The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel (8 page)

My eye caught the lifeless eye of a rat. “I think I want to puke.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Really?”

“Radar, dude, how many artists you think there are in Santa Fe?”

“I don’t know. Thousands?”

“And how many better than me?”

“Pretty much all of them.”

“In terms of painting shit that looks like shit, yeah. Flowers, buttes, butts, whatever. I can’t compete with that.” He drew himself up to his full five-foot-seven skinny magnificence. “Therefore, instead, I shall outrage.”

“With dead rats?”

“Dead rats,” said Vic imperiously, “is only the beginning.”

By this time, Zoe had thrown on shorts and a crop top and walked over to join us. We exchanged greetings and names, and then Zoe headed out.

“She seems nice, Vic,” said Allie.

“She poses nude for free.”

“Do you think she might be hinting at something?”

“Hinting at …?” The thought filtered down through Vic’s brain stem and spinal cord, arriving at last at his joint. “Oh!” he said, genuinely surprised. “Son of a gun. I’ll have to look into that.” He turned to me abruptly. “Hey, did you talk to your dad?”

“Just all night. Turns out he was in the bar.”

“Yeah, no, I mean now, today. He stopped by earlier.”

“Here? Why?”

“Search me. Guess he wanted to see the genius at work. He seemed kind of rattled, though.”

“Rattled?” I looked at Allie. I could see her suspicion eyeing mine. “Vic, let me ask you a question. Did he
seem
rattled or
was
he rattled?” Allie opened her mouth to speak, but, “Face value,” I said. “I’m just confirming it.” Back to Vic. “You know, was he stuffing?” I used the grifter’s descriptive for representing a hope or fear you do not feel.

“Why would he stuff?”

“No reason. Was he?”

“Gut? No. He’s chased. After all, he
was
in disguise.”

“What disguise?”

“Santa Fe Trails bus driver’s uniform.” Vic chuckled. “Wonder where he got his hands on that.”

“I think he’s got good hands,” I said.

“Well, whatever. He said to meet him at Cross of the Martyrs if he didn’t catch up with you first.”

“What time?”

“When does anyone go to the Cross? Sunset.”

“Gotcha. Wanna roll with?”

“No,” said Vic contemplatively, “I think I’ll visit Zoe, investigate that whole nudity thing.”

Allie and I left shortly thereafter, and walked back to our cottage. I was distressed on a couple of levels. The one I could most easily finger was concern for my dad—and concern that I felt concern for someone
who, let’s face it, hadn’t earned it by his track record. The other was the constraint I felt on my freedom, like all of a sudden I had to justify my choices. A guy says meet me in a place, I don’t care who he is, your father, the pope, whoever, I’m going into that meeting eyes open, not slackjaw like a rube. Only now that’s not an option, ’cause it’s not the straight play. But this is a potentially hazardous situation, so which is more important, playing straight or staying safe? I voiced this to Allie. She said the two were not mutually exclusive.

“Of course we have to be careful, Radar. We just don’t get sucked up into any schemes.”

“You think that’s what he wants?”

“I think it’s what you want.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me,” she said. She didn’t say it aggro or anything, more like flattery, like
You’re smart enough to know your own mind
. It felt again like Woody quizzing me on plays against Vegas or, deep in my past, that telephone snadoodle. Like everyone wants me to figure out everything for myself.

So, okay …

“A grifter going straight,” I said, “is like an addict in recovery. He’s looking for an excuse to go out. Any one will do, so long as it’s, you know, acceptable to interested parties. A valid exception, like saving Sophie and Boy. By that math, I’m actually hoping Woody’s jammed up. I want to play hero again, just to keep playing.” I could feel Allie mentally awarding me a gold star. “But if that’s all true,” I continued, “then it serves my interest if his jeopardy’s for real. So then, why do I doubt?”

“Because you’re a complex person, too.”

“Screwed up, you mean.”

Allie kissed my cheek. “So aren’t we all, honey. So aren’t we all.”

