Free The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel by John Vorhaus

heard the wheeze of air brakes and looked down to see a luxury motor coach disgorging a tour group.
    “Bet you anything …,” I said.
    “No bet,” said Allie. We watched the tour group climb the hill. When it reached us, we melted into it and made our way to Woody, whose professor-on-holiday drag included wire-rimmed glasses, trekking hat, chukka boots, and a realistically natty white trim beard.
    “You go to lengths,” said Allie, her voice pitched low to blend in with the tourists
aahing
at the sunset.
    “Sometimes you have to,” Woody murmured. “I spent a whole year once masquerading as a Sandinista.”
    “In that context,” I asked, “what’s the difference between masquerading and being?” Woody gave me a look like
the stories I could tell
, but the tale went untold for now. As the tour group fragmented, we three took up station on the railing in front of the cross. It offered a clear view of the street below and, if one turned around and leaned against the rail as I did, an unobstructed look across to Fort Marcy, as well. “So what’s going on?” I asked.
    “I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ve worn this town out. I should never have come here in the first place.”
    “What about help with your goons?”
    “No. That was a bad idea. Sentimental and self-indulgent. It puts you at risk.”
    “You know, I decide about that.”
    “Anyway, it’s really just a matter of returning some money.”
    “That’s not what you said last night.”
    “I exaggerated. I … milked the drama.”
    “And the disguises?”
    “More of same. Anyway, it’s no big deal. After I get it sorted, I’ll come back. Maybe we can hang out.” He paused, self-conscious. “Radar, I am sorry about the years. What do you say to take two?”
    Before I could answer, Woody froze. “You don’t know me,” he whispered fiercely, and glided away from us. I heard two car doors slam and looked downhill to see a freshly parked sedan and a pair of men in jeans and Western shirts hustling up the path. Woody buried himself in the clot of tourists and listened with rapt attention to the guide’s description of the dead friars and others that the cross commemorates. He produced a notebook from somewhere and hunched low over it, taking fervid notes. Allie and I drifted apart—no set play, just good grift hygiene. She took pictures. I pretended to be bored.
    The men ran up and scanned the crowd like men adept at scanning a crowd. They spotted Woody, silently flanked him, and eased him out of the group. As they led him down around a bend in the ramp, Allie and I observed as well as we could without giving ourselves away. I wondered what I’d do if things turned violent. I’m not big on violence; I prefer moves. We think of people as machines, especially in threat situations, but they’re still just people, and a bit of unexpected confusion can still put them off their game.
    Meanwhile, all of Woody’s body language said
surrender
. He held his hands out, palms down, in a gesture of pure placation. Reading his lips, I could see him saying, “I don’t have the money. I don’t know where it went.” The goons seemed not to believe him; they moved in tandem, one using his bulk to block the scene from casual eyes, whilethe other loaded up a kidney punch. They were about to administer a very quiet, very private beat-down to my old man.
    Just then Allie moved in, thrusting her camera in their midst. “Could one of you guys take my picture, please?” She rolled her eyes and added in a goofy, girly voice, “I promised my boyfriend.” They looked at her like she was daft—daft being the look she was going for, I’m sure—and distanced themselves from Woody. See? Moves. And this one was a beauty. It let them know there were witnesses. Sure enough, they broke off the beat-down and, after another moment’s rough rhetoric to Woody, headed back down the hill.
    They even took her picture.
    We waited till they were well away, then