Chapter 28

Dad muscled the cork out of the bottle of champagne without spilling a drop and poured the bubbly into three flutes.

"That's an illegal substance for me," I said.

"It's a celebration, Eric," Maureen said. "One glass of champagne won't hurt you."

I shook my head and said, "But breaking a personal vow will. Do you have any iced tea, Maureen?"

"I do." She hopped up and in short order I had a tall glass of tea in front of me.

"To the future," I said and raised my glass. Dad and Maureen joined the toast, Maureen sipping the bubbly, and Dad gulping.

He chuckled when Maureen looked at him as if he were a glutton. "I was thirsty. Speechifying makes me thirsty," he said.

"You wanted to talk about our future," Maureen said to me.

"I do. Dad told me he doesn't like his work. He wants to be a landscape contractor instead of doing landscape maintenance."

"This is true," Maureen said.

"Then that's what I think he should do. A man should be happy with his work," I said.

"Just like that?" Dad said. "What about... ?"

"Just like that, Dad," I said, interrupting him. "Oh, you'll need to make a business plan including milestones, or goals that you must meet along the way, but if you do, it'll happen. Do you want to know why I believe this?"

"Why?"

"Because you are overqualified for what you do," I said.

"What about the jobs I have?" he said.

"Sell your business to a competitor," I said.

"Humph, easy for you to say," he grumped.

"He's right, you know," Maureen said.

"What about putting food on the table?" Dad said.

I grinned. "I'll buy the groceries and pay the bills until your new business is up and running. What are kids for, after all?"

"I don't like that," he said.

I looked at Maureen. "He's being the man of the house now, isn't he?"

Maureen laughed and said, "He is, and he's being grumpy about it."

"Should I hit him with everything I have in mind all at once, or should I divvy it out in small chunks?"

Maureen's dark eyes twinkled when she said, "Sock it to him."

I looked at Dad and said, "Are you ready?"

He laughed. "Maureen let me win once in a while when you weren't a factor, Son. Now the two of you are ganging up on me. I see a bleak future ahead."
"I don't," I said. "I see an amazing future ahead for all of us, a future where each of us in our own way will become all we can be, a future where we support each other with love to make our dreams come true."

Dad nodded and said, "I want that."

"You'll have to put your man-of-the-house hat in your pocket," I said.

"In what way?" he said.

"As the bread winner, at least until your new business is profitable," I said.

He gave me a hard look and said, "Poker?"

"Poker," I said. "Part-time."

"What about your education. You'll have to go back to school in the fall—somewhere. The high school you were attending won't let you return. I've been worrying about..."

"Sometime this summer, I'll take the G.E.D test and pass it," I said. "I know this, Dad, like I knew I could draw like a professional artist and play hold 'em poker."

"Now I know what you meant, Johannes, when you said you felt like a punching bag as blow after blow hit you every time the old Eric changed in front of your eyes to the new Eric," Maureen said. "You can do this, Eric, pass the G.E.D. test?"

"I believe I can, and if I can, going to high school would bore me to tears. Dad, if I don't pass the G.E.D. test, I'll go to a charter school this fall, okay?"

He nodded and said, "In the future you envision, you said each of us in our own way will become all we can be. Let's start with you, Eric. What do you want to be?"

"A respected artist," I said, which had always been my life goal, even as Aaron MacDonald. "With hard work and tenacity and loving support from you and Maureen, I can achieve this goal."

"I'll support that goal," he said.

"As will I," Maureen said.

"And I'll support your goal of becoming a landscape contractor," I said.

"I will, too," Maureen said.

I grinned at her. "What goal would you like to pursue?"

She hesitated and said, "I want to be a wife and mother."

"She's talking about being my wife and a mother for you," Dad said. "But she has other dreams. Tell him Maureen."

"It's silly," she said. "I'm too old."

"Tell him, or I will," Dad said.

"I want be a potter," she said.

"She's taken classes at the community college, Eric, and I think her work is very good."

