Another Peek at The City of Rocks

Readers will know I try to showcase the wonders of my adopted state in my books. I wander off the reservation (so to speak) for the first time in The City of Rocks, the third book in the BJ Vinson series. When it becomes likely at least some of the answers to the mystery surrounding events on the Lazy M ranch lay in Florida, BJ and Paul head to Miami. This is Paul’s first trip. In the following scene, they arrive at the airport and are met by Bob Cohen, a local PI hired by BJ to assist in the case.

###

It was overcast, but no rain was falling as we exited the terminal and made our way to the short-term parking area. We stowed our bags in the trunk of Cohen’s black Malibu sedan and sat back as he maneuvered his way out of the sprawling airport. Keeping to the left, he took the on-ramp of SH-953 south toward Coral Gables. After that, I quit paying attention. Paul was in the back seat craning his neck this way and that.

“Man, it sure is flat down here,” he said.

“About the highest it gets is around forty feet above sea level, and that’s over on the west side,” Cohen said.

“Sounds like one good wave would drown us all. And this is hurricane country, too.”

Cohen laughed. “Sure is. Although we’ve never had a serious hurricane strike the city. Affect us, yes, but not hit us directly. And with the warm Gulf Stream to the southwest and the cold Atlantic current to the east, you’d think we’d be ground zero.”

“Is it always so hot here?”

“Muggy, but not really hot. The temperature doesn’t hit 100 very often, but the humidity makes it seem hotter than that. By the time you get settled into the hotel, we’ll get some sea breezes, and things will ease up.”

I spent the rest of the twenty-minute drive bringing Cohen up to date on the situation. He listened without interruption. When I finished, he chewed his upper lip before speaking.

“Kenny’s a cut-throat bastard, but he’d only cut your financial throat. I’ve never believed he had that damned duck stolen. I can see him taking advantage of it by showing up with a bird that couldn’t beat a crippled snail in a foot race. But that’s about as far as he’d go.”

“Would a two hundred fifty thousand dollar loss hurt him?”

“A quarter of a million dollar loss would hurt anyone. Especially now. Construction’s in the tank around here. I imagine he’s hurting some, and a loss that size wouldn’t be easy to swallow.”

“So the threat of a serious lawsuit might make him stop and think?”

“Maybe. Is that your strategy?”

“It might come to that before the interview is over, but I just want to see his reaction when I mention a couple of related murders.”

“Murders? Who got iced besides the fellow who took the duck? I know about the emerald mine owner down in Brazil, but that one’s a little far-fetched to tie into this mess, isn’t it?”

“A friend of Liver Lips Martinson named Elizondo Lopez was fed a drug overdose right after he was seen talking to me.”

“Somebody’s serious. You want me to come with you to see Hammond tomorrow?”

“No, but I’d appreciate any feedback you can get from Jackman after my interview. I’ll touch base with you later in the day.”

Cohen dropped us in front of the Ritz-Carlton, a hotel posing as an oversized Italian villa on Biscayne Bay. We passed into the clutches of a doorman who summoned a bellboy to handle our meager luggage. One wall of the marble-studied lobby where I registered was a huge pane of glass that looked out onto a garden courtyard. When we arrived in our room, Paul walked straight out onto the balcony to take in the view of the bay. One of those sea breezes Cohen had promised showed up to ruffle his hair.

Traveling, even in a sealed container with filtered air like the Boeing, always made me feel gritty, so we showered and then grabbed a badly needed catnap. We’d only snatched sleep where we could in airports and planes over the past twenty four hours. Paul slept a couple of hours before getting restless, so I dragged myself out of bed. We dressed and headed downstairs to the Bizcaya Grill.

###

Regular readers will know that BJ swims as therapy for a gunshot wound in his thigh, and his companion, Paul Barton, is a water bug. Paul swims both competitively and for pleasure. He is also a lifeguard at an Albuquerque country club. The following is his first dip in the ocean … any ocean … at Cramdon Park Beach on Key Biscayne.

###

But first, we strolled the long beach on the Atlantic side of the key. I plodded through the sand; Paul took off his shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and walked in the gently rolling surf. His excitement was contagious. He’d expected the ocean to be colder. He’d never seen water quite that color—turquoise. Were those coconut palms? Could we try the kayaks? How about the jet skis?

“Hey, man, now there’s a real lifeguard’s chair.” He pointed to one of the elevated towers strung out over the beach. “Makes me feel like an amateur.”

The bayside nature trails affected us differently. The Miami skyline lying just across the flat stretch of water reduced him to a gawking tourist. I was impressed; it took a lot to render Paul speechless. Soon enough though, he’d had his fill of dry land.

We changed into our suits and hit the water. The sea floor sloped gently so we waded quite a distance before it was deep enough to swim. Then he suddenly disappeared and surfaced again ten yards ahead of me as he used a steady overhand stroke to quickly carry him away. Then I lost sight of him. Seconds later, something brushed my belly. He surfaced behind me laughing aloud.

“This is great!” He punched a hand into the air. “Man, let’s move the whole state of New Mexico to the Gulf Coast.”

I paused and puffed, keeping a wary eye on the now-distant shore. “Then we’d lose the mountains.”

