PARTY DOLL

By Steve Brewer

Copyright 2012 by Steve Brewer

Chapter 1

Know what I hate? Those obligatory movie scenes where the heroes visit a strip club. The smoky clubs serve as writhing backdrops while the heroes yell important information over the pounding music. Apparently, moviemakers think the audience won't sit still for a little exposition unless they give us bobbing boobs to watch at the same time. Of course, the distraction means we pay no attention to the dialogue and, pretty soon, we don't know what the hell is going on.

So you can understand my qualms about starting this story at the Pink Pony Gentlemen's Club. But, hell, that's where it began and I can't help that. At least I'm not forcing you to look at strippers while I tell it.

I arrived at the club in response to a voicemail from the owner, Elmo "Slick" Gurken, who'd said he wanted to offer me work. No details, but since my caseload stood at an unhealthy zilch, I immediately zipped over to the Pink Pony.

I'd never been inside the place, but everyone in Albuquerque knows where it's located. The Pink Pony's regularly in the news, mentioned in crime reports and zoning battles, and it sits right on Central Avenue near the state fairgrounds.

Mostly, the Pink Pony is famous for being, well, pink. The stucco building looms over the streetscape like a huge cube of Pepto-Bismol. As if that alone weren't enough to be seen from outer space, Slick also had received a well-publicized variance for his sign: A gigantic neon job scrolling out the name of the establishment beneath an artist's depiction of a prancing pony. All in pink, of course. It's enough to strike a man stone blind.

The fact that this monstrosity was within sight of the fairgrounds, which are visited each September by every sticky little kid and 4-H goat-fondler in New Mexico, had caused a huge uproar, spurring newspaper editorials and letter-writing campaigns and radio talk-show hysteria. Best publicity in the world for Slick Gurken's business.

The Pink Pony turned its blank backside to Central, the entrance instead facing a parking lot jammed with pickups and minivans in mid-afternoon. White columns, spritzing fountains and evergreen shrubs framed the entry, but what caught my eye were the two giant bouncers stationed at the door. They were weightlifters or football players, so pumped up that neither man could touch his elbows to his sides if his life depended on it. Enough meat there to feed a village of cannibals for a month.

I always approach such pituitary cases with caution. So much mass makes them clumsy; they can hurt you accidentally. As I reached the entrance, the two brutes closed ranks, their beefy shoulders bumping together to form a solid wall of muscle and gristle and bonehead.

"Cover is ten bucks," said the one on the left.

 "I'm not here for the show," I said. "I'm here to see Slick. My name's Bubba Mabry."

If either of them recognized my name, I couldn't tell it. Their muscle-bound faces didn't twitch.

"Ten bucks," the talky one repeated.

"But I don't want to go into the club. I want to go to Slick's office."

"You got to cross the club to get to his office."

"But--"

"Ten bucks."

"I just want to see Slick. I'm not here to look at the girls."

"Everyone looks at the girls."

"Not me." I held up my left hand. "See? Happily married. Never go to strip clubs."

No response. Guess the bouncers had heard it before.

"Can't you just lead me to Slick? I promise to keep my eyes closed the whole time."

Nothing. I wondered whether they'd both fallen asleep with their eyes open.

I sighed and fished out my tattered wallet. I handed a ten to the bouncer, who bounced it right into his pocket. Then he stepped aside, saying, with all the enthusiasm of an automaton: "Welcome to the Pink Pony."

I pushed open the swinging door and was enveloped by noise. A thumping techno beat gave me an instant headache. Men hooted and cheered. Bartenders crashed around with ice and glasses and booze.

The stage jutted into the middle of the room like a big tongue, and two near-naked women bathed in pink light wiggled and jiggled to the so-called music. One was a lanky brunette with breasts so fake and hard, they looked like two fists jutting from her chest. The other was a petite Latina covered in black tattoos. Both women seemed healthy and well-toned and very, very limber. Day drunks and other losers were scattered along the edge of the stage, waving money at the strippers. I felt as if I'd stepped right into one of those movie scenes I always find so distracting.

The doors closed behind me without any instruction from the bouncers, so I still didn't know how to reach Slick Gurken's office. I made my way toward the bar to ask directions, but I kept bumping into chairs and tables because I couldn't tear my eyes away from the topless women on stage.

I reached the bar with only a few bruises, and wrested my attention away from the strippers just as a bartender popped up in front of me. He was a shiny little guy with rosy cheeks and nimble hands that never stopped moving.

"What can I get you?"

"Nothing. I--"

"Got to order something," he said. "Two-drink minimum."

"I'm not here for a drink. I'm here to see Slick. Can you point me to his office?"

"Sure," he said. "Go through that door over there in the corner."

"The one with big black guy in front of it?"

"Yep." He smiled. "Good luck with that. Now what can I get you?"

"I'm not thirsty."

"You go into Mr. Gurken's office without a drink in your hand, I'll get in trouble. Let me get you something."

"Okay, okay. Give me a draft beer."

He drew a short Bud from a tap and set it in front of me without a single wasted motion.

"Six bucks."

"You're shitting me."

He smiled. "If I am, I can't feel it."

I forked over more money and demanded a receipt. I was already sixteen bucks in the red on this case, and I hadn't met the client yet. Then I carried my beer to the corner office, spilling much of it on my shoes because I wasn't looking where I was going.

What the bouncer outside had said was true. Everyone looks at the girls. We men can't help it. Put a naked woman in the room, and we've got to look. Hell, put a fully clothed nun in the room, we'll check her out. It's a biological imperative.

I sloshed my way across the club, dripping and gawking, but I was very careful once I reached the baleful giant who guarded Slick's office door. Didn't want to spill any beer on his shiny shoes. Might be the last thing I ever do.

I got nothing but stoneface while I explained about wanting to see Slick. This time, though, the doorman didn't try to shake me down or sell me a drink. He said my name into a little walkie-talkie, listened in an earphone for an okay, then swung open the door.

I stepped into a hallway lit by a bare pink bulb. The heavy door closed behind me with a whump, shutting out the thudding music. Blank doors lined the hall, but a sign that said "OFFICE" pointed up a narrow stairway. I polished off the beer and carried my empty glass up the stairs as if it were the price of admission.

Another blank wooden door upstairs, but no bodyguard. I knocked and the door was opened by a lean rattlesnake of a man dressed in Wranglers and boots and a pearl-buttoned cowboy shirt. He squinted up at me.

"Yeah?"

"You Slick?"

"Nope."

I waited a few seconds, but when it was clear nothing more was forthcoming, I said, "Well, is he here?"

"Come on in!" boomed a voice from inside. "Dale's just funning you! Am I right?"

"That's right, Slick." The narrow-eyed man stepped out of the doorway and I finally got a look at the proprietor of the Pink Pony.

Slick Gurken sat behind a wooden desk the size of a Buick, rocked back in his chair like he owned the joint, which of course he did. He, too, went for Western wear, and his cowboy shirt stretched so tight over his paunch, it looked like he was smuggling a watermelon. He had a square jaw and a round head that was shiny bald on top. The kind of head that begs for a Stetson, though I didn't see one hanging anywhere.

"You're Bubba Mabry?"

I admitted that was me, and switched the empty glass to my other hand so we could do the grip-and-good-to-meet-you thing.

"This here's my right-hand man, Dale Cready."

The skinny guy put his hands in his pockets, so he wouldn't have to shake mine. Suited me.

"I got your message," I said to Slick, "and came straight over."

"That's good service right there. Am I right?"

I smiled and blinked and nodded, but he just sat there, waiting for me to say, "That's right." Once I gave it to him, he beamed and nodded and continued.

"Glad you could come so quick. We have an emergency situation here. I need someone to get right on it."

I started to say something about how he'd caught me at a good time, but he talked over me.

"Our star attraction has gone missing. Dale and the boys looked all over for her, but they can't turn her up anywhere. Am I right?"

"That's right, Slick."

Dale had the automatic answer down pat. His lips barely moved.

"Sit down, Bubba," Slick said, and I dropped into a chair across from him. Dale leaned against the wall to my left, his hands still in the pockets of his jeans. The way he squinted at me, it seemed my mere presence gave him a pain.

"This girl is a natural redhead," Slick said. "Upstairs and down. You know how rare that is on this circuit? Oh, there's lots of dye jobs out there, but you can always tell. Am I right?"

"I haven't had that much experience with--"

"Joy Forever," Slick said. "That's what we call her. A thing of beauty and a great dancer, too. Really classy. Am I right, Dale?"

"She's classy. You're right about that."

"Hell, yeah," Slick said. "She don't do lap-dancing. She don't screw the customers, even the VIPs. She don't give blow jobs to the management. Har-har-har."

I smiled uneasily. Dale made a whispery sound through his nose that I assumed was meant to be a laugh.

"Oh, she's good for a few drinks. Loves a party. But when it comes time to choose up sides for the night, she's extremely particular. Am I right, Dale?"

"You're right, Slick."

"I've got a lot invested in that girl. We trademarked her stage name and designed her act and made photos--" He flipped an eight-by-ten across the desk toward me. A head-and-bare-shoulders shot of a redhead with big green eyes and a spritely smile. "--and, poof, she fucking disappears a week ago. Business has been off ever since. Am I right?"

"That's right." Dale shifted against the wall, finding a more comfortable angle for his bony body.

"Plus, I loaned her ten thousand dollars a couple months ago, and she hasn't paid back a dime so far. I've got a contract right here to prove it."

Slick waved some papers around, but they could've been his laundry list for all I could see. He slammed the alleged contract into a drawer, and tossed a separate sheet of paper across to me.

"I had Dale write down all the particulars," he said. "Her real name's Trudy Moore. You can see why we had to change it. Am I right?"

I nodded, but that wasn't good enough. He waited. I sighed, and said, "Right."

"You got her address and phone number there, and the same for that shitass boyfriend of hers. Couple of her friends are on there, too. They all claimed not to know anything when Dale talked to them. Maybe a real private eye can get 'em to cough up something."

Slick Gurken rested his elbows on his desk and knitted his fingers together. I noticed he had black hair on his knuckles. The curse of the bald man -- hair sprouts from all the wrong places. I'm becoming increasingly familiar with this problem as I reach the end of my thirties.

"Know where she's from originally?" I asked. "Whether she's got family?"

"Don't know a thing," Slick said. "She showed up here one day, full grown and ready to dance. She didn't talk about her past, and I didn't ask. Everybody starts fresh here at the Pink Pony."

One question I always ask in missing-person cases: "Why not go to the police?"

"You think they'd lift a finger over a missing stripper? They'd say she ran off with some john, and throw the report straight in the trash. Am I right?"

I shrugged. He probably was right, but I was tired of saluting.

"Trust me on that." He smiled tightly. "We're not on the friendliest terms with the local police."

"Okay, no cops," I said. "But you're not giving me a lot to go on, especially if Dale has already checked these contacts."

Slick gave me the hard eye. "You're a detective, aren't you? Go detect her whereabouts. That's why I'm hiring you."

I plucked the photo and information sheet off his desk. "I'll get right on it. About my retainer--"

Slick pulled open the desk drawer again and produced a stack of twenty-dollar bills held together by a rubber band.

"That enough to get you started?"

I couldn't tell how many bills were there, but it almost certainly was more than I would've demanded. I told him that would be fine, and folded the money into my pocket. My hands were shaking a little, as they often do when I handle money, but I don't think they noticed.

"Find her in the next twenty-four hours, and there'll be a nice bonus in it for you," Slick said.

Now it was my turn to squint. "You're not asking for much. She's been gone a week. She could be on the other side of the world by now."

"Then you better get busy."

"Was she friends with any of the other girls? The deejay? Any of the bartenders?"

Slick shook his head, the light reflecting off his shiny scalp.

"Joy kept to herself. She shared a dressing room with LaRonda, our other star attraction, but LaRonda swears she don't know where Joy went."

"I'd like to talk to her myself."

Slick checked his gold wristwatch and said, "She comes in for her shift in an hour."

"I'll ask a few questions around the club in the meantime. If that's okay."

"Dale, tell the boys to give Bubba their full cooperation." Slick winked at me. "Otherwise, they might mistake you for a pest and swat you. Have yourself a drink, talk to the girls, talk to LaRonda, whatever you think is best. Then get your ass out there and find Joy Forever."

Chapter 2

A strip joint is no place for an inquisitive mind.

I couldn't enjoy the show because I was too busy wondering about the dancers' lives. How did they end up taking off their clothes for a living? Do they like it? Is it just a job? Do they have children? What do the kids think about Mommy's career? How do the boyfriends and/or husbands stand it?

These were not the questions I was here to ask, but they were the ones swimming in my brain while I worked the room, asking waitresses and bartenders how well they knew Joy Forever. The responses were strangely uniform: Joy seemed nice enough, but she kept to herself and nobody at the Pink Pony knew her very well.

I did get a rise out of the shiny-cheeked bartender who'd served me the six-buck Bud earlier. His name was Lee, and he poured me another beer when I told him I was waiting to talk to LaRonda. All was sunny between us until I asked him about Joy's boyfriend, identified on Slick's list as Shawn Weston.

"That asshole,"  Lee blurted, then covered his mouth with his hand. "Excuse me. I'm afraid Shawn is not one of my favorite people."

"How come?"

He leaned in closer so no one else could hear. "He used to come in a lot, when Joy first started dancing here. A mean drunk. He'd sit here at the bar, slamming back whiskeys and watching the other men watch her. It wasn't a healthy situation."

"He cause trouble?"

Lee smiled. "Nobody causes trouble in the Pink Pony, not with these giants on the payroll. But Shawn would get snarky with the staff. It was a relief when Joy persuaded him to stop coming by."

"So you haven't seen him in a while?"

"Not for months, but then he showed up a couple of times right before Joy disappeared."

"That was okay with Joy?"

The bartender shrugged. "He behaved himself. That's all I cared about."

Before I could think up more questions about Shawn Weston, Lee's face brightened and he said, "Hey. There's LaRonda now!"

I swiveled to see where he was pointing, and nearly fell off my barstool.

I'd seen posters plastered around the place, advertising LaRonda Globes, but there was no way photographs could prepare a person to see her up close and personal. She was an attractive woman, blond and tanned and well-proportioned, except for her chest. To say she was "busty" would be to call the Rockies mere hills. Her breasts preceded her by at least two feet. She wore them strapped up and cantilevered into place, utilizing some sort of superstructure of lingerie, but most of the golden flesh was available for view, squeezed up into cleavage deep enough to smother a man.

LaRonda crossed the club, waving and smiling. Every eye in the place was on that rack, and she knew it. I glanced at the strippers on stage, who'd gone pouty as heads swiveled away from them.

"LaRonda!" Lee shouted. "Man here to see you!"

I looked around to see who he meant, and saw he was pointing at me.

I wasn't ready. A man needs to brace himself before a close encounter with such mammoth mammaries. It's impolite to stare, yet you can't look away.

LaRonda veered toward us, her breasts swinging around with enough force to put someone's eyes out. Everyone within ten feet involuntarily leaned out of the way.

"Yes? Who are you?"

One problem with having a name like Bubba is that, when you stutter, it comes out "B-b-b-b-b-b," so you sound like a lip-diddling idiot. After a few seconds, I managed to spit out my full name.

I was trying to look her right in the eyes, trying not to stare at the well-buttressed cathedral of flesh between us. My eye muscles were twitching so, it must've looked like I was being electrocuted.

Fortunately, Lee took over for me. I guess he was accustomed to seeing LaRonda's golden globes.

"He's a private detective!" he shouted over the music. "Slick hired him to find Joy."

The smile slipped off LaRonda's face, and her forehead creased with worry.

"You'd better come to my dressing room." She pointed the zeppelins toward the door I'd used earlier to reach Slick's office. The big black guy was still there, and he held the door open for LaRonda and friends.

Past the staircase was a door with a glittery star nailed to its center. When we reached it, LaRonda handed me a key.

"Open that for me, will you, honey? It's hard for me to see the lock."

Only took four tries for me to get the key into the lock, but a concerted effort at concentration resulted in success. Inside, it was like the dressing rooms in every show-biz movie you've ever seen: mirrors surrounded by glowing bulbs, countertops covered in cosmetics, glittery costumes hanging from a rod. In the mirrors, I looked twitchy and furtive, my tall forehead shiny with sweat.

I'd been trying to avert my eyes, but good Christ, there were mirrors on every wall, so no matter where I looked, I had a view of the Grand Tetons.

"Relax, Bubba. I'm used to people staring."

Eyes glued to the ceiling, I said, "I don't know what you could possibly mean."

That made her laugh. LaRonda flopped into one of the swivel chairs and turned to face me. She linked her hands together in her lap so her boobs could rest on her forearms. Which made me think about weight and counterbalance and the strain on her back--

"You wanted to talk about Joy?"

"Um, yeah. Slick said she's been missing for a week, and he's worried."

"We're all worried," LaRonda said. "Joy might've not been the friendliest person in the world, but she always showed up for work on time. Not the sort to just vanish."

"People keep saying she was stand-offish. Why do you think that was?"

"She didn't want to get too friendly with the people in this place," she said. "She tried to keep it separate from the rest of her life."

"Is that possible?"

LaRonda shrugged, and the resulting tremors and aftershocks made me lose my train of thought.

"Certainly not possible for me," she said. "I can't go anywhere without people staring and asking rude questions. Stripping was my only choice. Nature gives you boobs like this, and your career goals are pretty much set."

"So they're, um, actually--"

"All natural," she said, giving her bosom a squeeze with her arms. "Fifty-four double-F. It's a genetic thing. All the women in my family are big."

I nodded. I understood about genetics. There are some traits running through my family that I'd just as soon not discuss.

"Men will pay good money to look at these. Why should I pretend otherwise? So I take their money and smile all the way to the bank. Another five years of saving up, I'll be set for life."

"Then what will you do?"

"First, plastic surgery to make these things normal-sized."

"Ah."

"Then a life of leisure. I've been thinking about living out in the country. Maybe get a horse. I've never been able to ride a horse, for obvious reasons."

I tried not to picture that.

"Do you think that's what happened with Joy? She took her money and split?"

LaRonda shook her head. "She wouldn't have gone away without telling me. And she still has things here. Clothes, makeup. She wouldn't leave it all behind."

"Maybe she met a man and ran off with him."

LaRonda rolled her eyes. "Now you sound like the girls around here. Just stripping until they meet the right man. Forgive me for saying so, Bubba, but being in this business lowers one's opinion of men."

I thought about the droolers I'd seen sitting near the stage with their waving dollars and their pitiless eyes. Imagine facing that on a daily basis. Brr.

"I heard Joy had a man in her life," I said. "Shawn Weston."

LaRonda shifted so she could pull one of her arms free. She shook it vigorously, which set off movements so seismic, they forced me to stare at the ceiling again.

"Sorry. My hand went to sleep. Happens all the time."

I dared to look back at her as she said, "Shawn Weston is an ass. I don't know why Joy ever spent any time with him."

"I got the same story from the bartender," I said. "This Shawn certainly knows how to make a good impression."

"Some guys are simply bad news," she said. "And some women find that irresistible."

"Was that the case with Joy?"

"She always seemed smarter than that. Then, a few weeks ago, she told me she'd dumped him."

"Really?" Slick hadn't mentioned that part. If he knew.

"She'd started seeing a different guy, but she wouldn't talk about him. I got the impression he was married."

My pulse quickened. In my business, I see a lot of married people cheating on their spouses. And a lot of spouses who want to get even.

"She didn't tell you his name?"

"No last name, but she referred to him a couple of times as 'Mark.' I think she met him through Slick, but you'd have to ask him. There's a whole parade of big shots moving through here every week and Slick likes to keep them all entertained. Joy sometimes joined the party."

"This Mark is a big shot?"

"That's the impression I got, but she wouldn't go into detail."

We batted it around a little more, but got no further with our speculations. Joy Forever had built a wall around herself here at the Pink Pony, and not even LaRonda was allowed inside. Too bad. I got the sense that LaRonda would've made a good friend.

I said I knew she needed to get on with the show, and I thanked her for trying to help.

"Let me know how it turns out, won't you?" she said.

"Sure thing."

"And tell Joy to remember her old roommate LaRonda."

As the door closed behind me, I thought: How could anyone forget?

Chapter 3

The sun was setting by the time I got home, and the tall November sky was filled with clouds as vividly pink as anything Slick Gurken ever dreamed up.

Our house is a pitched-roof brick bungalow in a neighborhood near the University of New Mexico. It doesn't look the least bit Southwestern, except for the bare dirt and cactus where a front lawn used to be. Years of drought have made irrigated lawns unfashionable and expensive here in the desert.

My wife's Toyota was in the driveway, so I knew I'd get no peace inside. After the thumping music and shouting clients, I just wanted a little quiet. But quiet is Felicia's natural enemy, and it never stands a chance when she's around. Part of what makes her such a good newspaper reporter is her unwillingness to sit quietly. She's always ready with another question, right after she picks apart your last answer. It can be wearying.

Felicia Quattlebaum's name is much better-known in Albuquerque than mine, though I've lived here longer. While I practice my investigations in private, Felicia smears her crusades all over the front page of the Albuquerque Gazette.

Because she's the star reporter (and because her editors are terrified of her), Felicia pretty much pursues whatever stories she likes, and they usually center on rooting out corruption. Never any shortage of that in New Mexico, where politicians and other crooks are accustomed to getting their way. They've learned that when Felicia Quattlebaum shows up, dogging their trail, they might as well go turn themselves in to the nearest cop. Less humiliation that way.

