Land of Entrapment (17 page)

And there was always coffee available. Through Chris, I had met a few cops and somehow always ended up with free coffee when I came here.

I approached the information desk. To my left a corridor led to a gym. Slightly to my right and behind the information desk another corridor behind grey metal doors led to the administrative offices. Visitors had to be buzzed in and out of that hallway. A woman in a police-type uniform looked up as I approached.

She was probably in her early fifties. “Hi. I’m K.C.

Fontero. I have an eleven o’clock with Mark Aragon.”

I pronounced Aragon with an accent on the long “o.”

The woman checked a list.

“Ah. Here you are. You’re that friend of Chris Gutierrez?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled. Good. She likes Chris. Although it was hard not to like Chris. I worried about people who didn’t.

“Hold on. Let me page him.”

“Thanks.” I stepped back and watched as recruits wandered through. Some were on their way to the gym. A couple of admin types had arrived and they were drinking coffee at one of the tables, talking about dispatch.

“He’ll be right out,” the information clerk announced.

“Thanks.” I idly scanned the premises while I waited. Within about five minutes, I heard the metal door that led down the corridor to administration click open.

“Ms. Fontero?” A big burly guy wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a button-down denim shirt stood regarding me with that other cop look. Not really judgmental. More a sizing-you-up kind of way.

“Yessir. K.C.”

“Excellent. I’m Mark. C’mon in.” He motioned me to precede him down the hall. He moved lightly for a big man. “Chris says you’re in town doing some research on assholes.”

I grinned. “That about sums it up. I track white supremacists in the West and I got word that there might be some new groups setting up shop in Albuquerque. I’m on sabbatical in the fall and I need to finish up a book, so here I am.” He led me to an office near the end of the corridor on the left and he opened the door into a big room divided into cubicles.

Skylights provided some nice natural light, but it was still a cubicle labyrinth. He led me to the right and entered the last cubicle down.

“Technically,” he said as he eased his frame into the chair behind his comfortably cluttered desk while motioning to the one in front of it, “I’m with the gang unit. But in the last few years, we’ve started including racist groups in our gang classification because in many ways, they behave similarly. As you probably know.”

I opened my satchel and took the manila folder out that had the photos of Cody’s tattoos. I handed them to Mark. He looked through them, nodding his head now and again. “I’ve seen this ADR one. That’s the Aryan Desert Rats. They’re new on the scene.

About a year ago. I think they’re actually home-grown.”

“So they’re not affiliated with any larger group?”

“No. They network through UNM and as of May, they had twenty-three known members. Including this pendejo.” He motioned with his lips at a picture of Cody flexing. “I’d like to nail this little shit for something. He’s real mouthy. But he’s been clean since he got here.”

“So you know about him.”

“Chris gave me some data. She’ll have the Colorado reports in probably today. They’re supposed to fax ’em. The Rats have meetings but they’re pretty good about staying a few steps ahead.

Text messaging, online chat rooms. They don’t announce time, date, or location until the day of.

We’ve been trying to get someone on the inside, but these are hard nuts to crack. They’re way more serious than some of the other clowns running around.”

“Did he have that tat done here?” I pointed to the eagle on Cody’s back.

Mark picked up the image, studied it. “I’ve seen that. Hold on.” He opened a file on his desk and shuffled through a stack of photos. “Ah. Here it is.”

He handed me a photo. Different guy, same tattoo across his back. “This is Justin Marquez. Because he’s in denial about his Mexican roots, he pronounces his last name Mar-kay, like he’s French or some shit. But he was born in the South Valley.”

“Is he with the Desert Rats?”

“Yep, last time we checked. He knows he’s on our shit list, though, so he’s kept his nose clean. Hold on.”

Mark sifted through another folder, pulled out four more photos. Two different guys, same tattoo across their backs. The other two photos showed the guys’

left arms. Both sported the ADR logo on the bicep.

“David Jordan and William Stein. I hauled Stein in last month for auto theft. He’s in juvie right now.

He’ll be seventeen in November. Jordan, on the other hand, is into a little harder stuff. Armed robbery and assault. He’s nineteen so he’s doing time. He was convicted last year.”

“Nice,” I muttered sarcastically. “So these are all guys who are from here? Or at least lived here awhile?”

He nodded. “Chris tells me you’re looking for the artist who’s willing to put that shit on people.”

