Nightzone (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

By the time I reached the high school complex off South Pershing Avenue, I had managed to push all the unanswered questions well to the back of my tired brain.

An enormous slab-sided RV, black with gold artwork, a veritable land yacht, was parked in front of the gym. Hitched to its back bumper was a sleek black utility trailer large enough to hold an automobile. Behind
that
were two white Suburbans and a silver Lexus. No wonder the damn tuition at Leister Conservatory was so dear.

Superintendent Glenn Archer stood on the sidewalk, locked in conversation with a man about my age but with five times as much hair, a maestro's bouffant display that would be hell after a sandstorm. Parked on the sidewalks near them was an enormous swaddled piano, tipped on edge and supported by a dolly that looked as if it were built from spare aircraft undercarriage parts.

I parked by the tennis court fence and took a moment to call the sheriff's department dispatch. Gayle Torrez was working, and she greeted me warmly.

“I'm at the high school for a bit, then home,” I said. “See you tonight?”

“I wouldn't miss this one,” the sheriff's wife said. “And I didn't even have to twist Bobby's arm.”

“Just put the rest of the world on hold,” I said.

Glenn Archer beamed at me as I approached. He'd been at the helm of this school for close to thirty years, and I'd heard rumblings of retirement rumors. He'd guided the place through economic booms and busts, failed bond issues, plenty of nasty letters to the editor balanced by a handful of supportive ones. He'd seen plenty of youngsters go on to become productive and happy, a few joining the dregs. Our paths had crossed too often on graduation or prom weekends when we pried the shattered bodies out of wreckage. He'd seen it all, handing out a couple thousand scholarships, plaques, or varsity letters. He had probably dispensed enough tissue to weepy parents to earn stock in the company.

Now he greeted me with a carefully modulated handshake, at the same time resting a hand on his companion's shoulder.

“Bill, I'd like you to meet Dr. Hal Lott. Dr. Lott is headmaster at the conservatory. Professor, Mr. Gastner is a longtime county sheriff, historian, and all-around foundation of the community.”

“My pleasure.” Lott's grip was one of those warm, limp things that made me think he was protecting his baton fingers. “Young master Guzman speaks highly of you.” He frowned. “His
padrino?”
He pronounced the word carefully.

“We're proud of him,” I said. Nodding at all the vehicles and equipment, I added, “Quite a production.”

Lott turned and regarded the activity. Four youngsters, satisfied that the piano was secure, pushed the beast across to the handicapped ramp and then up the grade, putting their backs to it.

“There are times,” the headmaster said with a long, heart-felt exhale, “that I am very glad that not all of our students are keyboard performance majors.”

“Interesting logistics,” I said. “The piano always goes along?”

“Horowitz once played on that Steinway,” Lott said. “It's become a tradition at Leister.”

I knew that I should show at least an eyebrow raised in reverence at the two names, but instead I said, “The tuner goes with it?” There had to be a reason that Horowitz played the piano only once.

“Oh, indeed,” Lott said hastily. “Lucian Belloit has been with us for years.” He smiled conspiratorially. “It's most convenient that he's also a most accomplished coach driver.”

I reached across and shook Glenn Archer's hand again. “I need to check on this Guzman kid,” I said. “I'll talk with you folks later.” I had recognized Carlos Guzman's ten-speed stashed in the bike rack, and knew the two boys would be inside having way, way too much fun.

Carlos stood on a raised stage, hands in his back pockets, scrutinizing the placement of the enormous royal blue banners, the center one bearing the Leister Conservatory seal. Tucked right up against the ceiling, some of the banners were draped artfully to soften the angular lines of the girders. Others hung straight down to form baffles that would direct and soften the sound.

Although youngsters were performing most of the unpacking and grunt work, I noticed that the motorized scaffold, now scissored open to reach up into the girders, was operated by two elderly men from our school district, with two older students along for the ride.

“Carlos, are they doing it right?” I said, and the boy spun around.

“Padrino!” he stage-whispered. “This is just so
amazing!”
He pointed across toward the double entry doors where the mountain of boxes and crates were piled. “I can't believe how much stuff they brought with them.” As he spoke, the piano eased through after a hard left off the ramp. With laughter driving them on, the four kids accelerated the piano on its big smooth-rolling wheels until I wondered if they'd be able to stop it before crashing into the stage. They managed, and then used the hydraulic undercarriage to elevate the piano past the edge of the platform. Two belts dropped away, and the piano was rolled onto the stage, awaiting its legs.

