More Characters from The Zozobra Incident (A Reprint)

I apologize for another reprint (and promise to use them more sparingly in the future), but I want to complete my introduction of the major characters from both the book, THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT, and the BJ Vinson Mystery Series. Remember, DSP Publications is giving rebirth to the novel (and the series) beginning November 15.

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Last week, we learned about BJ, our protagonist, took a look at Hazel Harris, his secretary-office manager-surrogate mom, and met Del Dahlman, BJ’s first love and first bitter disappointment, who is now a successful Albuquerque attorney. We will see these characters throughout the series.

We also gained some insight into Emilio Prada, the handsome gigolo responsible for breaking up BJ and Del. Now let’s look at some other individuals who populate BJ’s world.

Detective Eugene (Gene) Enriquez is just shy of his forty-first birthday when we first meet him. A local (he was born in Bernalillo, a town fifteen miles north of Albuquerque), Gene is stocky, five-seven, and weighs 155 pounds. A Hispanic, he has vaguely Polynesian features a lot of women find attractive. After his army service, he goes through the Albuquerque Police Academy and is sworn in as an officer. He walks a downtown beat and even rides horse patrol for a short period, but his ambition is to become a detective. Some years after he achieves this goal, he finds himself assigned to a new partner… a gay partner. B. J. Vinson. It bothers him at first that BJ, who could have passed as a hetero, doesn’t bother to deny his homosexuality when asked about it. Before long, Gene comes to admire his new partner’s honesty. The guy is gay, and that’s that. Once Gene learns he can trust his partner’s judgment and instincts, they get along professionally and socially. Gene takes some flack from other cops about riding with a queer, but Gene is married to Glenda, an attractive woman with whom he has five kids. He figures that all the cover he needs. He takes it hard when BJ nearly dies while they are apprehending an accused murderer, but he keeps in touch when his partner takes medical retirement and opens a confidential investigations office. He is one of the few people who knows BJ inherited a fortune upon his parent’s death. We’ll see Gene again.

Paul Barton looks Hispanic to Anglos and Anglo to Hispanics. When BJ first meets him, the family name “Barton” takes him by surprise. He expected it to be a Spanish surname, but it is Paul’s mother who carries the Latin blood. Paul was born on June 13, 1985 in Albuquerque’s South Valley. That makes him twenty-one at the time of THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT. BJ first spies him with a cowgirl on the dance floor at the C&W Palace, Albuquerque’s biggest book-stomping joint. Drawn by Paul’s good looks and lean frame, BJ later realizes the kid is the new lifeguard at the North Valley Country Club where he swims as therapy for the bullet wound in his thigh. Once the connection is made, their mutual attraction soon becomes evident. This is the first time BJ has been tempted since Del’s betrayal. Paul is not only a lifeguard, he is also a full-time student at UNM pursuing a degree in Journalism. In addition, he works in the school’s cafeteria so he can live on campus his senior year. Paul is 5’11” and weighs 155 pounds. He has brown eyes, brown hair, and a swimmer’s build, A small dragon tattoo decorates his left pec. Fiercely independent, he drives an old Plymouth coupe even though BJ offers to buy him a more recent model. He’s an expert swimmer, plays soccer and golf, and loves to dance. His father, Paul Barton Sr. was a carpenter who died of TB when Paul was ten-years-old. His mother, Luisa Marta Arrular de Barton, works two jobs while raising her son. He is exposed to gang activity in the South Valley, but resists the temptation to join. Once Paul and BJ get together, Paul is absolutely devoted, even though there are some stormy times ahead. Needless to say, we’ll see Paul in future novels.

And then there is the surprise fun character. The widow Mrs. Gertrude Wardlow has lived across the street from BJ for as long as he can remember. He considers her as a frail, diminutive old woman who wears her white hair like a helmet and speaks in a thin, tremulous voice. But when the chips are down, he learns she and her late husband Herb were both retired from the DEA and that she still has the spirit as well as the will of a fighter. She is a continuing character.

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This is the last of the reprints for a while. Let me know what you think at dontravis21@gmail.com. A hoorah to all readers.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A LITTLE EXCITEMENT FROM THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT

I thought maybe we’d revisit THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT this week. You know, I really like the cover on this book. That flaming, open hand picks up the theme of the Burning of Zozobra ritual at the Santa Fe Fiesta and throws it right back in your face. Martin Brown Publishers are good at cover art. That’s Sharene Martin Brown’s doing, I think. Not Robert, he’s a good publisher and great dancer, but cover art? Nah, that’s his wife’s thing. As a matter of record, I like the cover on THE BISTI BUSINESS just as well, possibly better.

But I digress (something I seldom do, you know). The following scene comes near the climax of the book in Chapter 27 (Page 259, as a matter of fact). During tense moments in the case, BJ has returned to his third-floor office in an old historic building at 5th and Tijeras NE across the street from the public library in downtown Albuquerque. He’s returned at night after being on a stakeout most of the day. You should know his building has an open middle atrium with offices around the perimeter, accessed by a landing with a sturdy brass rail.

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But it was the last message that really caught my attention. Mrs. Gertrude Wardlow, my plucky neighbor across the road, had noticed a suspicious car passing up and down the street two or three times earlier in the evening. She suggested I use “extreme caution” in returning home. What a wonderful old gal.

If this mess kept up much longer, my staid and stolid neighbors would ask me to move. On second thought, most of them hadn’t had this much excitement in ages. Safe, or presumed safe, behind their windows and drapes, the old geezers probably scanned the street every night before going to bed to check on that “private investigator fellow” down the street.

Resisting the temptation to sack out on my office couch, I got up, stretched, and started to leave. An indistinct noise from the landing—a footfall, a shoulder brushing against the wall, something—stayed my hand on the doorknob. The door was a solid plank of heavy oak, but a panel of frosted glass to the left darkened momentarily as a shadow passed across it. After five minutes of inaction, I cautiously cracked the door. A quick look up and down the landing revealed nothing alarming. If anyone was on this floor, he wasn’t visible, but a side hall leading to the restrooms lay between the elevators and me. Was someone crouching in ambush there? I stepped out onto the landing, locked the door, and tugged the peashooter from my belt. I turned away from the elevators and made for the stairwell.

I did not hear my assailant’s sneaker on the carpet until it was too late to face him, so I dropped to all fours. He tripped over my legs and fell with his body sprawled halfway across mine. Before he had time to recover, I gained my feet and sagged against the metal banister at the outer edge of the landing. Clinging to my back, he came up with me, flailing with a knife. When the blade ripped into my right biceps, I panicked, twisting away from the hand with the blade and straightening my back to throw him off of me.

Time switched to slow motion. The man clawed at my shirt for a moment. Then his center of gravity shifted. He slid over the railing. I clutched at his legs but couldn’t hold on. He fell with a terrified scream. I leaned over the railing and watched him flip on his back during the forty-foot drop to the hard, polished tiles below. He landed with a terrible suddenness and a sickening thud. A dark corona haloed his head. The blood and the clatter of his knife across the baked clay squares, kick-started my brain and released my frozen muscles.

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Hope you enjoyed the read. I also hope it grabbed you by the neck and demanded you order a copy of the book. Except for the famous ones, authors are always poor and starving. At any rate, that’s it until next week – same time, same place.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.