Mario Acevedo - Jailbait Zombie

An older woman inside the house called out in Spanish. “Who is it?”

“Some strange man, Mama,” the woman at the door shouted back, also in Spanish.

Strange? I’ve been called worse.

To my left, the curtains in another window parted and a set of young eyes watched.

“My name is Felix Gomez,” I said in Spanish, hoping that by leaning on our common heritage, she would soften and welcome me in. “Are you Adrianna Maestas?”

She gave a guarded nod. I couldn’t imagine what such an attractive woman had seen in a loser like Chambers.

I handed her my business card.

She read the card and passed it to someone behind her. Adrianna brought those pretty eyes back to me and remarked in English. “So?”

“I’m looking for Barrett Chambers.”

Her face shriveled with disgust like she had milk curdling in her stomach. “Why the hell you asking me?”

I tried to play the sympathy angle. “I’m afraid something bad might have happened to him.”

“Oh yeah?” Her voice turned gleefully poisonous. “Well, I hope the worthless bastard drowned in a toilet while rats chewed his balls.” She slammed the door with the clank of the deadbolt as an exclamation mark.

Being married to this harpy might have driven Chambers to become a zombie.

I remained outside the door, not sure what to do next. I could break in and use hypnosis to make Adrianna talk. But she wasn’t alone. At least two more were in the house. Corralling so many witnesses wouldn’t be worth the trouble, especially if Adrianna didn’t know much. I’m sure she and Chambers parted ways long before he was recruited into the undead.

The Araneum suspected the reanimator was nearby but where? What new leads could I follow?

I returned to the Toyota. The crystal in the diviner gave a faint glow, on duty and vigilant for more psychic signals.

Faces in the windows of the cottage kept watch until I drove off.

So far, my investigation proceeded as expected. In other words, I had practically zip to show for my efforts. The one break was that I was now certain psychic attacks caused my hallucinations.

To plan my next step I circled back to a café that I had passed on the way to Adrianna’s.

This time in the morning, I could use a cup of coffee to stimulate my thinking. The café had a short adobe wall surrounding an outside patio. The picnic tables closest to the café door were busy with customers. I paid for a cup of dark roast and got a table at the far end of the patio. The coffee was good but needed a little blood to round out the taste.

The skies were darkening and a breeze drummed along the café’s patio awning. We were due for an autumn rain and I wanted to enjoy a drink in the fresh air before the clouds drenched us.

My cell phone vibrated. The incoming call had a local prefix but I didn’t recognize the number.

Who in Morada knew my number? I answered with a simple hello.

The caller-a younger man, I guessed by his voice-asked, “You Felix Gomez?”

“I am.”

“You looking for Barrett Chambers?”

The hairs on the back of my hand stood. The breeze had a sudden weight and chill.

“I know something about him,” the man said.

One moment this case was a dark closetand the next moment it was like the door had been flung open and the light shone in, intense and scalding with opportunity.

Who was this stranger? “Your name?”

“Gino. Gino Brunatti.”

He emphasized his last name like it should mean something. Which it did.

Brunatti. Any Colorado PI worthy of the license knew that name. Along with the Smaldones and Carlinos, the Brunattis were one of the organized-crime families who had moved to Denver from Chicago and the East Coast in the 1920s. They arrived hoping to expand their rackets. Other than adding color to local history and extended stays in the iron-bar hotel, none of the families accomplished much.

Once they were chased out of Denver-too much competition from the other crooks, including the police-the mobsters had moved south. Their descendants set up shop in Pueblo and west into the mountains surrounding the San Luis Valley.

So he was a Brunatti. If he lived in Morada and hung out with a lowlife like Chambers, then Gino wasn’t much of a big-time player in the crime world.

Gino said, “That’s you at the café.”

How did he know? I ducked and swiveled my head, convinced that he was using a sniper rifle to count the hairs on my scalp. Gino might not be a big-time player but he had cojones. Where was he? “How’d you get my number?”

“From Adrianna.”

Adrianna? Morada was a smaller town than I thought.

“She gave me your number and a description of your Toyota. I drive down Abundance and here you are. Listen, you can’t wipe your butt in this town without everybody knowing how many squares of paper you use.”

“Where are you?”

“Look to your right, asshole.”

A silver Nissan Titan pickup rumbled into the gravel parking lot and halted alongside my Toyota. The driver snapped a phone closed, and in the same instant, the connection to my phone went dead. Gino.

And he had a passenger.

The Nissan was a large truck. Despite this, when Gino got out, the impression was like watching a giraffe climb out of a wall locker. His long arms and legs unfolded, his lanky torso straightened, and he stood to a height of six foot four at least.

Gino looked to be in his late twenties. Picture a Mediterranean complexion, Roman nose, and thick glossy hair the envy of any man over forty. He wore a leather Broncos jacket in royal blue and vivid orange. I could tell he liked showing off the jacket, and I’d bet he never took it off, even in the middle of summer.

Another man got out from the front passenger’s side of the Titan. He appeared older-mid-thirties-swarthy, and tall, with an unzipped nylon jacket hanging around a doughy middle. He made his way to the front of the truck, where he remained facing me.

They wanted to bully me and I wasn’t in the mood to play along. I especially wasn’t going to let the “asshole” comment slide.

Gino approached the patio and levered his gangly legs over the wall. Jeans sharply pressed. Cowboy boots shiny as oil.

He sat across from me and placed his long-fingered hands on the table. The top of his jacket hung open and showed a wealth of gold chains, each heavy enough to anchor a small boat.

Gino took a napkin from the holder and reached down to wipe the dust from his boots. A bracelet of chunky gold links dangled from one wrist. He tossed the napkin to the ground.

Outwardly, Gino looked every bit the self-assured hustler except for one detail. His eyes. Instead of arrogance, I saw worry.

I thumbed in the direction of his friend. “Why don’t you ask him to join us?”

“Vinny’s okay where he’s at. I got things to say that are none of his business.”

I hoped Gino’s secrets dovetailed with mine.

“Adrianna told me you’re a private investigator.”

Gino knew too much about me and I knew next to nothing about him. But he’d come here to talk and this was my chance to listen and learn.

I said, “That’s true.”

Gino asked, “What’s your concern with Barrett?”

“My client hasn’t heard from him.”

“Who’s the client?”

“A client,” I answered. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“I didn’t know Barrett had business in Denver.”

“So we’re even. I didn’t know Barrett had business here.” I gave Gino a fake smile.

He reciprocated with an equally fake smile.

“If you think I care about any moneymaking arrangements you had with Barrett or with anyone else”-I made an obvious glance at Vinny-“don’t worry about it.”