As her devoted husband, I'm expected to keep up with the ins and outs of Felicia's investigations and to read every one of her articles top to bottom. But the sad truth is that my mind doesn't have the same sort of tenacious grip as Felicia's, and I sometimes find details to be slippery things.

Anyhow, when I got home, she showed all the signs of being caught up in a project. Notebooks covered the coffee table, along with stacks of computer printouts and city zoning maps. Her chin-length hair was a tousled mess and her clothes were rumpled, but there was fire in her brown eyes.

"What do you know about the state fairgrounds?" she said by way of greeting. I felt put on the spot, a schoolkid asked to perform in front of the class.

"Um."

"Any idea how big the fairgrounds are?"

"Well, no--"

"Two-hundred-and-thirty-six acres. Right in the heart of the city."

"All right."

"And who owns that land?"

I'd never really thought about it. "The city?"

"Think, Bubba. It's the state fairgrounds, so it's owned by the state."

"Oh, sure, that makes sense--"

"And how much does that land get used year-round?"

"The casino gets a lot of traffic, and the racetrack is busy when the horses are running. Flea markets on the weekends, but mostly it's a giant parking lot waiting for the fair to return next year."

"Right. Wouldn't seem the best use for that real estate, would it?"

"Uh."

I wish I could say this conversation was unusual in our household, but it was pretty typical. Felicia often starts talking in the middle. She's thinking about something, deep into it, and she'll suddenly turn to me and ask some question or make some comment that makes perfect sense to her. But I am left at sea. Then she acts like I'm an idiot because I can't keep up.

"I think the state's planning to sell it," she said, eyes gleaming behind her smudged glasses. "They've talked about it before. Move the fairgrounds to the outskirts of town and develop the current parcel. The state could make a lot of money."

I nodded along.

"But who else profits?" she said. "That's the real question. It's all behind-the-scenes, backroom stuff for now, but I'm going to break it wide open."

"That's wonderful, hon. Let's celebrate with a beer."

"Too soon to celebrate anything. I'm just getting started."

"Let's have a beer anyway."

"Sure," she said, turning her attention to her papers. "Bring me one while you're at it."

I trudged off to the kitchen, and brought back two green Heinekens. After we'd had a couple of belts, I said, "Funny you should mention the fairgrounds. I was over in that area today."

"Yeah?" Felicia didn't look up. "How come?"

"I have a new client." I pulled Slick's wad of twenties from my pocket. "And here's the retainer."

She looked at the money, then up at me.

"What kind of client pays in cash?"

"I'm never one to question United States currency."

"Very patriotic. Who's the client?"

This is a persistent problem for me. Due to her natural curiosity, Felicia always wants to know about my cases. But I'm a private investigator, and the very last thing most clients want is for their troubles to appear in the Albuquerque Gazette.

"Nobody you'd know," I tried. "Little missing person case."

"Who's missing?"

See? There's no escaping Felicia once she gets curious.

"A dancer."

"A dancer?"

"I think they call them 'exotic dancers' now, but I--"

"A stripper?"

"Actually, yeah, one of those kind of dancers."

"And she's missing? Who hired you? Her family?"

"Her boss wants her found. He's worried about her."

"Her boss. At a strip club."

"Well, she owes him money and--"

"Which club?"

I wiped perspiration off my forehead. "That big one over by the fairgrounds. The Pink Pony."

"Oh, for shit's sake," she said. "You're working for Slick Gurken?"

"U.S. currency," I repeated, waving the cash.

She recoiled. "You might want rubber gloves to handle that money. No telling where it's been."

That gave me pause. I stuffed the wad back in my pocket.

"Never mind," I said, wiping my hands on my jeans. "I've got a client, and that's what counts."

"But a strip club, Bubba? Really? Have you stooped that low?"

"It's not so bad."

She snorted. "Right. It's not a front for prostitution or economic inequality or sexual brutality. The strippers do it because they love their work."

I nodded along. This is what I'd expected.

"The women just love being objectified," she continued. "They love to be seen as nothing but sex toys."

"Some of them must like it," I ventured, but her frown made me falter. "Exhibitionists, you know, who want the attention. The missing stripper might've been one of those."

Felicia shook her head. "There must be something wrong with her for her to put herself on display like that. Something broken inside of her. Did she come from a broken home?"

"Now how would I know--"

"I'll bet she did. I'll bet she's still trying to get the approval of an abusive father."

Even though that's exactly the sort of psychological speculation I'd been doing at the Pink Pony myself, I couldn't join in now. It would prove Felicia right about how distasteful my job had become.

"I'll be sure to ask her about that," I said. "When I find her."

Chapter 4

I bounced out of bed bright and early the next morning, but Felicia wasn't around to admire my industriousness. She'd already left to chase after her hot story. It's hard to impress a workaholic.

I finished off a pot of coffee while I showered and dressed in my usual autumn uniform: Jeans, sneakers, loose flannel shirt with tails hanging out to hide the holster clipped to my belt. I didn't expect to need my .38-caliber Smith & Wesson today, but better to be prepared.

My first stop was Joy's apartment. Slick had included her address in the notes he'd given me, and it was only a couple of miles from my house. The apartment complex was one of the new places that have sprung up along Central Avenue east of the fairgrounds. Part of the city's attempt to clean up the red-light district that the cops call the "War Zone." The gentrification effort wasn't having much effect on prostitution along Central, near as I could tell. Girls in hot pants were working the sidewalks at mid-morning.

A guard shack stood at the entrance to the apartment complex, but it was empty and I drove right past as if I belonged there. The brown stucco complex was modern and well-landscaped, a hollow square with a blue swimming pool at its center. This time of day, most of the tenants were at work, and there were plenty of parking spaces.

I knocked on Joy's door, not expecting an answer, then took another look around. No one. I ran my fingers along the top of the door jamb, searching for a key, finding nothing but dust. A potted rosemary plant sat next to the door, and I dipped my fingers into it. Nothing but dirt. I lifted the plant and set it aside. There, on the concrete underneath, was a key. A little rusty, but it worked in the lock just fine.

I was smiling as I slipped inside the apartment. Dale Cready and his meathead bouncers had stopped by here, but apparently were too dumb to look for the key.

Enough sunlight leaked through the window blinds that I could search the place without turning on any lights. I moved quickly. Trespassing always makes me nervous.

The living room was sparsely furnished, with nothing personal on display. No family photos. No mementos. No souvenirs. Standard sofa/chair/coffee table, all plain enough to have come with the apartment.

The open kitchen was likewise sterile and impersonal. Joy kept a clean house, I'd give her that, but I got the sense items were missing. The bathroom medicine cabinet contained nothing but air. Half the hangers in the tidy bedroom closet were empty. Looked to me as if Joy departed this apartment on her own, probably in a hurry. Packed a few personal things, enough clothes to get by, but that's all.

I went through the place again, checking every drawer, every closet shelf, trying to find anything that would give me a sense of Joy Forever.

I was headed for the door when my gaze snagged on a small pad of white paper on the kitchen counter. I veered into the kitchen and picked up the pad and turned it this way and that under the light spilling through the window. Definitely an impression there, left from whatever had been written on the previous page.

Oldest detective trick in the book, so old that I felt a little foolish as I rubbed a pencil across the page and watched a phone number come into view.

I fished my phone out of my pocket and dialed the number on the pad. Looked like a Santa Fe prefix, so I dialed "1" first. No answer for several rings. I was about to give up when a woman came on the line and said, "State Land Office."

I said, "Huh?"

"This is the State Land Office. How may I direct your call?"

"Um. Can you put me through to Joy Forever?"

What the hell. It was worth a shot.

"Say that again," she said.

Flushing hotly, I said, "I'm trying to find Joy Forever."

A long pause. I felt like an idiot.

"Well, hon," she said finally. "If you want joy forever, I'd suggest you believe in Jesus."

I hung up.

Chapter 5

I put Joy's key back under the flowerpot and returned to where I'd left my anonymous gray Oldsmobile. No one tried to stop me, and no police arrived, so I figured my little break-in had gone undetected. After waiting in the car a few minutes to make sure, I gathered up my papers, photo of Joy on top, and started knocking on doors.

Of all the unglamorous duties involved in detective work, door-to-door canvassing is my least favorite. People don't like to be disturbed by investigators. They don't want to answer questions about their neighbors. They don't want to get involved. Some apparently get a kick out of slamming doors in people's faces.

I knocked on doors to either side of Joy's apartment, got nothing, then began working my way around the swimming pool. One bleary guy slammed his door before I could finish saying my name. Another door was opened by a cadaverous woman who had a cigarette in one hand and a screaming baby in the other. Shouting over the baby, we determined that mom had never met Joy Forever, then that door slammed, too.

When I reached the door directly across the pool from Joy's apartment, it was flung open before I could even knock. A hairy young man with wire-rimmed glasses looked me up and down, then jerked his head for me to come inside. I hadn't even identified myself.

The place was messy, with lots of books and papers scattered around, and a pizza box on the coffee table. The air smelled of socks.

"Forgive the mess," he said. "I work at home."

I was afraid to ask, but I couldn't just let it dangle. "What do you do?"

He thrust out his jaw as he said, "I'm a writer." Guess he was used to getting an argument.

"Cool." I paused, then carefully skirting the issue of what he might write or why, I said, "If you're here all day, maybe you noticed your neighbor across the way. The redhead?"

I showed him Joy's photo. He nodded and said, "You a cop?"

"Private detective," I said, wincing at the way his eyes lit up. "Bubba Mabry."

He introduced himself as Nick Wilson, and we shook hands. He wore a ratty green cardigan, like something his grandpa left him, over a dingy T-shirt and baggy jeans. He asked why I was interested in his red-haired neighbor.

"Nobody has heard from her in a week. Have you seen her around?"

"Not in the past week. I was kind of missing her, too."

"Did you know her?"

"Oh, no, no, no." He shook his head, which caused his dark curly hair to dance. "I mean, I would've liked to. She was a beautiful woman. But I never got up the nerve to talk to her."

"So when you said you were missing her. . ."

"Occupational hazard," he said. "I always noticed when she came and went. I'd heard that she was a dancer, and I sorta made up stories about her."

Writers. I'd met a few in the past, back when Felicia and I published a true-crime book called "Lonely Street." We'd done the bookstore circuit before our book sank without a trace, and had run into some of these fiction writers. Misfits and iconoclasts, one and all. This guy seemed no different, locked up in his smelly apartment, watching people out the window all day. Making up life rather than living it.

"You didn't see her move away? Leave with luggage in the night, something like that?"

He shook his head. "I assumed she'd gone on vacation or something. Do you think something bad happened to her? Or is that confidential?"

Again with the eager eyes. I could see he planned to put all this right into whatever he was writing. I wanted no part of it.

"I'm sure she's fine," I said. "I'll find her."

I thanked him for his time, and headed for the door before he could quiz me further. Before I got there, someone knocked.

"Oh," the writer said. "That would be my lunch."

It was only eleven o'clock in the morning, but I didn't say anything. He stepped past me and opened the door to reveal a scrawny kid with bad skin and a paper hat that said "ABQ Pizza" on it. He was holding a flat box identical to the one on the coffee table, and I wondered whether Wilson ate anything else.

As he was paying the kid, he said to me, "Hey, you should show that picture to Jimmy here. He goes all over the city. Maybe he's seen her."

"Seen who?" The deliveryman had watery blue eyes that seemed to vibrate with an internal twitch. Made me wonder whether Pizza Boy had a little drug habit, but I went through the motions of showing him Joy's photo.

"Recognize her?"

He gave me a suspicious look. "You a cop?"

"No," the writer said, "he's a private eye!"

I sighed. "I'm just trying to track down this woman. She lives across the way there, but she's been missing for a week."

Jimmy studied the photo.

"Haven't seen her," he said, "but I'll keep an eye out. Give me your number."

I gave them each a business card, and thanked them for their time. Nick Wilson seemed eager for more conversation, but I followed Jimmy out of there while I had the chance.

He jumped into a little Toyota, and zoomed out of the parking lot, off to make more deliveries. I waited until he was out of sight before climbing into my own car and heading for Central Avenue.

My stomach growled. That pizza had smelled wonderful.

Chapter 6

Shawn Weston lived in an apartment complex way up in the Northeast Heights off Juan Tabo Boulevard. The two-story townhouses were more upscale than Joy's place, and I wondered what Shawn did for a living as I knocked on his door.

Didn't really expect an answer. I figured he'd be at work like most people. But his door opened after only a few seconds, and he caught me going at my teeth with a toothpick. I dropped the toothpick in my shirt pocket and wiped my hand on my jeans before offering it for him to shake.

"Shawn Weston?"

"Who's asking?"

"Bubba Mabry. I'm a private investigator."

He cocked a heavy eyebrow. His skin was copper-colored and his hair and eyes were dark brown. He wore a faded T-shirt and faded jeans and no shoes. On his head sat a gray baseball cap, its brim bent into the deep curl that often indicates "redneck."

"What are you investigating?"

He kept one hand on the door, ready to slam it if I said the wrong thing.

"I'm trying to find your girlfriend," I said. "Joy Forever."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"That's not what I heard."

He looked up and down the sidewalk that ran in front of the townhouses. Nobody in sight, but he said, "You'd better come inside."

I followed him into the dim apartment. His bare feet were silent on the tile floor. My sneakers, on the other hand, squeaked with every step.

Shawn Weston was maybe twenty-five years old, the type of cocky young turk that irritates the piss out of me. Still so young and virile and untested and dumb.

His living room was cluttered with expensive toys -- stereo, laptop, game console, big-screen TV -- and the furniture was low and modern and uncomfortable.

"So you're a private eye, huh? Who you working for?"

"I'm not at liberty to--"

"Is it Slick? He sent his boys around here to ask about her. I told them I didn't know where she'd gone."

"He's worried about her."

Shawn laughed bitterly. "I'll bet he is. That son of a bitch."

"You've got a problem with Slick Gurken?"

"I've got a problem with all those assholes down there. They take advantage of girls like Joy, and they try to run off guys like me, who might take her away from all that."

"Is that right? Had you offered to support her?"

"Not exactly," he said. "But I had asked her to stop dancing. We fought over it. I think that's the main reason she dumped me."

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Yeah, that's right, she dumped me. Three weeks ago. Said she felt like I was smothering her, which was bullshit. All I wanted was for her to stop showing her naked body to other men. Is that too much to fucking ask?"

I shrugged. "She was a dancer when you started dating her, right?"

"Yeah." He looked away. "That's how we met. There at the club. But it was different once we started dating."

I nodded, trying to look sympathetic. I couldn't imagine how it must feel, having your sweetie stripping for other men, but it couldn't be much fun.

"Slick said she wasn't like the other girls," I offered. "That she didn't do lap dances or anything."

Shawn nodded. "She was no whore, but she didn't see anything wrong with men looking at her."

I thought about what LaRonda had said, about not having any choice in the matter. Men will look. Why not get paid for it?

"She liked to hang out with Slick and his friends," he said. "After hours. Just sitting there in a booth, like a decoration for their parties. Never saying a word, but watching, always watching."

"Watching for what?"

He shrugged his muscular shoulders. "Who knows? She was smarter than the rest of us. I always got the feeling she was studying the men, and sort of laughing at our weaknesses."

I nodded. That could've been an apt description of many women I've known, including Felicia.

"Somebody told me that Joy had a new boyfriend," I said. "Some guy named Mark?"

He crossed his bulky arms over his chest and studied his bare feet. "I wouldn't know about that."

"Really? Because maybe that's the real reason she didn't want to date you anymore."

"She never told me that."

"And if she had?"

He looked up at me, his brow twisted with anger. "I would've found the guy and kicked his ass."

Precisely why Joy hadn't told him, I speculated, but I didn't say so. Instead, I said, "You were that crazy about her?"

He gave me a level look. "I loved her, man. I did. But she wasn't interested in a long-term relationship. She wanted to make a pile of money before she got too old, then set herself up in a new life. She didn't need a man for that."

"Think that's what happened to her? She took off to start over somewhere?"

Again with the shrug. "Not unless she found a lot of cash somewhere. She had debts, including some money she borrowed from Slick."

"She told you about that?"

"Sure. I wanted to help her out, but I didn't have that kind of money. Things started to cool between us right after that."

That could explain why Joy had started dating a married man named Mark. Shawn Weston hadn't proved to be the sugar daddy she needed, so she'd gone on the hunt for a new man.

I suddenly got the feeling that I was talking to the wrong guy. I needed to find the new boyfriend.

I stood to leave, but thought of one more question for Shawn Weston.

"The folks at the Pink Pony said you'd been there a couple of times lately. After you and Joy broke up."

He nodded. "I had to see her again. I couldn't get her out of my mind."

"Did you try to talk to her?"

"No." He frowned. "I just looked at her. Like the rest of those losers. Pretty pathetic, huh?"

I had no answer for that. I thanked him for his time, and headed for the door.

"Think you'll find her?" he asked.

"Sure. Sooner or later."

"When you do, tell her, um--"

He paused, blushing.

"Tell her what?"

"Never mind, man. I'll tell her myself. Someday."

Chapter 7

I traveled around town and knocked on a few more doors after my visit with Shawn Weston, but no Joy. The two women Slick Gurken had listed as Joy's friends weren't home during the day, or maybe they'd vanished, too. They certainly weren't answering their doors.

I needed to bring my client up to date, but I didn't want to pay a ten-dollar cover for the privilege of seeing him in person, so I called him from my car. I still find it disconcerting that people know who's calling before they answer. Gives the person receiving the call the upper hand.

"Bubba Mabry." Slick's oily voice. "You find her yet?"

See? Whatever happened to "hello?"

"Um, not yet," I said. "I've been talking to--"

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear yesterday. I want results and I want them fast."

"You made that perfectly clear. But there's only so much--"

"Don't give me excuses, Bubba. Give me Joy Forever."

"Yes, sir, I'm trying--"

"Did you talk to Shawn Weston?"

"Yeah."

"What did that son of a bitch say?"

"He and Joy broke up three weeks ago. The only times he's seen her since has been at the Pink Pony, when she was up on the stage."

"Hmm. And he didn't have any idea where she might've gone?"

"No, but I've put feelers out and--"

"Dammit, she's got to be somewhere, right? It's not like the goddammned Earth opened up and swallowed her. Am I right?"

"That's right," I said, though I had no evidence to the contrary. "I'll find her. I just need more time."

Slick harrumphed, but he didn't argue further. Yelling at me wouldn't turn her up any faster.

"All right, Bubba. Call me as soon as you get somewhere."

"Yes, sir. I'll do my best to hurry things along."

I was talking to myself. Slick had already hung up. I put my phone away, wondering yet again what was so damned urgent about finding Joy Forever. Could her absence really make such a difference to business at the Pink Pony? I couldn't imagine the slavering clientele was so particular.

But if that wasn't it, then what was the hurry? Why was Slick so desperate to find her?

I headed for home, thoughts buzzing in my brain. I was on Central Avenue near the university when I noticed a plain black sedan behind me. A Ford Crown Victoria, just like the cops drive.

What the hell? Had someone called in my visit to Joy's place after all? I broke out in a sweat, but the Ford didn't seem interested in pulling me over. I drove on, watching my mirrors, and started to get annoyed. I don't like to be followed, especially when I'm not going anywhere.

I passed a bread truck on the four-lane and tucked over in front of it, careful to use my blinker. The truck was now between me and the Crown Vic, and I used the screen to take the next right at the last possible second. The side street ran alongside one of the old motels that dot East Central, and I turned into the motel's parking lot. I swung the Olds into a space between two pickup trucks and slammed to a halt.

I slid down in my seat and waited a minute, then backed out and drove through the potholed parking lot. No sign of the black Ford, so I continued on Central, my mind no longer on Slick. I was too busy wondering why the police would follow me.

Had Joy been in trouble with the cops? Were they looking for her, too?

I got the feeling there was more going on here than I knew. And that worried me.

Chapter 8

When I got home, Felicia was on the phone in the kitchen. I tried to squeeze past her to the fridge, where cold beers awaited, but she said, "Oh, here he is now, Dub."

I shook my head, but it was too late. She said good-bye to my father, and handed the telephone to me. I sighed and held the phone up to my ear.

"Hey."

"Bubba! How the hell are you, boy?"

A typical greeting from dear old Dad. My father, Wilton Mabry Sr., known at truck stops nationwide as "Dub," has spent too much of his life alone behind the wheel. He never passes up an opportunity for conversation, and his social manner is permanently set on "josh."

I mumbled something about being fine while I opened a Heineken.

"Felicia says you're workin' at a titty bar!"

I spewed beer down my shirtfront, coughing and sputtering.

"I am not," I managed, once I could breathe. "I'm pursuing a missing persons case. The client happens to own a strip club."

"Same thing!" Dub's a little hard of hearing. He tends to shout. "Either way, you're makin' money off strippers."

No point in arguing. I've yet to win an argument with Dub. It didn't help matters that, in this case, he likely was right.

Instead, I shouted, "How's Mama?"

"She's finer than frog hair! What a woman! Can't believe I spent so many years apart from her!"

I could tell by his tone that Mama was within earshot. My parents have been back together for a while now, but Dub's still got a lot of making up to do. He vanished when I was nine years old, chased away by bad publicity. Mama had made headlines in Mississippi, claiming personal visitations from Jesus Christ, and Dub couldn't take the attention. He showed up again a few years ago, embroiled in one of my cases, and one thing led to another. Thinking about Dub and Mama under the same roof always gives me a headache.

"So why are you calling?"

"Just checking in! Your Mama and I are making a long-haul run next week, and we'll stop in to visit."

"Oh, boy."

