The Mexican Tree Duck Read online

  “The fucking FBI, man. You must be kidding,” she said, then picked up her martini, nuzzled it happily. “Shit, you may have something here. Can you copyright a drink?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Fucking government. They get everything assbackward.”

  I draped my arm around her shoulder. She cuddled into the curve. “So what about the FBI?”

  “Lemme tell you something, Mr. Sughrue …”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me ‘Mr. Sughrue.’”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Please.”

  “Oh, quit it,” she said, giggling. “Just quit it. How come one minute you’re this cool, regular middle-aged guy, then the next minute you come on like Joe College?”

  “Women make me stupid.”

  “Well, that’s a beginning,” she said, then kissed me again quickly, softly. “So let me tell you how it is here. Some of the help, they’re locals, but most of us have been around ski slopes since we were kids. Everybody either knows everybody else, or knows somebody everybody else knows. And there are always lots of drugs. And rich people. As you know, Mr. Sughrue, that kind of shit draws cops like tumblebugs to cow shit. Most of the help here, they gave up drugs years ago. We get high on downhill shit and beer. So nobody even gave a weather report to the dumbfuck FBI. Never did, never will. What the fuck do you care for, anyway? You’re off the clock, right?”

  “Right. But this Wynona with a ‘y’ left about the same time?”

  “Just a fucking coincidence, Mr. Sughrue,” Mel said, then stood up to stretch. “If I ask you for a hug, can you promise not to attack me?”

  “If you’ll stop calling me ‘Mr. Sughrue.’”

  “Ain’t worth it,” she said without hesitation, then grabbed my hands and jerked me to my feet and hugged me until my backbone crackled like corn popping. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

  “Have to go.”

  “Right. Off to Aspen looking for Wynona Jones, right?”

  “Nope. Just back to the desk.”

  “Tell her I said hi when you find her. And come looking for me sometime, all right?” she whispered, then kissed me again, hard and hopeless and wonderful, released me and headed for the door, where she paused for her exit line. “Wynona drives an old tan VW Beetle with Idaho plates, Blaine County plates.”

  “Blaine County?”

  “Sun Valley, my friend. I think maybe she even grew up there. And Mr. Pines strikes me as the kind of asshole who would have a house there …” Then Mel smiled, tired, happy, half-drunk, and said, “You really going to come looking for me?”

  “First chance I get.”

  “Mr. Sughrue, it ain’t polite to lie to your friends, new or old,” she said, “but thanks for at least taking the trouble to lie.”

  “No trouble,” I said.

  But she was gone, leaving me with the warm taste of her mouth, a lipstick-smudged martini glass, and half a pitcher of oblivion. As I drank it, I rode the cable channels looking for something I couldn’t quite find.

  If you’ve got enough money, say five million dollars, I suppose Aspen can seem like an ordinary mountain town, but I didn’t. It pains me to have to even talk about a town where the help can’t afford to live. During the season, buses hauled bartenders, cooks, dishwashers, and maids from as far away as Glenwood Springs. Not my kind of town at all.

  But I got there as quickly as the laws of physics, biology, and pharmacology would let me. I only stopped for calls of nature, gas tank refills, then once to dig around in Norman’s glove box. Treasure time. A bindle of crank and the same weight of cocaine. Also detailed directions about how to open the false bottom of the propane bottle that fed the stove and kept the refrigerator cooling and concealed an ounce each of both magical motion powders. So I made good time. Couldn’t have beaten a private jet but I gave the commercial flights a run for their money.

  I also must admit that I had a little fun, running hard through the night, playing all of Norman’s old tapes—the Stones, the Buffalo Springfield, the Doors; music I hadn’t bothered with in years, memories I’d forgotten to remember—and searching the skips for mad prophets of doom.

  I especially loved the guy who tried to convince me that aliens had landed on earth and were fucking our good Christian women. It was an opinion shared by some of my former customers at the Hell Roaring, but on other nights most of them thought women were aliens, even the women.