“Where's your brother?”

Carlos raised a hand close to his nose, sighting along his index finger. “Right over there, at the top of the bleachers. They're going to fold them all up in a few minutes, though.” Sure enough, right under the
Fighting Jaguars 1992,
the hunched figure blended into the shadows.

“Last minute studying?” I asked.

Carlos scoffed, a very adult sound for a nine-year-old. “He's making changes. That's what he told me. He won't let me look.”

“Ah.” Something squeaked behind me, and I turned to see a kid wielding an enormous wrench on a cranky bolt, securing one of the Steinway's legs in place. I glanced at my watch. Curtain time was in five hours, and by then the students from Leister would have turned this plain old gym into a colorful concert hall. “I'm going to go bother him for just a minute, and then I'll be over at the house.”

Carlos sighed. “I never realized I was going to have such a famous brother.” There was wistful admiration there, maybe even a little adoration, but no envy.

I punched him lightly on the shoulder. “He's saying the same thing.” The second leg drew tightly in place as I stepped off the stage, and even as I plodded across the floor, avoiding banners and crew, I saw Francisco unfold from his spot, and carefully close a portfolio. I wasn't going to get to see, either.

He rose and started down the bleachers, frowning and taking the steps one at a time. I waited for him, amused at the look of intense concentration on his face. Halfway down, it was as if he turned a switch. His eyes locked on mine, a huge smile spread across his face, and he bounded the last six benches in two bounds. I didn't get a handshake. His hug was chiropractor ferocious. He buried his face in my shoulder and mumbled something, and he didn't even
smell
like a little kid anymore.

After a long moment he pushed me back, a hand on each shoulder, and I was aware of how much of his mother's eyes he had inherited. He'd filled out, too, his face growing into some of his father's almost craggy features. He transferred his grip to a two-handed shake, and the strength of that wasn't driven by a kid who spent all day at video games.

“Isn't this all amazing?” he said happily, as if it were his first concert.

I turned and surveyed the gym. “Just a few years ago, you were playing dodge ball in here.”

He laughed loudly. “Oh, wow.” Turning back to me, his expression went sober. “I was sorry to hear about the shooting thing. The old guy with the shotgun.”

That bolt from the blue startled me. “That stuff happens, Francisco. Even when we're not looking for it, it happens.”

“Shit happens.”

“Yep.”

He heaved a sigh. “You're all right, though.”

“Just fine.”

“And Sergeant Taber is okay?”

“Just fine.”

“I always liked her.”

“She's planning on coming tonight.”

He beamed. “Oh, awesome.”

“So if the concert is at eight this evening, what's your schedule?”

He glanced at his watch, one of those enormous things with half a dozen dials and buttons.

“I have some more work to do right now, and then when they have the piano set up and tuned, a little more. Mateo and I need to finalize some things.”
Finalize.
I didn't even know that thirteen-year-olds did that. “And then I need to
eat.
” He said it as if he were starving in the wilderness. “This guy,” and he nodded toward the approaching Carlos, “promised that he and Addy were putting out a spread. I have to eat before a concert, or I just kind of go to sleep at the keyboard.
That's
embarrassing.”

“That would be.”

“And then Dr. Lott requires us to go into seclusion in the dressing room for an hour before the concert. That gives us plenty of time to work up a good case of nerves.”

“You never struck me as the nervous type, Francisco.”

“A little bit tonight. I don't usually play accompaniment, for one thing. It's a whole different ball game when you have to play
with
someone else.”

“I should think so. I haven't met this Mateo.”

“He's over in the music room working on a couple of things. And then Mr. Dayan wanted to talk with him for a little bit.” He reached out both hands as Carlos arrived and folded his little brother into the Guzman bear hug. After a minute he relaxed with one arm draped over his brother's shoulders. “What do you think?” He sounded as if he really needed to know, and Carlos turned and surveyed the gym's transformation, now nearly complete.

“They
really
know what they're doing.”