Mama and Dub regularly stop by. You'd think living fifteen hundred miles from my parents, we wouldn't see them often. Dub's semi-retired, but he still drives a big rig across the country once in a while, and Mama always accompanies him on trips that go through Albuquerque. Their visits are a complete disruption in our schedules, of course, but they never seem to notice.

"Your Mama wants to know if y'all are pregnant yet!"

I cringed, turning away before Felicia couldn't see. Mama's obsessed with grandchildren. All her friends have them, but Felicia and I haven't provided. Since I'm an only child, all the pressure is on me.

"No, Dub. We've talked about this."

Felicia and I have told them repeatedly that we have neither the intention nor the inclination to have a child, but neither of my parents are particularly good at taking "no" for an answer. I suspect they conspire to take turns wearing us down, but it wasn't working.

"You don't have much more time, son! You're nearly forty!"

"I know how old--"

"Somebody must carry on the Mabry line!"

I disagreed. Certain traits run in my family -- anxiety, gullibility, male pattern baldness, a tendency to blurt -- and it's not necessarily a genetic package that should be forwarded. But I didn't want to have that conversation with Dub. Again.

"Is it a performance problem, Bubba? Is that it? Trouble in the bedroom?"

"It most certainly is not, and that's none of your business anyway."

He cackled. "Don't get on your high horse. I'm genuinely concerned. Maybe if you weren't spending all your time in strip joints--"

"I've gotta go."

"Okay, see you Monday! Tell Felicia we're rooting for her!"

I hung up. Turned to find my wife grinning at me.

"Same old song and dance," she said.

"They're nothing if not persistent."

She gave me a hug and a kiss, still smiling to beat the band. It made me suspicious.

"What did you say to them?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you goad him, then hand him over to me?"

"I would never."

"Then what are you smiling about?"

"My story's coming together. I just swung by the house to grab a bite, then I'm headed back to the newsroom. I'll probably work all night."

See? Only a workaholic could be this happy over a round-the-clock grind. When Felicia gets excited about one of her exposés, it's best to stay out of her way.

She told me about it while we slapped together sandwiches.

An assistant U.S. attorney, an up-and-comer named Simon Trujillo, had launched an investigation into the state's plans for the fairgrounds. Apparently, the feds had heard the same rumblings that Felicia detected -- the usual cabal of crooked pols and greedy businessmen plotting to sell the fairgrounds and divvy up the proceeds.

I was only half-listening, I admit, as Felicia reeled off names and dates and numbers. But she got my full attention when she mentioned the State Land Office.

"That's the agency in charge?"

"They handle all of the state's real estate transactions. With the economy in the dumps and the state budget so tight, that big chunk of real estate in the middle of Albuquerque is starting to look expendable."

I stuck my head in the fridge so Felicia couldn't see my face. The State Land Office had answered when I dialed that number I found at Joy Forever's apartment. I'd wondered at the time what the heck a stripper could've wanted with that particular agency.

"What are you looking for in there?" Felicia said.

"I thought we had some olives." The refrigerated air cooled the flush on my face. I moved some jars around on the shelves.

"You hate olives," she said.

"That must be why we're out."

I felt up to facing her again, but found her looking quizzical. "Are you all right?"

"Sure. What do you mean?"

"You're not making any sense."

"I'm all caught up in your story," I said. "It's fascinating."

A cloud passed across her face. "Is that sarcasm I smell?"

"No, really. Tell me about the fairgrounds. What will they do with that land?"

"That's the question," she said. "And who stands to profit. That's what the U.S. attorney's office is looking into."

"And you want to beat them to the punch."

"If I can." She smiled. "But the mere fact that they're investigating is enough to go with. I'll use that as the peg for the background I've been accumulating."

I started to take a big bite of the sandwich I'd built, but a thought stopped me.

"Wait a minute. If you report that an investigation's under way, won't that tip off the people being investigated?"

Felicia was busy chewing. She shrugged.

"Won't that piss off this guy Trujillo?"

Another shrug.

"Do you want to be indicted for something?"

She swallowed and said, "He can't touch me. I'm just doing my job."

"But don't you want him to prosecute the bad guys?"

"Sure." She smiled. "After I'm done with them."

Chapter 9

Friday morning, I stopped by Joy's apartment, but there was no sign that anyone had been there. I knocked on a few neighbors' doors (carefully avoiding that talky writer across the way), but came up with nothing. Elsewhere, the women listed as Joy's friends still weren't answering their doors.

Just as a lunch break seemed my only option, my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I parked the Olds and answered.

"Bubba Mabry Investigations."

"What the hell kinda name is 'Bubba?'"

I mumbled something about being from Mississippi, but then caught myself and said, "Who is this?"

"Jimmy."

"That narrows it down. Jimmy who?"

"Jimmy the pizza guy. You gave me your card yesterday?"

"Oh, yeah. What's up, Jimmy?"

"I saw that woman you were asking about. The redhead."

My pulse quickened. "You sure?"

"Pretty sure, yeah. I made a delivery last night, two pies to the same address. A big guy came to the door, but all he had was twenties, so I was stuck there for a minute, making change. I don't know why people can't have their money ready. We tell 'em on the phone how much it's gonna be and--"

"Hey, Jimmy. The redhead?"

"Right. Sorry. So while I'm standing there, I see a woman pass by the kitchen door inside. It's her, the redhead. She's smoking a cigarette, sorta pacing around. The guy at the door catches me looking and he shouts over his shoulder and this other big guy steps into the kitchen doorway and blocks the view. I get the message, and get the heck out of there."

A couple of large men. Sounded like the kind of beef that Slick Gurken kept on his payroll.

"When was this?"

"Last night. Eight, something like that."

"Why didn't you call me then?"

"Hey, we were swamped last night, and the other driver called in sick. I worked a double shift, zooming all over town--"

"Okay, okay. I get it. Do you have the address?"

A pause.

"Don't private eyes usually pay for such information?"

"That's only on TV. In real life, you tell me the address because you're worried about the missing redhead and you want me to make sure she's okay."

"Yeah, right."

I waited him out.

"She seemed all right to me," he said finally.

"Maybe she is. Maybe those guys are her brothers. But she's been missing for a week. It's possible they're holding her against her will."

"Huh. I guess it's possible."

His voice trailed off. I waited, though I was bursting with impatience.

"All right, man," he said finally. "Whatever. I don't really want to get involved anyway."

"The address?"

"It's four-one-oh-two Lariat Lane, over on the West Side, off Montano. Just a regular-looking house."

"Okay, Jimmy. Thanks. That's your good deed for the day, man."

Jimmy was saying something about how he couldn't eat good deeds, but I hung up and pointed my car westward.

Once I was on I-40, zooming along in light traffic, I called my client. Before I could identify myself, Slick said, "You find her?"

"Not yet. But I got a tip on where she might've been last night."

"Where's that?"

"A house over on the West Mesa. I'm on my way to check it out now."

"What's the address?"

That gave me pause. "Why do you need to know that? I told you I'm on my way there--"

"I believe I am paying for your services. Am I right?"

"Well, sure--"

"So, if I say give me that address, you say what?"

I reeled off the address, confident that there was no way he or his people could get there before me.

"Does that ring any bells with you?" I asked him.

"Never heard of Lariat Lane before. What makes you think she's way over there?"

"An eyewitness, but I'm not certain he's reliable. I'll check it out, and I'll call you as soon as I'm sure."

"You do that."

Click.

Chapter 10

Lariat Lane lies in a subdivision where all the streets have cute Western names -- Cowpoke Circle and Saddle Avenue and Spurs Street and, predictably, Rodeo Drive. The houses were brick ranch-style homes with pitched roofs and gravel yards. Most of the driveways were empty, the residents at work and the kids in school. Like many of the neighborhoods that march up the West Mesa, it had a great view of the Sandias on the far side of town.

The house Jimmy had fingered looked no different from the rest of them, though there was a black Ford Crown Vic parked in the driveway. Reminded me of the one that tailed me the day before. I parked half a block away and watched the house for a few minutes, trying to work out what that Ford might mean.

Every line of theorizing came back to this: Until I knew whether Joy Forever was actually inside that house, this whole excursion was meaningless. Jimmy the pizza boy got a glimpse of a redhead at this address, but there was only one way to find out if he had the right one: Go knock on the door.

I adjusted the pistol on the back of my belt after I got out of the car. Didn't expect to need a gun, but you never know what might happen when you go calling on strangers. I felt fortified and sort of heroic as I crunched across the gravel yard. If Joy was within those walls, I could very well be coming to her rescue.

I stepped up onto the square concrete stoop. The door was solid wood, and no light leaked around the curtains closed over the windows. If people were inside, they were doing a good job of hiding it. I knocked, then took a step back so I had room to move.

The door was snatched open a minute later, and a beefy guy with a crewcut filled the gap. He was about my age, but he clearly spent more time in a gym than I ever had. His blue shirt was open at the collar, and his rumpled black pants looked as if they were part of a suit.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, um, is the lady of the house at home?"

I don't know where that came from. Suddenly, I'm selling vacuum cleaners?

"Who wants to know?"

I handed over my card, saying, "I'm looking for a woman named Joy Forever. Well, her real name is Trudy Moore, but that's her stage name."

He studied my card, then looked back up at me.

"What makes you think this woman is here?"

"Someone told he saw her here."

"When was this?"

"Last night. Look, is she here or not?"

A furrow creased between his eyebrows. "You need to fuck off now."

He started to close the door, but I stuck my foot in the way.

"Come on, man. Just let me talk to her."

"I said, fuck off."

I was starting to get steamed. I reached behind me, fumbling for the butt of my pistol, thinking I'd show it to him, get a little cooperation.

Before I could get the gun clear of the holster, however, a voice behind me said, "Freeze."

"Aw, hell." I looked over my shoulder and found another musclehead pointing a black Glock at me. He must've come out a back door and sneaked around behind me. I'd been so busy arguing with the one at the door, I hadn't heard a thing. He was dressed identically to his partner, though his black hair was slightly longer. He held the Glock in both hands, aimed at me like he meant it.

"The cops are already on the way," I tried.

They both laughed.

"We're federal marshals, you idiot," said the first guy.

"Aw, hell."

The other one said, "Bring that pistol out, nice and slow, and set it on the ground."

I did as I was told, but my mind was whirring. Feds? Were they holding Joy Forever in this house? Why? And what the heck could I do about it?

"Now drop to your knees and put your hands behind your head."

"Why? I haven't done anything. I was just asking--"

The one behind me kicked me in the knee. My leg gave way, and I crumpled to the front stoop.

"Hey, that is not necessary."

"Hands behind your head."

As soon as I complied, I felt cold steel snap against my wrist. The marshal efficiently twisted my arms behind me and, snick-snack, my hands were cuffed. Kneeling on the concrete hurt my kneecaps, but I figured it wouldn't help to complain.

"How did you find this house?" said the guy with the crewcut.

"I got a tip," I said. "I was just checking it out. Apparently, I made a mistake, so if you don't mind--"

"Shut up," said the one behind me.

The one at the door shouted back over his shoulder: "Hey, Trudy. Come in here."

He moved out of the doorway, revealing a living room with beige carpet and tattered furniture. A woman stepped into view from an open door at the far end of the room, and walked toward us. She had red hair and green eyes, and I recognized her right away, even though she was fully dressed in a white blouse and snug jeans.

Joy Forever.

The marshal who'd summoned her said, "Do you know this guy?"

She looked at me and our eyes met, but I found no warmth or welcome there.

"I've never see him before," she said. "Who is he?"

"That's what we're about to find out," the marshal said.

A crack shattered the quiet in the neighborhood. At the same instant, Joy was flung backward, bright blood erupting from a hole in her breastbone.

The feds and I flinched at the gunshot, then the one behind me knocked me off the stoop and into a thorny shrub next to the house. The other one slammed the door, too late for Joy.

I think I was holding my breath, waiting for the next shot to come. Instead, I heard an engine crank up and a squeal of tires as a distant vehicle zoomed away.

The marshal sprang up off me and ran into the street. I rolled over, trying to get out of the thorns. Since my hands were cuffed behind me, I couldn't catch myself before I went face down in the dirt. I turned my head, spitting soil.

My eyes were closed, so I didn't see the foot the marshal aimed at my midsection. Oof.

He wrestled me to my feet. I couldn't help because I was too busy trying to breathe. He shoved me toward the door, just as the guy inside opened it and peered out. His eyes were so wide, they looked like whitewall tires.

"Son of a bitch," he said. "She's dead."

Chapter 11

Naturally, it took a while to sort it out. An ambulance hauled Joy's body away, and the house filled with feds and local cops. They wanted to believe that I'd been the set-up man, exposing Joy for the shooter. I tried to persuade them I was not part of a plot.

The one with the crewcut, whose name was Baker, refused to believe me, but he was in big trouble himself because he'd summoned Joy to the door and put her in danger. His partner, Sanchez, the one who kept knocking me down outside, was quicker to come around.

"Mabry didn't know it was coming," he told their boss, a gray-haired man whose mouth was a straight, lipless line. "He was as surprised as we were."

The older man seemed to agree with Sanchez, but I remained convinced that I was going to jail until after the arrival of Assistant U.S. Attorney Simon Trujillo himself.

He showed up two hours after the shooting, followed by two eager young aides in Brooks Brothers suits. He quickly took over the scene, ordering the marshals out of the kitchen, where I sat handcuffed to a wooden chair.

Trujillo was a sleek, handsome guy in his late forties, with just a sprinkling of gray in his black hair. He wore an expensive-looking gray suit, a crisp white shirt, a subdued necktie and loafers with little gold buckles on them. He gave off an air of authority as thick as cologne.

His assistants leaned against the kitchen counter, braced to leap into action at his merest nod. One punched buttons on a cell phone, but he never took his eyes off his boss.

Trujillo pulled a chair out from the dining table and turned it to face me. He sat and crossed his legs, the golden buckle on his shoe winking in the light.

"They tell me you're a private detective," he began.

"That's right."

"So you're licensed by the state?"

"Um, sure. You have to be--"

"And without that license, you're out of a job?"

I didn't like where this was going. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

"Not at all." Trujillo smiled without showing any teeth. "Just want to make sure we're clear on what's at stake here."

"Threatening me won't bring your witness back," I snapped.

His eyebrows rose. "Who said she was a witness? Did the marshals tell you that?"

"You guys had her under wraps for some reason. She must've had information you wanted. What was it?"

Trujillo glanced over at his assistants. Some silent communication moved between them, then he said, "Isn't that why you came here? Because you knew we were trying to get her to testify?"

I shook my head. "All I knew was that she was missing. I was hired to find her."

"And you did," he said flatly. "Despite our best efforts to keep her hidden away."

"It was a lucky break," I said. "I got a tip--"

"So I'm told. From a pizza delivery boy?"

"Get your agents to round up Jimmy from ABQ Pizza. He'll tell you how he gave me the information."

"Believe me," he said, "we're checking him out. How much did you pay him for this alleged information?"

"Nothing. I persuaded him it was his civic duty."

Another look over at the aides. All three legal beagles seemed to be suppressing smiles, which was damned inappropriate considering that a woman had just died here.

"So, you're a great believer in civic duty, are you?" The way he asked it, I could tell he was setting a trap for me. I didn't answer.

"Do you believe we all have a duty to report crimes when we witness them?"

Still wary, I gave him a shrug.

"If you saw somebody taking a bribe, for instance, would you feel it was your duty to do something about it?"

"A bribe?" I said. "I'd feel it was none of my business."

"What about your civic duty? It's good enough for the pizza guy, but not for you?"

God, I hate lawyers. I run across them a lot in my line of work, and they're often responsible for putting money in my pocket. But, with lawyers, every conversation is an argument, an opportunity to split hairs. I'm not the most nimble debater, and I usually end up cornered. It can be discouraging.

I sat mute, waiting for a question I could answer. Finally, Trujillo said, "You've messed up an expensive, important investigation."

"I didn't do anything but knock on a door," I said. "The rest of it is on you guys' heads."

He frowned. "You might feel differently if we charge you with interfering with a federal investigation."

That caused a little thump in my chest, but I tried not to let it show.

"Go ahead," I said. "See if you can make that stick."

Another look exchanged with the two young assistants. They seemed amused by the way I bridled at the threat. It was all I could do not to add: "I double-dog-dare you."

Trujillo rested his elbows on his knees. Gave me a long eye-to-eye stare intended to make me sweat, but it didn't work. I knew I wasn't guilty of anything except, perhaps, stupidity. Last time I looked, there's no law against that.

"Do you know what you've screwed up here?" he asked. "Do you know why we needed that witness?"

I shook my head. I had a pretty good idea, based on what Felicia had told me, but I knew better than to offer theories to this guy. In fact, once he found out Felicia and I were married, he'd probably have a whole new line of questioning.

"Corruption," Trujillo said. "Public officials taking bribes and doing favors in return. Doesn't that sound like something that should be stopped?"

I shrugged. "Just another day in New Mexico. We're a Third World country. A banana republic. Bribery is how things get done."

Trujillo sat back and studied me. "A pretty cynical attitude."

"I've lived here a long time."

"So have I," he said. "My whole life. But I'm not willing to sit by and watch my state sold out from under me."

The fire in his eyes worried me. With Joy gone, maybe he didn't have a case anymore. Maybe he'd make me the object of his prosecutorial passion.

"Look--" I began, but I was interrupted by a commotion at the front door. I leaned sideways so I could see into the living room, and there was my old pal, Steve Romero, dragging Jimmy the Pizza Boy into the house.

Lieutenant Romero is the head of APD's Homicide Division now, but he still dresses in jeans and loose guayabera shirts that do nothing to disguise his square, solid build. He looks like a stack of shipping crates. But Romero's deceptively strong, and there was no way scrawny Jimmy could twist out of his grip.

"Let go, man! I didn't do anything!"

The protest sounded feeble, as if Jimmy were repeating himself without expecting a different result. Once Romero had you in his clutches, there was no point in complaining.

Wide-eyed, Jimmy looked around the room at the uniformed cops and stern feds. His gaze snagged at the kitchen doorway when he saw me sitting there.

"You! I knew this was your fault, soon as they brought to me to this house. What the hell did you do?"

I shook my head, but said nothing. Romero clearly hadn't told Jimmy about the shooting, and I didn't feel it was my place to do it. Not with the authorities hanging on my every word.

Romero's eyes wandered the room, taking in every detail and storing them in his photographic memory. He nodded hello to a couple of the federal marshals as he dragged Jimmy toward the kitchen, careful to step around the bloodstain on the beige carpet, the only sign that someone had been killed here.

Jimmy's watery eyes became big blue pools when he recognized the darkening bloodstain for what it was. He involuntarily jerked backward, and Romero nearly yanked him off his feet.

"In here," the lieutenant said.

"Hey, Steve," I said, the first-name familiarity a message to the rest of the cops. Romero and I go back a long way; he was best man at my wedding. He's pulled my fat out of the fire more times than I care to admit.

"Bubba," he said solemnly. "I brought your tipster."

"I see that. Glad somebody could find him."

I arched an eyebrow at Trujillo, but he was looking at Jimmy.

"You're the pizza deliveryman?"

"No," Jimmy snapped. "I wear this paper hat because it's so stylish."

One of Trujillo's aides chuckled, which drew a sharp look from his boss. He went back to punching buttons on his phone. I wondered if he was recording everything that was said. Phones can do damned near anything these days.

"Man," Jimmy said, glaring at me, "I knew you were trouble. I shouldn't have told you a goddamned thing."

Trujillo raised a finger to interrupt. "So you did tell Mr. Mabry that he could find Trudy Moore at this location?"

"I don't know any Trudy Moore," Jimmy said. "He showed me a picture of a redhead. Nice-looking woman. As luck would have it, I saw her here last night. I had this guy's card, so I gave him a call this morning."

Sanchez, the marshal who'd used me as a tackling dummy earlier, said, "I recognize him. He's the one who delivered our pizzas last night."

Under questioning from Trujillo, Jimmy explained about getting his glimpse of Joy. I'd heard if before, of course, so I was busy watching the others' reactions. Baker and Sanchez looked at the floor, clearly in trouble, but Trujillo never took his eyes off Jimmy.

I tried smiling at Romero, but he frowned at me, as if I wasn't taking the situation seriously enough. I couldn't help it. Jimmy's testimony got me off the hook, at least for now. I relaxed a little.

"Can I go now?" Jimmy said. "I've got work to do."

Trujillo looked to his aides. "Get his name and address in case we need him later."

One aide walked Jimmy outside, the pizza boy complaining the whole time about the scare Romero gave him.

Trujillo turned his attention back to me. "So you thought you had a simple missing person case?"

"Yeah, like I told you before--"

"Who hired you to find her?"

Uh-oh. I felt certain Slick wouldn't want me to mention his name to the feds.

"I'll need to check with my client and see if it's okay--"

"Bullshit!" Trujillo's voice rose for the first time. "Tell me who hired you, right now, or we'll place you under arrest."

"For what? All I did was knock on the door--"

"Who's your client?"

"I need to talk to him first. If he says it's okay, then--"

"Is it Slick Gurken?"

Whoa. How did they know about Slick? Was he the subject of Trujillo's investigation? Is that why Slick was so eager for me to find Joy Forever?

I could feel the blood draining from my face as I remembered that I'd called Slick and told him about the house on Lariat Lane. Had he sent someone across town to chase after me? Had there been time to get here and set up a long rifle shot? Or had Slick's people been following me all along? I remembered the black Ford from the day before. I'd assumed they were cops, but maybe it was Slick's muscle boys in that car. Had they been tailing me the whole time, hoping I'd lead them to Joy?