  One of the history profs from the college across the river, though, usually maintained that we were historically and politically incorrect. Women, he claimed, were from Mars, granted, but men came from Juárez, and children from Hell. But what the hell did he know? His children were truly monsters, sure, but he couldn’t find Mars in an empty sky, had only been to Juárez on a weekend pass after basic at Bliss, where, he told as truth, he had been humping a whore who wore white high heels and a bra, and when he offered her fifty cents to take off her bra, she considered the offer, then wanted to know if he had the change. He said he laughed so hard that his erection went back across the border without him. I suspect the facts are slightly different.

  In fact, he had stolen the phrase from me, and I had lifted it whole cloth from Corporal Franklin Ignacio Vega, my M-60 gunner, one night when we were smoking Thai stick in the hooch. When he finished his riff, I asked the Super Nacho where he called home.

  “I’m just an asshole from El Paso,” he whispered, chuckling deep in his giant chest, then filled it with smoke.

  But that’s another story.

  My early take on Aspen: getting there is not just half the fun, it’s the only fun there is there.

  Or so I told Solly when I called from the road. I had promised to stay in touch.

  “What the hell are you going to do in Aspen?”

  I told him.

  “What makes you think this kid’s got anything to do with Sarita Pines?” he asked in his lawyer’s voice. “I mean all you’ve got is the drunken ramblings of some bartender. What are you thinking about?”

  “Now I know something they don’t, Solly, and don’t fucking ask me what I’m thinking about. You know better than that. That’s not how I work. Questions and answers don’t mean shit to me. Just another chance for people to lie. And lies don’t help. If I could just get half the people I talk to to tell the truth, I’d be a rich and famous private eye, instead of an unemployed bartender sweeping up your leavings …

  “And what the hell do you care? I’m not working for you, man. You’re just a funnel for the money and a place to lay the fucking blame …” I paused for breath.

  “Norman left you a bunch of crank in that van, didn’t he?”

  “Some Colombian boogie dust, too, man.”

  “Where the hell are you, Sughrue?”

  “Somewhere in the middle of Wyoming. I don’t know and don’t much give a damn,” I said, lying for no good reason.

  Actually, I was standing at the only pay telephone in Jeffrey City, Wyoming, staring at Split Rock and the geologic roil of the Rattlesnake Mountains on the eastern horizon while the wind tried to blow the remains of my hair through the back of my head.

  “What’s the name of that place in Aspen?”

  I told him that, too.

  “I’ll check into it.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You fucking call me, Sughrue, when you get there, and before you start asking questions.”

  “I’ll try to remember that, sir.”

  “And maybe you should get some sleep, Sonny.”

  “Maybe you should kiss my enlisted ass, sir,” I shouted at him, and slammed the telephone back into its cradle. Of course I missed the cradle and heard his last words, faint and far away as the receiver dangled in the stiff wind:

  “You need a keeper, Sughrue.”

  Some guys never got over being officers, but I wasn’t sure that gave me the right to shout at and hang up on my second best friend in the world, however misplaced his worry might be. I almost called back to
apologize, but when I looked around, the knife edge of the wind had scraped the sky to a pale autumn blue. Not a cloud in the sky. I cracked a beer, drove to the Split Rock roadside turnout, then tried to nap on the backseat of the van.

  When I woke out of the nameless terrors of a dream I couldn’t remember, some dream that recently decided to occupy the rest of my life like an invading army, a slick, dangerous sweat covered my shoulders, neck, and back, and dead Turks had camped for months in my mouth. Only fifteen minutes had ticked off the clock but I woke up with the strange sensation that I wanted to kill somebody. Or perhaps already had. No details from the dream remained, though, just the miasma lurking.

  I never had much cared for other people’s advice, but I tried not to be too crazy all the time so I stopped in Rawlins, checked into a motel room just to brush my teeth and take a shower, then had a steak and a drink, and one thing led to another.

  When I carried my hangover to the van the next morning, at least I smelled like good whiskey instead of bad dreams.

  Thus I came to Aspen, Colorado, where just getting there is all the fun there is.

