Zuni Stew: A Novel (3 page)



The lawyer called Gabriel early to report on the compromise. Mixed news. Costly construction, but doable. Gabe wanted to tell Pasquale himself. He turned his white truck into the circular drive, grabbed the plans. After three rings, he jogged around clipped euonymus hedges to the back door. As usual, unlocked. He called out a bright “Good morning” just before entering the kitchen.

He tripped over Jo Lou’s contorted legs, knocking him to his knees. His hands went out to stop his fall. The blood was slick, still wet. The breakfast room—the bodies of Rose and Pasquale were on the floor. Pasquale, blood-soaked. Oddly Rose seemed free of blood except for a large spot on the left side of her robe.

Snapping to, he grabbed the phone. The operator repeatedly had to coax him to get the address.

Gabriel waited on the front steps, head down, until the police arrived. Later, in the kitchen, he took a seat facing away from the carnage. He placed nitroglycerin under his tongue. He felt himself ease a little, out of danger.

The senior officer stepped outside to call his superior, who asked him to repeat the surname again. “D’Amico. All of them, and their maid.” He was told to sit tight, wait for his return call. Do nothing.

“Do nothing?” he whispered to himself. “What the fuck is going on?”

Unmarked cars arrived. No one commented about the distribution of blood, the bodies upstairs. The chief was emphatic: shut up and leave. A plainclothes team arrived as the policemen drove away.



At one o’clock, Pasquale D’Amico’s manager assembled the staff and told them about the departure of the D’Amico family due to Mrs. D’Amico’s asthma. Mr. D’Amico was flying her to the specialist in Canada. The daughters and eldest son went with them. Mrs. D’Amico’s local physician had phoned him. All was under control. The restaurant would continue business as usual.



A large estate in Flossmoor, prestigious-looking, even in this neighborhood. Two men sat on a brick terrace looking down on the pool below. Three young children splashed and shrieked.

Mr. K spoke in a very low voice, “You come recommended. Your target is serving his tour of duty not in Vietnam, but as a doctor at some godforsaken place, New Mexico or Arizona, maybe Utah. As a doc, he couldn’t opt out. He’s driving a dark green Thunderbird, black Landau roof, really hot shit, that his daddy gave him.”

Ice cubes clinked against crystal. Mr. K poured a quarter glass of Scotch for himself, leaned back in his lounge chair. “Can’t blame him. I gave that kid’s mother—my only child—anything she wanted at that age. Now she’s on her second husband. Spends all her time deep sea fishing in Mexico.”

“Which coast?” asked the guest.

“West. Last I heard, San Carlos.”

“I’ve been in Guaymas. The
Cabrillo
are huge.”

“Bottom fish. I don’t like trolling,” said Mr. K.

A beach ball headed into a rose bed. The little girl cried as she watched it deflate. Mr. K ignored his granddaughter, studying the man across the glass-topped table.

The forty-ish Mario Bella was stocky, but in prime physical shape. A meticulous man, his hands were not those of a day laborer, but someone you would meet at the country club and play a round of golf. Heavy dark eyebrows, a family trait, and curly salt-and-pepper hair.

“Most likely route he’s taking is US 54. Here’s his picture, and your new ID.” Mr. K reached in the pocket of his thick white terry-cloth robe, slid a driver’s license and a set of keys across the table toward him. “The keys go to a Chevy Impala. Find Doctor Jack D’Amico and kill him.”

6

I
t was after midnight when Mario first spotted the dull light emanating from Fort Scott. He realized he had been driving on mental auto mode for some time. A moonless night, an empty road had done nothing to hold his attention. He passed a city limits sign, a sign as uninteresting as all the others on his route.

A car roared out of a small drive-in, fishtailing on to the main drag, barely missing him. “Sonofabitch!” yelled Mario. It was a fancy T-bird. Illinois plates. He floored the gas pedal. The cars were butt-to-bumper.

The Thunderbird swerved off US 54. Mario accelerated out of a slide, ramming the car. Over-correcting, the car shot off the road, down an embankment into thick brush. Upside down, wheels spinning.

Mario slid down the sandy hillside. The kid struggled to get out. Mario raised his pistol and fired. He dragged the lifeless body from the T-bird into the headlights.