At a quarter to sunset we hiked up the short set of paved switchbacks that led from Paseo de Peralta to the bluff above, where a twenty-five-foot
steel cross presided over the plain of Santa Fe, memorializing the death of some people at the hands of some others. For cover (and on this I insisted) we tricked out as tourists, with cameras, water bottles, guidebooks, and new Santa Fe souvenir T-shirts. At the summit, we joined a handful of fellow travelers taking in the view, 270 degrees of pueblo panorama. The setting sun lit low clouds from beneath, energizing the pink of the adobes below. There wasn’t much else to look at up here, just brick paths with handrails circling up to the concrete apron where the cross stood, two unadorned steel girders painted white. Dirt paths ran off east, toward the remains of Fort Marcy, another monument on another bald hill. “Not a lot of cover,” said Allie. I knew what she was thinking. If Woody was traveling dark, it made no sense to meet in so open a place.

But sometimes you bring your own cover. We heard the wheeze of air brakes and looked down to see a luxury motor coach disgorging a tour group.

“Bet you anything …,” I said.

“No bet,” said Allie. We watched the tour group climb the hill. When it reached us, we melted into it and made our way to Woody, whose professor-on-holiday drag included wire-rimmed glasses, trekking hat, chukka boots, and a realistically natty white trim beard.

“You go to lengths,” said Allie, her voice pitched low to blend in with the tourists
aahing
at the sunset.

“Sometimes you have to,” Woody murmured. “I spent a whole year once masquerading as a Sandinista.”

“In that context,” I asked, “what’s the difference between masquerading and being?” Woody gave me a look like
the stories I could tell
, but the tale went untold for now. As the tour group fragmented, we three took up station on the railing in front of the cross. It offered a clear view of the street below and, if one turned around and leaned against the rail as I did, an unobstructed look across to Fort Marcy, as well. “So what’s going on?” I asked.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ve worn this town out. I should never have come here in the first place.”

“What about help with your goons?”

“No. That was a bad idea. Sentimental and self-indulgent. It puts you at risk.”

“You know, I decide about that.”

“Anyway, it’s really just a matter of returning some money.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“I exaggerated. I … milked the drama.”

“And the disguises?”

“More of same. Anyway, it’s no big deal. After I get it sorted, I’ll come back. Maybe we can hang out.” He paused, self-conscious. “Radar, I am sorry about the years. What do you say to take two?”

Before I could answer, Woody froze. “You don’t know me,” he whispered fiercely, and glided away from us. I heard two car doors slam and looked downhill to see a freshly parked sedan and a pair of men in jeans and Western shirts hustling up the path. Woody buried himself in the clot of tourists and listened with rapt attention to the guide’s description of the dead friars and others that the cross commemorates. He produced a notebook from somewhere and hunched low over it, taking fervid notes. Allie and I drifted apart—no set play, just good grift hygiene. She took pictures. I pretended to be bored.

The men ran up and scanned the crowd like men adept at scanning a crowd. They spotted Woody, silently flanked him, and eased him out of the group. As they led him down around a bend in the ramp, Allie and I observed as well as we could without giving ourselves away. I wondered what I’d do if things turned violent. I’m not big on violence; I prefer moves. We think of people as machines, especially in threat situations, but they’re still just people, and a bit of unexpected confusion can still put them off their game.

Meanwhile, all of Woody’s body language said
surrender
. He held his hands out, palms down, in a gesture of pure placation. Reading his lips, I could see him saying, “I don’t have the money. I don’t know where it went.” The goons seemed not to believe him; they moved in tandem, one using his bulk to block the scene from casual eyes, while
the other loaded up a kidney punch. They were about to administer a very quiet, very private beat-down to my old man.

Just then Allie moved in, thrusting her camera in their midst. “Could one of you guys take my picture, please?” She rolled her eyes and added in a goofy, girly voice, “I promised my boyfriend.” They looked at her like she was daft—daft being the look she was going for, I’m sure—and distanced themselves from Woody. See? Moves. And this one was a beauty. It let them know there were witnesses. Sure enough, they broke off the beat-down and, after another moment’s rough rhetoric to Woody, headed back down the hill.

They even took her picture.

We waited till they were well away, then reconvened. “Thank you, Allie,” said Woody. “At my age, things take forever to heal.” She nodded acknowledgment, but I could tell by the flush on her cheeks and her bright eyes that she’d gotten off on the move.
What do you know?
I thought.
I’m not the only one chasing the buzz
.

“So much for milking the drama,” I said.

“It’s not so bad,” said Woody. “I’ve been summoned, that’s all. Got two days to get twenty-three grand back to Vegas.”