“Yeah, the mountains are great, but this is the ocean! I’ll catch you later, man, I gotta swim.”

“Don’t overdo it. There are currents, you know.”

“Yeah, pops. I know.” A gentle reminder he was his own man.

“I saw some wheelchairs for rent back there. Look for me there with the rest of the geriatric set.”

He laughed again and headed for deeper water. Resigned to the reality I wouldn’t be able to keep him on a leash, I settled into my therapeutic routine, alternating between various strokes. There were no laps to swim, so I kept to one set until tired, and then switched to another. I headed back to the shore on the backstroke. It took longer than expected.

I found our totes and pulled out a big beach towel. After drying off, I spread it in the shade of a palm—not close enough to be bopped by a falling coconut—and settled down to wait and maybe catch a few zzzs. I couldn’t see Paul, he could have been any of a number of dark heads bobbing out there in the Atlantic, but I had enough confidence in his ability and good sense not to worry—much.

I got in a nap before I woke to spot a familiar lanky, finely muscled body trudging my way. A giggling, sun-bleached blonde nymph walked at his side. She looked disappointed when he waved goodbye and headed in my direction. I tossed him a towel. “Good swim?”

“The best. Man, I could get addicted to this.”

###

Hope you enjoyed the visit.

Thanks.

Don

Next week: A big mystery.

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

He Only Came Alive …

Just a word as a follow-up to last week’s post, and then I’ll move on. My cough went away, so I guess washing my clothes the right way is important. My friend J gave me some red, press-on dots with instructions to put them on my washer to indicate which way is up. I will do that, but somehow I don’t think they’re idiot proof, and that what it will really take to save me from my washer. On reflection, married life was really much simpler.

Enough about that. What shall we do this week? I haven’t had any Oopsies worth blogging about (although J has a doozy and should do a post on it), so let’s get back to flash fiction.

###

HE ONLY CAME ALIVE …

“He only came alive when she was in the room.”

That line was the only part of a long-forgotten book that stuck with me. But stuck, it had. Every once in a while it would pop unbidden into my head, usually when I was bored and in need of distraction.

Like now in Professor Stood’s American Lit class. That’s Stood with O’s as in too, not as in wood. If the old windbag had the brains to spell it S-t-u-u-d, he wouldn’t have to correct everyone all the time. At the moment he was discussing the minimalist quality of Earnest Hemmingway’s writings. That was definitely boring. The only thing of Papa’s I liked was For Whom the Bell Tolls. The rest were just so many black ink marks sullying pristine paper. A Farewell to Arms fit particularly well into the latter category, so far as I was concerned.

So naturally, my eyes were playing the endless game of “Is-She-the-One?” I regarded Sara Tillingham across the room, her sharp chin resting in the palm of one hand, eyes (brown, I believe) fixed on the rotund instructor. She’d be wearing something that smelled of roses. Attractive but studious. Imagining her future conjured only images of ivy-covered buildings and classrooms. A teacher. No, a professor. A tenured professor regaling her students in a high, thin voice. Her spare time would be spent penning romances under a nom de plume. Sorry, but I couldn’t imagine her illuminating my life.

Wendy Williams, two rows behind Sara, was something else. Her aroma would be lavender. Definitely lavender. I shifted in my seat for a better look. From her appearance, you wouldn’t think she came from money, but I knew she did. Blonde, blue-eyed, pert, pug-nosed, and so packed with curves they verged on the vulgar, she was expensive trashy … by design. No classrooms in her future. More likely bedrooms. The picture of an expensive madam with a low, silky voice leapt to mind. Would she brighten my life? Nah.

Beth Hughes, just a row over and two seats ahead of me. Compact, wiry, a strong alto with lots of vibrato. A tennis phenom at the U, she always smelled of Wind Song … sometimes woody, sometimes floral. Pretty in a jock sort of way. It wasn’t hard to visualize her future: US Open, Wimbledon. Endless tennis courts … clay, grass, concrete. Keeping up with her would be demanding, and probably exciting at times. But she’d be too much of a competitor.

Everyone made ready to leave when Stood dismissed the class. I rose, stretched, and turned to grab my backpack hanging over the desk chair.

“Well, did you pick one?”

I glanced up to see Ricardo Alban grinning at me.

“Saw you checking out the women during the lecture.”

The smoldering, sloe-eyed stare of the tall young man with a throaty baritone, a hint of Brut … the Essence of Man … always clinging to him made me pause. As I took in the smooth olive skin and wavy black hair, my stomach dropped. My blood sang.

Maybe I’d have to alter that sentence from the long-forgotten book ever so slightly.

###

Once again, let me know what you think.

Thanks.

Don

Next week: Depends on the weather ... or some such..

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

Oopsie … Again (or is it still?)

Anyone who is even an occasional reader of this blog knows how “oopsie-prone” I am. The Lord knows I’ve told on myself enough over time.

I always laugh it off and say I had a “senior moment.” While talking to my younger son, Grant, the other day, I forgot the word that was on the tip of my tongue and expressed that sentiment. He suggested something much better, and I’ve now adopted it. When I’m caught short these days, I merely shrug and say, “It’s the meds.” That lets me blame it on something external.

Well, the medications have gotten in the way a couple of times recently, one in a minor way (if you consider putting the milk in the pantry instead of back into the refrigerator to be minor) and the other one a little more significant.

