The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel Read online

  Also by John Vorhaus

  Nonfiction

  The Comic Toolbox: How to Be Funny Even If You’re Not

  Creativity Rules! A Writer’s Workbook

  The Pro Poker Playbook: 223 Ways to Win More Money Playing Poker

  Killer Poker: Strategy and Tactics for Winning Poker Play

  Killer Poker Online: Crushing the Internet Game

  The Killer Poker Hold’em Handbook Poker Night: Winning at Home, at the Casino, and Beyond The Strip Poker Kit

  Killer Poker Online 2: Advanced Strategies for Crushing the Internet Game

  Killer Poker No Limit Killer Poker Shorthanded (with Tony Guerrera)

  Fiction

  Under the Gun

  The California Roll (a Radar Hoverlander novel)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by John Vorhaus

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Vorhaus, John.

  The Albuquerque turkey : a novel / John Vorhaus.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Sequel to: California roll

  1. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. 2. Santa Fe (N.M.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3622.O745A79 2011

  813′.6—dc22

  2010035464

  eISBN: 978-0-307-71782-5

  Jacket design by Kyle Kolker

  Jacket photograph © istockphoto.com

  v3.1

  To Jim and Nancy, still patiently waiting for their kid brother to grow up

  Every silver lining has a cloud.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1 - Boy

  Chapter 2 - Two Hours Earlier

  Chapter 3 - This Relationship Shit

  Chapter 4 - Devil in a Red Dress

  Chapter 5 - How Many Solipsists?

  Chapter 6 - Reading His Lines

  Chapter 7 - Hey, Aqualung

  Chapter 8 - Face Value

  Chapter 9 - 4king Awsum

  Chapter 10 - Humbo Gumbo

  Chapter 11 - Honey Moon

  Chapter 12 - A Cup of Ex-wife

  Chapter 13 - I Come for the Sushi

  Chapter 14 - Repeat Business

  Chapter 15 - Trapdoor Spider

  Chapter 16 - Paper-Packing Papa

  Chapter 17 - True Believers Sell Best

  Chapter 18 - Nuck This

  Chapter 19 - Martybeth

  Chapter 20 - 5150

  Chapter 21 - Bloot

  Chapter 22 - Special Agent Ysmygu

  Chapter 23 - The Unbearable Lightness of Being Mirplo

  Chapter 24 - Choose Your Lies

  Chapter 25 - Back-Channel Jackalope

  Chapter 26 - Pitch and Switch

  Chapter 27 - New ow Taver sino

  Chapter 28 - The Ace of Hostage

  Chapter 29 - Stash My Sh*t

  Chapter 30 -

  Chapter 31 - Mirplopalooza

  Chapter 32 - Gospel Drop

  Chapter 33 - Balloonageddon

  Chapter 34 - Memorial Gardens

  Chapter 35 - Where Charlie Does Brunch

  Chapter 36 - Jackalope Prologue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Boy

  It started with a dog, a biggish one loping down the sidewalk with that weird canter some dogs have, the front legs syncopating and the rear legs slewing sidewise in tandem. He must’ve been running from something specific, because even while scampering forward he looked back, which resulted in his not seeing, and therefore barreling into, me. He hit me square in the knees and knocked me to the ground. This startled us equally, and for a second we both sat still, locked eye to eye down there at dog level.

  I vibe dogs. I do. Or let’s say that I prize them: Their unconditional love is a love you can trust. I’d rolled with one or two in my time, but the highly migratory life of a con artist didn’t really lend itself to long-term canine commitments, so I mostly just admired dogs from afar. Up close, this one was tough to admire, a mixed bag of black Lab and unknown provenance. One ear stood up like a German shepherd’s. The other … wasn’t there. Looking at the bitten-off stub, I couldn’t help wondering how a dog’s ear tastes to another dog. He bore other wounds as well, evidence of many fights—maybe not fair fights, for I thought I detected a human hand in some of his scars and mars. I saw it also in his eyes. He feared me. That made me sad. I reached out a hand to comfort him, and he flipped over in submission position, manifesting what every dog dreads and hopes when it submits: dread that it will be kicked; hope it’ll be scratched. I opted to scratch, and immediately made a (man’s best) friend.