"That's because you're prejudiced in the extreme," Maureen said.

"I'll support you in your goal to become a potter," I said.

"So will I," Dad said.

"Okay, were making progress," I said. "Dad will become a landscape contractor, Maureen will become a potter, and I'll become an artist. To meet these goals, Dad will need storage space and a lot of it, equipment, rolling stock, office space and a contractor's license. Maureen you'll need a potter's studio, potter's wheels and other equipment, kilns, whatever. You'll have to make a list. You, too, Dad. I'll need an artist's studio, art supplies and equipment. I'll make my own list. You know what this means, don't you?"

"What?" Maureen said.

"A new place to live. Two acres for the houses and outbuildings ought to do it. Next question, should we build or buy an existing house on acreage with outbuildings that comes close to what we'll need if we remodel and do some additions?"

"Jesus," Dad breathed.

"If we elect to build from scratch, which I think is the best option, but I'll listen to arguments to the contrary, we'll need to rent a house to live in, warehouse space for Dad, and studios for Maureen and me. I don't know about you guys, but I think we should pay cash for everything except a mortgage, and we'll pay off the mortgage as soon as possible, say a couple of years. What does acreage go for in Santa Fe, do either of you know?"

"You're talking millions, Eric," Maureen said.

I nodded. "More than one million, less than five, let's say three million as a wag. It'll take me about six months to make that much playing poker, but I'll have to keep playing for another two or three months to pay the taxes. Let's call it a year so I have time to start being all I can be with art."

"That's crazy!" Maureen said. "You can't do that."

"Maureen, he made more than $30,000 in one day," Dad said. "At that rate, he can make $3,000,000 in 100 working days."

"I won't win every time I play; that's why I said six months," I said. "Playing poker can be a grind. If it's like everything else that can become a grind, it'll get old fast. That's why I said a year. I don't want to become a poker burnout until we have the investment money we need." I rubbed my hands together. "Okay, we have the bare bones of a plan for our future, but the most important future event hasn't been discussed. When are the two of you going to get hitched, and where do you want to go on your honeymoon? The honeymoon will be my wedding present, by the way."

"How much time do you need, Maureen?" Dad said.

"A couple of days," she said, her dark eyes full of fireflies. "Hmm, on second thought, make that a week."

Dad looked at me, "Hawaii, Eric. Our dream honeymoon is in Hawaii."

"Good choice," I said. "Maureen, do you have a car?"

"Yes," she said.

"I've got to buy a new car, and Dad needs a ride to the radiator shop."

"New car?" Dad said.

"Yes, nothing fancy, a new Honda Accord will do," I said. "My Civic is shot to pieces, Dad, and heaven only knows when the police will release it."

Johannes Kleiner and Maureen Holland became man and wife in a civil ceremony in front of a Justice of the Peace. I was the best man, and a friend of Maureen's named Eleanor Fry, was the maid of honor. After the wedding, I drove the newlyweds to the airport in Albuquerque, and they flew away for their honeymoon in Hawaii.

I'd been playing poker like a mad man almost to the point of burnout, so I decided to spend the night in Albuquerque, a city I'd hadn't experienced in any of my lives. After I checked into the Best Western Rio Grande Inn close to Old Town Albuquerque, without even going to my room, I strolled out of the hotel and down to the plaza, where I looked inside the shops and galleries around the plaza without going into any of them. I wasn't dressed for what I was doing, and although I looked good, I also looked out of place. I still wore the new suit I'd purchased for the wedding.

The Agape Southwest Pottery gallery interested me, probably because my new mother wanted to be a potter, so I stepped inside. The shop was well-named. All the pottery was Southwest in design, mostly Native American, and mostly very well executed. I made a mental note to tell Maureen about the gallery. After that, I went in and out of galleries looking at pottery and paintings.

