The Albuquerque Turkey by John Vorhaus

Author:John Vorhaus
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Crown
Published: 2011-03-21T22:00:00+00:00

19

Martybeth

I was walking through the Gaia Casino in an outfit that did not agree with me. My shoes were too tight, too shiny, too squeaky. My tie was ridiculous—well, all ties are ridiculous, a noose around a neck—and my white-on-white custom suit with the Gaia-green silk shirt made me feel like a revival preacher or a pimp. Or an ice cream man. This sucked. And it sucked worse because when I play dress-up, I want it to be my choice, for my reasons. But this clown suit was Jay’s play—one I’d tried my best to talk him out of.

That hadn’t gone too well.

Rolling the clock back a few nights, we find Hoverlander and Wolfredian sitting in parked cars in the parking lot of Sunset Park, just south of McCarran Airport’s glide path. A beer-league softball game is in progress nearby, the donk of aluminum bats on balls cutting through the background din of landing planes.

I had called Wolfredian. Told him about this genius young artist I knew who was suffering from a bad case of sudden wealth. I was surprised to hear that Woody’d not sent advance word of this, but I stumbled past that and proposed that Jay and I meet to discuss the best way to pluck this bird, code name Albuquerque Turkey. I told him I was already in town and could come to his office at the Gaia at his convenience. Instead he directed me here, to this grotty, anonymous ball field, where the Droogs were beating the snot out of Maxx’s Tap. I suppose I didn’t fit the profile of the sort of associates Jay greeted in his office.

Or maybe Jay was just a huge fan of the Droogs, for just then coming to bat was none other than Red Louise, the sidewheel with the sense of humor. As I eyed Jay eyeing Red, I understood that he was multitasking: having a meeting with me while watching his hot bodyguard play ball. I wondered if they were having an affair.

I also wondered where the hell Woody was, for he’d been tasked to lay pipe for this meeting, which pipe had gone manifestly unlaid. I couldn’t ignore the possibility that this was Woody’s own exquisite exit strategy: simply paste my picture atop his on Wolfredian’s dart-board, then do the shade and fade. I preferred to think not, but who could know? It’s not like Woody’d have dropped me a jackalope postcard saying, “Here’s my bag of shit, thanks for holding it.” Maybe he’d found another angle to pursue, which would put him off script, but at least not off the reservation. Maybe he’d met a mishap, even a premeditated one. I couldn’t bring myself to contemplate that dark scenario.

Whatever I wanted of Woody, dead wasn’t it.

Wolfredian got out of his car and motioned me out of mine. We slouched against our front fenders, watching Louise take her stance. She toed the dirt, bent her knees, cocked her ass. Her bat, held high and vertical behind her right shoulder, stirred the air like a swizzle stick.

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