Free The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel by John Vorhaus Page A

reconvened. “Thank you, Allie,” said Woody. “At my age, things take forever to heal.” She nodded acknowledgment, but I could tell by the flush on her cheeks and her bright eyes that she’d gotten off on the move.
What do you know?
I thought.
I’m not the only one chasing the buzz
.
    “So much for milking the drama,” I said.
    “It’s not so bad,” said Woody. “I’ve been summoned, that’s all. Got two days to get twenty-three grand back to Vegas.”
    “So, not a problem,” I said.
    “Wouldn’t be,” said Woody, “if I had the twenty-three grand.”
    * Really just scrambled eggs, of course, but it sounds much fancier in Spanish.

9

4king Awsum
     
    W oody was gone. He’d taken his stiff upper lip and the $23,000 hole in his pocket and put Santa Fe in the rearview. It wasn’t clear to me whether he was heading back to face the music or further out on the lam. I didn’t care. When something rings as loudly false as that AWOL money, it tends to drown out everything else, including sympathy, empathy, and any father-son football fantasies I may have entertained.
    In other circumstances, and against a lesser mark, I’d have expected the play to go something like this: Woody explains that he made a dumb move with the 23K, lost it, got robbed, whatever. Then, and with great reluctance, he asks the mook for a bridge loan, just enough to buy him out of the bad guys’ grip while he waits for some sure (but slow-developing) windfall to get everyone well. But Woody knew I’d never fall for that, so he gave no reason for the missing money nor the slightest hint of wanting a bailout from Radar National Bank. I wonder what he’d have said if I’d offered. Probably be offended that I’d put him on so naked a play. Either that or be disappointed that I bought in. But I kept
stumm
and so did he. We bid our adieus, and he got his stoic ass in the wind. I expected I’d get a postcard of a jackalope someday.
    As for Allie’s and my postmortem, we didn’t see eye to eye at all. She, still taking things at face value, thought Woody just thought better of dragging me into his mess and beat a hasty, one might even say noble, retreat. I said he made the whole thing up: Wolfredian, the phantom whale, all of it.
    “Why would he do that, Radar?”
    Sensible question. I had no sensible answer, so I offered the one of a hurt little boy. “Just to screw with me,” I said. “Just to watch me dance.”
    “Come on, lover, even you don’t believe that.”
    “Okay, I don’t. So then I don’t know why he did it. I do know this, though: We haven’t heard the last of him.”
    “But he
left
. He left without asking for help.”
    “Obviously,” I said, “he wants me to take the bait without his having to ask. He knows he can’t ease me in. I have to do it myself.”
    “So he’s going to seduce you by not seducing you?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Then it was all an act? The disguises, the goons …”
    “
Alleged
goons,” I amended.
    “You’re saying he hired them?”
    “I’m saying it’s possible.”
    (All of this, by the way, is taking place in the back room at Shabookadook, a wine bar around three corners from the Plaza, where every Wednesday night is Performance Art Night, and for which Vic and Zoe, we’ve been tweeted, have cooked up something, and I quote, “4king awsum.” The mind boggles at the prospect.)
    “You should be happy in any case,” I said. “Now there’s nothing interfering with our merry little citizens’ band.”
    Well, I knew that was trouble as soon as I said it, but Allie, to her credit, let it slide, electing to stick to the logic of the situation and not get sucked into the dangerous undertow of emotion. “Look, Radar, you’re the big fan of Occam’s razor”—where the simplest explanation that fits the facts is likeliest to be true—“so you tell me, which is simpler? (a) a known grifter gets into the sort of trouble that grifters are known for getting into, or (b)