat and said calmly and firmly; "You look. I don't know anything about the body. I don't think I've ever been on the property. Keep it roped off and I won't pay the taxes. Then Vista de la Feria can shove the property up its fucking ass. Simple enough?" He glowered at Striker.

Shaunessy's amusement was silently creeping up notches as the conversation proceeded and he asked; "Why do you bother with all this stuff at your age? Who needs it?"

Mark extended his arms to each side, shrugged and said; "What else should I do all day? My wife's long dead and my number one son thinks he's Hemingway."

Shaunessy laughed and said; "I understand. We've got something in common."

Mark said; "You got a Hemingway, too?"

Shaunessy said; "No, not that part. The kids live in other parts of the country and my wife's been gone a while. I really do this just to keep busy. Why'd you ever get involved with this property?"

Mark brushed back his few strands of hair and said; "That stupid lawyer told me the area was ripe for commercial development and that I could get it for less money than a vacant lot." He again extended his arms to the sides and continued; "This is true, but then I find out it's going to cost me more than I paid for the God damned lot to have the old wrecked house removed. And now, this." He sarcastically chuckled and added; "Shit on lawyers."

Shaunessy returned the sentiment by also chuckling and said; "We don't want to keep you from your dreams. The investigation is leading us to some unaccounted for illegal alien traffickers working in the area three years ago and Little Manny. Know anything about that?"

Mark said; "Only a little. I got my workers through Little Manny and I heard that there was some crap between him and the fly-by-nighters. I didn't want to get in the middle of that."

Shaunessy put his hands on his thighs and rose from his chair, saying; "Thanks, Mark. If you remember anything that might be useful, give me a call. We want this cleared up as much as you do. Then we can go back to catching speeders."

The duo left and drove back to the Vista de la Feria police station, where Shaunessy went directly to his car and drove home. Striker kept on "working" and paid a visit to Carla for further questioning.

At home, Shaunessy checked all the rooms for visitors and, seeing none, he said; "Margaret. You should have seen what I saw today."

Imagined query.

"The Boobie Hatch."

Imagined question regarding mental institutions.

"No, better than that. Big chested girls in bikinis and high heels serving food."

Imagined chastising remark.

"Don't say that. It wasn't my fault. Striker took me there."

Imagined facetious, shocked and disbelieving response.

"Really, it's funny at my age."

Imagined change of subject.

"Yeah, things are working out with him."

Imagined and real silence.

"What kept you occupied today?"

Imagined reference to Isabel.

"You see her doing any work?"

Imagined negative chuckle.

"Striker warned me."

Imagined loving and closing partial sentence.

"Love and miss you, too, baby."

He sat on the couch and dozed while the television played a Spanish channel. It looked much like "The Boobie Hatch." Since he was not bi-lingual, to him, it had only slightly more than the television's usual supply of nonsensical words.
Chapter 11

Having fallen asleep early the previous night, Shaunessy got up at 5AM and made coffee as the Spanish channel blared at him in the otherwise dark stillness. Someone had a chance to win a trip to Florida and had trouble keeping her feet on the floor and her mouth from screaming. He turned off the sound and though he considered that an improvement, he felt antsy and alone in the quiet. He dressed, gulped down his hot brew and drove to the office. He got on the computer and perused the state missing persons reports again, finding an eerie sense of well-being in not having their troubles, or that of their relatives.

Uncharacteristically, today, Striker was a morning man, too and after having had an engaging prior evening with Carla, he drove back to her house for breakfast.

Continuing to be nervous about the situation, Carla didn't sleep much all night. She didn't have the strength or willpower to move from in front of a television set to an old movie channel. She really didn't know what she was watching, her mind preoccupied with cops, sex and bodies. She experienced her first twinges of frivolity when she saw the degree of redundancy in the three fixations.

Startled fully awake, hearing a car on her dirt road in the pre-dawn morning, she went to the window and saw Striker alone in his police car. She made the quick observation that it wasn't such a bad idea to be in with the cops or vice-versa. She pulled her nightie off over her head and waited at the door as the sun began to make its presence known over the mountain.

Shaunessy was going through the New York missing persons files, somewhat a reminder of home, when he got a DNA match as the barely visible sun's light came through the windows at 7AM. The deceased was Sidney Feldon, a 42 year old plastic surgeon, at one time living on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, but reported missing by his wife three years ago. His 5'7", 130 pound body had disappeared without a trace. His car had been found trashed in a much less than fashionable Manhattan neighborhood.

Shaunessy thought the fact that Feldon was a plastic surgeon from New York strongly suggested that he would not also be an illegal alien runner in New Mexico, unless he was also the victim of a severe form of personality disorder. Barring the discovery of evidence to the contrary, he temporarily dismissed Little Manny, "Kid," and Joaquin from his primary list of suspects. Based on his visit to and the fact that Mark Gentile stood the most to lose from the body's discovery he also, mentally, lowered him to the not likely list. That left duplicitous Collangelo, changeable Carla and nervous Jorge, none of whom have prior criminal records.

Shaunessy's next thought was what the hell had Feldon been doing out here, after leaving his car in Manhattan and not telling anyone about his intended trip. Was he the victim of foul play in a bad New York neighborhood? But then why drag the body all the way to New Mexico for burial?

