Excerpt: Angels in the Wind

On Saturday, December 3, at 10:00 AM at the Aurora History Museum, I will discuss my novel Angels in the Wind as part of the Museum's Winter Speaker Series.  The Museum publicity graphic is below.  Although the focus may be on Angels in the Wind, I intend to present a broader look at Chicano crime fiction -- more specifically, I'll dig a bit deeper into the literary concept of Chicano Noir.  I've made this presentation at various colleges and universities around the Southwest, but this will be the first time I've used this presentation in Denver.  

I've included in this post an excerpt from the book.

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Author Manuel Ramos is a member of the Colorado Authors Hall of Fame. Angels in the Wind was a finalist for the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America.

"More than just a detective novel, this book is a reflection on the changing landscape of the West and the redemptive power of family." David Heska Wanbli Weiden, author of Winter Counts.

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I felt like I was sucked into a black bag as soon as I left the town limits and turned onto Deer Lick Way, the road to Essie’s house.  I concentrated on the stretch of road lit by my headlights, and I told myself that I was driving in the quiet and peaceful countryside, nothing to worry about. No rush hour madness, no out-of-control truckers, no drunk office workers speeding to the next happy hour.  I breathed in, deep and full.  There had been a time when I would have believed those thoughts and the ride wouldn’t have meant anything to me except as a way to get to where I would sleep, but that was before my dented head and warped imagination.  Now, I turned to the darkest alternative.

I followed Essie’s directions, and for a few miles my phone’s GPS worked.  But when I climbed a small hill and then sunk below the horizon, my phone went blank, and Essie’s words jumbled together in my memory.

“It’s not that hard,” I whispered in the narrow cab of my pickup.  “Focus, man.”  The truck’s smell – grease, sweat – reassured me.  The smooth-running Chevy six-banger gave me confidence.  I relaxed and remembered that Essie said to watch for a sign with an arrow pointing to Gilroy Road.

I picked up speed on the downslope of the hill.  The sky was dotted with stars never seen in the city.  Night draped over my faded pickup.  I cruised, faster than I should have.  Images of Wes Delgado and Rob Lopez mixed with the photographs of Mat that George had given me. I worried about Mat and couldn’t avoid the darkest thoughts about what had happened to him.

I almost drove past the sign that appeared suddenly in my headlights.  I slammed the brakes and the pickup fish-tailed on the gravel road.  I wrenched the oversized steering wheel and hoped I’d stay on the gravel.  I didn’t.  The truck swayed and rocked, and I ended up turned around in the shoulder’s soft dirt.  The sudden stop killed my engine.

My headlights flickered and I turned them off.  I could see only blackness.  I started to sweat.  I felt dizzy, and a hot flash confirmed I was in panic mode, although nothing serious had happened. I took in deeper breaths of air.  I pumped the gas pedal and turned the key.  I did that too many times and stopped only when I accepted that I’d flooded the engine.  “You dumb fucker,” I said to myself. 

I had to wait to try to start the truck again.  I leaned back against my ex’s old blanket.

Again, my thinking turned to Delgado and Lopez.  I didn’t like either one, but that wasn’t anything new for me.  I’d always been a skeptical guy, a Northside kid who didn’t trust anyone who wasn’t his sister.  It was a given that I wouldn’t feel comfortable around the police chief, and Wes Delgado … well he was just too weird.

I needed to make another run at him, loosen up all that he knew about where Mat Montoya might have gone and why he left.  I began to make a list of questions for Delgado.  

The movement to my right was small, nothing more than a smoky wisp rustling the sage.  But then it happened again. 

I turned on the headlights.  Off to the side, someone ducked to the ground.  Someone with long hair.

I jumped from the cab and landed on soft earth that gave way under my weight, causing me to roll on the ground, almost brushing up against a cactus.

“Jesus!” I shouted.

I struggled to my feet and ran to where I’d seen the longhaired person. At least, I thought I’d seen someone.  I stumbled again on rocks and loose dirt, fell to my knees, and cursed.  I waited and listened.  Nothing.  I stayed on my knees.  My eyes adjusted to the darkness and strange unearthly objects slowly morphed into boulders, bushes, and sandy mounds.

The only movement came from the slight breeze that caressed the scrub bushes.  The night turned a deep purple, the stars overhead exploded and soared, as though the sky moved, dragging me along, forcing me to stand up, and then to holler, with all the energy my depleted soul could muster.

“Mat!  Mat Montoya!  I’m your uncle, Gus.  Your family needs to see you.  Mat!  Talk to me.  Let me take you home.”

The moon answered with silence.  The stars ignored me. Whoever or whatever I’d seen was gone.

Later.

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Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction. Read his latest story, Northside Nocturne, in Denver Noir, edited by Cynthia Swanson, published by Akashic Books.