Trujillo watched my face as all these thoughts flitted through my head. Guess he thought I needed a nudge, because he said, "We can hold you until you tell us what we want to know."

"He just told you he's got to call the client," Romero said. "Let him make the call."

Trujillo shot Romero a glare, but the lieutenant gave him back impassive until the prosecutor finally said, "Okay. We'll give you some privacy. Make your call."

He got up and went into the living room, his two aides trailing behind. Romero stayed by the kitchen door, watching me. I pulled out my cell phone, but a thought pulled me up short.

"Can't they trace any call I make?" I asked Romero.

He shrugged. I guess he'd given me all the help I could expect for one day.

I dialed my own office number, the one place I could be sure no one answered. It rang three times, then went to voicemail. I clicked the phone off.

"Nobody home," I said to Romero.

"That's too bad, Bubba."

Chapter 12

I was surprised when Trujillo ordered his people to turn me loose half an hour later, but I didn't question the decision. Just hurried out to my car, leaving Romero and the feds to sort out the rest. I knew they weren't done with me, but until I talked to Slick, I had nothing else to give them.

I'd gone three blocks when I spotted a black Ford behind me. My heart skipped, but then a beam of sunlight angled into the Ford, and I saw it was Baker and Sanchez.

So that's why they let me go. They thought I was stupid enough to go directly to my client, and they could follow me there. Fat chance. I drove straight home, the feds trailing me.

Felicia's car was in the driveway, but I went ahead and pulled in anyway. I didn't want to relive the day with her, but at least I'd have a witness if the marshals decided to take out their frustrations on my head.

I checked my mirrors, and saw that the Ford had parked against the curb a block away, facing my house. I could feel the marshals' eyes boring into my back as I scurried into the house.

Felicia came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, and found me peeking through the blinds at the street outside.

"What's up?"

I wheeled away from the window. "Nothing. Just checking the traffic."

"There's no traffic on our street."

"I meant foot traffic. Can't be too careful with strangers walking around. Neighborhood Watch, and all that."

"Let me see."

She grabbed the cord and yanked the blinds up, exposing us both standing in the front window. Of course, there were no pedestrians to peruse as Felicia looked up and down the street.

"What strangers?" she said. "Those guys in that black car?"

"No, no, no."

She gave me a hard look.

"Yes. Them."

"They look like cops," she said.

"Funny you should say that. They're U.S. marshals."

"Why are they watching our house?"

"Who says they--"

"Come on, Bubba. What have you done now?"

No escape, so I tried a stall.

"Can we do this in the kitchen? Over a beer?"

"Is it that bad?'

"Worse."

She made a face, but she followed me to the kitchen. I managed to down half a Heineken before she resumed quizzing me. It didn't help.

"Remember the missing woman I was looking for?"

"The stripper?"

"Yeah. Her. Well, she's dead."

"That's too bad. How did you find out?"

"I saw it happen. She got shot."

"Bubba!"

I told her the whole sordid tale while she peppered me with questions. The tip from Jimmy the pizza boy. Showing up at Lariat Lane. The ambush by the feds. The long-range gunshot that dropped Joy.

"My God! Did somebody follow you there?"

"That's one theory. Or someone was already waiting, in position, and I gave him the opportunity to shoot her."

"Well, it wasn't entirely your fault," she said. "They shouldn't have called her to the door."

"Exactly! That's what I've been saying all along."

"Of course, if you hadn't shown up, they wouldn't have had a reason to open that door."

"Thanks. Now I feel worse."

"Oh, Bubba, I'm sorry. You've been through an ordeal. I'm surprised they even let you go free."

"With a tail on me," I reminded her. "They think I'll lead them to my client."

"You haven't told them about Slick?"

"I didn't feel I should until I could get his okay--"

"Don't you imagine he's the one who had her shot?"

"Why would he do that? She was his star attraction."

Felicia rolled her eyes. "You're still buying that? After it turned out she was a federally protected witness? More likely she was set to testify against him."

"For what? Bribery? That's just the cost of doing business in New Mexico."

Her eyes widened. She started to say something, then stopped with her mouth open. While she processed her thoughts, I slugged more beer.

"What makes you think it's about bribery?"

"Trujillo said something about bribes when we first started talking."

"Simon Trujillo?"

"Yeah, didn't I mention that? He showed up after the shooting and took over the scene. Asked me a bunch of questions, then let me go--"

"My God, Bubba! Don't you get it?"

I wasn't, but I tried not to let on. Felicia's mind works so much faster than mine, I always feel left behind.

"If Trujillo's involved, this shooting must be connected to my fairgrounds investigation!"

"Well, I don't know, hon. I'm sure he's involved in several--"

"Your stripper must've known something about the influence-peddling that's been going on behind the scenes."

"That's quite a leap--"

"Somebody shot her to keep her quiet!"

"Now, hold on, Felicia. You're jumping to conclusions here. I mean, what could a stripper know about--"

"I'll bet your client is behind it."

I winced. The very thought I'd been trying to block from my brain.

"Your stripper probably told--"

"I wish you'd stop calling her 'my' stripper. I never even met the woman."

"She probably told the feds that Slick Gurken is involved in the fairgrounds deal, whatever it is, and they were going to get her to testify about it."

"But they've had her a week," I said. "Surely she told them everything before she got killed."

"Maybe not. Maybe that's why they were keeping her in a safe house. I'll bet she was still negotiating with them."

I clamped my mouth shut. She wasn't hearing my objections anyway. Once Felicia gets worked up, it's safer to clam up and get out of the way.

She stood there another moment, running her hands through her dark hair while the wheels turned inside her head. Then she looked up at me, like she'd remembered I was standing there.

"I've got to get to the newsroom."

"Of course you do," I said. "Try not to disturb the marshals as you leave."

Chapter 13

I had another beer and a bite to eat, but my mind was whirring. Was Felicia right? Had Slick Gurken known all along that Joy was in federal custody? Is that why he hired me? Had someone in his employ (and my money would be on that snake-eyed Dale Cready) followed me to the safe house and fired the deadly shot?

The more I thought about it, the madder I got. I'd been used, one way or the other, and I didn't appreciate it. I wanted to tell somebody off.

I went over to the living room window and peeked out and -- surprise! -- the black Ford was gone. Had the marshals left for supper? Had they chased after Felicia? Whatever, this might be my chance to go see Slick without being tailed.

I hurried outside, looking around for more surveillance, but the cars along the curbs were familiar vehicles that belonged to my neighbors. I climbed into my Olds and shot off toward the Pink Pony.

The club's well-lit parking lot was jammed with cars and pickups. The gargantuan bouncers opened the door for me without a word, which meant they still thought I was working for their boss. I hoped my departure would be equally uneventful.

Inside, the joint was jumping with noise and laughter and music. Customers were jammed shoulder-to-shoulder along the jutting stage, waving money at the bored dancers. I tried not to look. I was a man on a mission, and there was no time to dawdle and drool.

The same big black man guarded the door to the dressing rooms. He spoke into his walkie-talkie, and got permission to let me go to Slick's office. Soon as he opened the door, I pushed past him and ran up the stairs.

Slick's right-hand man met me at the office door, looking me over before allowing me inside. Dale Cready backed away, never taking his squinty eyes off me. My battered leather jacket covered the gun on my hip, but I stood up straighter to help hide the bulge.

"Bubba Mabry!" Slick shouted from behind his desk. "You must be bringing me good news. Am I right?"

"No, Slick. You're dead wrong."

Slick's eyebrows furrowed, which was extra noticeable because they were the last bastion of hair north of his face. His shiny scalp glinted under the office's fluorescent lights as he leaned toward me.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Bad news, I'm afraid. Joy Forever is dead."

I was watching for a reaction, but got less than I'd hoped. Slick's eyes went wide for a moment, but he gave nothing else away. Dale's face squinched in the something-smells-bad position, but since that was normal for him, it was hard to tell whether he was shocked.

"The hell you talking about, Bubba? How is she dead?"

I hesitated. I'd halfway expected Slick to have heard the news by now. Not that the cops were under any pressure to let him know. Not like he was Joy's next-of-kin. But I had assumed Simon Trujillo and his people would've been in touch. The fact that they hadn't made me wonder whether they had anything on Slick.

Too late to back out now. I told them about showing up at the safe house and being ambushed by the feds before Joy was shot.

"Did they catch the shooter?" Slick asked.

"They didn't even see the getaway vehicle," I said, glancing at Dale. The skinny man seemed unaffected by any of this. Did he already know what happened on Lariat Lane? Had he shot Joy without Slick's permission? Why the hell would he do that?

I realized Slick was staring at me, waiting for the rest of it.

"The marshals were holding her as some kind of witness," I said. "You know anything about that?"

"A witness? A witness to what?"

"How would I know? The cops didn't exactly share that with me. They were too busy deciding whether to throw my ass in jail."

Dale's face relaxed, and I thought for a second he'd smile at the notion of me behind bars. But he caught himself in time.

"The lead guy was this federal prosecutor, Simon Trujillo," I said. "Heard of him?"

Slick shook his head. I had trouble believing that he'd never seen Trujillo's name in the newspapers, but I let it go. If I knew Felicia, the prosecutor's name would be all over tomorrow's Gazette.

"Any idea why he might've been interested in Joy?" I asked.

More head-shaking. Slick was no longer looking at me. He was staring at his desk top, lost in thought.

"Trujillo pressured me to tell him who my client was," I said, and that got Slick's head to jerk up.

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd have to check with you first, and make sure it was okay."

"Okay? It's sure as fuck not okay. You keep my name out of this mess."

That's what I was afraid he'd say.

"Trujillo isn't going to like that answer," I said. "You're really putting me on the spot here."

"Tough shit," Dale said.

Slick shot him a look, pausing just long enough that it made me wonder whether he, too, was picturing Dale with a rifle.

"I believe," Slick said, "that I paid you for a confidential investigation, Bubba. I expect you to stick by that."

"I understand that, but--"

"If this man Trujillo does come to see me," he continued, "I'll know he got my name from you. There will be consequences. Am I right?"

"That's right, Slick," Dale said.

"Now wait a minute," I said. "Joy worked here. It's only natural the cops will come sniffing around. You can't blame that on me."

Slick bounced to his feet. It was the first time I'd seen him standing, and he was taller than I expected. He leaned across his desk to glare at me.

"All I asked you to do was find this woman. Now she's dead, and all kinds of shit is being stirred up. What the hell kind of private eye are you?"

It was the sort of question that Felicia might ask. I had no answer, or at least none that would make me look any better.

"Get out of my office before I have Dale throw you down those stairs."

Dale seemed pleased by the possibility. His smug look made me want to pull out my pistol, see if that would wipe the smirk off his face. But such a move would only make things worse.

I shrugged and went to the door. As I opened it, Slick said behind me, "Don't let me catch you coming around the Pink Pony again."

I had no plans to, but being banned ticked me off. Any scumbag off the street was welcome in this strip club, as long as he could pay, but I was suddenly persona non grata. Just because I'd done the job I was paid to do.

I turned on the stairs, thinking I could get the last word, but Dale slammed the door in my face.

Chapter 14

When I awoke Saturday morning, I had a moment of pleasant stretching and yawning before I remembered how badly things had gone for Joy Forever. My spirits sank lower than whale shit.

The healthy thing would be to put it out of my mind. The case was finished. Joy was dead. I had no client. It was none of my damned business anymore. But I felt responsible. I'd put Joy right in the cross-hairs. The feds seemed ready to blame me for everything, and Slick Gurken had made it pretty clear he felt the same way.

The only person even remotely happy with the way things turned out was Felicia, who was nowhere to be seen this morning.

Filled with dread, I put on my bathrobe and padded to the front door to fetch in the Gazette. Crisp fall air greeted me, freezing my bare feet, but still I paused on the porch. The black Ford was gone. Had the feds given up on surveillance? Did I not matter to them anymore?

I carried the paper inside to the kitchen. Once I had the coffee making, I spread the Gazette over the kitchen table. Felicia's story was at the top of the front page under this headline: "Stripper Slaying Tied to Fairgrounds Probe."

Aw, hell.

My pulse hammered in my temples while I skimmed through the article, searching for my name. I whewed with relief when I found no mention of me or my private investigation agency. Business was bad enough already.

The story did show signs of Felicia's cautious bosses. Lots of "allegedly" and "reportedly" sprinkled throughout, the editors hedging their bets. As she's done in the past, Felicia used me as an unnamed source, in this case one who "tied the shooting death to Assistant U.S. Attorney Simon Trujillo's ongoing investigation."

The article said unnamed private business interests were trying to turn the fairgrounds into an "entertainment zone." I'd seen that term before. That's what the city called the strip of bars and restaurants that's sprung up downtown over the past decade. "Entertainment zone" sounds better than "brawling drunks puking in the gutter."

I wondered whether Slick Gurken was one of the businessmen involved. If so, I imagined his idea of "entertainment" was quite different from most people's. Did Joy Forever have some knowledge of these plans? Had she called the State Land Office to tip them off? Maybe that's why Trujillo and friends put her on ice.

I puzzled over it while I guzzled coffee, but couldn't get any farther than Felicia had in her story. I needed to let it go. Stop fretting over who killed Joy, and worry instead about finding some new paying clients. I folded the newspaper and left it on the table for Felicia, then headed off for a cleansing shit-shower-and-shave.

I made it halfway to the bathroom before the doorbell rang. I veered to the living room, and threw open the front door.

Marshals Baker and Sanchez stood on my porch, wearing matching dark suits and white shirts. They were putting a lot of energy into matching scowls. I guessed they'd read the morning newspaper.

"Mr. Trujillo would like to see you," Baker snapped. "Downtown. Right now."

"Can I put on some pants first?"

Chapter 15

The U.S. Attorney's office fills two floors of the Albuquerque Plaza office tower, the city's tallest building at twenty-two stories. The building and its slightly smaller twin, the Hyatt Regency Hotel, have dominated the downtown skyline for the past twenty years and have come to represent the city in logos and photos. The copper-colored buildings have pointed roofs, and they always make me think of rockets on their launch pads.

I had time to study the skyscrapers as I rode in the back seat of the familiar black Ford. The downtown streets were empty on a Saturday morning. I tried a couple of times to engage Baker and Sanchez in conversation, but they were having none of it.

We parked underground and took an elevator to the U.S. Attorney's office, the marshals not saying a word. Two uniformed guards motioned me through a metal detector, then Baker and Sanchez grasped my elbows and marched me down a long, carpeted corridor.

The door to Simon Trujillo's office stood open, and the man himself sat behind a broad mahogany desk covered in paperwork. He was in shirtsleeves, but his necktie was knotted tight. He looked up as Baker and Sanchez unceremoniously dumped me into a chair across from him.

"Mr. Mabry," he said.

"What's this about? I've already told you guys--"

Baker jabbed my neck with a thick finger, just under my ear, and it hurt enough to shut me up.

"You didn't mention that you were married to a Gazette reporter." Trujillo flipped aside some documents to reveal the front page of the newspaper. "Instead, you ran straight home and told her about our investigation."

"Now, hold on. I didn't tell her anything she didn't already know. She was onto you guys before that shooting."

He pointeed at the headline. "Yet it's the shooting that moved the story to the front page."

He had me there.

"We were trying to keep that quiet," he said.

"I'll bet."

He glowered at me. "You're trying to tell me you didn't mention the shooting to your wife?"

"I didn't say that. But I didn't link it to you or whatever it is you're investigating."

"You didn't say my name to her?"

"Um."

"That's what I thought. Do you have any idea what you've done? Months of work just went up in smoke."

"Maybe your people should've taken better care of Joy."

Whap! A big hand slapped the back of my head, hard enough to make my whole body snap forward and lights flash behind my eyes.

"Baker!" Trujillo said. "Cut that shit out."

"He needs to watch his mouth," Baker growled.

"You need to watch your hands. I ever see you strike a witness again, I'll have your badge."

I sat up straight and smoothed my thinning hair. So busy pulling myself together that I wasn't ready for Trujillo's bombshell.

"So how long have you worked for Slick Gurken?"

Surprise caused me to inhale sharply, then launch into a coughing fit as I choked on my own spit. When I could finally breathe again, I said, "Slick who?"

Baker grumbled, and I braced myself for another slap. But he held himself in check this time. His partner said, "We followed you to the Pink Pony last night. We know you talked to Slick."

I couldn't very well deny it, could I? The only other reason to go to the Pink Pony was to ogle strippers, and I couldn't bring myself to say that. Instead, I seized on the surveillance issue.

"You followed me? But your car disappeared from my street."

"That's what we wanted you to believe," Sanchez said.

Trujillo cleared his throat. "Enough. Tell me about Gurken."

I hesitated, but those annoyed marshals loomed on either side of me. I had no reason to protect Slick Gurken. He was no longer paying me, and had given me the bum's rush the night before. But it still made my teeth hurt to talk about a client.

"It's like I told you," I said. "I was hired to find the missing stripper. That's all I knew."

"Hired by Slick."

I nodded.

"Did he tell you why he wanted her found?"

"He said she was the main attraction at the Pink Pony, that business was suffering since she disappeared."

"And you believed that."

"He also said she owed him ten thousand dollars. That seemed like a good reason for wanting her located."

"Did he say what the money was for?"

"Nope. He waved some papers around, saying they showed he'd loaned her the money. But I didn't read them myself."

"You just took his word for it."

"The man paid me cash to go find somebody. Why he wanted her found didn't seem the most pressing issue. At the time."

"Did your wife know you were looking for her?"

"She knew I was looking for a stripper, but she didn't know it was this particular one. Felicia didn't put two-and-two together until I told her that you were at the safe house. You're the one she's been interested in."

Trujillo's dark eyebrows arched.

"I don't know why," I said quickly. "She'd heard something somewhere, that you'd launched an anti-corruption investigation. That sort of thing always excites Felicia."

"Hmm. And you don't know where she'd heard this?"

"No. She's got sources all over town. Maybe one of these marshals leaked it."

A rustle of fabric made me duck, but no blows came. Not with Trujillo watching. I was a little worried about the ride home, however.

Trujillo smiled without showing any teeth. "You have a way of provoking people, don't you, Mr. Mabry?"

"I don't mean to. I'm trying to be helpful."

He flipped through the papers on his desk, gold cufflinks flashing. He finally found what he was looking for, and read it off to me.

"Elmo Gurken, aka 'Slick,' has an arrest record that stretches back to his days as a juvenile delinquent in Texas. Assault, battery, disorderly conduct, pandering, receiving stolen property, tax evasion. He shouldn't be allowed to run an establishment like the Pink Pony, but he has silent partners with enough clout to land a liquor license."

I realized my hands were twisting each other anxiously, and willed them to stop. Trujillo didn't seem to notice, still busy flipping pages, looking over Slick's felonious past. Finally, he looked up and said, "This is the sort of client you work for? Didn't you check his background?"

"I wasn't investigating Slick," I said. "I was just trying to find Joy Forever."

"And then, through blind luck, you found her."

"Well, it wasn't all luck. I did a lot of legwork--"

"And one of Slick's people shot her with a deer rifle."

Dale Cready's squinty face flashed through my mind, but I said, "We don't know that."

"Did you give him the address of that safe house?"

"Well, yeah, but I was already driving over there. There wasn't time for him to send somebody with a rifle to Lariat Lane."

"Perhaps they were already following you."

"Maybe, but I didn't notice a tail."

Sanchez snorted. "You didn't notice us last night, either."

He was right, of course, but I didn't say so. Better to ask the question that had been troubling me all along.

"Why would Slick want her dead?"

"Because of the testimony she'd promised us."

"But what was that about? What did she witness?"

Trujillo frowned, then gave a little shrug, as if to say, What difference does it make now?

"She claimed to be a regular fixture at after-hours parties that Slick hosted," he said.

I nodded. I'd heard the same thing from Shawn.

"At these parties," Trujillo said, "Slick entertained important people. Business leaders, politicians. Some of them are the same ones who've been pushing the state to sell the fairgrounds."

So Felicia had been right all along. Not that I said as much. I didn't want to interrupt, now that he was rolling.

"We think Slick put pressure on them. He wants to turn that whole area into a sort of legal red-light district. Gambling, bars, strip joints. If he lines up enough big shots, he might just make it happen."

"And the parties were part of that?"

Trujillo nodded. "We think so. Maybe just softening them up, providing them with girls. Tit-for-tat, if you'll forgive the expression. But Joy hinted that he'd blackmailed people as well."

"'Hinted?' Didn't you get her on record?"

The prosecutor's face darkened. "We were working on that when she got shot. Joy wanted us to guarantee her safety, and she was trying to cut a better deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"She wanted us to set her up in a new life outside New Mexico. I was trying to arrange it when she got shot."

"Sounds expensive. Was her information worth it?"

"We thought so," Trujillo said. "We'll never find out now."

If he was trying to make me feel bad, it was working.

"But that doesn't mean we're giving up," he said. "There's more than one way to skin a pimp."

"I'm sure you'll find a way," I said, getting my feet under me, ready to leave. "Good luck with that."

A big hand clamped down on my shoulder and held me in the chair.

"We need more than luck," Trujillo said. "We need someone to go into the Pink Pony and get Slick to talk about these parties. Capture it on tape."

"That'll be a tough job," I said. "Slick seems to be pretty careful about who gets inside his office."

Trujillo smiled. "That's why we picked you to do it."

I laughed, but my ha-ha-ha trailed off as I realized he was serious.

"You must be crazy," I said. "I'm not wearing a wire for you."

"Yes, you will. Unless you'd prefer to go to jail."

"On what charge? I haven't done anything wrong."

"Tell that to Trudy Moore. You set her up to be killed."