By the way, the milk didn’t actually go into the pantry inasmuch as it never left my hand, but when I tore free of the meds, that’s where both my hand and the milk were. Up with the cans of soup and chili and beans.

The other one takes a little telling. I often do not sleep well (it’s the meds … well, unless it is the sleep meds, then I don’t have the problem). But I digress, as I am wont to do. All week, something else has been added into the mix of things that make me sleep-deprived. I have developed a tickle in my throat that is difficult to cough away. This is especially true when I go to bed at night.

My late wife, Betty, had all kinds of allergies (she was a redhead), but I have never been plagued by them. She often said it was only a matter of time before they crept up and grabbed me by the throat. She was no medic, but she had a lot of practical, common sense, and her predictions often came true. Perhaps this one was morphing into reality, as well.

This morning, I stripped the bed and put the sheets, along with my other laundry, into the washing machine and dumped in the proper detergent and spot remover. It was already set for a heavy load, so I started the machine. Everything seemed fine.

Regular readers will recall that when I got this machine after our 1967 Montgomery Ward washer died last year, I had a problem because the new Amana immediately went to “Final Spin,” and did its thing. When I called in a repairman to haul away the deficient machine, he asked me to demonstrate how I had washed that morning. We discovered I’d used the wrong end of the pointer thingy to try to select a light load and ended up instructing the machine to go immediately to Final Spin. Then there was the time I bought softener instead of detergent and used that to wash my laundry for a month.

This morning, the machine sorta acted like it had that time I’d embarrassed myself before the repairman. It filled up, but immediately spun dry. You guessed it. I’d gotten the pointer doodad turned roundabout once again and was instructing the machine to Rinse/Dry. Since I hadn’t changed the setting from the last time I washed, that’s all that had happened then, too.

My skin crawls at the thought of how much detergent my sheets and clothes still retained and what the heat of a dryer had done to it. Needless to say, I threw the clothes from my closet in with the rest and ran them through a full cycle. Tonight, we’ll see if I have allergies or not.

It is amazing how much age changes you. In my youth, I’d have been so mortified by my ineptitude, I wouldn’t have admitted it to a soul. Now I broadcast it to the world.

Thanks for visiting with me for a few minutes. I work hard to fulfill that old saw. You know, the one that says we all serve a purpose in this world, even if it’s only to be a horrible example.

Don

Next week: Depends upon whether there are any more oopsies.

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

You Ain’t Stout, Yer Vo-lup-chu-us

The Flash Fiction seems to be going over okay, so let’s try it again this week. Locals will recognize downtown Albuquerque, but I wanted to leave it vague enough so it could be your town, too.

Before anyone gets his/her/their nose (noses) out of joint, I’m not demeaning the plight of our homeless vets. Au contraire, as an army veteran, I understand and sympathize with our many ex-military members who are having trouble assimilating into society. I just wanted to show that every once in a while, they get a nugget, too.

###

You Ain’t Stout, Yer Vo-lup-chu-us

We was sitting at our usual place in the alley that ran between Central and Tijeras watching people pass by on Third Street. Mostly, it was woman-watching.

“Oh, man! Look at that one.” Iron Mike scrambled up and ran out to the sidewalk for a longer look. His name was really Mike Iron, but he got tagged that way over in Afghanistan, so that’s the name he carried. “She was something!” he said as he came back and sat in the dirt again.

“I don’t like them fat,” I said.

“Hell, Tanglewood. She wasn’t fat. She was voluptuous.”

“What? Vo … vo ….”

“Voluptuous.”

“What’s that?”

“Packed with curves, man. Big curves.”

I’d never heard that one before, and if I’d had a dictionary, I’d of looked it up. If he’d spell it for me, that is. But a down-and-out vet living on the streets don’t pack nothing he don’t have to. Library was just down the street on Fifth. Maybe I’d look it up later. I made Iron Mike write the word down on a piece of paper in the little notebook he always carried. Claimed he was living under the bridge because he was doing research for a book. Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t. But he was always scribbling in it.

Before going to the library, we had to hike over to the Baptist Church just east of the railroad tracks for a free meal. That’s where the soup kitchen was on Mondays. Then it’d move to somewhere else. Did that every day so a fella really had to stay on top of the calendar to keep up with the moving mess hall.

Anyway, it was probably close onto five o’clock by the time I got to the library. There was this woman that worked at the reference desk where the dictionaries was, and I always gave her a nod and a smile ‘cause she always give me one. She don’t shy away from greeting street bums like lots of folks. She wasn’t no bad looker, but she wasn’t no spring chicken. Course, I wasn’t neither. I done my fighting in Desert Storm and come outa Kuwait a dazed twenty-year-old in ’91, so that put me somewhere in my early forties. Kinda hard to remember exactly because I’d been in some of them big gas clouds. Desert Storm Syndrome the docs at the VA Hospital claimed. Plus, I guess I got some of that PTSD stuff from hauling a bunch of corpses outa a barracks that got hit by one of them Scuds.

I found the dictionary and took out Iron Mike’s piece of paper and started looking for the word I wanted. Found the “v’s” okay, and even the “vo’s.” but got a little lost right about there. So it took me a little time before I finally found a word that matched the one on Mike’s note.