Did the establishing of his plastic surgery practice necessitate the borrowing of mob money that he couldn't repay? That was certainly a possibility and weakly points toward Collangelo and possibly Gentile. But, mob attorneys rarely participate in the messy parts of the operation. Instincts tell me it wasn't Gentile. But, maybe it was. He's been charged with prior felonies. Okay, Gentile is back on the list.

Had Feldon gotten kidnapped and his wife refused to ante up? Or, did she ante up and they killed him anyway? Possible. Little Manny, "Kid," and Joaquin get involved in many things. I don't know what they are, but that brings them back in the picture, too.

If Carla is a transsexual then she has had plastic surgery, arrived here when the corpse probably did and was the only one to see trespassers on the property, a possible attempt at diversion. A possibility, but how many times has a person killed their doctor? It has probably happened, but after 30 years in my experience I never first hand heard of it. If she's a transvestite she wouldn't necessarily have had any surgery. He mildly laughed when he thought that Striker might be able to testify to the correct classification by now.

Jorge is supposed to be mildly retarded and if so, I guess anything is possible. Maybe he is Carla's lover and she's covering for him. But, why was Feldon here unannounced? Did he come here looking for a new job as a surprise to his wife, happen to run into Jorge and get into some kind of altercation with him? Does Jorge get off on killing people? If so, there should be more buried bodies around here. Maybe there are.

The victim's wife, always the first suspect, has to be added to the possibility list. Maybe she wanted him dead for any of a number of reasons, paid someone to do it and bring the body 2,000 miles away from her. Maybe Little Manny and entourage could be placed in New York three years ago. New York authorities should have covered her, but, at the very least, I'd like to know if Feldon's life insurance was increased just prior to the "disappearance."

This would be kind of strange, but maybe not so strange. I'd like to know if any claims were paid under the doctor's malpractice policy, say within a year of the disappearance. Maybe he made a mess of somebody's face and money was not adequate compensation for the patient.

Shaunessy was annoyed that his attempt to play Sherlock Holmes and solve the case by deduction wasn't going anywhere. He had discovered a significant new fact, the result of which was an inability to eliminate any of the old suspects, but add on new ones. More police work and evidence were in order and hopefully it won't result in a telephone book of suspects. Work, work, work, work, work. Headache inducing work. I came out here to give out traffic tickets. Shit!!! Double shit!!!!

What I have to do first is establish priorities as there are many possible directions to go. I'll do the easiest stuff first; things I can check by computer or phone. By the time I'm done with that Chief Kerry or Striker might be here with other insights. Shaunessy picked up the phone. It was now after 9AM in Manhattan, so he decided to make a call.

Jorge was again at the window when for the third time in a few days he saw a Vista de la Feria police car drive the dirt road to Carla's house. His mind was clear enough, since their visit to his house, to know that trouble was in the cold winter air and the breeze was bringing more. He had moped around the house the entire day yesterday, trying to figure out what could come next and found himself merely confused and going in circles. In a moment of seeming clarity he decided that yesterday proved useless and today he would have to do something different.

He chugged the last half of his Pabst Blue Ribbon can to brace himself, put on his heavy green winter jacket and blue stocking hat and walked the road to Carla's house. Rather than sit home and worry about what was going on, he would go out and find out.

In this case it proved not to be the brightest choice in the world, as his view through the window proved that ignorance was indeed bliss. Carla and Striker were standing in the center of the room and she displayed no materially-manufactured inhibitions and was using one hand to perform an operation requiring dexterity and manipulation on him, her other hand at his waist, as they sloppily kissed.

Jorge's insufficient brain sent out electronic impulses felt only by him that went out in all directions, finding no place to settle. Not only was his girlfriend cheating on him, but she was doing it with a cop! Maybe, Carla's plan was to be friendly enough, so that they would work out some way to pin the dead body on ...... him! Or, maybe Carla loved the cop, producing the same results. Jorge was oblivious to the fact that with either thought, this was the first time he had stopped completely trusting Carla.

Undetected by the lovers, Jorge quickly ran back home, sat at the kitchen table he had known for all of his forty-two years and nursed another can of Pabst.

It didn't help. He had graduated from general malaise to specific problem and the possible directions that problem could take, which were varied, but no path he was capable of envisioning had a happy ending. He didn't know that this was a certainty whenever the initial step onto any path is distrust. The hurt of his girlfriend's betrayal zigzagged with anger and fear in his troubled mind. He cried, asked God why and wished that his brain was competent enough to see something it had to be missing.

His father, Ishmael, heard the distress call, quickly tracked it down to the kitchen and curiously entered. When Jorge saw his father watching, he stifled the tears and staccatoed; "Dad, I've got a real problem."

"That's obvious. Want to tell me about it?"

Jorge hesitated, torn between wanting someone to commiserate with and keeping his secrets, but he thought he needed advice from someone more experienced and competent, not realizing that he, himself, did not have the ability to accurately evaluate competence.

Ishmael took his own can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the refrigerator and sat across the table from Jorge, saying; "It can't be that bad."

Jorge corrected him, saying; "Yes, it can," and at that point he realized that he had committed to telling a whopper of a story. All for the best, he hoped. He told his father of that night, three years ago, when he met Carla and her trunk, clandestinely on the grounds of the abandoned casita. He had helped her bury the trunk and she had been his "girlfriend" ever since, which would only have been surprising in the detail he chose to omit. He ended his story with; "And now she doesn't love me anymore. She loves Officer Striker."