"I didn't know she--"

"Your intentions don't make a lot of difference here," he said stonily. "You screwed up a federal investigation and got someone killed in the process. I know a dozen different judges who would happily put you behind bars."

I felt a thump inside, but I tried to keep up the brave front. "The charges wouldn't stick. You'd look like a fool when I walked."

"Perhaps. But how long would that take? You could bounce around the judicial system for years. I'd see to it."

"I'd still be alive, though, right? Slick Gurken has a lot of bad boys on his payroll. I think I'd take my chances with jail."

"How about your wife?" Trujillo said. "Think she'd fare well behind bars?"

That pulled me up short.

"You'd bring charges against her because I won't help you? You'd take on the newspaper and its high-paid lawyers? That's political suicide."

"I don't care about politics," he said, with enough ferocity that I almost believed him. "I care about this investigation. You'll help me salvage it, or I'll make you and Felicia Quattlebaum my full-time mission in life."

I felt a stab of pain and realized I was chewing my own lip. I ran my tongue around my mouth, searching for blood.

"There's nothing to it," Trujillo said. "You wear a wire. You talk to Slick. Get the information I need. Then you walk away. A free man."

I knew that was a lie. If I helped them, I'd be a witness, called to testify against Slick again and again. These feds would become a constant pain. But if I refused to help, the pain would start immediately, and it would get on Felicia, too.

"It won't work," I tried. "Slick told me not to show my face around the Pink Pony. If I start asking questions, he'll have his people trounce me."

"Don't worry about that," Trujillo said. "We'll have marshals outside. If things go wrong, they'll bust in and rescue you. You'll be completely protected."

"I'll bet that's the same thing you said to Joy Forever."

Whap!

Chapter 16

Four hours later, I drove into the parking lot of the Pink Pony Gentleman's Club. It was a cloudy, chilly day, but I was sweating so much, I feared I'd short out the transmitter taped to the center of my chest.

Sanchez and a marshal named Paine were in a white Crown Vic behind me, but they steered toward the back of the parking lot while I found a space near the door. Sanchez's regular partner, Baker, was off the case because he whacked me upside the head the second time. Even his sudden suspension seemed suspicious to me, a way for the prosecutor to prove that he'd stick by his word.

I left my jacket in the car, and tried not to look over toward the marshals as I walked to the entrance of the Pink Pony. Other marshals supposedly were stationed nearby, all of them ready to bust into the strip joint if things went wrong with Slick. I took no comfort from that, however. No way could they get upstairs to Slick's office in time if he decided to put me out of my misery. The cops would have more reasons to charge him, but I wouldn't be around to enjoy it.

Trujillo and Sanchez had drilled me for hours on what questions I should ask and how I should behave in Slick's office, but we all knew I was flying solo. I'd argued that I should be armed for this encounter, but Trujillo ruled out a gun, saying Dale Cready would likely pat me down. But what was to keep Dale from finding the wire? The radio was flat and small as a pack of gum, but still, what was I supposed to do if he started feeling me up? Complain that I was ticklish?

These thoughts pinged around inside my skull as I nervously approached the two giant bouncers at the door. One of them I didn't recognize, and the other seemed too busy staring into space to give me much consideration. Trujillo had ordered me to tell these apes that Slick had called me to demand a meeting, but I had other ideas. As I reached  the door, I fished a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it over.

"Welcome to the Pink Pony," one slab of beef said automatically as he swung open the door.

I stepped inside, my knees trembling as my ears were assaulted by the usual noise of the strip joint. The place was half-empty at this time of day, but one group of young drunks hooted and clapped so loudly, it made me want to shoot them. Too bad my gun was at home.

I weaved between tables, trying to ignore the naked women on stage, watching out for Slick and Dale. I didn't see them anywhere, and for a second I entertained the notion that they weren't at the Pink Pony this afternoon. But I quickly recognized that wouldn't get me off the hook. Trujillo would make me go through this again the next day.

I was halfway across the club when I heard a commotion behind me. I turned to see LaRonda Globes floating through the crowd, smiling and waving at patrons. She was dressed all in white, her enormous breasts locked and loaded in a push-up bra. They nearly touched her chin.

I ducked away, hoping she wouldn't recognize me, but she called, "Bubba! Hey!" and I had no choice but to turn her direction. She came jouncing toward me, the smile gone, her face creased with concern.

"Oh, my God," she said as she reached me, "Slick told me that Joy is dead. What happened?"

I looked around the club. Too many eyes turned our way. I jerked my head toward a booth in the corner, and she followed me there. I hadn't thought of how she'd fit in the booth, how her bosom would rest on the tabletop. It was terribly distracting as I told her about finding Joy and witnessing her homicide.

LaRonda dabbed tears from her eyes as I wrapped it up, and said, "That poor girl. She didn't deserve that."

I glanced toward the door to the dressing rooms and Slick's office. The usual giant stood guard outside the door, and I wondered briefly if LaRonda could talk me past him. I immediately shook off that thought, however. No need for her to get involved further. Somebody had already killed one stripper. I didn't want another dead one on my conscience.

I tried to lean closer so I wouldn't have to shout over the thumping music, but I couldn't get too close without rubbing up against that table full of tits.

"The cops think somebody connected to Slick might've been the shooter," I said, glancing around to make sure no one else heard. "Does that sound possible to you?"

She shrugged, then looked exhausted by the effort. I scooted sideways in the horseshoe-shaped booth, trying to get close to one of her ears.

"What about Dale?" I asked. "Think he could shoot somebody?"

Her blue eyes widened. "Dale?"

"He seems to have a mean streak," I said.

"True, but didn't you say Joy was shot with a rifle? From a distance?"

I nodded.

"Then that couldn't be Dale," she said. "He couldn't see well enough to do that."

"What?"

"Dale's blind as a bat, didn't you know that? Why do you think he squints like that all the time?"

I felt something drop away inside me. An assumption, a theory, my lunch, something.

"He's near-sighted?" I sputtered. "Then why doesn't he wear glasses?"

"He's too vain," she said. "Dale thinks glasses are for sissies."

"So he'd rather go around blind?"

Another shrug, this one so big it probably set off seismographs throughout the region.

"I'm just telling you what Slick told me," she said. "Doesn't sound like Dale's your man, though, does it?"

I asked her if she had a better idea who might've killed Joy, but she couldn't come up with anything.

"She was such a sweetheart," LaRonda said, already recasting the past. "I mean, she kept herself apart from the rest of us, but she was good on the inside. You could just tell."

I nodded, but I wasn't really listening. I was busy being disappointed about Dale's eyesight.

I absently scratched at my chest before realizing I was going at the tape that held the transmitter in place. I'd been so busy talking with LaRonda and not looking at her boobs, I'd forgotten for a moment about the wire. I wondered what Sanchez and pals would make of my conversation with LaRonda Globes. They probably were getting mad, thinking that I was stalling.

"I need to go see Slick," I said, getting to my feet. "Sorry about the bad news and all."

LaRonda sniffed and dabbed at her eyes some more.

"Thank you, Bubba. And thanks for trying to find Joy. At least somebody tried."

I edged away from the booth, thinking that the only time people thank you for trying is when you fail.

Chapter 17

The big black guy in the black suit watched as I approached, and his face showed so much disgust that I looked down at my clothes to see if I'd soiled myself or something. Everything looked okay, so I assumed his expression meant that he recognized me. I sometimes have that effect on people.

Slick must've told him I wasn't welcome on the premises, which meant this guy probably would order me to leave. At worst, he'd rough me up and throw me out of the Pink Pony. Which, given the risks of going upstairs to Slick's office, might've been the best thing that could happen.

But when I reached the bouncer, he didn't move, didn't speak. Just stared at me as if I was something he'd found on the bottom of his shiny shoe. What the hell, might as well try it.

"Hey, um," I said. "I need to see Slick? My name's Bubba Mabry?"

He pulled out his walkie-talkie, which looked tiny in his big fist, and turned away from me to mumble into it. He used his other hand to cover his free ear so he could hear the response. After a moment, he turned back to me, his face still blank.

To my surprise, he swung open the door. As I stepped through, though, he grabbed my upper arm and gave it a squeeze. My entire arm went instantly numb.

"Hey, ow. Hey!"

The bouncer marched up the wooden stairs, dragging me along with him. The stairs were barely wide enough for the two of us, and I was squished against the wall all the way up. When we reached the top of the stairs, the door to Slick's office opened and Dale Cready squinted out at us.

"Son of a bitch," he said. "It really is you. I never expected to see you again."

I resisted the urge to make a crack about how he probably couldn't see me now.

The bouncer pushed me into the office and swung me around to face him. It happened so fast that I didn't even have time to tighten my stomach muscles as he sank a big fist into my gut. I doubled over, choking, all breath expelled from my body.

The big man turned loose of my arm, which tingled all over as blood flowed again, but I couldn't take any pleasure in the sudden release. I was too busy trying to find some air.

"Thank you kindly, Clyde." Slick's voice sounded like it was coming from behind his desk, but I couldn't straighten up to confirm it.

Dale slammed the door and quickly patted me down, covering all the usual places a man might hide a gun. Fortunately, he didn't check my chest because I was still doubled over, gasping.

"He's clean," Dale said.

I coughed a few times, sucking air, and managed to straighten most of the way up. Clyde the bouncer stood against the wall to my right, his big hands clenched into fists. Dale was to my left, cutting off access to the door. Slick Gurken glowered at me from behind his desk, sweat glittering on top of his shiny scalp.

"I told you never to come around here again. Am I right?"

"That's right," I gasped. "But I--"

"After the trouble you've brought down on me, you got a lot of goddamn gall showing up here."

"I know, but--"

"What the hell do you want, anyway?"

Right to the crux of the matter, and I didn't have a good answer. I'd argued this very point with Trujillo. I had no reason to go see Slick. After the earlier warning, only an idiot would show up at the Pink Pony. But Trujillo had assumed I wouldn't have any trouble persuading Slick that I was an idiot.

"I want more money," I said, following Trujillo's instructions. "You used me as a stalking horse to uncover Joy Forever's whereabouts. Now she's dead and I've got the feds on my ass."

"That's not my fucking problem. Am I right?"

"That's right, Slick," Dale said.

"I could make it your problem," I said. "I could tell the feds what I know about your plan for the fairgrounds."

Silence seemed to suck all the air out of the room for moment, then Slick slowly got to his feet. He seemed bigger than I remembered. Not as big as Clyde, but big enough to hurt me if he chose. Hell, he could snap his fingers and Clyde would happily break me in two.

"What are you talking about, Bubba?" Slick said.

"Haven't you seen the newspaper today? The plans to sell the state fairgrounds and make a legal red-light district there? You're behind that, right?"

Slick shot a look at Dale, and I braced for a blow that didn't come. Some unspoken communication flowed between them.

"You don't have to be a genius to figure it out," I said.

"That must be true," Dale said. "'Cause you're no genius."

I let that go, my attention on Slick. I'm sure thoughts flitted around in that bald dome of his, but his face gave little away.

"Joy Forever was your party doll," I said. "Part of the scenery when you were entertaining your powerful friends. But she was smarter than you knew. Always listening to what was said."

A flush crawled up Slick's neck. I kept talking. I was already out on a limb. Might as well start sawing.

"She went to the feds, offering them information in exchange for a new identity, a new life that didn't involve taking off her clothes. That's why you were so anxious that she be found. She was going to reveal everything."

Slick's eyes widened as I spoke, as if what I said came as a surprise to him. My own uneasiness increased. If Slick hadn't known that Joy voluntarily went to the feds, then he had no reason to kill her. I'd already ruled out myopic Dale as the shooter, and now Slick seemed off the hook, too. If they weren't behind the killing, then what was I doing here, accusing them?

"Wait a minute," Slick said. "You think I had Joy shot? Is that what you're saying?"

"Well, a person could see how you might have a motive--"

"You came in here, believing that I'm a murderer, and tried to blackmail me. Am I right?"

"It's not blackmail. I've got information and it's worth something. I'm just looking for the highest bidder. If that's not you, I'll find someone else."

"Who? That asshole Trujillo?"

I winced before I could catch myself. Trujillo no doubt was hearing this conversation via the transmitter taped to my chest. It's not like I was the one calling him an asshole, but still.

"Ah, so you did see the newspaper," I said. "Trujillo seems to have a real boner for this fairgrounds deal. Now his star witness is dead. I'm sure he'd like to pin Joy's killing on you."

My mouth was working on its own. The more I talked, the more convinced I became that we were barking up the wrong tree.

"Trujillo still doesn't know you hired me to find Joy," I lied. "I've kept your name out of it because you were my client. But this thing's getting real messy, and I deserve some compensation for keeping it from getting on you."

Slick looked at Dale, then back at me.

"Still sounds like blackmail to me. Am I right?"

"Sounds like it," Dale said.

I glanced at Clyde to see if he'd chime in, too, but he maintained his usual silence, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes. Yikes.

Slick suddenly snapped his fingers, as if he'd gotten an idea. I was pretty sure I wouldn't like it.

"I know how we can handle this," he said. "We can fix it so you don't talk to anyone at all. Am I right?"

Dale stepped closer to me. "That's right, Slick. We can fix him."

"Now hold on, fellas," I said. "There's no sense in getting violent. That'll just make things worse."

"Worse for you," Dale said.

He gave me a shove, and I lost my balance, stumbling for a couple of steps until I came up against the hard bulk of Clyde the bouncer.

"Oops. Sorry."

Clyde swung his big fist about six inches, but it still had enough force behind it that it nearly cracked my ribs. I bounced away from him, right into a fist that Dale was swinging toward my jaw. The impact turned my head halfway around, far enough that I was looking back at Clyde. For the first time ever, the bouncer was smiling.

Uh-oh.

Clyde clobbered me again, a shot to the short ribs that dropped me to my knees. I couldn't get enough air, and the room swam before my eyes. Slick was leaning across his desk, grinning down at my misery.

Dale hit me again, but his fist caught my shoulder rather than my face. After Clyde's punches, it didn't seem like much of a blow.

Clyde stood over me, his fist drawn back, ready for the killing blow to the face. I saw the big fist swinging toward me. No time to defend myself, so I ducked my head, taking the punch on the cranium rather than in the nose. It was a stunning blow, nearly enough to put me out, but a distinct "pop" gave me hope.

Clyde clutched his fist to his chest, and let out a rumbling howl. As he danced in place, he shouted, "Motherfucka broke my hand!"

The punch had flattened me to the floor, not where I wanted to be. Feet came flying at me as Dale tried to stomp me to death. I rolled around, arms over my face, trying to cover up. Dale's pointy cowboy boots caught me in the stomach and the ribs and the back.

Where were the fucking marshals? Surely they could hear that this had gone wrong, wrong, wrong. They must be rushing up to Slick's office. If I could hold on a little longer, they might get here in time.

I opened my eyes just in time to see Dale's boot coming down, stomping on my chest. His foot hit the transmitter taped to my chest, crushing it against my breastbone, which really hurt.

Still no marshals.

I caught Dale's foot and rolled away, clutching his ankle to my chest. He had no choice but to come with me, and he toppled over, landing on top. I held him tight to my chest, hoping that his body would shelter me from the wrath of Clyde.

I felt vibrations in the floor, and it wasn't from the bad music downstairs. It was the hammering of feet on the wooden staircase.

The others must've heard it, too, because everyone froze where they were, ears cocked.

Boom! The office door banged open and Marshal Sanchez burst in, a black Glock in his hands. Other plainclothes cops were framed in the door behind him, all of them yelling, "Freeze! Freeze!"

We all froze, making quite a picture there in Slick's office. Clyde clutching his broken hand. Dale and I wallowing on the floor together. And Slick himself halfway around the desk, coming to join the party when the marshals finally arrived.

"Federal agents!" Sanchez shouted. "You're all under arrest!"

Chapter 18

The marshals took Slick, Dale and Clyde away in handcuffs. Sanchez offered to call an ambulance for me, but I declined. Instead, I rifled Slick's desk for aspirin and whiskey. The marshals kindly looked the other way.

I was into my second tumbler of Maker's Mark and feeling slightly better by the time Simon Trujillo joined us. The prosecutor wore a crisp suit, a fine contrast to the marshals in their windbreakers and jeans. I, on the other hand, looked like I'd been rolling on the dusty floor with a couple of hogs. My shirt was torn at the shoulder and unbuttoned, left that way after the marshals salvaged their wire. My chest and stomach already were bruising into a colorful display.

With a jerk of his head, Trujillo ordered the marshals out of the room. While he waited for the door to close behind them, he looked me over.

"You look like hell."

"I'll live. Did you get what you need to prosecute those assholes?"

He frowned. "Enough to implicate them in several crimes, including assault on you. But we didn't get anything to tie them to the murder or to the fairgrounds corruption. Wish you could've got them talking about that."

"I'm so sorry," I said flatly. "Bring 'em back in here, and we'll try it again. Maybe this time they can succeed in stomping me to death."

Trujillo held up his hands in a calming gesture. It didn't help.

"I know you did what you could. I've heard the conversation."

I took a deep breath and tried to relax.

"What you couldn't hear was the look on their faces," I said. "They seemed truly surprised that anyone might link them to Joy's homicide."

Trujillo pressed his lips together, as if he were trying not to smile.

"No offense, Bubba, but how did you expect them to act? These guys aren't amateurs. It's not like they would confess to a murder."

"Then what the hell was I doing here, wearing a wire?"

"I thought they might let something slip in the heat of the moment," he said.

"They were too busy beating the shit out of me."

"Like you said, you'll live. I talked to Sanchez on my way into the building. He said the marshals got up here as quickly as they could. They're downstairs now, clearing out the club. Shutting it down."

"For good?" LaRonda flashed through my mind. I hadn't meant to put her or the other girls out of work.

"Slick will have it up and running again in no time, once he gets out on bail."

"Bail? They almost kill me, and he'll get out on bail?"

Trujillo shrugged. "That's the legal system. We'll try to keep him tied up as long as possible."

I shook my aching head. "And what do you think will be his first order of business once he's out?"

"He won't make another run at you," Trujillo said. "He knows we'll be watching."

"That doesn't offer me much comfort."

"You don't have to worry about them for a day or two. Go home, Bubba. Get some rest."

I finished my drink and set the glass on Slick's desk. I creaked to my feet and started buttoning my shirt.

"One more thing, Bubba. Don't tell your wife what happened here today. We want to control the message that goes out to the news media. We'll keep your name out of it."

"Do you really think she won't notice the bruises and this lump on my head?"

"Tell her you took a fall."

"Have you met my wife? Have you tried lying to her? She sees right through lies. Plus, you've got all these people who have been ordered out of this club. Don't you think somebody will call the paper?"

"Maybe. We'll try to control the message. You try to control your wife."

I snorted.

"Well, do the best you can," he said.

"I always do." I limped past him toward the door. "But it's rarely good enough."

Chapter 19

A smart man would've gone straight to a hospital for X-rays, but I just wanted to go home. The whiskey had dulled my pains, though it made driving an adventure. I managed to get home without killing anyone and was surprised to see Felicia's car parked outside.

Damn. I'd hoped for some solitude, some time to pull myself together before I had to face my beloved. Simon Trujillo wanted me to lie to my wife and protect his investigation, and I wasn't sure I could accomplish that when I was in tip-top condition, much less when every minor movement set off tremors of pain.

I parked next to Felicia's Toyota and took a minute to check my reflection in the mirror. Not too bad. I'd mostly protected my face and the lump on my head was under my thinning hair. Most of the damage was to my torso, hidden by clothing. As long as I didn't let Felicia see me undress, I might get away with this little subterfuge. That's what I told myself as I limped toward the house.

The front door was unlocked, and I went inside. Felicia lay on the living room sofa, apparently napping. She still had on her glasses, but her eyes were closed. Maybe I could sneak past, hide in the bathroom, soak in the tub. Her dark eyes popped open, spearing me in place.

"It's just me," I said. "Go back to sleep."

"I was just resting my eyes. Too many hours at work."

"All day and all night, huh? I saw your story this morning. Big headline on the front page. You're really shaking things up."

"I've already done the follow-up," she said. "I just came home to change clothes and get something to eat, then I've got to go back to the newsroom."

"Oh, that's too bad."

"If I leave my story to those idiot editors, they'll chop it into safe little bits. I've got to shepherd it through the copy desk."

I'd heard this sort of thing before, and I knew better than to try to talk her out of another all-nighter at the newspaper. When Felicia's dogging a story, it's safer for everyone -- especially her editors -- to stay out of her way.

I slipped past her, headed for the kitchen, where more pain-killing bourbon awaited.

"What's the matter with you?" she said.

"What do you mean?"

"You're walking funny. All hunched over."

I straightened my spine, which made an audible crackle in reply. Pain rippled through my ribcage, but I tried smiling at her.

"Getting old," I said. "Too much time sitting in cars."

She rolled her eyes and sat up, running her hands through her tangled brown hair. She arched her back under her loose blue blouse, stretching out the kinks.

"I'm stiff all over, too, from sitting at a computer all night."

The whiskey still called from the kitchen, but I knew better than to walk away without asking about Felicia's story.

"So you got something new, huh?"

"Couple of legislators admit to being wined and dined in Albuquerque by businessmen who are interested in turning the fairgrounds into Sleazy Town. I think one of the hosts was your buddy Slick Gurken."

"Not my buddy," I said. "Not even my client anymore."

"I tried to reach him all day, but he's dodging me."

I opened my mouth to say he couldn't take her calls in jail, but I caught myself in time and said, "I'm sure you'll nail 'em all eventually."

Felicia started gathering up notes she'd spread over the coffee table. "They're all ducking me now that the story's broken. I spent half the day trying to reach Mark Chavis."

