me.”
“Does Sparkle have a last name?”
“I don’t know it. She’s a puta . Joey liked to buy her when he had the money.”
“Where do I find her?”
“She sometimes takes her tricks to the motel where Joey stayed when he was in town.”
Clayton named the motel Bodean had mentioned.
“That’s it,” Olguin said, as he studied Clayton’s face. “You’re Indian, right?”
“Mescalero Apache,” Clayton said.
Olguin grinned. “But maybe some white man snuck into your grandmother’s tepee, que no ?”
“Apaches don’t use tepees much anymore, and I bet your mouth gets you into a lot of fights,” Clayton said.
Olguin rewarded Clayton’s observation with a smile. “Yeah, I like to brawl.”
Clayton got a good description of Sparkle from Olguin and staked out the motel. It was one of those old 1950s motor courts along Central Avenue that had fallen onto hard times after Route 66 had been replaced by the interstate. The exterior stucco had been painted white and was peeling badly, holes had been punched in the wall of each guest room to accommodate small air conditioners, and the neon vacancy sign above the office door spelled out either VAC or CAN depending on which letters lit up or blinked off.
The motel sign advertised low rates, free local calls, and, of course, air-conditioned comfort.
There were only two cars in the asphalt lot, both parked in front of rooms, both totally broken down. Most of the motel guests Clayton watched as they came and went seemed to be without wheels. By eight o’clock at night, not one tourist had checked in, and the lodgers still out and about on foot were either drunk, stoned, or working up to it. But within the hour business picked up. One by one, four cars parked in front of the office and Clayton watched as guys rented rooms and then went inside with their dates, none of whom matched Sparkle’s description.
Sparkle showed up at midnight with an overweight, middle-aged customer in tow who turned out to be a Mexican laborer. Clayton sent the john on his way and talked to Sparkle in front of her motel room. A junkie, she looked to be way older than her twenty-six years. About five two, she had a skinny teenager body that attracted certain men.
“Joey won fifty-six hundred at blackjack,” Sparkle told Clayton. “He told me about it the next night when we got together for some fun.”
“When was that?”
“Seven days ago.”
“Did you see him after that?”
“Yeah, two or three times before he left town,” Sparkle said.
“And?”
“He said he wanted to have a big blowout before he got too sick to enjoy himself. He was going down to Mescalero to stay at that Indian resort, gamble, drink, and order room service until the money ran out.”
“When did he leave town?”
“I saw him two days ago. He was waiting for Felix to show up to go with him.”
“Felix?”
“Yeah, Felix Ulibarri.”
“Where can I find Felix?” Clayton asked.
“I don’t know where he lives.”
“Do you know if he’s ever been arrested?” Clayton asked.
“He did six months on a drunk driving conviction. He got out about a month ago.”
“Thanks.”
“Why are you looking for Joey?” Sparkle asked.
“I’m not,” Clayton answered. “I’m looking for his killer.”
Chapter 3
I t took a while for the night supervisor at the Bernalillo County lockup to copy Felix Ulibarri’s arrest records. Clayton left the detention center with a last-known address, a photograph, and some pertinent information about the man. Over the years, aside from his DWI convictions, Ulibarri, age forty-two, had been jailed for petty crimes and misdemeanors ranging from criminal trespass to shoplifting and disorderly conduct—all typical busts associated with garden-variety chronic alcoholics. He also had one fourth-degree felony assault charge stemming from a domestic disturbance involving a former live-in girlfriend.
Not trusting Sparkle to be the most reliable
“Does Sparkle have a last name?”
“I don’t know it. She’s a puta . Joey liked to buy her when he had the money.”
“Where do I find her?”
“She sometimes takes her tricks to the motel where Joey stayed when he was in town.”
Clayton named the motel Bodean had mentioned.
“That’s it,” Olguin said, as he studied Clayton’s face. “You’re Indian, right?”
“Mescalero Apache,” Clayton said.
Olguin grinned. “But maybe some white man snuck into your grandmother’s tepee, que no ?”
“Apaches don’t use tepees much anymore, and I bet your mouth gets you into a lot of fights,” Clayton said.
Olguin rewarded Clayton’s observation with a smile. “Yeah, I like to brawl.”
Clayton got a good description of Sparkle from Olguin and staked out the motel. It was one of those old 1950s motor courts along Central Avenue that had fallen onto hard times after Route 66 had been replaced by the interstate. The exterior stucco had been painted white and was peeling badly, holes had been punched in the wall of each guest room to accommodate small air conditioners, and the neon vacancy sign above the office door spelled out either VAC or CAN depending on which letters lit up or blinked off.
The motel sign advertised low rates, free local calls, and, of course, air-conditioned comfort.
There were only two cars in the asphalt lot, both parked in front of rooms, both totally broken down. Most of the motel guests Clayton watched as they came and went seemed to be without wheels. By eight o’clock at night, not one tourist had checked in, and the lodgers still out and about on foot were either drunk, stoned, or working up to it. But within the hour business picked up. One by one, four cars parked in front of the office and Clayton watched as guys rented rooms and then went inside with their dates, none of whom matched Sparkle’s description.
Sparkle showed up at midnight with an overweight, middle-aged customer in tow who turned out to be a Mexican laborer. Clayton sent the john on his way and talked to Sparkle in front of her motel room. A junkie, she looked to be way older than her twenty-six years. About five two, she had a skinny teenager body that attracted certain men.
“Joey won fifty-six hundred at blackjack,” Sparkle told Clayton. “He told me about it the next night when we got together for some fun.”
“When was that?”
“Seven days ago.”
“Did you see him after that?”
“Yeah, two or three times before he left town,” Sparkle said.
“And?”
“He said he wanted to have a big blowout before he got too sick to enjoy himself. He was going down to Mescalero to stay at that Indian resort, gamble, drink, and order room service until the money ran out.”
“When did he leave town?”
“I saw him two days ago. He was waiting for Felix to show up to go with him.”
“Felix?”
“Yeah, Felix Ulibarri.”
“Where can I find Felix?” Clayton asked.
“I don’t know where he lives.”
“Do you know if he’s ever been arrested?” Clayton asked.
“He did six months on a drunk driving conviction. He got out about a month ago.”
“Thanks.”
“Why are you looking for Joey?” Sparkle asked.
“I’m not,” Clayton answered. “I’m looking for his killer.”
Chapter 3
I t took a while for the night supervisor at the Bernalillo County lockup to copy Felix Ulibarri’s arrest records. Clayton left the detention center with a last-known address, a photograph, and some pertinent information about the man. Over the years, aside from his DWI convictions, Ulibarri, age forty-two, had been jailed for petty crimes and misdemeanors ranging from criminal trespass to shoplifting and disorderly conduct—all typical busts associated with garden-variety chronic alcoholics. He also had one fourth-degree felony assault charge stemming from a domestic disturbance involving a former live-in girlfriend.
Not trusting Sparkle to be the most reliable
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