“Yeah. I thought I might get a line on this group.”

“Good angle. This guy is an equal-opportunity tattooist. He’s up on east Central, just past Wyoming.

Kind of a sleazy-looking shop on the outside, but it’s pretty clean inside. He takes his work seriously. He’ll do Aryans, gang-bangers, ex-cons. You go in there and you’ll see some skinhead showing his tats to some Mexican gang-banger.” Mark shook his head.

“Crazy shit.” Mark looked at the tats in the photos again. “Guy’s name is—” He thought for a moment.

“They call him Dragon. The shop is Eight Ball. Can’t miss it. There’s a giant eight ball painted on its front window.”

“Do other artists work out of that shop?”

“Yeah. Three. Sometimes a piercer comes in. They keep their permits up and they pass inspection all the time.” He shrugged. “And we’ve never had trouble there, so they must be doing something right.”

“What else do you know about the Rats?”

Mark sat looking at me for a minute, assessing.

“You want some coffee?”

“Love some.”

“I’ll be right back.” He got up and I watched his head and shoulders bob above the cubicle wall to the door. He exited into the hallway. While he was gone, I looked through more of the photos. Standard neo-Nazi tats and a few skinhead affiliations. Three Klan.

I stopped at another photo. A front shot, showing the guy’s face. He had a huge swastika tattooed on his chest. That must’ve hurt. I looked at the guy closer.

Roy Whistler. Had to be.

I looked through the rest of the photos. The last one gave me a very bad feeling. In it, a man lay shirtless face-down on asphalt. He had apparently been going to Dragon to get the Nazi eagle tattooed across his back, but it was only half-finished. He was positioned in such a way that I could just make out the ADR tattoo on his left bicep. His head was resting in what was most likely a puddle of blood. I looked up as Mark returned with two large paper cups of coffee and a few packets of sugar. He handed me a cup and sat down. Then he opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a jar of fake creamer.

“I’ve got my own stash,” he said conspiratorially, grinning.

“Thanks.” I doctored my coffee. “What happened here?” I held the photo up.

Mark looked at it and shook his head. “Found him around the end of May down near Kirtland Air Force Base. You know where Wyoming dead-ends at the Base?”

“Yeah.”

“There’re some bad news apartments down there and one of the residents found him in the parking lot.

He didn’t live there, but a friend of his did. The friend has an alibi.”

“What do you think happened?”

Mark shrugged. “I can’t tell you a whole lot because the case is still open. He was shot with a thirty-eight. Probably a Glock.”

“Can you tell me who he was?”

“Sure. It was in the papers. John Talbot, originally from Phoenix. We know he ran with the Rats for about three months after the meeting we busted up in February. Then he ended up dead. No evidence of drugs.”

“His tattoo wasn’t finished,” I pointed out.

“Might’ve run out of money. Or maybe he didn’t want to play anymore. Whatever happened, he pissed somebody off.”

I picked up the photo of the man I suspected was Roy Whistler. “How about this guy?”

Marc looked at the photo. “Roy Whistler. In gang-banger terms, he’s what you call an OG. Original Gangster. He’s pushing thirty-three, which is old for gang-banging. Don’t know if that’s considered old for haters.”

“Not really, but neo-Nazi movements do tend to favor the young. He’s the oldest I’ve seen affiliated with the Rats.”

“Yep. Rumor has it that he’s responsible for the Rats. He tried to do a Skin chapter but nobody was buying it. So he decided to try something with a more local flavor and came up with the Desert Rats. This guy is slick. I’m waiting to nail him, too, but so far he’s managed to avoid getting caught. I know he does shit, though.” Mark stirred his coffee and took a sip.

“Mmmm. fuckin’ terrible,” he announced as he smiled contentedly.

I liked this guy.

He put the cup down. “Okay. Here’s the deal on the Rats. In February, we managed to bust up one of their little meetings. We got one for parole violation and he’s in juvie now. We also got most of them on file. I can tell you that Whistler was there and so was Sorrell, who was Whistler’s right-hand man at the time. Now, I can’t tell you this for sure, but my feeling is that Whistler’s one of those guys who wants to go out in a blaze of glory. He’s a hard-core dude.

Doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything but he can make you jump off a cliff for him.” He took another sip of coffee. “My sources tell me that Whistler’s trying to buy some land in the East Mountains. Like he’s gonna put a bunker or something up there.”

