Free Parrot Blues by Judith Van Gieson Page A

monitors, will you?”
    â€œI’ll do that.”
    â€œAnd while you’re at it, why don’t you take the Spanish off your ATM screens. This is America. Let those wets learn English.”
    â€œSpanish has been around these parts since 1540,” Charlie said.
    â€œThe Indians were here before that. Why don’t you put Indian on your screens too?”
    â€œIn some places we do.”
    â€œYou’ll get the papers drawn up by tomorrow morning?” Terrance asked me.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “The bills used for the transfer should be xeroxed.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Charlie.
    â€œWhat for?” demanded Terrance.
    â€œTo record the serial numbers so they can be traced,” I said.
    â€œI’ll get somebody on it,” Charlie said.

5
    I HAD OTHER business that day, including a trip to family court, a place I dislike more than any other. The family court judge receives a lot of death threats, and it’s easy to understand why. Anybody who has the power to take somebody’s kids away is not going to be popular. My client, Tommy Denton, had already lost his son and was trying to get him back. The judge ordered tests and counseling. Nothing was concluded, everything was postponed; that’s to be expected in family court. When we were done, I took Tommy to La Posada for a drink. It was happy hour, the band had a retro blues singer with the raspy voice of a Janis Joplin without the Southern Comfort. La Po is full of hand-carved beams and Old Mexico charm. Tommy had the blues; we stayed too long.
    It was getting dark when we left the bar. Tommy had parked his pickup beside a yellow curb and had accumulated two parking tickets. A true New Mexican, he ripped the tickets into pieces and let the wind goddess carry them away. He climbed into his one-eyed Ford, thanked me for my help and offered me a ride to my Nissan. I declined; the car was only a few blocks away, and I felt like walking. A cowboy and a cowgirl passed me on their way to La Po. She wore a hat and a black dress with cut-out ovals for her shoulders. He wore a black hat and gloves with cuffs wide enough to convince me he was only a cowboy for the night. You see lots of one-night cowpokes around here. It was a change from daytime when the suits (male and female) walk around with cell phones on their ears.
    A kid on a skateboard jumped the curb and let out a whoop. A police siren whined. The night had a raw and sensual edge. I wondered where the Kid was and what he was doing, but I put that thought out of my head because I had to get back to my office and prepare the agreement for Terrance Lewellen’s collateral.
    My car was only a few blocks closer than my office, but nobody in Albuquerque ever stops to think if the distance is worth the gas. Downtown street life is intense but narrow, and in a few blocks I was out of it, all alone on the empty sidewalk except for the homeless woman who’d made her ragged bed in an office building’s vestibule. It looked snug if you didn’t get too close and the wind was blowing the dumpster smell away. The homeless woman sat up, stuck out her hand and said excuse me in a loud voice. I slipped her a five and crossed the street, stepping one inch too close to the truck that was parked in front of the Nissan. “Back off,” the truck squawked, “protected by the Viper.”
    â€œShut up,” I said, inserting my key in my lock. The only protection the Nissan had was that it was too shabby to steal. I drove it to Hamel and Harrison and pulled into the narrow driveway that abuts our building. A full-sized car would scrape its fenders against the wall; we’ve got the gouges in the stucco to prove it. As I passed the grated windows on the driveway side, I noticed that a light was on deep in my office. It had been daylight when I left. Had Anna left the light on? I wondered for the brief instant before it went out.
    Our parking lot is right