I bought a small painting in the R.C. Gorman Nizhoni Gallery, although it wasn't a painting; it was a scratchboard, an old, but little used medium. A scratchboard is a smooth, thin surface of hardened China clay applied to a board. The artist—in this instance, Judy Larson—paints the subject on the board with black India ink to create a silhouette, and then engraves the image into the surface of the board with sharp blades. Once the subject of the artwork is totally scratched, the artist applies color, and then usually re-scratches the board for detail. My scratchboard was titled: The Defiant. It depicted three proud horses in a marvelous composition showing only their magnificent heads and strong necks. In my opinion, the piece of art was worth much more than the $250 that I paid for it.

I asked the salesperson if she'd have the scratchboard delivered to the Rio Grande Inn in my name, and she said she'd be happy to do that for me, and added a courier charge to my bill.

When I walked out of the gallery and turned right to continue my looking and shopping, a young woman ran into me—literally. I wrapped my arms around her to keep her from falling, and then stood her back on her feet. She was beautiful. She was also terrified, but not of me. She looked back over her shoulder. I followed her gaze and saw two men striding toward us. They didn't look happy.

I remembered my experience with Darlene and her step-father. If I helped this young woman, would I be getting myself in trouble?

I didn't have time to continue my one-man debate. I'd unconsciously moved the woman behind me, putting myself between her and the two men. They were Hispanic, probably Mexican, mid- to late-twenties, both shorter than I, both heavier than I. I knew nothing about gangs, but they looked like gang members. I don't know why. Maybe it was the blue and white bandana tied around one man's head. Maybe it was the homemade tattoos in view on both of them.

"Out of the way, joto," the man wearing a bandana for a hat said.

The other man said nothing; he flipped out a knife, a switch blade. I remember thinking it should have been called a flip blade, because a flip of his wrist opened the knife. He'd used a knife before, knew how to use one. That was apparent. He didn't hold it to strike down at me. He'd thrust forward using more than his arm. He'd twist his torso and shoulders, and his chest was deep and his shoulders wide. The knife would penetrate my body to the hilt.

As I said, the one-man debate was over. The choice had been taken from me. By happenstance, I was now protecting myself, not the woman.

Bandana man tried to distract me so the man with the knife could strike a lethal blow. Why they'd want to unnecessarily kill an innocent, I didn't know. Was I misjudging their intent? Perhaps they were high on something. PCP or meth.

I ignored bandana man, and when the man with the knife thrust forward, I moved my torso back and twisted, kicking the side of his knee without pulling the kick, grabbed the wrist holding the knife, kneed him in the stomach, and punched his neck below his chin while turning the wrist I held back on itself, which is painful and can break bones. I heard bones snap, and the man dropped the knife and fell to the sidewalk. Bandana man swung at me. I stepped inside the swing, head-butted his chin and kneed him in the balls. As he bent over, my elbow struck the side of his head with a forceful blow.

When I walked away, my assailants were writhing on the sidewalk. The young woman was nowhere in sight. Others had witnessed the altercation, though. Tourists, mostly. Even at the odd hour during a weekday, tourists like me strolled the plaza, moving in and out of shops, experiencing the flavor of Old Town Albuquerque. I'd experienced all the flavor of Old Town Albuquerque I wanted, so I crossed the plaza and headed toward the Rio Grande Inn.

I glanced back once, but my view was blocked by a church. I crossed Romero Street to walk along shops I hadn't seen. I'd walked the other side of the street when I'd walked to the plaza from my hotel. Suddenly, the young woman stepped out of a shop in front of me.

"Will you help me?" she asked.

I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress, always have been, always will be, and this character trait more often than not gets me into a heap of trouble. That she was so beautiful made me a bigger sucker than I would have been otherwise.

"Walk with me and tell me your story. When you're finished, I'll either help you or walk away from you," I said. "Start with your name."

"My name is Alana Perez," she said as she matched my strides. I'd shortened them so she didn't have to hurry.

"Who are the men who attacked me?" I said.