"Who?"

"The State Land Commissioner. His office is mixed up in this, and I'm starting to think he is, too. Otherwise, why won't he return my calls?"

I could think of a dozen reasons why any public official would not talk to Felicia, but I knew better than to say so.

"His name's Mark Chavis?"

"How do you not know that? Don't you vote?"

"Sure, I do. But State Land Commissioner? Pretty minor office."

"Most people think so, but he oversees nearly a million acres of state land, including the fairgrounds."

"Huh."

My mind had seized on the guy's name. LaRonda said Joy Forever was seeing a big shot named Mark. Could it have been the land commissioner? Had that been the information Joy was trying to deal to the feds?

Felicia mistook my distraction for disinterest.

"Never mind," she said. "I should know better than to talk about this stuff with you."

Normally, I'd take offense, but right now I just wanted to hustle her out of the house so I could get back to my remedial drinking.

"So," I said, "you think you'll be late again?"

"Probably. Depends on how many more calls I've got to make, once the editors get the lawyers involved."

More dangerous ground. Felicia can preach for hours about craven attorneys.

"Well, I probably won't wait up for you. I'm beat."

"You look it," she agreed. "Get some rest, and I'll see you in the morning."

She tucked her papers under her arm and came over to give me a peck on the mouth. She wrapped her free arm around me and gave me an excruciating hug.

"Okay, hon," I gasped. "See you later."

Felicia gave me one last quizzical look, then headed for the door.

Soon as she was gone, I went to the kitchen and had another dose of Kentucky painkiller. Ah.

Next stop was the computer in my office. The liquor made me fumble-fingered, but I managed to navigate the Internet and come up with a website for the State Land Office. It had the usual legal notices and press releases and stuff about oil-and-gas leases, but not much about Land Commissioner Mark Chavis himself. I found a link to the website for his last campaign, however, and it had photos of Chavis (big smile, tanned face, short brown hair) and a full bio. Chavis was in his forties, a UNM grad and professional politician. One look at that smile, and I knew he had higher political offices in mind.

The bio said Chavis enjoyed hunting and fishing and spending time with his family. There was another photo of him with his skinny wife and three freckled kids, all looking happy as hell in front of a swank home in the Albuquerque foothills, the Sandia Mountains rearing up behind them.

If Chavis was the "Mark" who'd been seeing Joy Forever, he had good reason to  keep it secret from Trujillo and the rest of the world. But would he commit murder to keep his family and the voters from learning about the affair? Is that why Joy had to die?

Chapter 20

I awoke late the next morning, bleary and achy. Felicia's side of the bed was mussed but empty. I had a vague recollection of her joining me sometime after midnight, but I'd drunk enough booze that I hadn't really surfaced from a deep sleep.

I slipped into my old flannel bathrobe and gimped around the house, hunting for my sweetie. She'd left the Sunday Gazette on the kitchen table, a note scrawled across the top of the front page: "Working early. Call me later. F."

I needed coffee before I could read her article, which was under a banner headline: "State Officials Courted by Strip Clubs." The sludge in the coffee pot looked as if it had been there for hours, so I made fresh. While I waited for it to percolate, I stood in a sunbeam spilling through the kitchen window. I opened my robe, and examined my chest and gut, which were mottled in shades of purple and brown and green. A couple of the bruises were perfectly shaped like the toes of cowboy boots.

Anger roiled up within me. Slick and Dale still had some revenge coming their way. Bastards.

I closed my robe and cinched it tight. Burned my mouth on some coffee, then sat at the table and spread the newspaper in front of me.

Felicia's story was the way she'd described it the night before: Legislators and certain members of the State Fair Commission had been "special guests" at parties hosted by Slick Gurken and others. The parties included free booze and food and the attendance of "exotic dancers" who were paid to socialize with the fat cats.

The fair commissioners' names didn't mean anything to me. We've got so many dirty politicians in this state, they all tend to blur together after a while. Spread enough money, booze and hookers around, and you could get them to cede the whole state.

Land Commissioner Mark Chavis got one mention, toward the end of the article. All it said was he could not be reached for comment, and family members said he was out of town, deer hunting.

Holy shit. Joy had been shot with a deer rifle. Maybe Chavis had really stayed in town, hunting for her. Had he found out that she'd gone to the feds? Had he tracked down the safe house and waited for some idiot to knock on the door so she'd be exposed, ever so briefly, to a clean shot?

Seemed a little far-fetched. Most politicians would just lie their way out of such an entanglement. The electorate had short memories; cynical pols of all stripes counted on that. But maybe Mark Chavis was afraid disclosure of his affair would ruin more than his career. I thought of those happy-looking kids in his campaign photo.

I went to the coffeemaker and poured another cup. Stood looking out the kitchen window at my weedy back yard.

I had no reason to meddle in this mess further. The crooks already had Simon Trujillo and Felicia Quattlebaum after their asses. Anything I could do would be superfluous. But I knew things I hadn't revealed to either of them -- in particular, LaRonda's mention of Joy's new boyfriend -- and without that information, would they be able to sort it out?

I trudged to the shower, my bruises throbbing with each step. Every rational part of my being told me to stay home, heal up, mind my own business. But the irrational part was still mad about being played for a fool. I told myself I'd just poke around a little more. If I couldn't find any connection between Chavis and the murder, I'd drop the whole thing.

Chapter 21

An hour later, I pulled up in front of the East Central Avenue apartment complex where Joy had lived. A bellyful of coffee and aspirin had me feeling a little better, and the hot shower had loosened up my stiff muscles. I was armed with my usual revolver and a photograph I'd printed off the Internet -- Mark Chavis with his big vote-for-me smile.

The wind had kicked up. I zipped my leather jacket as I walked into the center of the apartment complex.

Only one of the units overlooking the pool appeared to have lights on inside -- the one where Nick Wilson lived. I tried to smile as I knocked on his door, but it didn't take. Such a lonely, isolated guy no doubt was starved for conversation; I could end up stuck here all morning.

He answered the door in sweatpants and a faded T-shirt that said "Will Write for Food" across the chest. His dark hair was a tangled mess, and his apartment was littered with papers, fast-food sacks and dirty socks. A computer glowed on his desk, its screen a big, white empty.

"Hey," he said. "Come in, come in."

I hesitated, but he was already turning away, leading me inside. He emptied an armchair near the door of a big stack of paper covered with typing and red-ink squiggles. Brushed crumbs off the seat with his hand.

"Sit here," he said. "Want some coffee?"

I sniffed the air, recognizing the stench of scorched java, and shook my head. "No, thanks. I'm only here a minute."

He flopped onto a sofa opposite me, and said, "So, did you find her?"

I winced. Clearly, he hadn't read a newspaper lately. I hated to go through it all again, but I gave him the Readers' Digest version. His eyes went wide behind his wire-rim glasses.

"My God," he said when I finished. "I had no idea. I can't believe this. She always seemed so full of life."

"Yeah, well, a bullet hole will let that leak right out of a person."

He thought that over for a second, then said, "I feel sort of responsible. If I hadn't introduced you to Jimmy, maybe none of this would've happened."

I shrugged. "I thought it was a lucky break when he spotted her so quickly after I'd shown him that photo, but it turned out just the opposite."

"Did he get into trouble?"

"No, the cops interviewed him and let him go. If anybody's in jeopardy here, it's me. The feds aren't happy that I found that safe house. If they can't locate the shooter, they might try to put the blame on me."

"I don't see how they can do that," he said. "You didn't pull the trigger."

"Until they find out who did, I remain a suspect. The cops might settle for me rather than go away empty-handed."

The wide eyes again. This guy spent so much time in his own head, the real world must've seemed a constant surprise.

"They'd do that?"

"Stranger things have happened. The feds are pissed. Joy was the main witness in a corruption investigation."

"I can't believe that part," he said. "An exotic dancer? Involved with this whole fairgrounds business?"

"Apparently she was a bright girl. She paid attention. She saw things or overheard things at those parties that could connect certain big shots to the strip clubs, and that's what she took to the investigators."

Nick's eyes cut over to his blank computer screen, and I could practically hear him spinning a new story out of the meager facts I'd presented. Not what I needed at all. I needed facts, not fiction or fantasy. I reached inside my jacket and pulled out the photo of Mark Chavis. I flattened it out before I dropped it onto the coffee table between us.

"Ever seen this guy around?"

The writer picked up the photo. He leaned toward a lamp so light spilled on the picture.

"Hey, I have. I mean, I think so. This printout's kind of fuzzy, but I think it's the same guy."

"He visited Joy?"

"Yeah, a couple of times that I saw. But both times were at night, so I didn't get the best look at him. And he wasn't wearing a suit and tie like this. He was dressed in regular clothes. Jeans, a dark jacket like the one you're wearing."

"You're sure it was him?"

"Well, not a hundred percent sure." He looked up at me. "Not sure enough that I'd want to testify to it."

"Right, right, you don't want to get involved. Nobody ever does."

"No, that's not it at all. If I were certain, I'd say so. Especially if it would help catch a killer. You think this is the guy who shot her?"

"Don't get carried away. I heard Joy had a new boyfriend, and this may be him. That's as far as I can go."

"Who is he?"

"A state official named Mark Chavis. Ever heard of him?"

Nick shook his head, staring at the photo hard enough to memorize the man's face. I knew I was tainting a potential witness here, but showing him the photo was the only way to get this far.

"Think any of your neighbors saw him?"

"Maybe. More people at home around here at night than during the day. But most of the tenants keep to themselves. Unless somebody bumped into him on the sidewalk or something--"

"Maybe I'll come back tonight and show that photo around."

I stood and leaned across the table to take the picture back from him.

"Wow," he said. "I can't believe I've got a murder investigation right here in my own back yard."

"Don't get too excited. The cops will probably come sniffing around Joy's apartment, but this isn't the scene of the crime."

"Right." He blushed. "I know that. I just can't believe that somebody shot my neighbor. So, it was like a sniper, huh?"

The way he said "sniper," I could tell he was inventing scenarios again.

"I didn't say that. But she was shot by a rifle, from a good distance away. The shooter was parked out of sight, and he was able to drive away before the feds could even figure which direction the shot came from."

"Wow. It's like something out of a movie."

I winced.

"Okay," I said, tucking the photo back into my jacket's inside pocket. "I'd better get going. Thanks for your help."

"Sure," he said, bouncing to his feet. "If I can do anything else, let me know."

"No, really, you've done plenty. If this is the same 'Mark' as she was dating, then it opens up a whole new avenue for me to check out."

"I'm pretty sure it's the same guy."

"I'll talk to your neighbors. Try to nail it down."

"Do you want me to talk to them for you?"

"No, don't do that." Nothing makes me cringe like an eager volunteer. "Just sit tight. If I need you, I'll let you know."

He followed me to the door, hugging himself as the chill wind blew inside.

"Can you do one thing for me?" he asked.

"What's that?"

"Can you let me know how it turns out? I mean, if they find the killer and all?"

"If this thing goes the way I think it might, everybody in the state will hear how it turns out. It'll be all over the news."

"Wow."

Chapter 22

I considered knocking on a few more doors, but I could see the writer was watching me through a gap in his curtains, and I didn't want to do anything to further stir his fevered imagination.

Where else could I show the photo of Mark Chavis? Certainly not at the Pink Pony. If I so much as approached the strip club's door, those bouncers would pound me into mush. Besides, there was no indication that anyone at the club (other than Slick) might've actually seen Chavis with Joy. LaRonda only knew the name "Mark" because Joy had let it slip in their dressing room. Had other strippers from the Pink Pony attended after-hours parties for the big shots? How could I find out without getting clobbered?

My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd consumed nothing but coffee all morning. I cruised through a Twisters drive-thru and got a big Coke and a batch of tacos wrapped in paper. While I sat in my car, trying to eat the tacos without dripping on my clothes, I thought some more about Slick and influence-peddling and the proposed entertainment zone at the fairgrounds.

The neighborhoods around the fairgrounds already were plagued by parking and litter and traffic problems during the September fair and the weekend flea markets. Imagine how much worse it would get if the whole place was done over to accommodate lushes and gamblers and perverts.

The city had tried to beautify Central Avenue along that stretch, condemning some of the old motels used by hookers and junkies, and redoing signs and sidewalks. But the streetscaping wouldn't hold a candle to the kind of outrageous architecture that would spring up if Slick and his ilk got their way. The eyesore that was the Pink Pony would be just the beginning. From the way Felicia had described it in the paper, the area would become a little Las Vegas, full of fakery and garishness and sin. Is that what we wanted right in the middle of the city? Not that the voters would have anything to say about it. Paid-off politicians and hand-picked appointees would see to that.

My thoughts steered back to Mark Chavis. As land commissioner, he was the most important cog in this crooked machinery. An awfully public position, and it seemed unlikely that he could be bought off. But if he had indeed been seeing Joy (and that was still a big if; I didn't trust Nick Wilson as an eyewitness), then Slick could've been setting him up for blackmail. Rubber-stamp the deal, or all would be revealed to Chavis' wife, the media, the voters. Sounded like something Slick Gurken might do.

I had no way to prove it. Even if I could find other neighbors who could definitely put Chavis at Joy's apartment, that didn't prove that he'd shot her. And, if he'd gone to all the trouble of setting up outside the safe house, waiting for his shot at Joy, he would've made sure that his deer-hunting alibi was ironclad. A man in his position, able to hand out profitable leases and land deals, would have no trouble recruiting fellow hunters as witnesses.

Though it certainly hadn't been her intention, Felicia had helped him with that alibi, printing it in the Gazette. Everyone knew Chavis was out deer hunting. It was right there in black and white. When was he supposed to return? Was there any chance that I could confront him about Joy, maybe cause him to slip up?

I'd polished off my tacos while lost in these thoughts, and I crumpled up the wrappers and stuffed them back in the paper sack. I wiped my hands and mouth with a napkin and got out my cell phone.

Risky to call Felicia at work. For one thing, when she's busy, she tends to hang up on me. For another, I was keeping secrets from her and every conversation was an opportunity for her to worm the truth out of me. But she was the only person I could think of who might know when Chavis was supposed to return from his hunting trip.

"City desk. Quattlebaum."

"Hi, hon. It's me."

"Bubba. You finally roll out of bed?"

"I've been up for hours."

"Doing what?"

I mumbled something about trying to drum up business, then quickly changed the subject.

"I saw your story. Nice job. Really nailing those bastards."

"Oh, Bubba. You say the nicest things."

Might've been sarcasm, but I let it go. Instead, I said, "You hot on their heels again today?"

"Trying," she said. "If people would get out of my way and let me do my job."

Her voice rose, and I knew that was intended for the ears of nearby editors. She regularly accuses them of milquetoast journalism. While it can be difficult at times to be Felicia's husband, it's much, much worse to be her boss.

Rather than play into that game, I said, "I saw that the guy you mentioned to me, the land commissioner, was off deer hunting?"

See, that did two things: One, it opened the door to any information she might want to impart about Mark Chavis. Two, it showed her I'd read all the way to the end of the article, which scores me points in ways that non-journalists can't begin to comprehend.

"I've got lots of questions for him," she said, "whenever I can find him. He's supposed to get home today."

"Ah. From deer hunting, huh? Does that seem suspicious to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just that the timing's awfully convenient. He's got this scandal brewing on the front page, and he chooses to be out of town."

"It is deer season, Bubba. Half the men in the state are sitting out in the cold, hoping to blast Bambi."

"True, but--"

"Why are you so interested in Mark Chavis?"

"No reason. I just noticed it, that's all."

"I've got bigger fish to fry," she said. "Your former client and some of his people got arrested yesterday."

"Um, which client would that be?"

"Slick Gurken. The cops even closed down the Pink Pony, though I hear it's back open today."

"Huh. I wonder what that's about."

"I was wondering the same thing. You don't know anything about it?"

I hate to lie to my sweetie, but Simon Trujillo had made it pretty clear I wasn't to discuss the arrests with her.

"He's not my client anymore. Not since that woman got killed."

"That homicide is still at the heart of this thing," she said. "I've just got to figure out how it all fits together."

"Good luck with that," I said. "Wish I could help."

"You sure you don't know why Slick Gurken got arrested?"

"How would I know--"

"Because it occurred to me that it might have something to do with how funny you were acting last night."

"I wasn't acting any such--"

"Walking all bent over, limping around. I thought maybe that had something to do with the assault charges being pressed against those guys."

"Assault?"

A pause. I tried to think of some way to squirm out of this corner, but nothing sprang to mind.

Felicia sighed and said, "Never mind, Bubba. I've got people on hold here. Was there some reason that you called?"

"Just wanted to tell you what a great job you're doing," I said quickly. "And to see if you'll be home for dinner tonight."

"I hope so," she said, "but it's too early to tell. I want to get another front-page headline out of this thing."

"Right. Okay, well, call me later and let me know."

I rang off before she could say anything more.

Whew.

Chapter 23

I'd found Chavis' home address during my Internet search. It was way the hell up in the foothills of the Sandias, and I steered my Oldsmobile in that direction. I had no reason to believe Chavis would be home yet, but it wouldn't hurt to check out his house.

I was headed north when I remembered Shawn Weston's place was nearby, and I veered off Juan Tabo Boulevard go to his apartment complex. Surely he'd heard about Joy's death by now, but I felt I should talk to him. Maybe try to downplay my role.

As I was walking across the parking lot, I noticed a black Crown Vic parked in a slot not far from his door. I wondered if one of his neighbors was a cop or, worse, one of the feds I'd recently crossed. I forgot about the car, though, as soon as Shawn Weston answered his doorbell.

His eyes were bloodshot, and his face bore a couple days' worth of whiskers. He wasn't wearing his baseball cap this time, and I could see that his hairline was beating the same retreat as mine.

"You," he said when he recognized me. "What the hell do you want?"

I don't know why I get such greetings from people.

"I don't want a thing," I said. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by, see if you'd heard about Joy."

He nodded, and his jaw clenched.

"I saw it on the news," he said. "Guess you didn't find her in time, huh?"

I thought it prudent not to mention that I'd been on the scene when Joy was shot. Shawn clearly was upset about her death. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt me.

"Mind if I come in?"

He shrugged and stepped away from the door so I could enter. The townhouse wasn't as clean as it had been on my first visit. Sneakers and dirty clothes littered the living room floor, and dishes and beer bottles crowded together on the coffee table. A crumpled blanket was on the sofa, which made me assume that's where he'd been sleeping when I rang the bell.

"You sick or something?"

"No." He looked around the messy room. "I've been having trouble sleeping, so I was piled up in here, watching TV."

I nodded, thinking how different he seemed from my earlier visit. He'd been so cocky, so macho, before.

"I work the night shift," he said, "as a security guard. Usually, I sleep fine during the day, but this news about Joy--"

He stopped and shook his head.

"I can't stop thinking about what happened to her, man."

I nodded, trying to look sympathetic. Wasn't difficult. I couldn't stop thinking about Joy, either.

He sighed and flopped onto the sofa. Pushed some dirty dishes aside so he could put his bare feet up on the coffee table. I sat in an empty armchair across from him.

"Did you have any new thoughts about what happened to her?" I ventured. "I mean, we know now that she'd gone to the cops, offering to tell them about those parties at the Pink Pony. But does that give you any idea of who might've shot her?"

He frowned at me. "Sounds like Slick Gurken's behind it. Like I told you before."

"I know, I know. Everybody keeps blaming Slick. But he was at the Pink Pony, halfway across town, when she was shot."

"How do you know that?"

"I was on the phone with him right before the shot was fired."

"That doesn't mean anything. He could've forwarded his calls."

"Well, sure, but--"

"And he's got lots of people working for him. One of them could've pulled the trigger."

"True, but--"

"All I know is that you were looking for Joy, and you didn't find her in time."

"So you said."

I wanted to defend myself, but I couldn't tell him the truth without revealing that I'd been the reason Joy stepped into that doorway. Besides, I hadn't located her through any great detecting skills. I'd stumbled onto her, thanks to Jimmy the pizza boy and the luck of pure coincidence. If those feds hadn't been hungry for pizza, she'd likely still be safe.

Shawn ran his hands back over his thinning hair, and I noticed once again how his biceps bulged against the short sleeves of his T-shirt. I remembered what he'd said the first time we visited, how he'd pound Joy's new boyfriend if he ever found him. Be better if I left before it occurred to him to pound me.

I got to my feet, saying, "Well, I should let you get some rest before you have to go to work."

He shook his head sadly.

"I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Joy."

Chapter 24

Albuquerque's easternmost thoroughfare is Tramway Boulevard, named for the suspended-cable contraption that stretches to the top of the Sandias. At one time, the area was sparsely populated with just a sprinkling of houses and apartment buildings. But now, the rolling foothills are covered in million-dollar homes with million-dollar views of the sprawling city.

Narrow streets sprout off Tramway, weaving and winding and dead-ending among the pine-dotted hills. It's a great place to get lost, and it took me three tries before I located the dead-end street where Mark Chavis lived.

His house perched on a hill, higher than its peers, and I assumed the steep land beyond was part of the National Forest that includes much of the mountain range. The house was a Tuscan-style stucco mansion with a barrel-tile roof. Awfully swank digs for a public employee.

I wasn't ready to go knock on his door yet, and there was no way to watch the house from my car. Experience had taught me that cops respond quickly to strange-vehicle calls from the wealthy. I turned the Olds around and went back to the nearest cross-street. It, too, dead-ended in the hills, but there was a gigantic house under construction up there. The site was empty on a Sunday, and I parked my car in the driveway and limped overland toward Chavis' place.