“Where’s he getting the money?”

“Ah, therein lies the mystery. He’s doing something to get it. I think he’s got his little minions bilking relatives, friends, old ladies at the grocery store. Whoever. They’re digging for gold, basically.”

“Where in the East Mountains?”

“Couldn’t tell you. Whistler’s got friends in Edgewood so there’s speculation that they might be looking on that side. It’s cheaper, that’s for sure.”

“You think the Rats are based in Edgewood?”

He shrugged. “I doubt they really have a base.

They move around a lot. And most of the guys I know of in the group use each other’s houses as crash pads.

Whistler might be the only one with a permanent address, though he’s never there. It’s a crap-pad in the War Zone over on Coal and San Pedro. We keep an eye on it, but so far the bills are paid, the mail’s picked up, and nobody seems to hang out there.”

Good. That saved me a trip. Unless nothing panned out with Eight Ball. If that was the case, then I’d have to drive over to Whistler’s and stake it out for a bit.

“So what do you think Whistler’s blaze of glory is?”

“He’s a weird dude.” Marc looked at the photo on his desk. “I could see him pissing somebody off and starting an ATF show-down. Or pulling some crazy Waco shit. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas and he pretty much hates everybody. He’s one of those racial holy war believers, except I can see him pulling some shit to actually start the damn thing.”

“What about Sorrell?”

“My personal opinion is that there’s a little power struggle going on between him and Whistler. Just a feeling I got from watching them when we busted up that meeting. We’re trying to get someone in there and play that card, see if we can cause a split.”

I tugged on my earlobe. “That’s a good idea. In the meantime, what’s the most recent thing you’ve got on Sorrell and Whistler?”

He sat back. “Whistler actually has a steady job.

He works at one of those Grease Monkey joints up in the Heights. Quickie oil change. Sorrell—he’s a couch crasher. Last we heard, which was last month, he was hanging out with a couple of guys from a militia group that folded and they’re in Edgewood.”

“So he’s not even really with Whistler?”

“Can’t be sure. I think they might be on the outs.

Or maybe not.” He sighed and shrugged. “That’s about all I know.”

“I really appreciate your time. If I find anything, I’ll send it along to you.”

“Nice. Here.” He reached across his desk and moved a stack of paper over to reveal a business card holder. I took a couple and put them in one of the zipper pockets of my bag. I took one of my cards out and wrote my cell phone number on the back before I handed it to him.

“Thanks for the coffee.” I stood up with the cup.

“No problem.” He stood with me to usher me out in standard procedure. At the door back into the lobby, he looked down at me. “These are some bad dudes. Don’t try and be all Jane Bond and shit, okay?

Watch yourself.”

“I know. Thanks again.” He waved and closed the door behind me. I smiled and waved at the information clerk and exited into the midday dry sauna that was Albuquerque in late July. Where are the damn monsoons? I opened my car and got in, placing my bag on the passenger side. Time to go look up a particular tattoo artist. Eight Ball was on the other side of town so it’d take me forty-five minutes to get there. Plus, I was hungry. I’d have lunch and continue on my scavenger hunt.

AT ONE-THIRTY I pulled into the beat-up East Central strip mall that harbored Eight Ball Tattoos. A lurid neon sign in the window declared that the place was open. Over lunch I had consolidated my notes into a column system, one for Cody, one for Roy, and another for Megan. I’d also added a John Talbot column. Maybe I could get Cody and Roy into even more trouble if I made a connection from them to Talbot. From each source I added the bits of the puzzle to each column, seeing where they intersected.

I didn’t have a specific rhyme or reason to how I did things. It just helped me organize my thoughts to go about it this way.

I chose a parking space about a hundred feet away from the shop. If the guy who tried to get in the other night—and I was leaning toward Cody or Roy—was here by some weird coincidence, I didn’t want him to see my car right off. I rolled up the print-out I had of the tattoo on Cody’s back and stuck it into my right-hand cargo pocket. I locked up and crossed the asphalt to the crumbling sidewalk in front of the tattoo shop. As I opened the front door, a blast of cool air ruffled my hair. The place reeked of bleach and incense. Since it was still fairly early in the day, I was the only person in the waiting area. A bored-looking woman stood behind the counter. She had at least ten studs in her right ear in addition to a nose ring. Her arms were tattooed from wrists up. She looked me over.