  The Quirky Arms reeked of big, bad money, old cherry wood and black walnut sparkling with silver filigree, a lot of money wasted to ape some West End London club here in the Rocky Mountain West. The place suited the town, rich with fake gentility, phony fortunes, and serious foolishness. It also suited my bad mood perfectly. I leaned my foot on the gleaming brass rail of the bar and ordered a can of Pabst just to watch the jacketed bartender curl his lip, then took a pint of piss-warm Bass ale to keep from being thrown out on the seat of my faded Levi’s.

  Once my eyes adjusted to all the dark wood and shadows, the first thing I saw was an alarm system designed for a bank, a Constable and a Turner hanging at either end of the bar, and the rest of my day-drinking pals. I hadn’t missed the dress code by much.

  Except for me and a mumbling drunk in an outfit by Orvis at the end of the bar, the place was empty. The other customers sat around a table at the back. The five guys might as well have worn signs. They affected expensive cowboy hats ringed by bands of exotic feathers or good Navaho or Hopi silver. Silver, turquoise, and coral bracelets cradled their Rolexes. Their boots probably cost more than a good used pickup truck, and the trims on the five identical drooping, black moustaches probably cost more than a year’s supply of haircuts for me.

  Of course, these weren’t the kind of people who actually paid for a haircut or a trim with anything as mundane as money. I suspected that Aspen possessed a number of hairdressers with very happy noses.

  Who was I to judge, though? I still checked my nose for the white rim in the rearview mirror before climbing out of whatever ride I was driving. Of course, that was more habit than regular usage. In fact, until Kathleen tossed her bindle on the parking lot to cover the broken toilet, I hadn’t seen much coke in years. My old partner used to have a steady supply, but it usually disappeared before I made it to his house. So who was I to complain that these guys dealt in tons and bought and sold government officials as if they were Monopoly properties across three or four countries? Any other time, I might have tried to be their friend. They looked and sounded like an interesting group.

  Three of the guys, the two great big ones and a flea-sized one, spoke Tex-Mex, the Border Spanish I remembered from my South Texas youth. The other two, average-sized, looked more Arab than Spanish, and spoke with accents perfectly suited to the decor. As for me, I seemed to be racing along on a wave of crank and coke and hunches. So instead of trying to be their friend, I stepped over to the table and said:

  “Any of you cholos know my friend, Sarita Cisneros Pines, from El Paso?”

  That got their attention and stopped the conversation dead.

  Fiddles murmured discreetly and another day drinker limped into the bar, his cane thumping on the hardwood. But nobody spoke. The little guy glanced behind me but I didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. The customer’s reflection stood clear in the glass over a shooting print. A three-piece suit leaning on his cane, he carefully lit a huge cigar. He didn’t look like trouble. Unless he was a lawyer.

  “No? Maybe my information was fucked,” I said.

  The Chicano with the gut said, “Maybe you’re fucked, my friend.”

  The little guy touched the big guy’s arm, then said, “I’ve met Mrs. Pines several times. But why do you ask?”

  “I’m looking for her, pulguita.”

  “Little Flea,” he said with an ugly smile. “That’s funny, man, but you don’t look like a Mexican to me.”

  “Tejano,” I confessed.

  The little guy nodded as if that explained many things he had been wondering about for a long time. “I hear a lot of people are looking for her,” he added, tenting his ringed fingers in front of his face.

  “I’m the only one who isn’t a cop,” I said.

  One of the Middle Eastern types laughed with a quick snort. A tiny white rock shot out of his nose and bounced across the polished walnut of the table. The little guy casually crushed it with a crystal ashtray.

  “Then why are you looking for her?” he asked, sudden interest in his dark eyes.

  “Actually, I’m looking for an old friend of ours,” I said. “Wynona Jones. Mrs. Pines is a friend of hers.”

  Behind me the bartender filled a glass with the tinkle of ice, the splash of whiskey.

  “Sorry, my friend, but that is a name with which I am not familiar.”

  “She’s supposed to be working here,” I said.

  “The help, man, they come and go,” he said. “I’ll have to check the files.” He turned to the Chicano on his left, the one with the flat belly and even flatter nose. “Chato, why don’t you let Mr. … I missed your name, sir?”