Ishmael said; "I was wrong. It can be that bad."

"What can I do?"

His father calmly closed his eyes and pondered the situation. He thought; "Most murders eventually get closed or "solved", sometimes requiring the conviction of an innocent party." He had read of three hundred some odd murder convictions being overturned this year alone because DNA testing had shown that someone else had committed the crime. Some of the innocent had been incarcerated for twenty or thirty years. At this point the truth would be an admission of committing a lesser crime as Jorge did not know the bow's contents. But he wondered how stiff a penalty exists for the possibility of "aiding after the fact," since Jorge had now known the contents of it, since the box had been brought to the surface. He told Jorge; "We're going to see Hector Ortega, right now."

Jorge balked, his mind full of thoughts of undoubtedly losing the only girlfriend he had ever had, even though it looked like he already had lost her. Confusion overwhelmed. He said a simple firm "No," and fixed his eyes on one of the horns of plenty mindlessly duplicated, seemingly to infinity, on the "Pollyanna" table cloth.

Ishmael said; "That wasn't a question. That was an order."

Jorge clasped his hands tightly on the table, shook his head violently, adamantly raised his voice and said; "No," his head still pointed in the table's direction, rather than looking up into the face of his wrong, game ending father. Now he saw no plentiful horn. He saw red.

His father got up and said; "Fine. Then I'll go tell Hector and the cops what you've told me."

Jorge didn't see any way out. With all that matters to him distilled into the simplest of terms, he experienced a moment of clarity and thought; "The best I can hope for is that the testimony of a deficient mind would prove faulty evidence in court, resulting in the clearing of Carla and that I'll be off the hook by virtue of having "come clean," and being viewed as a sympathetic simpleton. But that still doesn't necessarily get Carla away from Striker. Even if she tired of Striker she would hate me for telling the story. Maybe he could tell Striker's wife. Why not? Everyone else tells stories intended to further their own interests. That would be revenge against my nemesis,....... but still be of no help to me. Maybe, in the absence of Striker, Carla would turn back to me and I could explain what happened."

Jorge attempted to stand up, but his right foot stepped on the family's long owned, silvery, metallic, battery powered, can opener someone mistakenly dropped on the floor God knows when. He stumbled, righted himself, angrily kicked away the time-proven, trustworthy kitchen aid and said; "Okay, let's get it over with."

The two changed into more formal clothing, got in the Chrysler and Ishmael drove to Ortega's law office. Ishmael had sought the advice of Hector Ortega a few times in the past, regarding family business and was always pleased with his down to earth approach and seemingly good results. Ishmael originally went to Hector, because he knew of how effectively Hector had handled his brother Bobby's claims to family money. Bobby got none under the guise that he was incapable of handling it, originally a debatable point, now a self-fulfilled prophecy. Ishmael refrained from moral judgments and attempted to only evaluate one's desired results and the effectiveness of obtaining them; things that lent themselves to simple observation and numeric measurement.

After registering surprise at the events, Hector concurred fully with Ishmael's idea of issuing a statement. He drew up the papers. Ishmael read them and Jorge, dutifully signed them, making no attempt to re-read the document. Hector said he would have the papers delivered to police headquarters as soon as possible.

Shaunessy was energetic. He called an old friend in New York, Jimmy Kennedy, who had worked vice over twenty years and might know something about missing persons. He got Kennedy on the phone.

Jimmy said; "Yeah."

Shaunessy said; "Jimmy?"

More softly, Jimmy repeated; "Yeah."

"It's Shaunessy, dick-head. I haven't talked to you for a while."

"I heard you quit. Where the hell are 'ya?"

"New Mexico."

"You left the country?"

"No, idiot. Weren't you present the day the third grade teacher taught the states?"

"I guess I wasn't paying any attention to her on that one."

"I've always liked your instincts. Listen, I'm looking for a favor, some information."

"I'll try."

"We've got a dead body out here, a plastic surgeon from New York, Sidney Feldon, put away three years ago. Happens that a transsexual or transvestite, also from New York, who the locals think is a woman, moved here from New York right then. Calls herself Carla Steeples."

Jimmy hesitated thoughtfully and then said; "I don't know the Steeples name, but I can tell you about the scam that's been going on with Feldon and a few other plastic surgeons. They perform the expensive surgery and then get paid by referring the "girls" to an escort service."

Shaunessy laughed; "Do the johns there know they're getting a guy?"

"Who the fuck knows? They'd no doubt say that they didn't."

"You can't pin anything on them?"

"No. We got one of the 'girls' to talk and the D.A. says it's not credible enough evidence to bring a case."

Shaunessy was a bit flustered, but also felt pleasantly surprised to find out something so relevant and merely mumbled; "Thanks, Jimmy."

"Hey, is that all?" That was easy."

"That's 'cause you're a saint. Hey, let me give you my frontier phone number......"

Jimmy interrupted him, saying; "You know the game is rigged, right?"

"Yeah, after about two years on the force. You must think I'm stupid."

"So, why do you keep playing?"

"It's the only game in town."

"Give me that number."

