The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel by John Vorhaus Page A

thinking you want me around.”
    “Well, I don’t think I do, but let’s let that go for now. So why
are
you here?”
    “What? I saw you in the paper. You dusted that guy good. I came to say, ‘Nice job.’ ”
    I turned to face him. “Hey, Aqualung,” I said. “I know what noise sounds like. If you want the benefit of my doubt, you’re going to have to do better than that. Let’s start with who’s following hard, and why.”
    Woody paused to gauge the seriousness of my intent. At last he spoke. “There’s two teams of two. They know I’m in Santa Fe, but they don’t know where. One’s been checking the hotels, representing as health officials on the trail of a Typhoid Mary.”
    “I’ve worked that gaff.”
    “Be surprised if you hadn’t. The other two just cruise. They saw me outside that restaurant today, but they didn’t know it was me.”
    “So that’s why you turned tail. I thought you looked scared.”
    “Did I? Hmm. I’m surprised I gave that away. Anyway, they’re just thugs. You know: knee breakers.”
    “Working for …?”
    “This guy in Las Vegas, Jay Wolfredian. He’s sort of a casino boss.”
    “Who you mooked?”
    “In a manner of speaking.”
    “And now he wants his money back?” Woody nodded, doleful. “What, you didn’t give him a VPM?” *
    “You don’t think I tried for the reacharound? I just couldn’t reach, that’s all.”
    This made me laugh. Not because it was funny, particularly, but because it so resonated on my frequency. We spoke the same language. I mean, Allie and Vic voiced my slang, but they got it from me. Suddenly I was drinking from the source. It felt good. Like part of me had been missing. And at least one layer of resentment sloughed off and fell away.
    We stayed at it all night, at Frosty’s till closing and then on a bench in the Plaza till the sun came up, exchanging memories, grift techniques, and cell phone numbers. I brought him up to speed on some of my doings, including Allie’s and my plan to parlay the get from the California Roll into a shot at the level life. I thought the Plaza was a pretty exposed location, but to Woody it was more hiding in plain sight. “They rate me as pretty devious,” he said. “They’ll be looking for me under rocks.”
    “And how devious are you?”
    “Hell, I don’t know, Radar. Used to be, I could get in and out of this kind of guy’s wallet without stirring a breeze.” He shook his head. “But I made such a hash of this one. I think I’m losing my edge.”
    “What game were you running?”
    “You tell me.”
How could you make someone send you fifty bucks, son?
    “Past-post team?” I asked, naming a scam of (as Vic would put it) yesteryore, when groups used distraction and sleight of hand to place bets on, say, roulette after the ball dropped into the slot.
    “No way,” said Woody. “Too many cameras, too much heat. Besides”—and here I thought I heard a glimmer of criticism in his voice—“that’s a gambling gaff, not a boss gaff.”
    I quickly mentally rifled through other possibilities, ghosting Woody—seeing things from his point of view—and at the same time realizing that I really wanted to get the answer right.
So okay
, I thought,
if he’s going after a casino boss, he has to be bringing what bosses want: action, money
. “Huh,” I grunted. “You high-rolled him.”
    “You got it!” he said. “I knew you would.” He beamed with pride, and I have to admit that I basked a little in that bright light.
    High rollers, or whales, as they’re commonly known, don’t abound in Las Vegas, but when it comes to a casino’s bottom line, they’re difference makers. Sure, you can survive on the steady earn of small-time slot machine play and the vigorish on sports book bets, but to thrive you need whales, and you land them with all manner of krill: luxury suites, show tickets, five-star wines, ten-star escorts, drugs, obsequity, and generous lending policies. Competition for