I'm not much for hiking, especially in rocky areas that might conceal rattlesnakes, but I told myself it was too chilly for reptiles to be active. Still, I nervously kept an eye out as I slipped from one pine to another, stumbling over clumps of golden grass.

I topped a rise and found that I had a great view of Chavis' fancy house on the next hill over. A pile of boulders offered some concealment as well as protection from the wind that whistled down off the mountains. I hunkered among the boulders, and scoped out his house through compact binoculars I'd brought from the car.

Lights were on in some of the windows, but nobody was outdoors in the cold. A kids' slide-and-swing set sat in the sandy back yard, and the breeze made the swings rock back and forth.

I couldn't tell if Mark Chavis was home. The garage was shut up as tightly as the house. Unless he came outside, I was stuck here, wondering.

Stubbornness (and perhaps some guilt left over from my visit with Shawn Weston) kept me on that hilltop for nearly an hour. I looked through the binoculars until I was cross-eyed, hoping for some sign of life, and my tenacity was finally rewarded when a muddy pickup truck roared up the street and turned onto Chavis' driveway.

The truck stopped in front of the house and a man climbed out from behind the wheel. He was dressed in insulated coveralls and boots and a camouflaged cap, and my heart thumped as I got a glimpse of his face. Definitely Land Commissioner Mark Chavis.

He looked like a man returning from a deer-hunting excursion. His truck was muddy and the bed was full of what appeared to be camping gear. But his clothes were suspiciously clean for someone who'd supposedly been out in the wilds for days. And there was no sign of a dead deer.

I'd spent my hour among the boulders thinking about Chavis and Joy and the feds, and I'd pretty much convinced myself that he was the shooter. But I was in no hurry to run down the hill and confront him, especially once I saw him remove a rifle from a rack inside the cab. He carried the rifle under his arm as he went inside the house.

I couldn't tell much about the gun from this distance, even with the binoculars, but it had a scope, and it certainly looked capable of knocking off a stripper from a couple of blocks away. I expected Chavis to come back outside and unload his truck, but the house's front door remained closed. I supposed he was greeting his children and his loving wife, who had no idea he'd been stepping out on her or that he might've bumped off his girlfriend.

I sat there a few minutes more, but now that Chavis was home, I had no excuse. I should go back to my car, drive up to his front door and question him. Wasn't like he'd come to the door with that rifle, right? And I had my pistol on me. I could force him to--

Then a little car zoomed up the narrow street. Brakes squealed as the car reached Chavis' driveway, then it turned in, headed for the house.

Before I could think it over, I was on my feet and stumbling down the hillside toward Chavis' mansion. I knew that little Toyota.

The driver got out of the car and stalked toward the house. The wind snatched at her hair and fluttered the white pages of the notebook she carried. I didn't need the binoculars to recognize my beloved, Felicia Quattlebaum, as she marched up to the murderer's door.

Chapter 25

By the time I puffed up to the house, Felicia was in a shouting match with Mark Chavis. He filled the door, blocking admission, and his face was red. I noticed he had a copy of the Gazette in his hand. Yikes.

"If you've got nothing to hide, then why not answer my questions?"

"This is my home," he shouted. "If you want to talk to me, call my office."

"I've been calling your office all week," she said. "But you've been deer-hunting instead of doing your job."

"Don't tell me what my job is! I'm not required to talk to you for this scandal sheet!"

He shook the crumpled newspaper at her, but Felicia seemed unfazed. Then Chavis spotted me jogging up to the door.

"Who's this?" he demanded.

Felicia turned, and surprise registered on her face. "Bubba? What are you doing here?"

"I, um, I wanted to talk this guy, too."

"Well, you'll have to wait your turn--"

"Who is this?" Chavis said.

"My husband."

"Your husband followed you here? What the hell kinda reporter are you?"

Felicia sighed. "The kind who's married to a private eye."

I whipped out a business card and handed it to Chavis, but my attention was on Felicia. I expected her to unload on me for interrrupting her impromptu interview. But when she spoke, her voice was low and controlled. That made it worse.

"What the hell, Bubba? Did you follow me here?"

"No, I was watching the house, waiting for him to come home."

Chavis read my card, then looked up at me. "Are you working for the Gazette?"

"Hell, no," Felicia said. "He's here on his own."

A slender, dark-haired woman appeared in the doorway behind Chavis, peeking over his shoulder. I recognized his wife from the campaign website, but she wasn't smiling now.

"You people get off our property!" she shouted. "Right now. We've got children upstairs."

"Really," Chavis said, "this needs to be handled at my office--"

"Why so dodgy?" Felicia demanded. "If you didn't attend parties at the Pink Pony, say so."

"I don't have to dignify these questions with--"

"People from your office went to those parties," she said. "I know that much. Are you saying you didn't know anything about it?"

"I didn't say anything. Don't try to put words in my mouth."

Chavis' face flushed even darker. I reminded myself that there was a rifle inside that house somewhere, probably not far from where we stood.

"Was it a bribe?" Felicia said. "You get entertained by Slick Gurken, and in exchange, he gets to take over the fairgrounds?"

"That's a damned lie," Chavis said, and I watched over Felicia's shoulder as she dutifully recorded the denial in her notebook. "I've never taken any kind of bribe in my life."

"Then you never attendied these parties?"

Chavis hesitated, and that was the opening Felicia needed.

"We can find witnesses," she said. "People who saw you there."

"This is ridiculous," he said. "I'm not talking to you people anymore."

I could see his wife past his shoulder, and her face crumpled into a scowl. "What's she talking about, Mark? What parties?"

He shook his head and reached to shut the door. Felicia was losing her opportunity. I knew I'd get blamed because I'd interrupted her interrogation. I panicked, trying to think of some way to salvage the moment, and loudly blurted, "Was Joy Forever your girlfriend?"

Shock registered on Chavis' face, but it was nothing compared to the wide-eyed gape of his wife.

"'Girlfriend?' What the hell is he talking about, Mark?"

Chavis tried to close the door, but his wife pushed him out of the way.

"What are you saying?" she barked. "Are you saying my husband is having an affair?"

I hadn't really meant to bring up the whole affair thing while the wife was standing there. I glanced at Felicia for support, but she was glaring at me.

"Don't listen to them, hon," Chavis began, but his wife silenced him with a look.

"Well," I said, "he's not having an affair with her anymore. Somebody killed her."

More big eyes and gaping all around.

"The stripper?" Mrs. Chavis said. "The one in the newspaper?"

"Now, hon, that's just ludicrous. You know I would never consort with--"

"Shut up, Mark!"

He did as he was told. She turned her wrath back on me.

"Do you have any proof that he was seeing this woman?"

"Yeah, Bubba," Felicia chimed in. "Do you have proof?"

I shrugged, which was the wrong gesture to make at a time like this. Both women harrumphed at me.

"I got a witness who saw the land commissioner go into her apartment. A couple of times."

"Lies!" Chavis said. "I won't stand for this."

He yanked his wife back into the house and slammed the door. Felicia leaned on the doorbell, but they weren't answering again. We could hear them yelling at each other, but couldn't make out what they were saying.

I braved a glance at my sweetie, and found her still glaring at me.

"He was having an affair with the dead stripper?"

"Looks that way."

"And how long have you known about this?"

More yelling from inside, then a crash. Uh-oh.

"Could we discuss this in your car? In case he comes back outside with his rifle?"

Felicia rolled her eyes and stomped off toward her Toyota. I meekly followed, trying not to think how she'd react when I told her that Mark Chavis probably shot Joy. Only thing worse than screwing up one of Felicia's stories was beating her to the punch.

Chapter 26

Soon as we were inside her car, Felicia launched her verbal assault.

"You've stepped into messes in the past, Bubba, but nothing like this. I've been waiting for days to talk to Mark Chavis, and now--"

"Could we drive away?" I interrupted. "Before one of them starts shooting at us?"

"What is your obsession with guns? I interview people all the time, and none of them ever shoot at me."

I wished I could say the same. Instead, I said, "I think he shot that stripper."

More gaping. Apparently, it was my day to study people's tonsils.

"You have got to be kidding me," she said after she got hold of herself. "He's been out of town."

"That's what he told everybody. But can he prove it? Joy was shot with a deer rifle like the one he carried into that house a few minutes ago."

"This is crazy--"

"Could we get out of here, please? My car's parked behind that next hill, off a side street."

Felicia cranked the engine and swung the car around. I turned in the seat, watching the Chavis home, but nobody came out the front door to shoot at us and soon the house was out of sight behind a couple of pinon trees.

"Why didn't you tell me all this when I saw you last?" Felicia said. "I could've questioned him about the shooting."

Exactly what I was afraid of. Once a man gets it into his head that murder will cover his tracks, what's to keep him from committing a couple more? I didn't say that, however.

"I don't have any real proof," I said. "I only just confirmed a little while ago that he had visited Joy's apartment."

I pointed her up the side street where I'd left the Olds at the construction site. She zoomed her car up there and parked behind mine. She killed the engine, then turned to me, looking as if she'd like to kill me, too.

"This is what that weird phone call was all about," she said. "I knew you didn't call just to compliment my story. You were trying to find out when Chavis would get home."

"Well, yeah, but I meant what I said about your story--"

"Save it, Bubba. Tell me about Chavis and the stripper."

I told her about showing Chavis' photo around the apartment complex, and how Nick Wilson was "pretty sure" that the land commissioner had visited Joy's place.

"I figured Slick got the two of them together so he could blackmail Chavis into going along with the fairgrounds deal. A family man like Chavis couldn't afford for word to get out--"

"So your client is a blackmailer, too?"

"He's not my client. He fired me after Joy got shot."

"Then why are you still poking around? Why didn't you leave it to me?"

"I got pissed off. Slick lied to me about why he wanted Joy found. I felt I'd been used."

"Like that's never happened before," Felicia said. "Why did you let it get to you this time?"

"I felt bad because she got killed."

"Not your fault. Everyone knew she was in danger as soon as she went to the feds, but they didn't do enough to protect her."

I thought of that moment when I was kneeling on the stoop of the safe house and the blood blossomed on Joy's blouse. I was more culpable than Felicia knew.

"You really think Chavis shot that woman?"

I shrugged. "I can't prove it, but it seems to fit. You saw the way his wife reacted. Maybe he figured it was safer to eliminate Joy than to live with a woman who felt betrayed."

"Come on, Bubba. That skinny, brittle woman isn't much of a danger."

"You could be right. But I'll bet he locks his rifle away tonight."

Chapter 27

The setting sun was in my eyes as I drove back into the center of town. Scudding clouds lit up in oranges and reds and pinks, building to the usual spectacular Albuquerque sunset. I was too preoccupied to enjoy the sight.

Before we parted company, Felicia had urged me to keep my nose out of it. She considered the whole matter to be a story now, her story, and she would be the one responsible for putting people behind bars.

Staying out of it would certainly be the right move. Not only would it keep my sweetie happy, but it would keep Simon Trujillo off my neck. There comes a time when a private eye should leave a case to the proper authorities.

Mark Chavis' reaction to my blurt about Joy certainly seemed to indicate guilt. But that didn't necessarily make him a murderer. Any man would react that way when accused of an affair while his wife was standing right there.

I thought about swinging past Joy's apartment complex to show Chavis' photo around some more, but what good would that do?

Was there some way to prove he was the shooter? Ballistics tests on that rifle would be one way. If I went to Trujillo with what I knew, could he order such tests? Would he even believe me? I hadn't done much to inspire confidence so far. I'd lucked into finding the safe house, and helped someone kill Joy. I'd made a mess of wearing the wire, and hadn't gotten Slick to incriminate himself in anything more serious than kicking my ass. No reason to think Trujillo and his marshals would suddenly find my paltry evidence compelling.

Screw it. I decided to go home. Have a beer or six and sit quietly a while.

I got off the freeway at Carlisle Boulevard and drove south into the maze of residential streets near UNM. The streets were lined with pueblo-style houses and little bungalows that date from the middle of the last century. Naked elms reached their long arms over the sidewalks, and the evening breeze chased fallen leaves along the gutters.

I slowed in front of our brick house, making sure Felicia hadn't changed her mind and stopped by here on her way to the Gazette. No sign of her car, so I pulled into the driveway and killed the Olds' engine. One of our neighbors, a white-haired old lady two doors down, shot me a dirty look as she hurried back inside her own home. I don't know why I draw such reactions from people.

I slumped across our barren yard. My jacket had ridden up in the back, and was snagged on my revolver. I tugged it loose and pulled it down to cover the holster. Maybe that was why my neighbors were so stand-offish; they regularly saw me packing heat. I trudged up the steps onto our porch, and used my key to unlock the wooden front door.

I was putting my keys back in my pocket, and watching my step as I crossed the threshold, so it took me a second to realize I wasn't alone in the living room.

Dale Cready stood by the sofa, where he'd apparently been making himself at home. He had a copy of the Gazette in his hands, and his rancher-style shearling jacket was thrown over the back of the couch. He was dressed in his usual Western wear, including those pointy boots that had wreaked such havoc on my ribcage earlier.

"What the hell?" I said.

His squinty face creased into something approaching a smile.

Furious, I fumbled for my gun. I'd show him what happened to someone who broke into a man's castle.

I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone stepping out from behind the open door. Then a big fist crashed against my cheekbone and sent me stumbling into the nearest wall.

Dazed, I turned to find Slick Gurken closing on me, his fists clenched and his face twisted with rage. Uh-oh.

I yanked my revolver free of its holster and tried to show it to Slick so he'd back off. But he hit me squarely in the nose, squishing my honker and chasing all thoughts from my brain. I instinctively covered my face with my hands, which caused me to hit myself in the forehead with my own gun.

Slick grabbed my wrist and twisted the gun out of my hand before I could blink myself back into full consciousness. Dale Cready swam into my field of vision and gave me a one-two to my sore ribs.

The room spun, and I dropped to my knees. This made me the perfect height for Slick to whack me on top of the skull with my own revolver. Then everything went black.

When I came to, I was lying on the hardwood floor, my face in a puddle of bloody drool. I blinked my eyes a few times, trying to focus, and found myself surrounded by cowboy boots.

Slick and Dale stood over me, waiting for me to rouse myself so they could hit me some more. I quickly shut my eyes, but it was too late.

"Get up." Slick nudged me with his boot, which hurt. "Get your ass up off that floor."

My brain wanted to argue with him: If they didn't want me laid out on the floor, why had they hit me in the head? But I couldn't seem to get my mouth to work. Probably just as well.

I pushed myself up onto all fours, fully expecting another round of rib-kicking, but they let me creak to my feet before they touched me again. Dale gave me a shove, so I toppled over onto the sofa, landing more or less in a sitting position. I tasted blood, and wiped off my mouth and chin.

The two cowboys squared up in front of me, the coffee table between us so I couldn't even hope to land a sudden kick. Not that I was in any condition to fight yet. And Slick was pointing my Smith & Wesson at me like he intended to use it. Better to not make any sudden moves.

"Now then," Slick growled, "you're gonna tell us what you've been up to."

"Up to?"

"Don't play stupid, you son of a bitch. You don't have any feds to protect your ass this time. Am I right?"

"That's right, Slick," Dale said automatically.

"We checked your neighborhood before we kicked in the back door," Slick said. "No cops around this time. Nobody who gives a shit what we do to you. Now you can start talking, or I can start shooting. Which is it?"

He cocked back the hammer on the revolver, the click loud as a thunderclap.

"Okay, okay," I said. "What do you want to know?"

"You can start with Mark fucking Chavis, who called me up a little while ago, screaming about how you and some reporter had come to his house, asking questions about Joy Forever."

I nodded. I hadn't put that much together -- I was too busy being punched out -- but it made sense. Slick would be the one person Chavis could call for help, the only one he was sure wouldn't go to the cops or the newspaper.

"I was watching his house when the reporter showed up."

"And you thought you'd invite yourself into the middle of that?"

"I was worried about what might happen. Chavis had a rifle--"

"And this reporter, she's your wife. Am I right?"

I cringed. I'd halfway hoped Chavis hadn't mentioned that part to Slick.

"Yeah. Felicia Quattlebaum."

Anger made Slick's bald head glow. "The one who's been writing about the fairgrounds business?"

"Yeah, but I didn't know--"

Slick thrust the gun at me, and I closed my eyes, expecting a bullet. But apparently the last self-restraint he had left resided in his trigger finger.

I opened my eyes a little, still braced to be shot, and I must've looked as squinty as Dale Cready. Still the gun didn't fire, so I said, "I didn't know she was working on the story when I took you on as a client. I didn't know there was any connection between you and Trujillo."

"There is no connection! Or there wasn't, until you came along."

I braved a slight shake of my head. "He was already onto you. He's been investigating the fairgrounds deal for weeks."

"How do you know that?"

"He told me so, when he was recruiting me to wear that wire."

Probably not the smartest thing to mention at this moment, but my mental wheels were beginning to turn. If I could shift the blame to Trujillo and Chavis, maybe Slick would lose some steam.

"You'd put me in a terrible position," I said. "I didn't know the feds had Joy in a safe house. When I found her, the marshals handcuffed me and were ready to put me in jail. Then somebody fired the shot that killed her."

I looked from Slick to Dale and back again. Their scowls never wavered.

"They thought I'd set her up," I said. "Trujillo was ready to charge me with murder. What could I do? I had to cooperate with him."

"Bullshit," Slick said. "You could've held your ground, acted like a man. Am I right?"

"That's right, Slick."

"I expect people who work for me to remain loyal at all times," Slick continued. "But I'll be goddamned if I can find people I can trust. First, Joy goes running her mouth to the feds, then you do the same damned thing."

"I didn't have a choice--"

"You think the feds didn't try that same bullshit with us?" Slick said. "They tried to turn Dale here, telling him he could be charged as an accomplice to her murder. They tried to blame me because she got shot, when I had nothing to do with that. Did either of us roll over and show them our tender underbellies?"

"No, we didn't," Dale said. "I told Trujillo to go fuck himself. Which is exactly what you should've done."

"But at the time," I said, "it made sense that maybe, just maybe, you were behind it. I mean, if she was planning to testify against you, you had reason to get rid--"

"What kind of numbskull are you? You think I was worried about what Joy could tell the feds? I've got a whole stable full of lawyers to handle shit like that. And no jury in the world is going to believe a goddamned stripper. Am I right?"

"That's right, Slick."

I was more confused than ever. "Then why did you hire me to find her?"

"Information, Bubba, that's why. I suspected she might've taken her story to Trujillo or somebody like him. Plus, she really did owe me a shitpot of money, which I'll never get back now."

I nodded, but that only made me dizzy.

"Did you tell Chavis I was hunting her?"

"I didn't tell him a goddamned thing," Slick said. "I needed that boy to okay the fairgrounds deal. Imagine how he would've reacted if I'd told him Joy went to the feds."

"Don't you think he figured it out, though?" I said. "Isn't it possible he's the one who shot Joy?"

Slick's eyes widened briefly. Then he looked over at Dale. Both of them busted out laughing.

"You think the land commissioner shot her?"

They guffawed some more, and Dale made a rude comment about how I had shit for brains.

"He never would've killed her," Dale said. "He was crazy about her."

Slick shot him a look, then caught himself and shrugged, like it didn't matter how much they told me. That made me even more nervous.

"But if he didn't shoot her, who did?"

"Who gives a shit?" Slick shouted. "She's dead! One problem solved, as far as I'm concerned."

"I thought if I could prove Chavis did it, it might get you off the hook with the feds."

I hadn't thought anything of the kind, of course, but it seemed prudent to try to get on their good side, at least as long as Slick was pointing my gun at me.

"The feds don't care about that," he said. "They only care about corruption. Trujillo wants to put a whole bunch of people behind bars, not just one idiot with a rifle."

"Sure, but the murder is right at the center of--"

"Shut the fuck up, Bubba."

I complied.

"I had a good deal going here. The State Fair Commission was on board, and I had a whole pack of legislators eating out of my hand. All I needed was Mark Chavis to green-light the deal, and I could've had that entire parcel to do with as I pleased."

I opened my mouth to say something about his using Joy to blackmail Chavis, but I thought better of it. Didn't matter anyway. Slick was on a roll.

"Imagine what we could've had there. Bars and restaurants and hotels and gentlemen's clubs. Refurbish that shitty casino that's there now. Get horse-racing going year-round. We could've turned the fairgrounds into the ultimate moneymaker. But now that's all gone up in smoke, thanks to you and your goddamned wife."

Right on cue, a car door slammed outside.

Holy shit, if that was Felicia, she'd be walking right into their hands. Slick could shoot both of us with my gun, make it look like a murder-suicide, and get away with it.

I sat up straighter on the sofa, trying to get my feet under me, just as footfalls sounded on the front porch.

"Where do you think you're going?" Slick snarled. "You stay right there."

He jabbed the revolver in my direction. My gun doesn't exactly have a hair-trigger, but given enough jerking around--

"Get that door, Dale," Slick said. "That's probably his wife now."

Dale plucked the shearling coat off the far end of the sofa. I thought it was strange that he needed a jacket just to open the door, but then he plunged a hand in a pocket of the coat and came out with a nickel-plated pistol. He racked the slide as he walked to the front door.

I felt panic coming on. I couldn't let Felicia walk into this trap. Even someone as near-sighted as Dale Cready couldn't miss in such close quarters.

Dale paused at the door and he and Slick exchanged a look. Just the opening I needed.

I kicked the coffee table, sending magazines and newspapers flying everywhere. The edge of the wooden table cracked against Slick's shinbones. Before he could recover, I sprang to my feet, sidestepping the table. I slapped the gun out of his hand, and pounced on him.