A bit later that morning Chief Kerry came in carrying an envelope that had been delivered by courier. When he saw Shaunessy, he said; "I guess the postman didn't ring at all."

"He may have rung twice for all I know. I was on the phone and I've got something I want to run by you."

He outlined what he knew and suspected about Feldon and Carla to his scrutinizing chief, replete with laser eyes and wrinkled brow.

The chief said; "I think you've got enough to bring her in for further questioning." He paused and amended, "Or him. But I wish you also had something to tie her to that escort agency and the body."

Shaunessy sheepishly replied; "She's got proximity to the body."

"So do others. But like I said, it's worth further questioning. Just wait for Striker and then you two go out and bring her in. I'd like to sit in on this one."

Shaunessy said; "One thing, Chief. I think Striker and Carla are becoming more than friends and he doesn't know that Carla is really Carl or something. It's probably better that he doesn't know and I hope he doesn't find out when he becomes aware of the case details."

Chief Kerry laughed almost uncontrollably and said; "Oh, shit, that's perversely funny," then he laughed again at his own unintended witticism. "I can keep a secret and besides, you're not sure, are you?"

"No."

The chief again resumed his jocularity and added; "I can picture Carla and him on one of those damn daytime talk shows and she has a secret to tell him. I wouldn't be able to stop laughing."

"I don't think his wife would, either."

Shaunessy remained at his desk while the amused chief shook his head and left. Kerry was pleased with the reported progress and felt safe in being jocular. When he got to his desk, the chief opened the envelope the courier had delivered. He read the contents of the document and excitedly called out; "Shaunessy, we've got her ...... or him ...... whatever. Come here and look at this!"

As Shaunessy read it, he wondered what had made Jorge Imparellez come forward now and why there was no mention of any transsexual surgery, but he didn't have much time to think about it as Striker walked in.

Shaunessy excitedly called out; "Look what we've got."

Striker quickly walked to the Chief's desk and Shaunessy watched his partner's face turn listless and stoic as he read the document.

Chief Kerry said; "Isn't that great?"

Striker said a weak "Yeah," caught himself and faked excitement, adding; "What a break. Fantastic. What are we waiting for? Let's go get her."

Chief Kerry looked at him with an expression that combined questioning and enthusiastic characteristics and said; "You do that."
Chapter 12

With Striker now gone, Carla quickly returned to her fretting state of mind and vividly recalled her first evening in New Mexico.

The setting sun produced the view of a beautiful pink assortment of cumulous clouds above it, as motionless as a still life. But unlike a still life, the pink quickly faded to grays, then proceeded to black, as the sun dived behind the mountains. The landscape darkened and soon one would have difficulty differentiating the treetops from the sky, under the cloud infested full moon. It was time for her to go to work.

She dragged the stinking trunk out the front door and down the quiet dirt road. She chose to pass by the barren, empty lot next to her due to its "openness"; and entered the next lot because of the overgrowth of weeds, bushes and trees. The digging was much harder work than she first imagined and the sound of the shovel in the stillness echoed, as if it were a backhoe, unable to communicate warning beeps in the frigid winter night. She quickly worked up a sweat while only excavating enough earth to bury 20 percent of the trunk. She worried that she might not be able to finish the task by daybreak, as it was proving to be much more difficult than she anticipated. Fatigued, she took off her coat, stripping down to her loose fitting, deep blue T-shirt and torn blue jeans.

Unbeknownst to her Jorge heard the night magnified noises as he sat on a bench in a three sided run-in, located on the adjacent tree farm. He lived with his parents across the street and was considered mentally challenged or mildly retarded, but one would not notice this if the conversation was limited to plants, trees, weather or anything related to gardening, which he had been doing all his life. Sometimes he liked being completely alone, which was the case this dark night and he had come out to this spot to do his planning and thought about what work the trees needed the next day.

The noise of the shoveling disturbed him and piqued his curiosity. He exited the run-in to see what kind of intrusion his wish for privacy was suffering. Already having been in the dark for a half hour or so, his eyes had adjusted to the dim light and he actually could see well, the moments the full moon was not clouded. His ears fixed on the sound and he walked in its direction, the embalming nature of the winter night, intensified by a moderate but constant northern breeze.

He saw the woman's breasts swinging in the ardent activity of attempting to shovel frozen dirt. She was too occupied to notice him. Strange, she was on the lot with a house no one had lived in as long as he could recall. He thought she might need some help and that he wouldn't mind some activity to fend off the frigid air. He approached slowly, careful not to trip over any obstacles hiding in the dark.

As she again took a break from her labors, she saw him and the words; "Oh, shit" came to her mind. She thought that the game was over, her mind racing to find some kind of approach or an airtight alibi.

Jorge said; "What are you doing?"

Carla replied; "I'm trying to bury my dog."

"This time of night?"

"I didn't want anyone to know."

"You don't live here, do you?"

"No, I live a little up the road."

"Why not bury him there?"

Carla couldn't think of any logical answer that would wash, so she said; "I had a dream telling me this was the right place. Don't you believe in dreams?"

He eyed her full figure and thought of some dreams that he entertained and grinned at her, saying; "Some do come true."

She noticed his interest, needed help and had gathered from his demeanor that he wasn't the brightest star in the night sky, so she walked right to him, one hand caressing her 40D's and put the other inside his pants, feeling the elevated structure.