Voluptuous: (vo-lup-tu-ous), adjective. Of a woman : very attractive because of having large hips and breasts.

There was some more, but that told me what I wanted to know.

“Can I help you find something, cowboy?”

The voice startled me, and I don’t take startling very good. I jumped sideways and brought my arms up ready to fight. I felt kinda foolish when I seen it was the librarian.

“Whoa, there. Didn’t mean to surprise you. It was just that you took so long, I thought you might be having trouble.” A soft, gentle voice like Mama’s. No, more like Jenny’s before … before ….

I closed the dictionary because I didn’t want her to see I’d been looking up a dirty word about women. “Thank you, ma’am. I found it okay. And I ain’t no cowboy. I’m army.”

“Yes, I can see you are. Army all the way.”

Her looking at me made me feel sorta funny. I straightened up and swiped at my shirt, sending dust flying.

“When’s the last time you had a bath, Army?”

“Last week … at the hospital.”

“I’ll bet you clean up real well.” She gave me a smile. She had nice smile lines. She smelled like violets from my dad's flower garden.

“Guess so.”

“Of course, you probably aren’t interested in stout women.”

I grinned and used my new word. “You ain’t stout, yer vo-lup-chu-us.”

“Well, aren’t you the flatterer.”

That night, after a long bath and a shave and the best meal I could remember, I found me some of that vo-lup-chu-us … in the flesh.

###

Thanks for reading my blog. Hope you got a chuckle out of it.

Don

Next week: I’ll figure it out before then.

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

Like the Scent of Honeysuckle

Think I’ll post a little character study I did this week. Let me know how you like it.

###

Like the Scent of Honeysuckle

     The scent of honeysuckle was so heavy he tasted it on his lips and imagined it was visible to the eye. The thud of a distant cataract almost overpowered the gentle murmur of the creek. Tranquility on the fringe of tumult. Most people would be drawn to the waterfall – and that’s all it was, water dropping from two stone tiers – but he preferred this shaded glade ringed by evergreens on the northern slope of the mountain. She preferred it, too; a like-mindedness that first drew him to her. He glanced at his wrist, forgetting momentarily he never wore a watch when he met her. The Rolex put too much of a demand on his time. He squinted up through gently nodding pine boughs and judged her late. But she often was. She paid little attention to time.

     They’d met by accident mere weeks ago at this very spot, which was likely why it was so dear to him. She wore such an ethereal, otherworldly quality he almost believed he had dreamed their encounter. He could have convinced himself of that had he not chanced upon her dining with friends at the country club. Elfin grin turned to enchantress smile. Wild, dark hair coiffed into a tight French roll. Honey brown breasts – lightly dappled with freckles – encased in a severe white blouse.

     They’d come together again in this sylvan glen the following weekend, pretending it was chance. Other meetings followed, sometimes in the city, but mostly in the glorious majesty of the mountain that rang with the endless music of the rushing brook.

     Sometimes he mentally shook himself. Why was he so taken with this woodland nymph? In truth, he’d had more beautiful women, but none had infected his soul so thoroughly. He was impatient to be with her, yet anytime they embraced, he fretted over her impending departure. She bore the odd first name of Wallace … Wally. Like that haughty American duchess who brought an English king to ground. Was that what this was? A brash interloper invading his sedate, settled, rarified world? She’d intruded on his thoughts to the point he’d thrown aside his responsibilities in order to be with her. At this very moment, some princeling was in his boardroom making decisions in his name.

     He sighed, admitting at last how thoroughly she’d unhinged him. No matter, she lifted the weight of his years and restored him to callow youth. Nothing was important except her soft mouth, careless caress, and sweet essence.

     Once he’d mounted the heights of hot-blooded passion and came crashing down on the other side, he’d been astounded her continued presence had been as precious as ever. He’d never experienced that with other women. Once the conquest was made, they were on the way out of his life. Maybe not immediately, but soon thereafter. Yet with her, he felt “conquested.” He grimaced. That ridiculous non word precisely described his feelings.

     Completely at ease, he sat amid fallen pine needles and stretched his legs in front of him like a teenager. A smile touched his lips as he recalled a Pickles cartoon wherein the old man’s grandson had referred to leaves as “tree poop.” He wouldn’t have discovered the joy of reading the strips had she not been so delighted by them.

     He grew drowsy listening to jays and sparrows and a robin or two play in the trees, occasionally dropping briefly to the ground to snatch a seed or insect. He woke with a start as something tickled the back of his hand. He grinned. She was teasing him. But when he opened his eyes a fuzzy caterpillar made his way across the flesh of his left hand and inched down onto the forest floor. She wasn’t here.

     He sat up. The shadows had lengthened. The mountain air held a chill. She’d been delayed. Not even Wally was this late, not without a reason. Any moment now, she’d show up, breathlessly spouting apologies and begging forgiveness. He’d be stern until he saw a shadow in her eyes and then he’d embrace her and say it was all right. He’d tell her he loved her for the first time. Well, not the first time. That had been in the flush of sexual release. But he’d make her understand he meant it this time. Then he’d surprise her with his grandmother’s diamond and sapphire ring presently locked in the glove box of his Caddy in the parking lot below.