  “Get up, boy,” I said as I stood. “I’m not the boss of you.” The dog—in my mind I was already calling him Boy—obediently rose to his feet. I didn’t know if he was that well trained or just felt like following my lead. He wore no collar, only a weathered, knotted rope that trailed away to a frayed end. Something told me this was a dog in transition, and that whoever had been the boss of him was boss no more. Probably if I wanted to, I could keep him, the thought of which tickled me. I pictured me presenting him to my girlfriend, Allie, who had lately shown such determination that we be normal. “Look what followed me home,” I’d tell her. “Can we keep it?” If that didn’t say normal, I don’t know what would.

  First, though, there was the matter of making sure I was right. I mean, I couldn’t just kidnap him—dognap him—so I started back in the direction he’d come, determined to take a stab, at least, at finding his owner. The dog cowered, reluctant to follow. “It’s okay,” I said, “I got your back.” He still wouldn’t budge, so I knelt, rubbed his grizzled muzzle for a moment, then took the scraggly end of the rope and walked him down the street. I could tell he still wasn’t too keen on the idea, but now he was a dog on a leash, and they have no free will.

  I had just turned the corner when I heard the first shouts.

  I thought they came from the courtyard of some garden apartments just down the street, but with the way the sound bounced around off those Santa Fe adobe walls, I couldn’t be sure. There was a pickup truck parked in front of the courtyard, and its whole grungy aspect seemed linked to the courtyard noises. Bald tires, primer spots and dents, cracked windshield—a trailertrash ride, or I’m no judge of trucks. The tailgate was missing, and I could see in the cargo bed a litter of empty cans, both beer and oil, plus fast-food wrappers and crumpled cigarette packs.

  And, tethered to a tie-down, a severed rope, mate to the noose around Boy’s neck.

  Boy recognized the truck. He whimpered fearfully as we approached, causing a picture to form in my mind: Enraged driver pulls up to the curb, anger burning so hot that he upsets his dog, who strains against his restraint and snaps the tired line. Dog is off and running, but driver doesn’t care. All his anger’s focused on whoever’s in that courtyard.

  More shouts now, and I could hear two voices, no, three: a man and a woman exchanging heated words, and a little girl playing hapless and ineffectual peacemaker. To me it added up to domestic dispute.


  Boy wanted to leave and, boy, so did I. After all, there’s two kinds of problems in this world, right? My problem and not my problem. But there was a lot going on in my head. There was Allie’s need for the two of us to be citizens (and did not, in some sense, citizen equal Samaritan?) and also Boy, for if I left things as they were, he’d likely end up tied back up in that truck, the thought of which grieved me deeply. The kicker was the little girl’s voice. I could see the black hole of human trauma forming in the center of her universe. I knew that Allie came from such a troubled vortex, where Mom and Dad never got along and routinely inflicted horrible damage on anyone within range. I couldn’t go back in time and salve Allie’s pain. It was likewise probably too late to save the little girl from hers—these things start young—but maybe I could douse the present blaze.

  And just perhaps talk my way into a dog.

  I moved toward the courtyard. Boy resisted, but I patted his head in reassurance, trying to communicate that whatever I planned to sell, it wasn’t him out. I guess I got my point across, for he fell more comfortably in step beside me. I paused to gather myself before entering the courtyard. I didn’t know what, specifically, I was about to walk into, but it didn’t much matter. A top grifter gets good at improvising successfully across a wide variety of situations.

  Even ones with guns.

  I didn’t see the gun at first, just a man at the base of a short set of steps, looking dirty as his pickup truck in tired jeans and sneakers, a stained tank top, and a polyester cap with some kind of racing logo. The woman stood on the top step with the girl tucked in behind her. They wore matching mother-daughter flower-print shifts. In other circumstances you’d have said they looked cute. Now they just looked scared, but the mother was playing the defiance card hard—a card I could tell she didn’t really hold, but that’s what they call bluffing.