He was shocked and nervously pulled away and she worried that his seeming interest might only be in conversation, so she again reached out and massaged the protrusion, saying; "Come on, don't you like me?"

He thought about photos he had seen in magazines and on the internet that his father told him were not real, the result of some kind of trick photography. He silently stared at her lowered eyes as she fondled him. She said; "Oh, I like you a lot!"

He undid his pants and she dropped to her knees and anxiously showed her predilection. Her gourmet feeder furiously played the flute while her hands explored the attachments. She then stood and pulled up his pants, admiring her work as she said; "It's too cold out here. Help me bury my dog and we can go back to my house where it's nice and warm."

The idea appealed to him and he extended both hands, cupping her breasts, saying "Okay. Then we play?"

"Yeah ..... Any game you like. But, this is our little secret, right?"

"Right."

"The dog, too. I don't want anyone to know where he is. It's bad karma if they dig him up."

With a garbled, thick tongued voice, Jorge asked; "Car- mah? Was that your dog's name?"

Surprised at the question, Carla improvised; "Ah, ...... yeah. My dream said he should never, ever be dug up."

"Oh, okay, our little secret."

She watched his firm body perform and a few thoughts ran through her mind as she saw the shovel easily entering the stone cold dirt; "He obviously works at a job that gives him a lot of exercise. This looks like it could be fun. I hope he doesn't ask any more questions and I hope he doesn't get compelled to brag about his exploits." The latter was a terrifying thought, but under the circumstances, one she thought she'd just have to live with and hope for the best.

Jorge thought about her naked body doing his bidding; that he was probably doing something bad but he didn't care; and that maybe his father didn't know everything there was to know.

When the hole was big enough, Jorge pulled the trunk and said; "This must be one gigantic dog," and he tried to raise the locked lid.

Carla slammed her foot down on it and said in a terse whisper; "Don't. I couldn't take seeing him dead again. He was 120 pounds, but I also put his things in with him. Quit playing around in the cold. If you hurry up we can go get warm and toasty sooner." She again put her left hand on his pants and pleadingly added; "I want it in my mouth."

Jorge had never been talked to in this manner before and enjoyed it enormously. While he was anxious to explore her earthly delights, he also suspected that there was more here than met his eye. The secular part of the thought took command and he forgot his suspicions, as he watched Carla gyrate. He pulled the trunk into the waiting subterranean lair, filled the hole with dirt and spread sticks and stones around the surface, to camouflage the activity as much as possible.

He was finished and she led him to her house, Jorge carrying the shovel. At her property line he asked; "Where do you want this?"

Her job done, as well as it could be under the circumstances of uninvited intrusion, she felt amused and playful, answering; "Sometimes I keep it here, sometimes I keep it there and sometimes I keep it in the other place," as she pointed at various locations on her property. "Or maybe you can think of another location for it."

She had already surprised him quite a bit and he had no idea what she was grinning about now. Confused, without a sense of clear direction, he stood it against the house on the driveway, the location in his closest proximity.

They went inside and he watched her strip as he did the same. She again eyed the toned body in front of her, walked to him, licked his chest and slowly worked her way down to her favorite spot.

Without conscious instruction her mind retreated from the current pleasantries, its wings fluttering like a bird attempting an escape from a speeding hawk. She was jolted back to thoughts of ugly days three years prior. Having left the apartment of a "client" she found particularly distasteful, the cab dropped her at the corner of Avenue A and Bleeker Street at 10PM. The street's darkness was an improvement over the day's merciless illumination of the ominous groups of people constantly hanging around, the putrid detail of the decaying buildings and the street's gutters, seemingly encrusted with permanent garbage. The tiny sense of improvement was demolished when she saw Feldon's black Lincoln Town Car parked in front of her. As she passed it, she considered going somewhere else, but her weariness overruled and sent her "home." Funny word, "home," the rat trap apartment was leased to Feldon and despite her having lived there two years, it contained few of her possessions. The words from some song came to mind. She couldn't remember which or the tune, but she recalled something about; "old enough to know that it's just a scam."

She opened the unlocked door to 1D, anxious to get out of the hallway's smell of piss, cigarette smoke and some garbage of an indeterminate origin, but reticent to see twerpy Feldman with his probable predictable harangue. He was sitting on a couch facing away from her. At least she didn't have to see the spectacled Alfred E. Neuman face that rested on his five foot seven, one hundred thirty pound torso. The "Friar Tuck" fringe on Feldon's forty-two year old head moved, as he must have been making one of his grimacing faces as he whined; "Carla, I understand you've been refusing some dates," not yet deigning to turn and observe her.

"So?"

"So, how are you ever going to repay the money you owe me?"

"I'll figure it out."

"Maybe with the help of a few of my friends with the bent noses." He remained seated, but twisted his body, giving her the benefit of his full facial countenance. She had already been accosted by the bent noses, didn't like it and wondered how this little jerk managed to get a mob tie. Money had to be the simple answer.

Tired and upset, she half shouted; "Dammit, I'm doing the best I can!"

Sidney calmly said; "It's not enough, Carla. The amount you owe me keeps going up when I add in the interest and follow up work ........ "

"I know you're cheating me."

"Nonsense. The point is that the escort agency tells me they can get you three times the amount of work you've been doing, but you refuse it."