     He stood and paced. Had she been in an accident? The road was winding but not difficult. And she didn’t have far to come, just from a little village no more than five miles to the west. Should he go searching for her? But if he went down the mountain one way, she might come from the other direction. And he’d miss her. He couldn’t miss her. Not today.

     The first flush of anger took him by surprise. He never waited on anyone. They waited on him. He should drive straight to the city and see what damage had been done by his minions while he’d played hooky. Let her call him for a change. He’d be cool at first, but he’d allow her pleadings to crack his famous “shell” and allow her back into his life. She needed to become a little less independent, so maybe this was a good thing.

     Still, he didn’t turn toward the trail that would take him to the car. He dawdled. He delayed. He fought his imagination until he realized something. The smell of honeysuckle no longer hung in the air. And then he knew.

     He’d been played for the old fool he was.

###

Thanks for granting me a few minutes of you time. Hope it was worth it.

Don

Next week: I’ll surprise all of us … including me.

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

City of Rocks –The Boot Heel Country

Last week, BJ Vinson left Albuquerque on his way to the M Lazy M Ranch in New Mexico’s Boot Heel Country (a piece of land acquired by the territory via the Gadsden Purchase signed by Mexico in June 1854). He made it as far as Columbus before I ran out of steam and ended the post. Columbus was actually one of the more interesting places we stopped because of the raid on the town by Pancho Villa’s forces on the morning of March 9, 1916.

Early the next day, our protagonist heads out for the Boot Heel and the ranch, as we’ll see in the scene that follows:

###

Ranchers, like farmers, generally rise with the sun, so I was on the road early Monday, breezing west along Highway 9 over a landscape dominated by creosote, locoweed, and wildflowers. The bright sky was spotted with scattered clouds. The blue silhouette of the Cedar Mountain Range shadowed the horizon.

The weathercast this morning had predicted a high of ninety-nine degrees, but the temperature had not yet climbed to that point as I drove into the country that had once sheltered the likes of Curly Bill, Old Man Clanton, and Dick Gray, desperados who hid out in the caves and canyons of the Boot Heel. Somewhere ahead of me was a black oak with large knotholes where the outlaws left messages for one another in what is still called Post Office Canyon.

I passed a sign noting I had crossed into Hidalgo County, a landmass of about 3,500 square miles populated by fewer than 6,000 residents; a place known for its large ranches. The Gray Ranch, which was now called by its original name of the Diamond A, was 321,000 acres—a staggering 500 square miles. Alongside that, the M Lazy M was a piker.

I turned south on Highway 81. The ranch was a fair drive from Hachita, the closest town, and as I had a considerable amount of work to do, I phoned Del to let him know I intended to take Bert Kurtz up on his offer to remain overnight. He wanted to clear it with the insurance company to make sure they wouldn’t consider it a conflict of interest should Mud Hen be involved in any sort of scam. He promised to call me back.

The M Lazy M lay hard against the Mexican state of Chihuahua just short of the Hatchet Mountains in the upper reaches of the Boot Heel. A cattle guard, flanked by a tall adobe arch bearing the ranch’s brand—two capital M’s, the second one lying on its side—marked the main gateway to the spread.

I paused to snap a photo of the entrance before heading down a well-graded gravel road toward what I assumed would eventually lead to the ranch house. I stopped several times to take pictures of the road and anything else of interest. Like crime scene investigators, PIs can’t function without loads of photos.

I traveled another ten miles with no sign of habitation; although white-faced cattle grazing in the distance identified this as a working ranch. At the end of the road, I encountered another fence, behind which loomed an odd-looking structure, one that appeared to have grown from a modest home into something of a monstrosity as succeeding generations of Muldrens left their stamp on the edifice, building first with wood, then with fieldstone and brick. The latest addition was in adobe.

The place was reminiscent of Gothic novel cover art, although the graceful cottonwoods and sycamores scattered about the broad yard softened the effect. Even so, their towering presence on this landscape of stunted bushes and twisted piñons was almost as bizarre as the building itself. They had obviously been carefully nurtured by the first M’s, possibly even the Lazy M, until they dwarfed every other living thing within sight.

I parked in the gravel circle before the house between a late model gray Lincoln and a vintage blue and white Corvette. Two big Dobermans trotted up to the car and regarded me solemnly. Just then, the front door opened. Bert stepped over the threshold and greeted me with a wave. I rolled down my car window a couple of inches.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Vinson. Bruno and Hilda won’t bother you unless I put them on guard. Now the ferocious beast in the house, I’m not so sure of.”

“Right.” I cast a wary eye at the large animals and stepped more briskly than usual toward the broad, shaded veranda. I offered Bert a hand. “Most people call me BJ.”

He accepted my shake with a smile, casting an indulgent eye on the dogs. “BJ, I hope you had a pleasant ride. Missed the hottest part of the day, anyway. Welcome to the M Lazy M Ranch, or as most folks call her…the Lazy M.”

###

That was BJ’s first view of the ranch and will be his first meeting with its owner, Millicent Muldren, called Mud Hen by just about everyone. After a rather contentious meeting, he prepares to take his leave of her and head back to Albuquerque. In the following scene, he learns of the City of Rocks for the first time … both “City of Rocks.”