It wasn’t Dr. D’Amico. “Shit!”

A teenager, with acne and bad teeth. A steel bullet through the upper torso. He kicked the body over with his foot—a clean exit out the boy’s back. He dug out the bullet buried in the leather-covered console. Shoved the kid into the car, pushed his dead body into the steering wheel. Saturated him with gas. One lit match, a huge explosion of flames.

Mario ran up the embankment and floorboarded the Impala. Wheels spun in the dirt, the car jumped forward kicking up a plume of dust. An explosion rocked the car. Red fireball lit the sky. He glanced in the rear view mirror. Once.

Back in town, he waited in the bay of a darkened filling station. The Union 76 man opened at five AM, filled his tank while he went into the filthy bathroom. Shaved and brushed his teeth. The water was dirty brown. No paper towels. No toilet paper.

He asked the gas guy, who appeared to be half-asleep, where he could buy a used car.

The man yawned. “There’s ‘Jerry’s’ just down the way a bit. Can’t miss it. Chain-link fenced lot with a trailer in front.”

Jerry wasn’t there, but a man who called himself ‘the main man’ turned out to be about as smart as a stone. He remembered selling an old clunker, a ‘56 pink Chevy, the day before.

“Guy didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout cars. Hope he makes it where he’s goin’.”



Jack left in darkness, stopping only to let the engine cool enough so he could add water. The car was using nearly as much oil as gasoline.

Dalhart. Another late night, a lousy motel room. At least the TV worked. The next morning, scorched pancakes and undercooked bacon. The only bright spot—a large cream and pink rose floating in a low vase at the cashier’s desk.

“Chicago Peace?” asked Jack.

“You know roses?” smiled the older woman.

“My Mother does.”

7

“
C
an’t you get a damn thing right?”

“Mr. K...” Mario had to give him some good news or he’d end up eviscerated like that dog. He told him he had found the Thunderbird, but D’Amico must have bought another car, possibly an old Chevy in bad condition.

“Then get going, catch him!” Mr. K slammed down the receiver and paced the walnut-paneled office. At least he had been correct about US 54.

Mario crossed Kansas in a few hours. Two speeding tickets were disposed of out the window. He hated Kansas. He hated driving. He despised Mr. K—worst contract he’d ever been stupid enough to accept. He slammed a tape into the deck—
G
ö
tterdämmerung
. Mr. K, a Jew, hated German music, especially Wagner.

An hour later he spotted a pink-toned Chevrolet. Right year, wrong plate. If the stone head in Fort Scott was correct. He unfolded the map, tracing US 54. Get through Dalhart, give up for the night in Tucumcari. Shower, sleep.



About forty minutes out of Dalhart, a loud clang emitted from the right front wheel. Jack barely got the car off the road. He could deliver a baby blindfolded, take out an appendix in the dark, but he didn’t know a thing about cars. Something was damn sure wrong.

Twenty more minutes went by before a trucker stopped and offered help. No luck, but the driver radioed for a tow truck, and three hours later he was back in Dalhart, chucking out more dollars for the tow. The mechanic had a cold. He wiped his nose with a greasy rag, promised a look, but nothing more. Wheel studs were sheared off. An anchor pin needed re-welding. Plus a re-attachment of the return spring.

Hours later, he coaxed the car back on to the highway. Ahead, a Greyhound bus spewed fumes. A Harley with bulging saddlebags roared past. A 1957 red Corvette pulled into a motel named Chief’s. Black and white shields pointed the way to US 66.

Welcome to Santa Rosa—City of Natural Lakes. Neon at the Frontier Motel flashed:

WELCOME

7 ROOMS

CHEAP CLEAN SLEEP

THERMOSTAT HEATING

He gave up for the day. Pulled in at a place called the Club Café. The iconic logo featured the smiling, satisfied face of the Fat Man. “Greeting Diners Since 1935.” Decent T-bone steak and fries.

He decided to dump the Chevy. Too damn slow. Still one-hundred-fifty miles to Albuquerque.



Backing out of the motel parking lot, Mario spotted a pink Chevrolet crammed in a junk yard fifty feet away. Five dollars to check the license plate. Kansas. Another fiver confirmed the driver had sold it for next to nothing and walked away.