Carla knew that was true, but she found it difficult and revolting to be coerced to tolerate every weird freak in the city. There seemed no end, as most months, no matter the amount of distasteful "work" she had done, the amount owed rose. After two years she owed thirty percent more than she had at the outset. She wished she had tried to read the contract's miniscule fine print before she signed it, but at the time was too anxious to have the surgery performed. Besides, who ever read those microscopic letters, if possible only with better than 10-10 vision anyway? They only subsequently discover that the devil was indeed, in the details. This was irrelevant ancient history anyway and she had to try to deal with the reality of today. She said; "Tell them to stop finding every sicko in the city."

"Look who's talking." His placid eyebrow raised grin turned her stomach. She couldn't think of any response. She didn't want to endure the same old tired conversation. He took a slip of paper from his shirt pocket, turned his head away from her and held the paper in the air, showing his disdain for her. He distractedly and nonchalantly said; "Here's five dates for tomorrow. You will be a good girl, won't you?" saying "girl" with overly obvious sarcasm.

Carla's breaking point was reached. She saw nothing but the need to get out of her situation and she was surprised at the calm clarity her mind now had. The little nerd never appeared to have any fighting experience. She was bigger than him. She walked over as if to take the slip of paper and instead locked her right forearm at the front of his neck and pulled her right hand back and up with her left, in anger, using all the strength she could muster.

She pulled, pulled and pulled, enjoying watching him physically squirm as she had been squirming emotionally. He used his hands in an attempt to loosen her grip. Though his feet were still on the floor he was unable to rise from the hanging position, as whenever he tried to rise, the force of her arms pulling his head back made him unable to get any leverage. It was as if a person tried to lift a heavy, four-legged bench entirely off the ground, using the lowest part of two legs located on the same side. She kept at it and kept at it, knowing there would be no second chance. The superior might of her arms pulling back on his neck twisted his head upward, his gaze now on the ceiling's cracks. She looked down at his bulging eyes and the drool coming from his mouth and came close to laughter. She felt completely in charge of things for the first time in a long time and she relished it. She wondered how she was accomplishing her task so easily and was reminded of an incident she had witnessed on Forty-second Street, when it required thirteen cops to subdue one out-of-his-mind, puny guy, demonstrating the super strength of madness. "When you have to get something done the first thing to do is get mad."

When the body went limp, she kept the choke hold on for another minute to make certain, counting one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, until sixty.

She slowly released her grip on the body, still afraid that it might spring at her. When it didn't, she moved to its front and admired her work. The face was better looking in death than it was in life, improved by its peaceful stillness. The pathetic squirrelly torso was now enhanced by a neck severely bent to one side, possibly broken, suggesting a new name; Igor. She thought; "If he was formerly Dr. Frankenstein, I must have changed him to Igor, after he changed me to the monster. Seems perversely fair poetic justice." She found the consideration momentarily amusing. She put a finger under Igor's nose, held it there a few seconds and detected no air movement. She was now elated.

She noted that her new exhilaration had completely overcome her former fatigue and she thought the rest of the operation would be easy. She already had a place to go, a tiny, two-room, old house in New Mexico, purchased sight unseen. She effected the purchase utilizing the held back, sizable cash tips she had earned working for the escort service over the past two tears. All she had to do was pack her clothes into a suitcase and get the limp body into a trunk filled with the garish outfits and sexual toys that the former "doctor" had periodically brought over. She had a second thought. Though it was more work, she decided to first remove the paraphernalia from Feldon's final resting place, on the small chance that they might provide him with some pleasure. "Who can be sure of such things?"

She found it hideous to touch her lukewarm, former, little nemesis, but she rose to the occasion by concentrating on "Do this once and it's all over."

She dragged the heavy trunk to the back seat of her dented 2003 silver Toyota, which was parked on Bleeker Street, in front of the apartment building, got one end on the back seat, grunted and pushed in the remainder. She went back for her clothing suitcase, looked around for anything she might have forgotten and left for New Mexico, careful not to exceed the speed limit.

She quickly decided, as it seemed painfully obvious to her, that the safest place for her to dispose of the body was New Mexico. She knew New York City and concluded that it was too packed with people to warrant the risk of being seen. While she drove through the rest of the highways, with which she was totally unfamiliar, she didn't want to start the arduous task of burial where she would risk being surprised by something she didn't know. How could she be sure? She could find a seemingly solitary spot, only to be descended on by an entourage of bird watchers. The best bet was to get to her new home, scout around some and pick a hidden, quiet spot. Of course she would have to tolerate a decaying, stinking body for the entirety of the trip, but she thought she was well prepared, because of years of practice.

She was amused to find that she now felt the tranquility her passenger had displayed earlier in the evening. He no doubt retained it, but she re-established her ability to feel. Feldon didn't have that to begin with. She laughed out loud as she drove the darkness of Route 78, through New Jersey.

Carla's mind returned to thoughts of the surprising, but pleasant first evening spent with Jorge.

She was startled out of the necessarily convoluted memory, memory within a memory, back to original memory, day dream by the sound of a car coming down her very un-private road.