“They'd better,” Francisco laughed. We watched as a youngster with a black suitcase disappeared behind a folding screen near the water fountain—a little remnant to remind us of the buildings more usual function. “There are some neat acoustical issues no matter how many curtains they hang,” he continued. “The Steinway has this great huge voice,” and he spread his hands a yard apart. “And in comparison, the flute…” he held thumb and forefinger nearly touching. “When they play together, all this balance stuff has to be worked out.”

“Way over my head,” I said. “Look, you have work to do, so I'll see you at dinner.” Before I could prepare a defense, there came that hug again.

Chapter Twenty-six

No one talked about Elliot Daniel at early dinner. To me, he wasn't worth the breath, or the robbery of a single moment spent with Francis and Estelle Guzman's two kids and the Leister guests. Dinner included Francisco's favorite, green chile lasagna with a flood of accompanying morsels. Somehow, Dr. Guzman had been overruled, and their kitchen now included a modest deep-fat fryer which produced such exquisitely fluffy, puffed
sopaipillas
that the good doctor finally admitted as he wiped a squirt of honey off his beard, “Well, maybe these
are
worth having a coronary for.”

Dr. Lott had never eaten green chile, but he indulged until sweat stood out on his pale forehead. He let the conversation focus on the youngsters, as did Lucian Belloit, Leister's stage manager, chauffeur, and general field boss. Belloit, a short, burly fellow with an infectious, booming laugh, kept the mutual admiration society at bay with sparing anecdotes about talented youngsters who managed to embarrass themselves and everyone on stage with gaffes and implosions.

“And
this
one,” he said, nodding at Mateo Atencio, seated now between Francisco and Carlos, “managed to drop his flute right in the middle of a Mozart cadenza. I think that was at a concert in San Antonio a couple of years ago. Remember that?” He laughed as the red blush spread up Mateo's dark face. Except for being a bit fuller in the face, Mateo could have been part of the Guzman gene pool, dark, perfect posture and poise, a gleam in the eyes that said his agile brain was up to
something,
who knew what.

“Squirted out of his hands like a bar of soap. Tell what you did then, Mateo.”

The boy's voice was almost a whisper. “I caught it in mid-air.”

“He
caught
it. Neatest one-handed snatch you ever saw.” Belloit hesitated. “Snagged the fumble. Impressive, I must say.”

“I suppose,” Dr. Lott mused, ready to add a little pomp to the storytelling, “that every musician in the world has lost control of the instrument at one time or another in his career. I remember in high school, years and years ago, the A string—the top string—of my viola snapping just seconds before I was to play a solo passage. I managed the solo entirely in fourth and fifth position, and when I was finished, I was
drenched
in perspiration.”

“What about Francisco's joke concert?” Mateo prompted in self-defense.

Lott squirmed with discomfort, but Belloit remained undeterred. Francisco bowed his head, covering his face with both hands. When he looked up, he beamed across at me and shrugged expansively.

“Somebody…” Belloit glared at Mateo with mock anger, “taped a sheet of really repulsive, ah…
suggestive
limericks on the music rack of the piano. We weren't using the Steinway for that one, just a little grand that the college provided. So here comes this what, eleven? Eleven-year-old kid on stage, right?” He leaned back expansively, patting his comfortably full belly. “Now we all know that Francisco Guzman can't let a catchy rhythm go unexplored, right? So he turns the page of his music, and there's this sheet of raunchy limericks, printed in nice, clear bold-face type, easy to read. He has one page of Beethoven to play before he's cast adrift…with limericks.”

“There was a good fellow from…” Francisco murmured, and he grinned impishly toward his grandmother, who so far hadn't uttered a word during dinner. I could imagine what was going through her mind, though—pride in this credible grandson, tempered with the firm belief that youngsters should know their place when in company with adults.

“Now, he's halfway into this Beethoven sonata, and suddenly the music is missing. Does he miss a lick? No. But suddenly Beethoven is all improv. To this day,” and he rapped an emphasizing knuckle on the table, “to this day, I don't know how Master Guzman can make a piano tell a punch line. But he did. Beethoven would have been delighted.”

“You need to play that one,” Carlos urged.

“No, he doesn't,” Estelle said. She looked over at me. “Should we be worried, Padrino?”

“
I'm not,” I said, and turned to Francisco. “And you're not going to divulge what you're playing tonight?”