###

“Do you have anything else to tell me?”

“No. I have to go now, BJ.” She glanced out of the window. “I see Luis has my gelding saddled. I have something to check out down at the City.”

“The City?”

“Have you been to the City of Rocks State Park north of Deming?” When I shook my head, she continued. “It’s something to see. As the name implies, it’s a city made of stone, complete with streets and alleys.”

At my doubtful look, she explained. “They say that about thirty-five million years ago, a big volcanic eruption called the Kneeling Nun spewed lava and ash and pumice for 150 miles. Over time, wind and rain and freezing and thawing have shaped it into what it is today, something that looks like a big damned city made out of solid rock sitting right out there in the middle of the desert.

“Well, when the Kneeling Nun blew, she threw some of that same stuff over on our patch of ground. It’s not as big as the one at the park, but when my grandpa first laid eyes on it, he said it looked like a damned city made out of rocks. It’s more the size of a village, of course, but Gramps always thought on a bigger scale, so he called it a city. The City of Rocks. When they made that place north of Deming a state park in 1952, my daddy thought about putting up a fuss since his family used the name first, but he never got around to it. So they’ve got their City of Rocks up there, and we’ve got our own down here. You should see it sometime.”

“I will, but right now I need to head back to Albuquerque. I’ve got to wrap this thing up. Good luck to you, Millicent.”

“Tell me something, cowboy. Do you think I had Quacky stolen because of the bet?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Millicent, but for whatever it’s worth—I don’t.”

“Good.”

I stood at the window in the cavernous living room and watched as she mounted and rode off toward the southeast. She and the big piebald named Rufus she rode looked as if they were a single unit. Before they passed out of my line of sight, I noticed she had a rifle scabbard strapped to the saddle forward of her right knee. The boss toted iron just like the hands.

###

I hope these short scenes make for interesting reading. It sure was fun writing them. Best of all, I get to show the reader some of this great State of New Mexico.

Thanks for visiting with me,

Don

Next week: Time will tell.

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

City of Rocks – On the Way to the Boot Heel Country

As a matter of historical interest, the Boot Heel part of New Mexico and a good portion of southern Arizona (including Tucson) was acquired from Mexico by the Gadsden Purchase signed by the US on December 30, 1853 and approved by Mexico (after some changes imposed by the US Senate) on June 8, 1854. The treaty settled a dispute over almost 30,000 square miles of territory following the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which ended the Mexican-American War.

The third in the BJ Vinson mystery series takes place in the New Mexico portion of this acquisition. The as yet unpublished book is THE CITY OF ROCKS, a title suggested by a 1,280-acre New Mexico state park of the same name situated north of Deming near the small town of Faywood. Thirty million-year-old rocks create what look to be an ancient city situated in the middle of grasslands. Deming is not in New Mexico’s Boot Heel county, but the action in the book is centered on a ranch farther south and west in that part of the state. The following are some excerpts from the novel which show the reader portions of this beautiful state as BJ heads from Albuquerque to the M Lazy M Ranch. The hash tags indicate succeeding scenes from the novel.

###

Las Cruces, the county seat of Doña Ana County, was a city of around 75,000 perched on the Chihuahuan desert flats of the Mesilla Valley. This flood plain of the Rio Grande boasted pecan orchards, as well as onion, chili, and other vegetable fields. The city was also a rail center and the home of the state’s only Land Grant School, New Mexico State University. The stark, striking Organ Mountains rose abruptly to the east.

I parked in front of the East University Avenue headquarters of State Police District Four around 8:00 a.m. I wanted to follow protocol and have Dispatch let the officers on the scene know I was on the way.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled in behind a swarm of activity. Emergency flares blocked the westbound lanes of the highway. I pulled up to the uniformed patrolman diverting traffic to the eastbound lanes and identified myself. He used his shoulder unit to announce my arrival and then waved me over onto the verge. It looked as if the crime unit had about finished with their work. In the distance, I could see a banged up black Dodge Ram pickup upside down snug against the corridor fence. A man in civilian attire detached himself from a small group and started for me as soon as I got out of the car.

###

I headed for Deming, hoping to locate some of the dead man’s family or familiars who might be able to give me a lead before driving to the M Lazy M Ranch. The sixty-mile stretch between Las Cruces and Deming was relatively flat and dominated by creosote, honey mesquite, and yucca. An ungodly amount of cacti and spiked plants of every size and description lived among these anchors. Except, of course, the tall, stately saguaros the entire world associated with the American Southwest. To the best of my knowledge, those grew only in Arizona.

Road kill revealed the makeup of the local fauna: jackrabbits, desert terrapins, kangaroo rats, and the occasional rattlesnake. I even saw the desiccated carcass of a coyote hanging over the fence bordering the Interstate. Of course, in the Cooke’s Range to the north, there would be cougar and black bear and mule deer. The nearby Florida Mountains boasted ibex and mountain sheep with occasional unconfirmed sightings of the Mexican jaguar. I know this because I’m a confirmed history buff, especially the history of my native state.

The day was hot beneath a blue-flame sky, probably around a hundred degrees. But like we’re fond of saying down here, it’s a dry heat, so it doesn’t hurt much, especially at an altitude of three-quarters of a mile above sea level. Dark, menacing thunderheads hovered to the south over Mexico, but the monsoon hadn’t yet taken hold.