  “Andy, now, clear out,” she said. “You know you’re not allowed here. The judge—”

  “Screw the judge,” said Andy. “I want Sophie. I want my little girl.”

  “No, Andy. Not when you’ve been drinking and God knows what else.”

  “Oh, and you’re such a saint?” Andy practically vibrated with rage.

  “That’s not the point. I have custody.” The way she said custody damn near broke my heart. Like it had magic power, but I knew it would cast the opposite spell.

  It did. It brought the gun up, a Browning Mark II Hi-Power. Some of them have hair triggers. Andy leveled it at—as I gathered from context—his ex-wife and child. “Sophie,” Andy told the girl, his voice gone cold, “go get in the truck. I swear if you don’t, I’ll shoot you both right now.”

  The moment froze. I was afraid to speak. I didn’t want to spook Andy, not while he had the gun up. I guess Boy felt the same way. I could sense him repressing a growl. Then … the girl moved. She disengaged herself from her mother’s clutching hands and edged warily down the stairs. I knew what she was walking into, could foresee it in an instant. Let’s say she survived the next hour, day, week, month, year. Let’s say she made it all the way into womanhood. Where would that find her? Turning tricks at a truck stop? Up in some spike house with a needle in her arm? Living with a man who beat her just like Daddy did? Talk about your human sacrifice. It may have been the bravest thing I’d ever seen in my life.

  I couldn’t let it stand.

  “Hey, mister,” I piped up, applying my most innocent bystander gloss, “do you know whose dog this is?” Three heads swiveled toward me. The gun swiveled, too, but I ignored it, for part of running a good con is shaping the reality around you. Or denying it, as the case may be. By disregarding the gun, I momentarily neutralized it, for what kind of fool doesn’t see the obvious? It’s destabilizing to people. They don’t know how to react, so mostly they just do nothing, which buys you some time to make your next move. At that point, I don’t know if I felt supremely courageous or just dumb-ass dumb. Both, probably. But one thing you learn on the razzle is that once a con starts, the worst thing you can do is break it off. Then you’re just twisting in the wind. “Because, um, I found her down the street and she seems to be lost.”

  “Ain’t a she,” said Andy.

  “No? I didn’t look.” I bent down to check out Boy’s underside. “Hey, you’re right, it’s a boy. Anyway, used to be.” I smiled broadly and started walking Boy forward.

  Andy aimed the gun. “Stop,” he said.

  “Oh, look, I’m not trying to get in the middle of a thing here. I’m just trying to return this dog. Is he yours?”

  “Just let him go.”

  Well, I thought I knew what would happen if I did that. Boy would take off running, and probably none of us would ever see him again. I weighed my own selfishness—I wanted that dog—against his needs and safety, and dropped the rope. Boy surprised me. He plopped down at my feet, content, apparently, to let me run the show to whatever outcome I could achieve. You gotta love that about dogs. When they trust you, they trust you all the way.

  “Now clear out,” said Andy.

  Here’s where my play got dicey. Make or break time. “Hang on,” I said, bleeding avid enthusiasm into my voice. “What kind of gun is that?”

  “What?”

  “Because it looks like a 1980s Hi-Power. Is it?”

  “The hell should I know?”

  I squinted at the gun, straining to see detail, which I didn’t really need to do, since one of the many things you learn about in my line of work is guns, in detail. “Two-way thumb safeties, nylon grip, tridot sights. Yep, that’s a Mark II. Bet it’s got the throated barrel and everything.”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “The thing is,” I said, “I’m kind of a collector. Any chance I could buy it off you?” This was the heart of my play, based explicitly on what the mother had said about drinking and God knows what else. I knew what else. Crank. Crystal meth. I could see it in Andy’s dilated pupils, his scrunge-brown teeth, and his generally tweaky demeanor. A guy like that’s not likely to be long on cash, and addiction is a voice that never shuts up. He might could want to quell it for a while. Very slowly, again not to spook him, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my bankroll.