Shaunessy, with Striker behind the wheel, had driven from the station to Carla's house, parked and got out, guns drawn. She was now dressed in her Vista de la Feria uniform; a light gray, University of New Mexico sweatshirt and loose black denim pants, suitable for un-announced company. When she saw her visitors through a window, her first thought was that they were interested in a kinky threesome. But since this cop business had started and upon seeing their resolute expressions, she feared the beginning of the end. The morning wind again blew in the same bulbous dark clouds that had again superseded the sun's attempt at a showing.

Shaunessy, with his gun in his left hand, knocked on her door with his right and yelled; "Open up, Carla. We know you're in there."

Jorge, watching from his window seat across the street, bolted out the door and ran down the dirt road toward Carla's tiny adobe, freezing in the twenty degree, overcast, windy, winter, late morning. He was wearing just a simple T-shirt and baggy black pants encrusted with old dirt earned from his prior landscaping jobs.

She opened the door and the two cops, Shaunessy citing that they had obtained a warrant, quickly entered, leaving the door open. As he stated her Miranda rights, Shaunessy pulled her arms behind Carla's back, cuffed her and said; "You're under arrest for the murder of Sidney Feldon." She looked into Striker's eyes and when he averted the look, she put her head down and counted the bricks in the floor, intending to attempt to divert her mind from the horror of reality. She noted that some bricks appeared to be much dirtier than the majority and wondered why. She soon saw that it was merely due to their placement and number of surface irregularities.

Striker searched the house for possible evidence. Shaunessy was glad there were no reporters or children witnessing the event and felt compelled to say something. He offered a question; "Jorge filed a 'confession,' telling the whole story. Why didn't you kill him, too?"

Carla felt that she didn't have anything more to lose, so she responded in a perky tone; "First of all, he didn't know the WHOLE story. No one does. He never hurt me. I didn't think I could get away with it and I liked him and the sex."

Jorge had crept up and was now standing in the open door and he heard her response. He started crying uncontrollably and clumsily mouthed; "I'm sorry, Carla. My father forced me."

Shaunessy and Striker brushed by him as they lead Carla to the police car. She turned back, looked at Jorge and seeing his sincerity, she gave him the faintest hint of a smile. She said; "It's all right. Some of us are just cursed by God."

For the first time Jorge was certain that he knew exactly what Carla meant.
Chapter 13

Carla was driven back to Police Headquarters. Striker overused his rear view mirror, watching a soundless woman staring wistfully out a side window at the ordinary houses and people. She wondered what it would have been like to be them, standing unmoved in the pathetic, freezing weather. Right now, she felt jealous at not having had the chance to find out.

The two escorted her into the station as Chief Kerry was finalizing a phone call to New York City police. He hung up and stared at Carla's face questioningly. She lowered her eyes to the floor and made the slightest shake of her head, as if to say; "I don't know." Shaunessy led her to a cell constructed of cinderblock walls recently painted white, only interrupted by a small barred window, seemingly out of reach near the low ceiling. As she willingly went in, Shaunessy was moved to gently ask; "Are you all right?" simultaneously realizing that he had asked one of the dumbest questions of his long life. Carla snorted a near laugh, mildly shook her head "No," and whispered; "Yeah."

Shaunessy rejoined Striker and Chief Kerry, who were standing near the chief's desk in the main room. Chief Kerry said; "I've just been telling Striker that New York is claiming jurisdiction and they're sending someone to pick her up. Should be here tomorrow."

Shaunessy made no response, thinking one not necessary and his mind sorrowfully on Carla. While murder was an unforgivable crime in his book, he couldn't help but wonder what any reasonable person would have done in her situation. He didn't know the details of the act itself, but couldn't dismiss the possibility, that if he had walked in her shoes, he might have done the same thing. He grinned when he got the thought that instead of "shoes," he might have been more correct to think; "high heels."

Breaking his momentary reverie he heard the chief say; "Shaunessy, are you all right?"

Shaunessy snorted a near laugh, mildly shook his head "No," and whispered; "Yeah."

Chief Kerry looked at Shaunessy sternly and said; "What was that?"

Shaunessy forcefully said; "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Do you expect me to be jubilantly celebrating?"

The chief, somewhat surprised and taken aback, grimaced and continued; "Well, anyway, our job is done and I want to congratulate the two of you on your fine work."

Striker thought he might be intending sarcasm, wondered what everyone knew and mumbled; "Thanks," while he casted furtive glances in all directions.

Shaunessy waved his right hand dismissively and said; "Thanks. But, frankly, sometimes you just get lucky."

The three silently nodded in agreement. Chief Kerry said; "You boys may as well take the rest of the day off. Well done." He smiled and intended to joke on himself, when he added; "I can handle it from here."

Shaunessy made a small laugh and said; "Great. Thanks." He held up the index finger of his right hand and said; "Let me just take another look at the killer. I want to be sure she's nice and secure for you."

Shaunessy went through a door into the cell area. When he got to Carla's prison he saw her naked body dead, hanging from the bars on the room's only high window. Her sneakers were on the floor and her limp broken-necked body was held in the air by the joining of her University of New Mexico sweatshirt and her black denim pants. For the first time he was 100% certain that she was a victim of the cruel fixed game; innocent, no, but a victim nonetheless. He used his key to open the cage door and felt like screaming, but stifled himself because he knew that real men didn't do that. His mind silently wailed what was not allowed him in the "real free" world; "No. No. No. Why? You might have been found not guilty," his eyes moist. He took one last look at Carla's now twisted, but still beautiful face, couldn't tolerate any more, wiped his eyes with a fragment of her black denim pants which he retrieved from the floor that must have ripped off while she committed her last act. He disgustedly threw it back on the cold, hard concrete floor and walked back through the door he entered.

