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

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.

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“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,

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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.”

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“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.”

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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

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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.”

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.”

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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.”

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“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?”

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“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

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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?”

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“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.”

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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.”

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“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.

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“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

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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,

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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.

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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.

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