Deming, with a population of around 15,000, was the county seat and principal town of Luna County. It is also located in rockhound country. A good part of southwestern New Mexico and southeastern Arizona is a paradise for rock and mineral collecting. Most of the old mines are closed now, but on public land, it’s legal to collect bits and pieces of once-treasured rocks. Geodes. Fire agate. Jasper. Quartz. Azurite. Even turquoise chips can often be found in old dumps.

###

I sped down Highway 11 toward Columbus. It wasn’t the quickest route to the Boot Heel country, but the town had once played a dramatic part in a clash between two nations, and as a history buff, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to sop up some of that flavor. Besides, it was getting late in the day for a drive over into Hidalgo County where the M Lazy M was located. I planned on remaining overnight in the little village named for Christopher Columbus just north of the border across from Palomas, Mexico.

The Impala breezed south over a landscape reminiscent of the drive between Deming and Las Cruces: flat, high desert terrain broken by blue-shadowed mountains in the distance. Heat waves rising off the asphalt were pleasantly hypnotic.

Columbus is an official, twenty-four-hour POE—Point of Entry—between the two nations, although it sits about three miles north of the actual demarcation line. Border City is where the crossings actually occur. Its proximity to the Mexican State of Chihuahua is what gave the place its brush with history.

The actual story is long and convoluted, as well as highly controversial. Two Mexican revolutionaries, Venustiano Carranza and Francisco Villa, better known as Pancho, tossed out a dictator named Victoriano Huerta and then turned on one another. A Columbus merchant and arms dealer by the name of Ravel supposedly sold defective ammunition to Pancho Villa. When the guerrilla demanded a refund, the merchant reputedly told him the Ravels no longer dealt with Mexican bandits.

On the morning of March 9, 1916, one of Villa’s generals attacked Columbus with more than 500 men. The twenty-four-hour invasion burned down a significant portion of the town and killed fourteen American soldiers and ten residents. Another eighty or so revolutionaries were dead or mortally wounded. The raid led let to General John J. Pershing’s Punitive Expedition deep into Mexico.

My initial glimpse of Columbus was as a disruption astraddle the flat, monotonous highway. After entering the town of mostly one-storied adobe affairs—some painted in brash colors of green or pink—I found a bed and breakfast and registered for the night.

###

These scenes touch on just a bit of the rich history of our great state. Hope you enjoyed them as much as I did.

Thanks for reading,

Don

Next week: The Boot Heel.

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

Poetry Yet!

My goodness! Thursday already. This year is racing past at an alarming speed. Better start your Christmas shopping pretty soon.

That outburst, when examined closely, reveals it’s time to publish a new post, and I haven’t an idea in my head. Well, when it’s fourth down and ten, it’s time to punt. So that’s exactly what I’ll do. My alter ego has written a poem. (He calls it that with a straight face, and since I know nothing about poetry, I’ll go along with it.) With deepest apologies, here goes:

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I’M NOT A TUMS KIND OF GUY

By Donald T. Morgan

I’m not a Tums kind of guy.

The belly may be round

And oft overstuffed,

But I’ve never been a Tums kind of guy.

Yet as the years go by

And the hair turns gray

(please, no snickers now),

Maybe I’m not the same kind of guy.

The knees start to go

And the first thing you know,

The joints say click and clack.

Definitely not the same kind of guy.

As things begin to sag,

My clothes become a bag

And worse … I don’t even care.

More changes to my kind of guy.

A shock sets me back

As the mirror reveals

How profound the changes have been.

What kind of a guy am I now?

Wind has gone chasing after stamina,

Which took off in search of energy.

Ambition has vanished, but I cannot say where.

Am I even a guy at all?

With gurgles and groans my stomach

Confirms what I crave no longer craves me.

What was tripe to my tongue is now daily fare.

Maybe I am a Tums kind of guy.

###

Well, there it is … for what it’s worth. (Not much in my opinion, but I’ve been accused of being jaded in my outlook on life.)

Thanks for putting up with it,

Don Travis  (Just so there’s no confusion between the two Dons)

Next week: I’ll try to do better.

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

New Year’s Resolutions … I don’t believe in them. Well, not exactly.

What do you know, it’s January 2, 2014 already. I hope everyone had a good holiday season and survived all the parties, family dinners, and gatherings of friends – obligatory attendances and voluntary ones alike.

What does all of this mean? Well, it means another year has turned into history, never to be captured again. And each of us a year older than this time in 2013, which is now irretrievably gone and lost, lived and experienced.

There’s a difference in those sets of terms, isn’t there? Gone and lost imply something forfeit. Lived and experienced convey a sense of gain. And each of us will determine by the way he or she lives from this day forward which will represent that individual’s mindset … or philosophy, if you will.

My friend, J, whom I’ve mentioned in this blog (generally respectfully) from time to time, is a student of the human brain. She likes to glean facts and theories on how it works as we go about our daily lives. For example, she thinks in terms of System One and System Two.