Striker and the chief were still chatting near the exit door. Shaunessy walked in their direction and interrupted their conversation to flatly say; "She's dead. Hung herself." Both were quiet and looked at him appearing shocked. Shaunessy fought back his tears and angrily added; "Where can you go to escape this kind of shit? It was a scene something like this that was the final straw in making me leave New York." He raised his voice further, as he chokingly added; "I came out here to give out fucking traffic tickets, God damn it." He walked out the front door and heard Chief Kerry matter-of-factly say; "There is no escape. Aren't you old enough to have figured out that one yet?" Shaunessy didn't turn or say anything, walked to his car and drove home.

Striker and Kerry entered the cell Shaunessy had left open and viewed the body. Striker's mind raced. He was feeling something he couldn't adequately describe, finding it more complex than anything he could recall experiencing. Chief Kerry looked at Striker and thought he saw sorrow, duty and inarticulate questioning displayed.

Kerry briefly put his arm on Striker's shoulder and said; "You go on home. I'll wrap up the details."

Striker obediently turned to leave, but after a step he turned back to the Chief, opened his mouth, however no words came. He slowly shook his head and continued out to his car. Instead of going directly home he drove around Vista de la Feria, returning polite waves the few souls brave enough to be out in this weather gave him. Wanting to be alone, he drove to the river. He got out and stared at the mid-day sky for what seemed like an hour. Feeling invigorated he drove home and un-customarily parked right in front of the main entry door. For a second his wife Julia thought it might be someone else. Seeing she was wrong she opened the door and stood there in her pink cotton dress. Striker got out of the car and Julia curiously said; "Home early?"

They hugged cursorily, then faced each other in the living room. Striker said; "I saw something really strange today. I was at the river watching the sky." He paused and thought he saw curiosity on Julia's makeup free face. "The reason it's been so cold lately isn't due to the lack of sun or too many clouds. It's that the clouds only occupy half the sky, but always manage to be in a position to block the sun. At least one of them is going to have to get on a different course. It's that simple."

Julia was surprised, thought she detected possible multiple meanings in her husband's observation. She warmly smiled at him and asked; "What kind of useless poetry have you been reading lately?" utilization of the word "useless" an obvious attempt at humor.

Striker seriously replied, saying; "I don't think its poetry. Shaunessy recommended some book to me that I hated at first, but came back to me today. I'm going to have to ask him its name again, because after the first few pages I stopped reading, thinking it was the absolute worst thing I'd ever seen."

Julia said; "Sounds like a good idea," and they embraced.

Shaunessy went directly home, feeling depressed and immediately told Margaret of the events of the day.

Imagined sympathetic and consoling response.

"Thanks, but I think I'd rather be with you."

Imagined chastising response.

"Do you know how long I've been doing this garbage?"

Imagined positive and "So what?" type of response.

Shaunessy sadly said; "I've really had it."

No imagined response.

Shaunessy walked into the kitchen and was surprised to see a cake box on the table. He called out; "Did Isabel leave this?"

Imagined statement of the Landlord's name, Ramon Gutierrez.

Shaunessy opened the box and looked at the cake and said; "It doesn't have any icing."

Imagined question; "Isn't the cake enough for you?"

Shaunessy paused a few seconds and said; "After a day like I had today you have to ask difficult questions?" He made a small laugh and said; "Of course the cake is enough for me. Without question. But I'm also sure that I like the icing and I'm ninety percent sure you do too."

Imagined correction of the percentage and response of; "Wait for spring. It always comes back again carrying loads of icing."

"You know, I don't think it's the cold or the clouds that bother me about this place. It's the lack of rain."

Imagined re-iteration of; "Wait for spring."

Shaunessy was delighted to eat some plain cake, went to bed and slept soundly and peacefully.

Shaunessy was woken by a bellowing phone the following morning.

He astutely said; "Hello."

"Shaunessy?"

"Yeah."

"Chief Kerry. We've got a huge problem and you have to come in right now."

Shaunessy said; "What happened now?"

"It's really complicated. I'll try to explain it to you when you get here."

In a grudgingly accepting tone Shaunessy said; "Be right there." The phone went dead.

Shaunessy aimed his conversation at Margaret and said; "When the hell am I going to be able to just give out traffic tickets?"

Imagined response of; "That will have to wait. There's still work to be done."

"Oh damn the whole thing, Margaret. I want to be with you."

Imagined solitude.

Shaunessy grimaced and thought; "Work!!!" The word reminded him of Maynard G. Krebs feeling on the subject, announced regularly on "The Dobie Gillis Show," and mentally laughed at the old memory. He had a quick coffee and dressed, wondering if Margaret knew that he really didn't want to leave this beautiful planet, at least not yet.

He heard Margaret's voice say; "Sure I know that. Don't worry about it. We'll have an eternity."

He walked out the front door, pleased to see that the sun was strongly shining and feeling that the temperature had gone up a few notches. As he opened the car door, he whispered; "I can hardly wait for spring."

OBVIOUSLY TO BE CONTINUED