Slick had thirty pounds on me, but he stumbled backward a couple of steps, crashing into the wall. We were chest to chest, so I didn't have much room to work, but I threw one punch after another.

I heard a loud growling noise, and realized it was coming from my own mouth. Put my sweetie in jeopardy, and I turn into a wild animal. Apparently.

Slick brought a knee up sharply, trying to catch me in the jewels, but he got all thigh. I hit him in the ear and the shoulder and the jaw, but the blows didn't seem to have much of an effect.

Dale, meanwhile, sprang across the room and clubbed me over the head with his pistol. I saw stars. A pistol-whipping will distract you from your goals.

I wheeled, dizzy, and swatted at Dale, but he easily ducked out of reach. The coffee table caught my legs and kept me from falling. But now my back was to Slick, and he punched me in the kidney.

"Get that door!" he hissed at Dale, who scampered across the room.

I turned toward the door to shout a warning (why hadn't I thought of that sooner?), and Slick tried to stick his big fist in my mouth. My head snapped backward, and my mouth filled with blood. I spat and coughed, trying to get some air, trying to warn Felicia.

Dale reached the front door and snatched it open. A cold wind gusted into the room.

Dale froze in place. So did Slick. So did I.

Because it wasn't Felicia at the door. It was my father.

Dub stood under the porch light, a chaw of tobacco bulging in his cheek. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt and a baseball cap that said on the front: "Truckers Do It in the Road." His wispy white hair stood out around his ears.

"Hey, Bubba," he said, blinking and grinning. "What's with all the guns?"

Chapter 28

"Dub?" I sputtered. "What are you doing here?"

"We're ahead of schedule! Got a nice tailwind coming across the prairie. How come you got blood all over you?"

I didn't get a chance of answer. Dale showed Dub his shiny gun and said, "Inside! Now!"

Dub spat on my porch.

"I'm not coming in there 'til someone tells me what the hell's going on."

"Come in this house," Dale growled, "or I'll shoot you down where you stand."

"No, you won't."

Dale looked over his shoulder at Slick, wanting instruction.

"Get him in here!"

Dale grabbed at Dub's sleeve with his free hand, but Dub shrugged free.

"Don't touch me, you little peckerwood. I'm old enough to be your grandpa!"

Flustered, Dale grabbed at him again, but Dub yanked loose from his grasp.

"What's the matter with you people?"

Dale glanced at Slick again, looking confused. I could sympathize. Talking with Dub will do that to you.

A noise erupted outside, an airhorn playing the first few notes of "Dixie," blaring loud enough to rattle windows all over the neighborhood. Mama, still in Dub's truck outside, sounding the alarm.

Dale and Slick jumped straight up in the air, more confused than ever.

I wouldn't get a better opportunity. I snatched up a brass lamp from the nearest end table and swung it around like a baseball bat. The heavy base slammed into Slick's chest with enough force that he crumpled, gasping. The lampshade collapsed in my hands, but I managed to swing the lamp back the other way and caught Slick's bald head this time. He fell to the floor, flat on his face.

Dale had half-turned at the distraction, and Dub grabbed his gun arm and twisted it skyward. They danced around in the doorway, bouncing off the jambs, wrestling for control of the shiny pistol.

My gun was on the floor, and I scooped it up as I bounded across the room.

Dub had Dale's pistol pointed at the ceiling, but the younger man was gaining headway, slowing bending Dub's arms. I clipped Dale on the back of the head with my revolver, and he forgot what he was doing with Dub. He swiveled his head around, looking at me with glassy eyes. I cracked him another good one, and he dropped to the floor like a sack of shit.

Panting, Dub straightened his clothes and looked past me at the fallen Slick.

"That's a fine way to greet visitors. Glad I left your Mama in the truck."

I shook my head, catching my breath.

Dub spat another dark stream onto my porch, then said, "Never can tell what'll be going on when we show up here, but it's damned near always something interesting."

Chapter 29

By the time Felicia got home, the cops had taken Dale and Slick away in handcuffs, and I'd put the living room back in order. The only sign of the fracas at our house was my battered face.

"My God, Bubba," she cried when I opened the door for her. "You've got a fat lip!"

"I know."

"What did you do now?"

Now, see, why would she automatically blame me for my own injuries? I know I can be a klutz, but I rarely hit myself in the mouth.

"It's a long story," I said. "Come on in, and I'll tell you about it. But be warned: My parents are in the kitchen."

"They are? I thought they were coming tomorrow."

"That was the plan!" Dub shouted behind me. "But we got here early. Good thing, too! I had to pull Bubba's fat out of the fire!"

That made me wince, which hurt my bruised face.

"What's he talking about, Bubba?"

"Come into the kitchen and have a beer," I said. "You're gonna need it."

By this time, Mama had wandered into the living room, too. Her gray hair was piled up in a beehive, and she wore polyester jeans and a purple sweatshirt with a depiction of a bleeding Jesus on the front of it.

"Look at you!" Felicia said, keeping all traces of irony out of her voice. "Don't you two look wonderful."

Hugs all around, while I stood there like a mook, sucking on my sore lip. My parents think the world of Felicia. I've gotten used to the idea that they'll never think quite as highly of me.

"I made some sandwiches," Mama said. "Come eat something. You've got to keep up your strength."

Felicia slipped me an eye-roll as we all went to the kitchen. But I was in no mood for kidding around.

After we were gathered around the kitchen table, a ham sandwich and a Heineken in front of my sweetie, I told her about the visit from Dale and Slick. Mama kept fussing over me, making me hold an ice bag over my swelling eye. Dub regularly interrupted me, making himself sound like the hero of the day, which I guess he was.

"If I'd meekly come into the house when that boy pointed that gun at me," he said at one point, "Bubba and I both would be pushing up daisies by now."

He smirked at Mama. "Then we never would get to be grandparents!"

Not that again.

"Slick and Dale confirmed that Mark Chavis was seeing Joy," I told Felicia, who nearly choked on her food.

"Really? They said that?"

"They thought I'd be too dead to repeat it. Slick also said he had the State Fair Commission and some legislators lined up to vote his way on the fairgrounds sale."

"As I reported," she said smugly.

"Chavis was the last link in the chain," I said. "Once he fell for Joy, Slick had a way to manipulate him, too."

"They had it in the bag," she said. "If they could've kept Joy from talking to the feds, they would've gotten away with it."

"Not now, though. Slick and Dale are in jail, charged with attempted murder for trying to kill me."

"Too bad you couldn't pin Joy's murder on them, too."

"Slick laughed at the idea," I said. "And he said Mark Chavis wouldn't have shot her, either. Dale said Chavis was crazy about Joy."

"Huh."

Dub and Mama had been watching this conversation, their heads swiveling back and forth between us like fans at a tennis match.

"All this mess over a stripper," Mama said sternly. "If that woman had kept her clothes on, she'd still be alive today."

I found that to be a little judgmental, even for Mama, but I didn't say so.

"We might've blown up the fairgrounds deal," I said, "but we still don't know who killed Joy Forever."

Chapter 30

For the first time in a week, Felicia and I woke up Monday morning in the same bed at the same time. It was a little chilly in our bedroom, and she snuggled up against me. I managed not to moan.

Good Christ, I hurt all over. My busted lip felt like it was the size of a banana, and my right eye was swollen nearly shut. I had a painful knot on the back of my head, which my pillow did little to cushion. My ribs and gut ached, and my knuckles were puffy and sore. I straightened my legs under the covers and both my knees popped so loudly that Felicia raised up on an elbow to look down at me.

"Are you okay?"

"A little stiff, but nothing a hot bath and a bottle of aspirin won't fix."

"You sure?"

"I'm okay. I only hope Slick and Dale feel worse today."

"At least you're waking up in your own bed," she said. "They're waking up in jail."

"For now. Slick's got lawyers and a lot of money. He'll be out soon. And I wouldn't be surprised if he takes another run at me. He's really pissed."

"You seem to bring that out in people," she said.

"Don't remind me. Maybe we ought to contact Trujillo about getting us some protection."

Felicia frowned. "Like the way they protected your stripper?"

I wished she'd stop calling her "my" stripper.

"I didn't mean protective custody," I said. "But it might not hurt to have the cops keep an eye on the house for a while."

She kissed me gently on the forehead.

"I've got to get to work," she said. "I've got a hundred phone calls to make today."

I wrapped an arm around her. Which hurt.

"Don't go," I said. "Let's stay in bed all day."

"And do what? You're too beat up to cuddle. And I'm too awake to go back to sleep."

"Even though my folks kept us up half the night?"

"It wasn't that late."

"Felt like it to me."

"They were fun," she said. "They're so cute together."

"I think I just threw up a little in my mouth."

Another frown. "Stay classy, Bubba."

"Sorry."

"You're always so uncomfortable around your parents," she said, "but they love you to pieces. And Dub's not afraid to pitch in when you're in trouble."

"Don't remind me. I came pretty close to becoming a corpse yesterday."

"You should be more careful when it comes to selecting your clients. Pick ones who don't seem likely to kill you."

"Good advice," I said. "But it's often hard to spot the crooks."

"Not for me." She gave me a peck on the nose (which hurt) and bounced out of the bed. "I'm going to the office to nail some more of them."

"Good luck with that." I pulled the covers over my head. "I'll be here if you need me."

I dozed while she showered and dressed, but the aroma of coffee lured me out of bed shortly after Felicia left for the office.

I fumbled around the kitchen in my bathrobe, every movement setting off aches and pains. Coffee and aspirin helped, but I still felt like I'd been run over by a shit wagon.

Plus, Joy's death kept bothering me, an itch I couldn't scratch. If Chavis wasn't responsible for her death, then who was? Slick said he hadn't ordered her killed. Had one of his business partners heard about Joy going to the feds? Had one of them hired a hitman?

I thought some more about that long-range rifle shot. Had the shooter been waiting there for days, hoping for the kind of opportunity I eventually provided? Wouldn't the neighbors have noticed a strange vehicle hanging around? A man with a gun?

No, it was more probable that the shooter followed me to that safe house. But wouldn't I have noticed? I'd been on alert for tails after I saw that black cop car following me on Central Avenue.

Then it hit me. I knew the identity of the shooter. He'd followed me to that safe house all right, but it didn't have a damned thing to do with the fairgrounds or the feds.

Chapter 31

An hour later, I was in my Olds, driving across town. Getting dressed had been a nightmare of pain, but I couldn't very well accost a murderer in my bathrobe. I had my revolver holstered on my hip and wore my leather jacket to protect against the morning chill. Shivering made me hurt all over, and I didn't need the distraction.

I moaned as the car jolted over a speed bump at the entrance of the Northeast Heights apartment complex where Shawn Weston lived.

I saw the black Ford parked in the same slot where I'd seen it earlier. I'd assumed at the time that the Crown Vic was an unmarked police car, but now I believed it belonged to Shawn. Just the sort of vehicle a security guard -- a wanna-be cop -- would drive.

I parked the Olds nearby and walked to the Ford, glancing around to see if anyone watched. I assumed everyone was at work, except for Shawn. Since he worked nights, he might still be asleep. Maybe, for once, I'd be the one enjoying the element of surprise.

The Crown Vic's windows were rolled up nearly all the way, and I leaned in close, sniffing at the narrow gap at the driver's side window. My busted-up nose wasn't at its best, but I thought I could detect a whiff of days-old gunsmoke.

I limped to Shawn's apartment and pounded on the door. I glanced around once more, then pulled the Smith & Wesson from its holster. I held it behind me and waited for the door to open.

If Shawn was surprised to see me, he covered it well. He was yawning as he answered the door. His brown hair was tousled, and he wore only sweatpants. His upper body showed the results of regular workouts: broad shoulders, well-toned biceps and rippling abs. Made me glad to be fully dressed.

"Hey," he said. "What happened to you?"

I touched my shiner. "Invite me in, and I'll tell you all about it."

He turned away, and I followed him into the living room, which was tidier than when I'd seen it last, as if Shawn was managing to pull his life back together. Too bad for him. I planned to disrupt everything.

When he turned back to face me, I had my revolver pointing at him.

"Whoa, man. What the fuck?"

"Sit down. We're going to have a talk."

"You need a gun for that?"

"I want to make sure you behave yourself."

He lowered himself onto the sofa. "What's this about?"

"It's about Joy Forever, and how you killed her."

He started to leap to his feet, but I waggled my gun at him and said, "Uh, uh, uh. Behave yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about, man."

"Sure you do. You followed me after I came by here the first time. I shook you once, but you figured out where I lived and were ready the next day."

"You've got it all wrong--"

"That black Ford in the parking lot. That's yours, right?"

He clamped his mouth shut, but I could tell I was on target.

"You followed me until I turned up Joy. When the feds had me on my knees, you saw your opportunity."

His eyes darted back and forth, and I had the feeling he was looking for a weapon.

"If you jump up from that couch, I will shoot you," I warned. "I've had enough of fistfights and chasing around."

He sat back, his knobby hands resting on his knees.

"Had you planned to shoot her all along? A case of 'If I can't have her, nobody will?' Or did you make the decision on the spot, once you saw her at that safe house?"

He wouldn't answer me, but a flush crawled up his neck and brightened his cheeks. I was on the right track.

"What did you do with the rifle? Did you throw it in the river on your way back home? Or do you still have it?"

Again, he said nothing, but he glanced toward a coat closet set into the living room wall. I would've bet anything the rifle was hidden in there.

"Dumb move, Shawn. The cops can match up the ballistics."

He scowled at me, looking ready to spring up, but I raised my gun, aiming it directly between his eyes. With my free hand, I dug my cell phone out of my jacket pocket.

"You don't have to tell me," I said. "One of my best friends is head of Homicide at APD. He'll be only too glad to take up the questioning."

I backed up a couple of steps, giving myself room to move in case he tried to make a run at me. It was hard to dial the phone with my left hand while holding the gun on him with my right, but I managed. I held the phone up to my ear, but before it could ring, I was distracted by a loud bing-bong behind me.

The doorbell.

Chapter 32

I pocketed the phone, and kept my revolver pointed at Shawn as I backed to the door.

"You expecting someone?"

He shook his head.

 I stooped to look through the peephole, halfway expecting Felicia or even Dub. I couldn't have been more shocked by who stood outside. Land Commissioner Mark Chavis. I could only see the top half of him, but he was dressed in a dark suit and tie, hands behind him, and he bounced on his toes with impatience.

I made a shushing face at Shawn, then hid my gun behind my hip as I opened the door. Chavis already looked pissed off. No sense making it worse by menacing him with a gun.

I swung the door open, and found that Chavis had produced a gun of his own, a little black pistol aimed directly at my gut.

"Aw, hell," I said.

He was so surprised, it's a wonder he didn't jerk the trigger. "What are you doing here?"

"Same thing as you. Hunting for the person who killed Joy."

He frowned, looking me up and down. "Show me your hands."

"Uh."

He stabbed the little gun toward my midsection. "Right now."

I revealed the revolver that I'd kept hidden behind my hip.

"Drop it," he said.

"There's no reason to--"

"Now!"

The Smith & Wesson clunked to the carpeted floor.

"I should shoot you where you stand," he said. "My wife's going to divorce me because of you and your big mouth."

The real reason was because he was running around with a stripper; I'd only been the messenger. But it didn't seemed prudent to point that out at this time.

"Back away from the door."

I stepped to the side, turning my head, and was surprised to see Shawn Weston sitting right where I'd left him. If I'd been him, I would've made use of the distraction and escaped through the nearest window. But Shawn didn't seem to realize how much trouble had just arrived at his door.

"Who's this guy?"

"Never mind who I am," Chavis said. "You're Shawn Weston?"

"Yeah, that's me. And I'm getting pretty fucking tired of people pointing guns at me."

"Shut up."

"Fuck you."

The little gun cracked, making me jump straight up in the air. Shawn bounced on the sofa, a bullet tearing a hole in his meaty shoulder, three inches above his heart. Dark blood gushed from the wound.

"Jesus Christ, man!" Shawn put a hand over the bloody hole. "What's wrong with you?

"You killed her, didn't you?" Chavis demanded. "She told me once that if anything ever happened to her, it would be because of you, the jealous boyfriend."

He took a step toward Shawn, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

"Hang on, hang on," I shouted. "You don't want to kill him."

"Shut up!" Chavis screeched, whirling on me. "Sit down or you're next!"

I perched on the nearest armchair, but kept my feet flat on the floor, so I'd be ready to move. I glanced at my fallen revolver. It was only eight or ten feet away, but it might as well have been a mile.

Shawn writhed on the couch, blood oozing between his fingers where he pressed against the wound.

"I didn't do it," he said through clenched teeth. "It was this guy. It was his fault."

I looked from Shawn to Chavis and back again before I realized Shawn was talking about me.

"Whoa now," I said. "I didn't pull that trigger. All I did was find her. Shawn followed me there and did the shooting."

Chavis glared at me, though his pistol still was pointed in Shawn's general direction.

"You fucking snoop," he growled. "First, you lead this guy to Joy so he can kill her. Then you come to my house and tell my wife."

"I'm sorry," I said. "At the time, I thought you were the one who shot Joy. I was trying to trip you up, get you to confess. Same as I was doing a minute ago with Shawn here."

"That's your strategy, Mr. Great Detective? Blindly accusing anyone who crosses your path, hoping you'll hit upon the right person?"

I shrugged. "Sometimes it works."

"You've ruined my life," he said. "I'll lose my family, my career, the faith of the voters. I was going to be governor one day! Now it's all ruined."

Mark Chavis seemed ready to channel his despair through that pistol.

"You kill him, and you'll go to prison," I said. "What about your kids? Think they want their daddy behind bars?"

"Might be better than living in disgrace," he said.

"They wouldn't think so." I thought of my Mama and the headlines she'd made years ago. Humiliating, sure, but I still had a pretty good childhood, thanks to her. "They'd rather have you at home, working things out with their mother. It's not too late. You can still patch it up."

He seemed to waver for a second, but then he looked at bleeding Shawn and shook his head.

"I've already shot him. I can't take that back."

"No, but you don't have to finish the job," I said. "We'll prove he murdered Joy. How can the cops charge you with anything if you're the one who brought a killer to justice? You'll look like a hero."

Total bullshit, but I was running out of arguments.

"Cooperate with the feds," I said. "Tell them how Slick tried to use Joy to blackmail you."

Chavis' eyes widened. Guess he didn't know anyone had figured out that part.

"I guarantee you," I said, "Simon Trujillo would rather have you on the witness stand than in jail."

Shawn, moaning and sniffling, chose this inopportune moment to shout, "You're both crazy! I didn't kill anybody!"

"Yes, he did," I said quickly. "We can prove it. The rifle's in that closet."

Chavis half-turned to look where I pointed, and the muzzle of his pistol drifted to a point somewhere between Shawn and me.

I sprang to my feet and bounded toward him. He tried to turn his pistol my direction, but he was a second too late. I caught him with a nice overhand right. Right in the kisser.

The gun went off, but the bullet whined past me. I didn't turn to see what it hit. I punched Chavis in the mouth again, cutting my knuckles on his get-out-the-vote teeth. His head snapped back, and he reeled around, dazed.

I grabbed his gun hand and pointed it skyward while I peeled his fingers loose from the pistol. He tried to hold onto it, but an elbow to the nose distracted him.

Once I had the little gun, I backed away, keeping them both covered. Neither seemed willing to make another move, though. They both were too busy bleeding.

I limped to my own gun, stooped over and scooped it up. Felt much better to have a weapon with some stopping power.

Then the front door flew open, and two burly uniformed cops crowded through, guns drawn, screaming, "Freeze! Freeze!"

I froze.

Chapter 33

The first cops on the scene assumed I was the bad guy, seeing as how I held both guns and the other two guys were bleeding. But Shawn Weston was quick to point the finger at Chavis, who in turn accused Shawn of murdering Joy Forever. Once they heard that Joy had been a federally protected witness, the befuddled cops were only too happy to call their superiors and turn the mess over to them.

Shawn Weston was taken away by ambulance. Mark Chavis was hauled off in handcuffs. Which left me to explain the whole thing to Steve Romero and the other detectives.

We went over it several times, but finally Romero seemed satisfied.

"How about that, Bubba, you actually solved a murder," he said. "Granted, it was your fault the stripper got killed in the first place, but at least you figured out who did it and why."

Somehow, that didn't make me feel any better.

We went out to the parking lot while the uniformed cops sealed the apartment with yellow crime scene tape. Romero had put Shawn's rifle in a long plastic evidence bag, and he stood with it leaning on his shoulder. He looked like a soldier doing guard duty in a guayabera shirt.

"Simon Trujillo will be disappointed," I said. "He wanted to believe Joy was killed because she was going to tell all, but that wasn't it at all."

"He'll still get plenty of headlines out of this thing, once we press charges against Chavis and Weston. The publicity will be enough to kill that fairgrounds deal."

"For now."

"Trujillo will find something else to keep him busy," Romero said. "Never any shortage of corruption around here."

"True," I said. "Where there's money, there will be crooks."

He nodded.

"The weird part," I said, "is that Joy probably broke up with Shawn to protect him. She must've thought he'd be in danger once she started talking to the feds. She tells him to take a hike, for his own good, and he kills her for it."

Romero shrugged. He'd seen stranger things, I suppose. He reminded me to come downtown and give a written statement.

"I'm getting tired of telling this story."

"Too bad for you," he said, grinning. "Look who just drove up."

I turned to see Felicia getting out of her car. She had a notebook in her hand.

I sighed. And got ready to tell it all again.

For more books by Steve Brewer, check out www.stevebrewer.us.com.

Reach the author at abqbrewer@gmail.com.