The first, which dictates probably 80 percent of our actions and activities, is the subconscious. The second represents our cognizant selves, and is the way we make decisions not dictated by habit. In short, the thinking part of us, which she believes from her studies is finite, limited, and sometimes overwhelmed by the subconscious if we don’t take steps to prevent it. By this, I believe she means we don’t allow things about which we can do little or nothing to become obsessions, to take up too much “space” in our day.

I subscribe to this, I think, because of my daily routine. When I sit down at this computer to write, I’m using System Two. But I often find that after a while I’m sputtering along, not thinking clearly, spending too much time dithering over details. Then I’ll do something that lets System One take over, such as playing Free Cell or Computer Hearts. After a game or two of these simple diversions, I’m often much more efficient when I return to productive work.

But I digress (does that come as a shock?). While I do not believe in the Ritual of New Year’s Resolutions, I’ve decided I’m a victim of System One creep, and something needs to be done about it. I haven’t found any volunteers to correct the situation, so I guess I’ll have to do it myself.

Henceforth, I’m returning to my once-rigorous daily schedule of writing, learning about writing, teaching writing, promoting writing, and reading (“writing” is implied here). There. It’s said, ergo, it’s done! And the first beneficiary of the decision will be the novel I’m working on, whose birth has been oh so slow and painful. Come to think of it, I guess that makes me the primary beneficiary. And that’s the way it should be, right?

Happy New Year, everyone.

Thanks,

Don

Next week: Whatever it is, let’s hope it’s a product of System Two.

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

More Complaints from Yours Truly

Hope everyone had a good Christmas.

Last week, I let everyone know my computer had been hacked. I’ve said enough words about that (except that the hacker hasn’t taken me up on the offer to teach him how to write grammatical extortion demands), so let me vent on something else that was exacerbated by that unfortunate experience.

Part of my process in mitigating the damage done by the attack on my computer was to try to notify Yahoo and to follow their directions for assuring I’d done everything correctly to protect against another such attack.

Everyone, including Yahoo, needs to understand that a certain percentage of their users do not speak computerese. The second thing Yahoo should recognize is that some of us who were not raised with computers as surrogate nannies occasionally need to speak to a living, breathing human being. And I fall into both of those categories. Squarely into both categories.

I’ve used Yahoo for years as one of my email addresses and have had relatively little trouble. Until, that is, some idiot revised their whole system. Things that were easy to find are now hidden or camouflaged to make them more difficult to locate. Even when I ran into trouble, there was a telephone number to Technicians who lived and breathed and had blood flowing through his or her veins. It might take a time or two, but they always successfully talked me through the solution to whatever problem I might be experiencing at the moment. That telephone number was 1-866-562-7219. However, I tried it one day and received an automated message saying the line was no longer supported and referring me to Yahoo’s web site for instructions.

For the past three months (possibly longer), I’ve had trouble retrieving emails from the Inbox. I "left-click" on the Inbox … nothing happens. I hit the refresh button … nothing happens. In order to receive these messages I must hit the red X (actually it’s white on a field of red) in the upper right hand corner, pull Yahoo up off the Toolbar again, click on Mail, and lo and behold, the site deigns to release my emails from hostage. My computer service support people tackled this at least three times, and got it to work properly for a maximum of one day before it reverted to form.

Two weeks ago, I decided this was Yahoo’s fault, not my computer’s, so I tried to contact them. Easier said that done. It’s simple to get help if all you need is change your password. No problem. Change it all day long, if you want. But try to report a problem such as this one…good luck. I futzed around for half a day pushing this button and that, looking for sites they directed me to check...only to be unable to find the damned things. Then one day, I received an automated message saying since they hadn’t heard from me in forty-eight hours, they assumed the problem had been corrected. Corrected! I hadn’t even heard from them and the problem not only still existed, it had never been corrected. So I sat poised over my keyboard to give them a piece of my mind, only to find this was a “non-responsive” address that only sent mindless messages without accepting replies.

With a heavy sigh, I tried to go through the process again. Haven’t generated any other sign of interest from them. Not even from a dumb address that talks but doesn’t listen.

Then came the Day of the Hacker. This was serious enough of a problem that it was imperative I reach Yahoo to make certain I’d done everything possible to keep someone from taking control of my computer again. When I finally located a line that asked about messages being sent "asking for money," I thought I’d found Salvation. Instead, I found a response that said to “change my password.”

Larry Greenly, a friend from SouthWest Writers and someone much more computer savvy than I, found a number for Yahoo in Sunnyvale, California which looked to be the company headquarters. So I dialed 408-349-3300. A pleasant (robotic) voice welcomed me to Yahoo and then gave me three options: Press 1 if I had a problem or question about any of their products. Press 2 if I knew my party’s number and press 3 for any other questions. I pressed 1 and got a message to dial 866-562-7219 for Customer Service. Does that look familiar? It’s the number that says it is no longer supported and to refers to the web site. Well, it still says exactly that!

I called California again and tried option three. That response doesn’t even bother to refer you to a non-functional telephone number, it flat out says go to the web site. I called a third time and punched “0,” which sometimes gets you to a living, pulsing operator. No such luck. The "call the 866 number" message is simply repeated. I gave up.

If anyone from Yahoo reads this lonely cry, please respond.

Thanks,

Don

Next week: Well, I got that out of my system, so we’ll see what next week brings.

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