  Funny. For someone supposedly off the razzle, I still kept my cash in a grifter’s roll, big bills on the outside, small bills within. I held the roll lengthwise, between my thumb and first finger, so that Andy could see its Ben Franklin veneer. “I think I have a grand here,” I lied easily. “If that’s not enough, we could hit my ATM.”

  Andy licked his lips, imperfectly processing my offer. “Maybe I’ll just take it,” he said.

  Oops. I hadn’t considered that. “Sure, yeah, whatever,” I vamped. “You could do that. But what kind of example does that set for your little girl?” This was pure bafflegab—nonsense—and I knew it, but that didn’t halt my improv. “Look,” I continued, “like I said, I’m not trying to get in the middle of a thing, but it looks like you guys have a problem. If you take my money by force, the problem gets worse. If you start shooting, it gets way worse, right?” I looked at the mother for confirmation, silently encouraging her to nod, which she did. “On the other hand, you sell me your gun, you’ve got a little scratch, you can take your girl out for ice cream, come back later, everybody’s calm, you can all work out your business.” I knew he’d take “take your girl out for ice cream” to mean go score, and hoped his need was such that he’d opt for the line of least resistance.

  He seemed to be leaning that way. I could see him mentally converting a thousand dollars into chunks of scud. “What’s in it for you?” he asked.

  “I told you, I’m a collector. I’ve got the Mark I and the Mark III, but the Mark II, boy, those are rare.”* I dared a step forward, arm outstretched, dangling my bankroll like bait. “What do you say? Deal?”

  The ladies and I held our breath. Maybe Boy did, too.

  “I’m keeping the bullets,” said Andy at last.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Who collects b
ullets?”

  Then, so slowly it made my teeth ache, Andy lowered the gun, pressed the slide release, and dropped the magazine into his hand. Still manifesting my goofy enthusiasm, I strode over and made the exchange, then stepped back quickly before he could change his mind. “Oh, man,” I said, “wait’ll the guys in the gun club see this.”

  The next sound you hear will be Andy saying, “What the fuck?” when he finds out what a grifter’s roll is.

  “What the fuck?” said Andy. He threw down the roll and took a menacing step toward me.

  “Funny thing, though,” I said, raising the gun, “didn’t you chamber a round?” Andy stopped. I let my voice go hard. “Go on, get out of here.” He turned back to grab Sophie, but, “Oh, no,” I said. “No.” Then he looked at his dog. “Not him, either,” I said. “Get.”

  Andy got.

  Was there a round in the chamber? Did it matter? You can bluff with the best hand, too.

  The truck rumbled off. I’d memorized the license plate and would soon be dropping a dime, for there’s no way that guy wasn’t holding. Meantime, I encouraged Sophie and her mother to clear out to a shelter somewhere, which they thought was a pretty damn good idea. We agreed that Boy would stay with me.

  So, happy ending, right? Sure, except for one thing. Someone videoed the whole thing through a window. It was on YouTube by dusk.

  It didn’t really matter that thousands of people saw Radar Hoverlander in action.

  But it sure as hell mattered that one person did.

  *Well, measured in millions.

  2

  Two Hours Earlier

  “Nude models,” Vic Mirplo announced. (This was two hours earlier.) “Radar, we’re talking undressed, unclad, au natural, bare-ass bare, stark staring stripped, live nude girls, naked and in the buff, right here in my studio any time I want.” Vic leaned back on his couch, arms splayed wide and a paintbrush clamped in his teeth in unconscious allusion to Franklin Roosevelt’s self-satisfied cigarette-holder chomp. “That, my friend, is the best part of this gig.” It occurred to me that where FDR might have struck such a pose upon ending a depression or battling fascism to its knees, Mirplo’s triumph was the slim victory of placing himself in the same room as a naked woman who wasn’t a stripper.