Francisco glanced at Mateo. “We can't, Padrino.”

Dr. Lott let out a long
hmmm
of scholarly reservation. “
We're
the ones who should be worried, Mrs. Guzman.” He looked at his watch. “But we need to go to the concert hall, if you'll excuse us all. We have a pre-concert session with the artists, and then some on-stage time.”

The
artists.
After spending thirty-five years arresting teenagers, it was a pleasure to hear that.

My plans were to spend the entire evening immersed in jaw-dropping music. I had no plans to worry my way through the evening, not on Francisco Guzman's behalf, or anyone else's. Before leaving for school, I made sure the hostesses had what they needed at my house, and locked up a couple of sensitive items…not the least of which was the relic Colt, its rust-fused cylinder with the four corroded cartridges such a temptation.

By the time I reached the school at 7:15, I had difficulty finding a convenient place to park. I knew the numbers. The Leister crew included four adults and sixteen youngsters—counting the artists. Glenn Archer's wife Sylvia had organized the task force to find lodging for the youngsters in area homes. That guaranteed a fair audience, perhaps a hundred people. That didn't explain the packed side parking lot by the administrative building, or the clogged loop where buses dropped off students, or the ancillary lot over by the tennis courts. That left the big parking lot by the football field and track, a lengthy trudge from the gym. And it was filling fast. But what the hell. My sadistic doctor had told me to walk more, more, more. Who was I to argue with the guy who also served as the county coroner?

The interior of the “concert hall” was colorful and devoid of the normal gymnasium echo, partly because of the temporary red vinyl floor covering but mostly because of the bannered girders. Despite the sea of chairs arranged in three large islands, the concert was going SRO unless the bleachers were used. In the back corner, two school custodians were in conference with Lucian Belloit, and one of them, a jangle of keys in hand, was pointing at the last two sections of bleachers.

A small center section up front was ribboned off, and since one of the royal-blue tickets with the Leister logo was tucked in my pocket, I made for the reserved seats. Two ushers in black and white started down the aisle to greet me, the his and hers smiles welcoming.

I found my complimentary ticket in the breast pocket of my sport jacket, and the girl—she might have been fifteen—reached out and touched my hand as if she had known me since infancy.

“Mr. Gastner, anywhere in the ribboned section, if you like.”

“Thank you.”
How did she know who I was?
“I'm going to roam a bit first.”

She handed me a program, a stiff expensive fold with the Leister crest on the cover, and the poster photo of Mateo and Francisco on the inside. “Perhaps you'd like to reserve your seat with a program.”

The hum and bustle of folks in the hall was rising. “Good idea. Thank you.” On stage, the nine-foot piano dominated just off-center, and I chose a seat on the aisle five rows back where I would be able to see both artist and keyboard. A bevy of tiny microphones hung from slender gaffs, and turning in place, I could see five large video cameras around the hall, including the two stage right and left.

A backstage area had been created with heavy velvet curtains, hiding the portable control panel. As I ambled off to one side, I saw Francisco and Mateo standing together behind the curtain, Francisco with an arm across his stomach and the other hand supporting his chin, a pose of deep thought. Mateo's hands were in his hip pockets as if his tux was a pair of Wranglers. Both boys were listening as Dr. Hal Lott laid down the law about something. He talked, they listened. They did not interrupt. At one point, he held an invisible basketball between both hands and shook it. Perhaps that was a rendition of what was going to happen to their skulls if they screwed up.

A good share of the performance pressure came from the expectations of others. Nobody had come to this gig thinking that they'd see a couple of kids monkeying around. Expectations were high, and the efforts of two dozen people at stake. It wasn't Francisco or Mateo arriving to play a tune or two on the school's battered Baldwin for a few friends.

I tried to estimate what this concert was costing Leister, since Posadas Municipal Schools had provided nothing other than the yawning gymnasium. The tickets were thirty bucks, a breathtaking price for country folks in this economy. With a capacity crowd, the academy might break even. I stood in one dark corner stage left and found my reading glasses. The program alone was a class act, including the names of selections as well as a short Artist's Comments for each one.

“Padrino!” The greeting wasn't exactly shouted, but I looked up with a start. Carlos Guzman looked spiffy in his black suit. He was beaming, and held his own program toward me as he made his way across the floor. “Did you see?”