  “Sonny Sughrue,” I said for no good reason.

  “A good Texas name,” he said, reaching out his hand. “I’m Dagoberto Reyna.” I shook it. Unlike most people lately, the little guy was familiar with my family name and pronounced it correctly.

  “Chato will take you back to the office and let you look at our employment files and recent applications. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Thanks,” I said, thinking, Oh, boy, the private investigator’s favorite moment on a complex case: a trap. I could barely restrain my joy. Whatever happened, I was bound to learn something back in the office. “I really appreciate your help.”

  “No trouble,” the little guy said, then leaned back in his chair.

  Chato stood up. It took a long time. He jerked his chin toward the back of the bar. It was a chin you wouldn’t want to hit with anything smaller than a two-by-four. And his nose was so flat you hardly needed bother hitting it at all. The Airweight began to feel good nestled at the small of my back under my vest.

  As we pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, I heard Reyna making his apologies and goodbyes to the two swarthy dudes with Eton accents. Chato led me through the great kitchen, the kind of kitchen coke dealers always seem to buy when they go into the restaurant business, then down a long dim hallway to a steel door. He even held it open for me, polite devil.

  Fresh produce had been stacked against the far wall of the large room and a bank of file cabinets stood behind the door. Chato stepped over, opened the top file drawer, and lifted out a 10mm Glock, the automatic pistol of choice among the fast crowd these days.

  “Shit, Chato, this is not the office,” I said. “What is this? And what’s that? A gun? Hell, you’re big enough to hunt bear with a willow switch. Kiss my ass, I’m really disappointed in you with this chicken-shit gun crap.”

  “You put your hands up, puta, then you can kiss my ass,” he said.

  “I’m very sorry for you, Chato,” I said sincerely, and he looked properly confused. “I guess you’re one of those big slow guys who couldn’t lick your lips in a real fight.”

  “Fuck you, man, I went six rounds with Tex Cobb once,” he said.

  “That what happened to your nose? Couldn’t fall do
wn quick enough?”

  Chato smiled happily. This was what he wanted in the first place. He set the Glock down, doubled up his fists, and shuffled toward me. When he got far enough from the automatic, I stuck the Airweight in his face.

  “I’m sure you know the drill, Chato.”

  “Chingadero,” he said, “I knew you were a fucking cop.”

  “Just assume the position, asshole, or they’ll be serving romaine and pepper-belly brains tonight.”

  “What the fuck,” he said, resigned but relaxed, a man who knew he had a legion of expensive lawyers standing behind him.

  Once he got settled, leaning hard into the wall, his back to me and his legs spread as far as his designer jeans allowed, he released a bored sigh and said, “Let’s get this shit over, pendejo.”

  I took a step and tried to drop-kick his nuts into the back of his throat. From the sounds he made, it almost worked. Chato hit the floor on his nose in a puddle of pain and puke. He made so much noise that I missed the sound of the door.

  The other big Chicano reached around and took the Airweight out of my hand as if I were a child, then spun me around, covering me with my own pistol. True humiliation. Maybe Solly was right, maybe I needed a keeper. Certainly I felt that way. I knew what waited down the dark barrel: wadcutter slugs reverse-loaded in front of a Plus P amount of power waited to knock chunks of my flesh, blood, bone, and nerve endings all over the strawberries. I also didn’t think the hunting knife held loosely in Sr. Reyna’s right hand was there for decoration.

  “You fucking Texans,” he said, tightening his hand on the handle and waving the blade like a snake at my face, “you’re always so tough with your guns, so macho. This is a man’s weapon,” he continued, spinning the knife, “el cuchillo, a man’s weapon. You can kill a man with a gun and never see his eyes. What was it they supposedly said at Bunker Hill? ‘Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes’? Fuck that, man, I’m one of those Mexican corbardias with a blade and we’re going to see what sort of cojones a native-born Texican carries between his legs.”

  “Actually, Dagoberto, I minored in Cultural Anthropology over in Boulder, so I already knew all that shit about knives and guns …”