Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

"Cancer," Clayton said. "Shouldn't he have been hospitalized?"

"He wasn't end-stage yet, according to our doctor. But the boozing didn't help, especially since he was taking painkillers as needed. I was hoping he'd get himself clean and sober-get his life in order, so to speak, before it ended. But the last time he was here, he didn't seem to give a damn. I guess that's understandable."

"When was that?"

Bodean consulted a day planner. "Six weeks to the day. Joe had seven admissions here during the last four or five years. A couple of times he discharged himself before completing the rehab program. About the best we could do for him was get him through detoxification. He got kicked out of every halfway house we placed him in for drinking."

"Did he make any friends here?"

"He liked to hang out with a couple of guys."

"Can you give me names and addresses?"

"Sure. One of them is here right now, going through rehab."

"I'd like to talk to him."

"No problem," Bodean said.

"Was Humphrey homeless?"

"No, he was more like a transient. He always stayed at one of the motels on Central Avenue where whores take their tricks."

"He used prostitutes?"

"Yep."

"Any one in particular?"

"That I wouldn't know."

"How did Humphrey get by financially?"

Bodean opened a desk drawer, pulled out a file, and flipped some papers. "He had a VA disability pension that paid him six hundred a month. He used to get welfare until they changed the law. This isn't the Betty Ford Clinic. We get the alcoholics who can't pay, and if they have a few hundred bucks, they'll hide it to avoid paying for treatment."

"Do you think Humphrey was like that?"

"I always wondered how he was able to stay off the streets on six hundred a month. Even at twenty bucks a night, a motel room would eat up his whole check. And he always seemed to have cigarette and Coke money."

"Did he leave any personal belongings here?"

"We don't allow that."

"Did he get close to any of the female patients?"

"We don't allow that, either."

"It never happens?"

Bodean shrugged. "We break it up when it does. But I never saw Joe put moves on any of the female patients. And believe me, I would've heard about it in group therapy if he had."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"Not that I know about. He wasn't a mean drunk, or the argumentative type. He was a quiet boozer."

"Any personal stuff come out in treatment?"

Bodean lifted a shoulder. "The usual: an abusive father who abandoned the family, a mother who drank."

"Personal, not family," Clayton said.

"After a tour in Nam he went to work as a helicopter mechanic. That was his military specialty. Had a busted marriage, no kids, both parents dead, no close ties with his siblings. He started traveling about ten years ago after getting fired because of his drinking. He spent winters in Arizona."

"Did he own a vehicle?"

"An old Mercury," Bodean said as he consulted his file. "Any client with a car has to park it and turn over the keys while in treatment." He read off the license plate number.

"Can you give me those names and addresses?" Clayton asked.

Bodean pulled more files, read off the information, and got up from his desk chair. "Like I said, one of Joe's buddies, Bennie, is back in treatment. I'll go get him. You can talk here in my office."

"I appreciate that."

Clayton spent twenty minutes with Bennie Olguin, a member of the Isleta Indian pueblo just south of Albuquerque. Stocky and round in the face, Olguin wore a tank-top undershirt that exposed his muscular arms. Clayton learned the name of the motel on Central Avenue where Humphrey stayed when he was in town, got a few more names of fellow drunks Humphrey hung out with, and discovered that Humphrey liked to gamble.

"Did he ever get lucky?" Clayton asked.

Olguin's smile showed broken and missing teeth. "Once, with me, that I know of, down at the casino at Isleta. From the winnings, he paid for a grande binge we went on. We were borracho perdido for days."

"What did he like to play?"

"Slots and blackjack. I heard he scored a week or so ago up at the new Sandia Pueblo casino. He was estar may pesudo, rolling in money. Couple of thousand, I heard."

"Who did you hear it from?"

"Maybe Sparkle told me."

"Does Sparkle have a last name?"

"I don't know it. She's a puta. Joey liked to buy her when he had the money."

"Where do I find her?"

"She sometimes takes her tricks to the motel where Joey stayed when he was in town."

Clayton named the motel Bodean had mentioned.

"That's it," Olguin said, as he studied Clayton's face. "You're Indian, right?"

"Mescalero Apache," Clayton said.

Olguin grinned. "But maybe some white man snuck into your grandmother's tepee, que no?"

"Apaches don't use tepees much anymore, and I bet your mouth gets you into a lot of fights," Clayton said.

Olguin rewarded Clayton's observation with a smile. "Yeah, I like to brawl."

Clayton got a good description of Sparkle from Olguin and staked out the motel. It was one of those old 1950s motor courts along Central Avenue that had fallen onto hard times after Route 66 had been replaced by the interstate. The exterior stucco had been painted white and was peeling badly, holes had been punched in the wall of each guest room to accommodate small air conditioners, and the neon vacancy sign above the office door spelled out either VAC or CAN depending on which letters lit up or blinked off.

The motel sign advertised low rates, free local calls, and, of course, air-conditioned comfort.

There were only two cars in the asphalt lot, both parked in front of rooms, both totally broken down. Most of the motel guests Clayton watched as they came and went seemed to be without wheels. By eight o'clock at night, not one tourist had checked in, and the lodgers still out and about on foot were either drunk, stoned, or working up to it. But within the hour business picked up. One by one, four cars parked in front of the office and Clayton watched as guys rented rooms and then went inside with their dates, none of whom matched Sparkle's description.

Sparkle showed up at midnight with an overweight, middle-aged customer in tow who turned out to be a Mexican laborer. Clayton sent the john on his way and talked to Sparkle in front of her motel room. A junkie, she looked to be way older than her twenty-six years. About five two, she had a skinny teenager body that attracted certain men.

"Joey won fifty-six hundred at blackjack," Sparkle told Clayton. "He told me about it the next night when we got together for some fun."

"When was that?"

"Seven days ago."

"Did you see him after that?"

"Yeah, two or three times before he left town," Sparkle said.

"And?"

"He said he wanted to have a big blowout before he got too sick to enjoy himself. He was going down to Mescalero to stay at that Indian resort, gamble, drink, and order room service until the money ran out."

"When did he leave town?"

"I saw him two days ago. He was waiting for Felix to show up to go with him."

"Felix?"

"Yeah, Felix Ulibarri."

"Where can I find Felix?" Clayton asked.

"I don't know where he lives."

"Do you know if he's ever been arrested?" Clayton asked.

"He did six months on a drunk driving conviction. He got out about a month ago."

"Thanks."

"Why are you looking for Joey?" Sparkle asked.

"I'm not," Clayton answered. "I'm looking for his killer."

It took a while for the night supervisor at the Bernalillo County lockup to copy Felix Ulibarri's arrest records. Clayton left the detention center with a last-known address, a photograph, and some pertinent information about the man. Over the years, aside from his DWI convictions, Ulibarri, age forty-two, had been jailed for petty crimes and misdemeanors ranging from criminal trespass to shoplifting and disorderly conduct-all typical busts associated with garden-variety chronic alcoholics. He also had one fourth-degree felony assault charge stemming from a domestic disturbance involving a former live-in girlfriend.