“See what?” I said, and he reached across to point out what I'd already read. “Oh, that.”
Oh, that
was ‘
Upward, Opus 7 in G Major'.
The brief student explanation explained that Opus 7, dedicated to a certain Carlos Guzman, started with the “laying of the skyscraper's foundation in the bass, gradually building story after story until the winds play around the loftiest radio antenna on top.”

I looked at Carlos, whose face was radiant with excitement. “You had something to do with this?”

He ducked his head in delight. “I sent Francisco a drawing I did of a building.”

“Well, wow.” I skimmed the rest of the program, saving a real scrutiny until I sat down. Out in the audience, I saw that Estelle, Francis and Teresa had arrived, and one of the ushers was removing two chairs to make room for Teresa's wheelchair.

“I'm sitting right by you,” Carlos said, as if that was somehow a big deal. I suppose it would guarantee that I didn't doze off. I gave the youngster a little hug and clamped a hand on the back of his neck. “I have to visit with the sheriff.”

At the double doors at the north end of the gym, Robert Torrez was locked in conversation with Glenn Archer and two other deputies—the bruised Sergeant Jackie Taber and Sergeant Tom Mears. Taber was in full uniform with no cover, but Mears was in civilian garb, a gray, black, and white ski sweater, jeans, and boots.

Sheriff Robert Torrez had dressed for the event in a bright lumberjack's flannel shirt and jeans, his boots adding another inch to his six-four frame. The quilted tan vest covered most of his equipment, with the exception of the .45 automatic and the magazine pouches. This was a concert, for God's sake, but then again, who was I to talk. I wondered what Torrez knew that he hadn't passed along to me. He glanced at his watch, and out of reflex, I did the same. Fifteen minutes to pack the hall. I had intended to check in with Torrez, but decided against it

But he didn't. He caught my eye and beckoned. I made my way through an impressive crowd, many of them older folks who no doubt would have liked somewhat more cushy chairs than the steel folders. Someone had reached a decision, and folks were being ushered toward the most forward sections of bleachers.

“Sheriff, you're looking festive,” I said.

“Where are you sittin'?”

I turned and pointed. “Way up front behind the ribbon. Fifth row on the aisle.”

“Okay.” He didn't look especially happy, but then again, he never did. He slipped a playing card-sized photo out of his pocket. “This is what he looked like a year ago.”

“He?” But one glance and I knew who “he” was. George Baum stood with one arm around an attractive woman, with his daughter standing under the protection of the other arm. “Happier times.”

“One year ago at Christmas.”

“What a difference a year makes.” I squinted up at the sheriff. “So what do you know that I should?”

“That's the trouble. We don't know shit.” His gaze tracked over the growing crowd. “The last call we know that he made was to the funeral home in Cruces that did his father. He said he'd pick up the ashes after he took care of a couple of things.”

“Like?”

“Didn't say.” He finished with the scan and then turned to me. “Pay attention. At this point, it don't cost nothin' to be on your toes.” He reached out and tapped the photo. “Keep that handy.”

“It's more likely that he's headed back out to California to visit his wife and daughter,” I said.

“Maybe so.” He nodded at the filling gymnasium. “This isn't the best thing to be doin' right now.”

“It's been planned for a long time,” I said, knowing damn well that wouldn't make any difference to Torrez. “Anyway, in about twelve minutes, we'll be underway, and then in an hour, we'll be out of here.”

I think the sheriff could read my expression accurately. I wanted a serene concert without incident, a concert to grab our emotions and soar up into the clouds, leaving behind all the ugliness that man was capable of concocting. I looked at faces, seeing dozens that I recognized—including State Police Lieutenant Mark Adams and his wife. Adams was in civvies, and he was paying attention.

“How many?” I asked, nodding toward Adams.

“Six. And three of our own.”

“Well, then…”

“How many you got comin' to your house afterward?”

“I have no idea. Probably too many.”

Torrez almost laughed. “Let's hope not.” He scanned the mob scene, which is exactly what the old gym had become. Somebody squeezed my elbow, but I had no idea who as the flood of people ebbed and flowed, filling the seats and spreading now up into the bleachers—two on each side of the gym.