Chapter 10

The next day I got to the church building just before 9. I'd brought along several books, since I don't have many in my church office, preferring to keep my library at home. I figured I'd do some studying while I sat by the phone and waited for it to ring, or for someone to walk in. And probably I'd get a few calls and a few walk-ins – people had learned my schedule by now. And they'd come to truly realize, now that Tyrone – the elder whose place I'd taken when he retired – was living in Alabama, that there was no such person anymore as "the pastor," just a group of elders any one of whom could and would help them.

Sometimes I wonder whether studying interrupts the other duties of a pastor, or they interrupt studying. I do know that something always manages to interrupt something else. I've always respected pastors for the hard work they do, and though we have several elders who share the work instead of loading it all on one person, it is still work. Anyone who says that pastors don't work either doesn't know what he's talking about, or he's talking about people I've never run into in my whole life.

It was just about noon, and I was beginning to think about what I wanted to do for lunch, when the phone rang again. Normally I look at the caller ID, but when I'm doing elder stuff I don't know who's going to call, so I just answer it – just because I don't know the number or the name doesn't mean that it's not a legitimate bit of pastoral business. "MJT Christian Fellowship," I said. "Darvin speaking." Though the general church number rings in the secretary's office upstairs, if it's a direct call to one of the extensions it only rings there.

"This is Sergeant Aragón," said a voice with a slight Hispanic accent. "Sergeant Delgado said you wanted me to call."

I leaned back in my chair – an ordinary cloth covered computer chair with plastic arms. It's only where Cecelia's had a hand in my furniture that I have nice stuff. "Yeah, I wanted to pick your brain a little. Actually I didn't much care whose brain I picked as long as I got good info, and Rudy suggested you."

"How long have you known Sergeant Delgado?" He was a cop, all right – he wasn't going to give anything away until he knew it was all right.

I had to mentally scratch my head on that one. "Let's see, I come to ABQ in July of 92 ... I met him in the spring, so it must have been the spring of 93, while he was still dating Sara. I hadn't realized it was so long, but it does feel like I've known him forever."

It wouldn't have surprised me if Aragón had probed a bit more, asking where Rudy had worked then – it was Burglary, or what his middle name was – Arturo, though he never used it, not even on official documents. But he seemed to think Rudy's say-so, and my proving that I did know him, were sufficient.

"That's what he's told me. There aren't many friendships that long these days."

"No, there aren't."

I heard a click, a sort of rasping sound, and then another click – and it took me back years, to when I'd known a guy who always lit his cigarettes with a Zippo lighter. Sgt. Aragón was a smoker. "He told me that you're interested in gangs in the South Valley," he said.

"Not gangs so much as the B&Is. I'm working a case which looks like it'll involve them, and my experience has mostly been in the Heights, with a few forays into the North Valley."

"Well, they're a bunch you don't want to mess with." I could faintly hear him blowing out smoke.

"Shoot, I don't wanna mess with any of 'em. People who'll shoot you for wearing the wrong color hat ain't my speed. But I'm gonna need to talk to someone from that outfit."

"How do you dress?" Aragón asked, and it wasn't an idle question either. With everyone dressing hip-hop these days, it can be hard to tell the gang members from those who want you to think they're gang members, and them from ordinary people.

I chuckled. "Not like any gangbanger you ever saw. They call me Cowboy on the street, and it ain't 'cause I like John Wayne. As a matter of fact, he bores me stiff."

"Don't let anyone hear you say that," Aragón said. "So you dress like a cowboy?"

"Yeah – I was one, in fact, for about a year when I was just out of high school ... I worked at it, come to think of it, on a part-time basis before I graduated. I still dress like I work all day on top of a horse, 'cause that's how I'm comfortable. Nobody's gonna mistake me for a member of a gang – their own or another."

"That's a good point. These guys are killers, but usually they only kill each other – or innocent bystanders. They don't deliberately target civilians, not usually anyway."

"Yeah, it's just that they use the spray and pray method of icing someone." I remembered that Cecelia had brought that term up when we talked about the shooting that had started all this.

"Yeah. Anyway, with you not looking like a gangster, I think you'll be as safe as anyone." He paused, and I heard him take a puff or two – phone technology these days is a lot better than it used to be, even with cell phones. "I guess the best guy to talk to would be Dog Padilla – Roberto Francisco Padilla Ortiz," he said, giving the full Spanish name a sudden strengthening of the accent. "They call him Dog because he once lit a dog on fire – just for fun."

"That's the way these little psychopaths are." I remembered, as I said it, that I'd used the same term when thinking about Billy the Kid. "If it feels good they do it, and usually what feels good is something vile and cruel."