Winter Counts(23)
“You know, scene transference and visualization. Changing our patterns to embrace our wholeness. You interested in trying it? I’ve got a sliding scale, three hundred to five hundred for the entire session, or you can pay by the hour. Seventy-five dollars. Get rid of your spiritual toxins and purify yourself.”
“We’ll pass,” I said. “Where’d you learn this stuff?”
“Well,” he said, warming up, “I heard about this school in Boulder, the Shamanistic Institute, which offers education in psychedelic medicine, psychosocial therapy, and Native American healing. It’s very prestigious, so I signed up. So rewarding to be a healer. It’s my life’s purpose, you know, to help those less spiritually evolved than myself.” He looked at us more closely. “Hey, you guys look Native American. Yeah? You must know all about this stuff! Like peyote and healing circles.”
“Actually, no,” Marie said, “we have different traditions.”
That was diplomatic. But it was time to end this happy horseshit.
“Thanks for all that,” I said. “Very interesting. Anyway, does Martin Angel work here?”
“Yes, he’s our grower. One of the finest around. A genius, really. Pioneered several CBD strains. Now he’s creating a new RSO hemp oil for cancer patients—cures asthma and arthritis, too. Probably change the world.”
“Know where we can find him?” I asked.
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
“Does he have a phone number I can call? Email, anything?”
“We don’t give out that information, sorry.” He turned away from us.
“One more question,” I said, rapping my knuckles on the counter. “You ever see a guy in here called Rick Crow? About six feet tall, long black hair? Indian guy?”
“I believe you mean Native American. And no, I’ve not seen that gentleman here. But all our patient contacts are private, of course. We are a therapeutic facility and take medical confidentiality very seriously.”
“All right,” I said, taking one last look at the doctor and his medicines. “Good luck with the healing.”
OUR VISIT TO THE Wellness Relief Center had yielded no concrete information about Rick Crow, so our next move was to confront him on his own turf. Turf that Marie claimed to know about.
“All right,” I said, “let’s hear it. Where’s this place that Rick hangs out? I’ll keep my promise; you can talk to him first if it looks safe.”
She put on her seat belt, then looked at her phone.
“I’ll be fine. All right, what I know is that the gang runs a bar in Denver called Los Primos. If he’s here, he’ll be at that bar.”
Los Primos. Time to do some homework.
I USED MARIE’S SMART PHONE and found out that the bar was located on the north side of Denver, in a neighborhood called Swansea/Elyria. The name sounded fancy, but a little internet searching revealed that the neighborhood was one of Denver’s poorest, almost completely Latino, but was starting to change as wealthier people in search of cheap and quirky housing began driving out the original inhabitants. The newspaper article I found said that the earliest residents were openly hostile to the gentrifiers, but that there was little they could do against the tide of the neighborhood settlers. Sounded familiar.
We drove down Interstate 70 to the area. A giant dog-food factory stood imposingly next to the highway viaduct while railroad tracks ran right by some of the tiny houses. It was hard to see why this neighborhood was becoming overrun by urban colonizers. After a few wrong turns, we found the bar, which was attached to a little market and a liquor store. About twenty vehicles were parked outside, mainly small pickup trucks and older-model American cars. Just to be safe, I parked a few blocks away. I hadn’t told Marie, but I’d stuck my folding karambit Spyder knife in my back pocket and stowed my Glock in the hatchback of her car. The Spyder had a small curved blade that could be used to gut an enemy in close-quarters combat. I didn’t think I’d need it, but it couldn’t hurt to bring it along.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s see if he’s there. You go in first, stick your head in. I’ll stay by the windows where I can watch. You know what you’re gonna say to him?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll tell him what’s happening back home with the drugs, especially the kids. I’ve got a few other things I’ll say if I need to. Just stay out of sight, okay?”
“All right, but I’m coming in if he makes a move.”
“I can handle myself, big guy. Remember back in school? I punched Theresa Bad Milk once.”
“What? I never heard about that.”
“She was making fun of some kid. You know, the one who couldn’t stop playing with himself in class. Can’t remember his name.”
“Potato Juice! Shit, I forgot about him. Didn’t you put canned salmon in her gas tank, too? I remember people talking about that.”
“She deserved it.”
I POSITIONED MYSELF OUTSIDE in front of the bar. There were a few grimy windows, but I could see inside. About ten people were sitting at the counter, maybe more to the side. I peered in, trying to see if Rick was one of them, but all I could see were the backs of the customers, a variety of leather jackets and checkered flannel shirts.