There was one used car place in town—McCarthy’s. A blue-eyed, young man had purchased a 1961 M151 Willy Jeep an hour before.



Thanks to President Eisenhower and the Highway Act of 1956, US 66 had been newly upgraded to I-40 outside of Santa Rosa, but he ran into a nightmare of road construction by the time he reached Moriarty. Diverted to old 66. Plodded through the blighted town. Mainly truck stops. Hippies and stash houses. He swore he could smell marihuana.

Back on recently built I-40, he began the climb to about seven-thousand-feet through Tijeras Canyon. Winding road. Thunderheads grew vertically over South Sandia Peak. Clouds raced to merge, but occasional flashes of sun lit up granite walls and embedded pink feldspar crystals. The Western Range, steep, rugged towers. He crowned out. A majestic view opened up. The whole world spread out before him. In the distance lay the old town of Albuquerque.

A stiff wind current blew down his back, smelling of ozone. He coasted into the city—a downshift, cruising Central Avenue. The first drops hit the window screen. Nob Hill. Neon signs everywhere. He spotted a new-looking motel, his eyes on the swimming pool, despite the imminent downpour.



Mario stopped in Moriarty. Got gas at the Whiting Brothers Station. Checked into the Sunset Motel. He went out, ate a green chile cheeseburger at the Frontier Bar, which gave him indigestion. He watched TV on a snowy screen in his room. Rhythmic flashing neon lights outside brought on a tension headache.

8

A
dmiral Zeller cradled the receiver and leaned back, eyes on Dr. G. H. Martin. “That call was from the Chicago FBI.”

“What do they want from us?”

“The new officer you’re meeting, Doctor Jack D’Amico—his family was murdered in their home a few days ago.” Zeller opened a silver box topped with a large chunk of turquoise, a gift from his wife, and offered a cigarette to Dr. Martin.

“His entire family?”

Zeller exhaled, looked at the notes he had taken. “Husband, age sixty-two, and wife, fifty-eight, Jack’s father and mother. Twin girls, nineteen-years-old, a son, twenty-eight, the maid, age thirty-three, and a dog, an old sheepdog. Everyone, except Jack, the new doctor.”

“My Lord. What are we supposed to do? What can we do for him?” asked Martin.

“The FBI wants us to tell him nothing for now, just get him on his way.” Zeller tapped an ashtray. “They need time to sort things out. Meantime, they asked us to protect the guy. They didn’t say ‘what’ to protect him from.”

The silence in the office was interrupted only by Zeller opening and closing his lighter. Martin had trouble not looking at the photograph of Zeller’s youngest son resting on the credenza behind his boss’s desk. Killed in Vietnam. Flying low reconnaissance over the jungle, the boy didn’t make it to an age to legally purchase a beer. The admiral still wore a black ribbon on his upper right lapel.

Zeller put the lighter down and gave it a spin. “Make his visit short. Call Doctor Newman, fill him in, then get D’Amico to Zuni. At least it’s remote.”



Jack dried off after an early swim, settled into a lounge chair. Thumbed through the Public Health Service manual. He tossed it on the glass-topped table just as a pretty Hispanic girl set down a breakfast tray. Between bites of scrambled eggs, he memorized the officer names he was about to face.

Back in his room, he remembered his promise to call home. No need to mention the Thunderbird. He leaned over and snapped on a low lamp. The red-gold-clad bullfighter in the velvet painting went neon. Even the bull’s eyes flashed red.

Fourteen rings and no answer. Probably Jo Lou and his mother were in the rose garden, or shopping—it was ten o’clock in Chicago. He would call from Zuni.

He parked adjacent to a 50’s-looking concrete block building. Alone in the elevator, the brass fittings and wood panels shined. No hospital smells, no muffled screams, no rounds, no demands—he was completely alone. Everything was totally foreign, his future a blank.

Ushered down a hall to a door marked with the engraved name of Dr. G. H. Martin, Assistant Director. He ran his hands down his sideburns, checked his zipper.

A grey-haired man in short sleeves, tie tack too high, offered a chair. “Welcome to the Southwest, Doctor. We’ve been expecting you. We’re really short-handed out there at Zuni.”