The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel by John Vorhaus

second I knew what it was. Got good at it right away. Like some kids can surf or play tennis. I was a natural.
    “Maybe that’s why he thought he could leave you,” offered Vic. “He knew you were in your own good hands.”
    “Oh, no,” I said. “He doesn’t get off that easy. You think he was thinking about me? You think he was
devoted
? I was cheap labor, that’s all. A partner he didn’t have to pay. And then just Mini-Me, his whole narcissist’s dream come true.”
    “Wow, be a little bitter, why don’t you?”
    “What, I don’t have a right to be?”
    “ ’Course you do.” He lapsed into Uncle Joe and boomed, loud enough to be heard down the bar, “You have the right to remain stupid! Anything you say can and will be used against you!”
    “That’s ripening the time?” I asked.
    “It’s a start,” he said, bringing his voice back to normal. “Meantime, remind me, what’s Radar’s First Law of Emotion?” If I was needling Vic over the girl, he was needling me right back over my historic insistence on dispassion in the grift.
    “Okay,” I said, “I get your point.”
    “No, no, I forget how it goes. Tell me.”
    So I did. “Effectiveness and emotion are inversely proportional.”
    “In other words?”
    “Anger makes you dumb.”
    “Okay, then, have all the anger you want. But you decide what to do with it. I put it to you that barfing it all over your old man is probably not your best play.”
    “Wow, Vic, when did you get so smart?”
    “I’ve been smart all along. You just haven’t been paying attention. Now watch this.”
    Vic rolled off the barstool and, hand to God, literally sauntered down to the pretty poser at the end of the bar. He leaned in close and whispered an extensive something in her ear. She seemed rapt, and whispered back. They conversed for a few moments, then he left her and walked back to me.
    “Her name’s Zoe,” he said. “She writes software, but get this: Her dad owns an art gallery.”
    “In Santa Fe?” I asked. “What are the odds?”
    Vic just helped himself to a satisfied swig of his drink.
    “That looked like a good play,” I said. “What’d you tell her?”
    “That it’s a typo. Should’ve been a yang.”
    “No, seriously.”
    “I don’t know, Radar. What do you care? You’re off the market.”
    “For good, you think?” My voice betrayed my hope.
    Vic looked at me. “You want it, don’t you? The whole cohabitation trip. Pair bondage. Maybe even marriage?”
    “Let’s not get crazy here.”
    “Then don’t
you
get crazy here. Allie’s a good girl. Better than you deserve. Don’t piss her off. Show her you can be normal with your old man. It’ll make her think you can be normal with her. That’s all she wants, Radar. Haven’t you figured that out?”
    “Damn, Vic, you
have
been smart all along.”
    “Told you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to walk a lady home.” Quietly adding, “He shoots, he scores!” Vic started away, then paused and looked back. “Your dad,” he said. “Don’t you even want to know why he’s here?”
    He left with Zoe on his arm. Vic Mirplo a smooth operator? That was going to take some getting used to.
    Vic’s question echoed in my mind.
    Then in my ear, “Well, don’t you?”
    I looked to my right, and there, hunched over the bar, was the most child-molesting-looking ancient perv I’d ever seen. With his ratty coat, venous nose, lank greasy hair, and mad-eye stare, he looked like the creep on the cover of Jethro Tull’s
Aqualung
. More to the point, he looked like someone you’d rather not look at at all. Thus, of course, Woody.
    “You’ve got a lot of wigs,” I said. “What happened to your dress?”
    “I had to make a change,” he said. “That cover was blown.”
    “Someone’s following that hard?” He just nodded. “You haven’t had any trouble following me.”
    “At first you didn’t know. Since you’ve found out, you’ve made no effort to shake me. I’m