Shaunessy Goes West in Winter. by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

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

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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.”

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“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.”

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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.

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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

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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

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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.”

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“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.

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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.”

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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?”

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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

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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?”

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“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

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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.”

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