The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel

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9780307717801: The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel

Master con artist Radar Hoverlander is getting out of the life...unless his old man drags him back in.
 
After their last big con netted them a nice chunk of change, Radar Hoverlander and his grifter girlfriend, Allie Quinn, have vowed to go straight. But Radar’s fragile commitment to clean living is put to the test when an oddly hefty lady in red shows up and stalks him through the streets of Santa Fe. Except that’s no lady—it’s Radar’s dad, Woody Hoverlander, a world class con artist in his own right.

Radar correctly figures if his dad is in drag, he must be in trouble. Woody is on the lam, with a Vegas hard guy after him and a large debt to clear. To help him, Radar must break his vow to leave cons behind—and risk losing Allie, who is determined to protect their nest egg and steer clear of bad influences.

Radar’s best pal, the usually hapless Vic Mirplo, had started creating art as a con, but now he’s coming into money as his sculptures start to sell.  When Radar needs someone to flash some cash in Vegas and play the reckless gambler so that he can get his father off the hook, he reinvents Mirplo as the ultimate high roller--the Albuquerque Turkey--and dangles him as bait.

Art fraud, casino cons, love, loyalty, and plenty of double- and triple-crosses...they all prove that the odds of what happens in Vegas staying in Vegas are about as long as Radar Hoverlander staying straight. 

"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.

About the Author:

John Vorhaus wears many hats: novelist, poker expert, international creative consultant. When not basking in the sunshine of his California home, he travels the world, teaching and training writers. He swears by Radar’s words, “Love what you do. If you don’t love it, you won’t do it well.”

www.JohnVorhaus.com

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter 1

Boy

It started with a dog, a biggish one loping down the sidewalk with that weird canter that 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 trailer trash 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 ap-proached, 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 the 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 say 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 need 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, tri-dot 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 ...

"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.

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