“So, not a problem,” I said.

“Wouldn’t be,” said Woody, “if I had the twenty-three grand.”

W
oody was gone. He’d taken his stiff upper lip and the $23,000 hole in his pocket and put Santa Fe in the rearview. It wasn’t clear to me whether he was heading back to face the music or further out on the lam. I didn’t care. When something rings as loudly false as that AWOL money, it tends to drown out everything else, including sympathy, empathy, and any father-son football fantasies I may have entertained.

In other circumstances, and against a lesser mark, I’d have expected the play to go something like this: Woody explains that he made a dumb move with the 23K, lost it, got robbed, whatever. Then, and with great reluctance, he asks the mook for a bridge loan, just enough to buy him out of the bad guys’ grip while he waits for some sure (but slow-developing) windfall to get everyone well. But Woody knew I’d never fall for that, so he gave no reason for the missing money nor the slightest hint of wanting a bailout from Radar National Bank. I wonder what he’d have said if I’d offered. Probably be offended that I’d put him on so naked a play. Either that or be disappointed that I bought in. But I kept
stumm
and so did he. We bid our adieus, and he got his stoic ass in the wind. I expected I’d get a postcard of a jackalope someday.

As for Allie’s and my postmortem, we didn’t see eye to eye at all. She, still taking things at face value, thought Woody just thought better of dragging me into his mess and beat a hasty, one might even say noble, retreat. I said he made the whole thing up: Wolfredian, the phantom whale, all of it.

“Why would he do that, Radar?”

Sensible question. I had no sensible answer, so I offered the one of a hurt little boy. “Just to screw with me,” I said. “Just to watch me dance.”

“Come on, lover, even you don’t believe that.”

“Okay, I don’t. So then I don’t know why he did it. I do know this, though: We haven’t heard the last of him.”

“But he
left
. He left without asking for help.”

“Obviously,” I said, “he wants me to take the bait without his having to ask. He knows he can’t ease me in. I have to do it myself.”

“So he’s going to seduce you by not seducing you?”

“That’s right.”

“Then it was all an act? The disguises, the goons …”

“
Alleged
goons,” I amended.

“You’re saying he hired them?”

“I’m saying it’s possible.”

(All of this, by the way, is taking place in the back room at Shabookadook, a wine bar around three corners from the Plaza, where every Wednesday night is Performance Art Night, and for which Vic and Zoe, we’ve been tweeted, have cooked up something, and I quote, “4king awsum.” The mind boggles at the prospect.)

“You should be happy in any case,” I said. “Now there’s nothing interfering with our merry little citizens’ band.”

Well, I knew that was trouble as soon as I said it, but Allie, to her credit, let it slide, electing to stick to the logic of the situation and not get sucked into the dangerous undertow of emotion. “Look, Radar, you’re the big fan of Occam’s razor”—where the simplest explanation that fits the facts is likeliest to be true—“so you tell me, which is simpler? (a) a known grifter gets into the sort of trouble that grifters are known for getting into, or (b) your father goes ten different kinds of devious just so he can
not
ask you for help.”

“You don’t know my old man.”

“Neither do you!” She raised her voice on this, drawing shushes and dark looks from the reverent fans of stand-up art seated nearby. I
chided myself for being a dickweed.
Loyalty, Radar. It’s Allie who’s important, not Woody. So he got in the wind. So what? Maybe he won’t come back around. If he does, that’ll just prove you’re right and she’s wrong. And if he doesn’t? Then getting to know him is a missed opportunity you never knew you had. Now shut up and watch the show
.

(A frail, pale woman stands onstage, arms outstretched. From her arms hang various lengths of hollow bamboo, which clack somewhat musically as she sways to her inner rhythm. She is a human wind chime. The crowd loves it.)

“Know what I think it is?” said Allie. “I think it’s subject-object confusion. You’re so used to playing everything three levels deep, you assume everyone else is, too.” I started to protest, but Allie overrode me. “I’m not saying he’s not capable of it. I’m just saying Occam’s razor.” She took my hands. “I’m sorry he left a bad taste in your mouth, sweetie. But he
left
. Let it go if you can.” And with her hands in mine, I found that I could. I took a deep breath and banished Woody from my mental map.
Farewell, jackalope. So long, Aqualung
.