"I don't know their names. They're members of a prison gang, the Sindicto Nuevo Mexico, or New Mexico Syndicate. I've been marked for death by the gang."

"Why?" I said.

"For the accident of my birth," she said. "My brother, Paul, is a member of the gang. Some gang members murdered a police officer, his wife, and their twelve-year-old daughter. Paul is cooperating with the authorities regarding these homicides. Like me, Paul is marked for death. Yesterday, my parents were murdered. I escaped. I don't know how I was located; perhaps someone in the Syndicate or someone from one of the street gangs affiliated with the Syndicate saw me here earlier today. It doesn't matter how they found me. They did. I have no money. I have only the clothes on my back. If I go to a friend, they will kill my friend and my friend's family. I can't go to the police. Some police officers are in the Syndicate's pocket. If I went to the police, I'd be dead before the day ended."

We'd walked out of the plaza by the time she'd told me her story.

"I'll help you. I have a room in the Rio Grande Inn, but from what you told me, you might be spotted if you walk into the hotel with me. My car is in the parking garage next to the inn. I live in Santa Fe, not Albuquerque. If you want, I'll take you to Santa Fe with me right now. I checked in with no luggage; it was a spur of the moment decision to stay overnight in Albuquerque. I can call the hotel to check out during the drive to Santa Fe."

"I'll go with you," she said.

Alana Perez was eighteen years old, a recent graduate of an Albuquerque high school. She lived with her parents and planned to attend community college in the fall to start coursework for an associate's degree. She wanted to become a paralegal or a legal assistant.

When I'd first seen her, I'd put her age in the early twenties. She was stunning with long black hair, dancing black eyes, and a Mediterranean complexion. Her hips were narrow, an indication of her youth; her waist was tiny, her stomach was flat, her legs were long and shapely, and her breasts looked heavy under her clothing. She wore low-rider blue jeans, a t-shirt under a blue blouse, and open-toed sandals with a clunky two-inch heel. No tattoos or body piercings that I could see, except for her ears that displayed one normal earring each. I guessed her height at five-eight or —nine.

I asked about her brother. Paul was five years older than she. He'd joined the 18^th Street Gang as a boy and had been in and out of trouble since, mostly in. He was sent to prison when he was twenty for dealing drugs. The Sindicto Nuevo Mexico recruited him into their gang in prison. According to Alana, the Syndicate is led by a don, or general, and a group of respected inmates called "the Panel." Other gang members are called soldiers or carnales. Paul was a soldier.

"How old are you?" she asked me.

"I'm sixteen," I said. "I live with my father in a double-wide trailer, but we'll be moving soon. I was the best man in his wedding this morning. I put him and my new step-mother, Maureen, on an airplane in Albuquerque after the wedding. They're honeymooning in Hawaii for two weeks. We'll have the trailer to ourselves. Until my parents return, you can use my father's bedroom."

She didn't comment on my age, so I said, "You'll need clothes. We'll shop before we drive to the trailer."

"I don't have any money," she said.

"I do. I'm a whiz at online Texas hold 'em poker. This is my car, not my father's. I paid cash for it a week ago. I'll buy some clothes for you. Can you cook?"

"I'm a good cook," she said.

"Good, you can pay me back by cooking while you stay with me. Okay?"

She nodded and then smiled. "Okay."

"We'll shop at Santa Fe Place. The mall anchors are Sears, Mervyn's, Dillard's, and J.C. Penny. Besides clothes, you'll need toiletries and makeup, maybe some things I don't know about because I'm a guy not a gal. I'm sure we'll find what you need at the mall. When did you eat last?"

She blushed and said, "Yesterday."

"Then dinner will come before shopping," I said.

Alana was not a vegetarian. We ate at the Outback Steakhouse, sharing a Bloomin' Onion, and she demolished a dinner salad and a filet. I wiped out a New York strip, and we shared a tall slice of chocolate cake with raspberry sauce and vanilla ice cream.

Then we hit the mall.