Bag Limit (3 page)
I stayed close to Jessie, but she didn’t have much to say to her mother. When she finally said, “Okay,” and handed the phone back to me, I took her by the elbow to steer her toward Pasquale’s car.
“Here’s Bob,” the deputy said, and I turned to see Torrez strolling toward us, flashlight extinguished and by his side.
“No luck, eh?” I said. He hadn’t been gone long enough to make more than a perfunctory effort, and even that was a waste of time.
Torrez shook his head. “He could be anywhere,” he said. “But I guess he’ll turn up eventually. I’ll run on down to Regal and let his father know.” He rapped the back fender of 310 with his flashlight.
“You want me to come back out and give it a try?” Pasquale asked, but I waved him off.
“Take Jessie home. You might tell her mother when you get there that we’ll be wanting to talk to her again in the morning, after she sobers up.”
The deputy escorted the youngster to the patrol car, with Bob Torrez walking behind them. As Pasquale’s unit pulled out of the narrow road, the undersheriff reached into his truck and turned off the light display, leaving us in comfortable darkness.
“You’ll be all right until the wrecker arrives? I’ll probably be back before they get here,” he said. “We’ll run the tape before they move anything.”
“Sure.” I swung my flashlight and looked at 310 again. The impact in front of the wheel had caved in the rear door. “It’ll probably make it back to town, once the wrecker pulls this other piece of junk out of the way. And if not”—I shrugged—“it’s a nice quiet night to watch the stars.”
During the twenty minutes that Bob Torrez was gone, I leaned against the front fender of my car, listening to the mountain. I could hear the occasional car or truck miles away, and more than one dog’s yap floated on the night breeze. Other than that, the high country was quiet—just a faint whisper of moving air through the scrub oak and juniper.
If Matt Baca was working his drunken way through the brush down the southwest slope of Santa Lucia Peak toward the tiny village of Regal, he was stepping quietly. I tried to picture how a staggering drunk might navigate at night through oak brush, over jagged and loose rock outcroppings, and around vast cactus beds. If he was depending on dumb luck, the pattern of the evening’s events thus far should have made him a bit uneasy—assuming that he had sobered enough to ponder such things.
Just before Torrez arrived, I heard Deputy Thomas Pasquale inform dispatch that he was stopping at the Montoya residence to drop off his passenger. I wondered if, when they drove past the convenience store on the northeast corner of Bustos and Grande, Jessie Montoya had said, “You can just drop me off here. I’ll be all right.” It was going to be a long night for the young lady.
The Expedition’s headlights swung through the trees, and I ambled down the dirt two-track a few steps to meet it. “I was hoping maybe he’d just stroll out of the woods along the roadside,” Torrez said as he climbed out of the truck.
“Stagger, you mean.”
“That, too,” the undersheriff said. “His father isn’t home. This hour of the night, he’s probably shacked up with somebody.”
“Old Sosimo does that, does he?”
Bob grunted in disgust. “That would be why Josie left him two years ago. You haven’t heard anything?”
“Not a peep.”
“Maybe Matt’s found himself a nice spot to sleep it off. And by the way, I talked to Pasquale a minute ago, right after he dropped off the girl. Apparently Matt drove his old man’s pickup into town, and then he and Toby linked up at the pizza place. It was Toby’s idea to talk Jessie into cruising around with them.”
“So Toby’s sweet on Jessie,” I said. “What’d he take his mother’s car for? Dumping the girlfriend in the backseat while the guys ride up front is what passes for a date these days?”
Torrez shrugged. “Sosimo’s pickup is so full of junk that three people can’t fit in the cab. And it stinks. He chews tobacco, and about half the time he doesn’t get it in the cup.”
“Well, one or another of them will show up eventually,” I said. “The next question to ask Toby, as soon as the doctors cut his lips loose from his teeth, is why he let Matt drive.”
“Probably because Toby doesn’t have a license yet,” Torrez said. “I haven’t checked, but I think he just turned fifteen. If I remember right, Matt’s going on nineteen. I don’t remember for sure.”
“For all your relatives, you’d need a directory,” I said. “And I don’t guess that it’s too hard to find someone who’s willing to sell a kid a few six-packs without a background check.” I scanned the interior of the little car with the flashlight again, catching the glint of three open beer cans but no mother lode. “And it doesn’t look like they succeeded in buying anything from Victor Sanchez, either.”
We heard a truck approaching, and as it slowed the undersheriff reached into the Expedition and turned on the red lights for a pulse or two so that the tow-truck driver would know where to pull off into the trees.
In less than five minutes, Stubby Lopez had hooked up to the remains of the Nissan, and with that out of the way, I slid into 310 and started it up. It ran just fine, and since the bodywork hadn’t crushed into the wheel or tire, I saw no point in towing the car back.
“I’d be happy to make a second trip,” Stubby said hopefully.
“Not necessary,” I said. “But let me go on ahead of you, just in case.” I could have just stayed where I was, content to enjoy a second installment of pretending I was a wart on the side of the mountain, but the mood had been spoiled.
I drove back to Posadas without incident and parked the battered 310 over behind the gas pumps. Both Torrez and Pasquale would be off duty just as soon as they cleaned up their paperwork. Jackie Taber was the only deputy scheduled for the midnight-to-eight slot that particular day. On a quiet November Saturday morning, one deputy would be adequate.
September and October had been so slow that all of us had started to look at a routine speeding ticket as excitement. Bob Torrez had even managed to find the time to erect a handful of campaign signs around the county. That was the extent of his efforts.
More than once I had suggested a couple of radio spots, or maybe a newspaper ad or two—or an appearance at the local Rotary Club luncheon. Each time, he shook his head and grimaced. Maybe he was right. Maybe no one was going to vote for Leona Spears, his only opponent. If all of Torrez’s relatives voted for him, the election would be a landslide.
I finally came to the conclusion that it wasn’t that Robert Torrez didn’t want the sheriff’s job. He did—he’d spent the better part of fifteen years with the department, and he had his own ideas about how a tiny, broke county could finance the modern computer age of law enforcement. He just didn’t have any patience with the politics that went with it.
After the sudden shot of adrenaline while having my car assaulted, I wasn’t the least bit tired when I walked into my office shortly after midnight. My desk was clear of projects. I knew that if I went home, I’d sit up and read most of the night, and I didn’t want to do that, either. If I remained in my office, odds were good that someone would want to talk to me, and I wasn’t in the mood to play father-confessor. Those were generally the only conversations to be had in the middle of the night.
I suppose what I really was avoiding was having to answer the irritating question, “So, what are you planning to
do
with yourself now that you’re retiring?” I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to explain to anyone just then that I didn’t know, and have to listen to a list of suggestions that didn’t interest me. Somehow, people couldn’t bring themselves to believe that I didn’t
mind
not knowing.
I took the unmarked car that the civil deputies often used during the day, and headed toward the Broken Spur Saloon on State 56. I knew that a chat with the owner, Victor Sanchez, was on Torrez’s short list. Sanchez would be closing the saloon in another hour or two, and maybe he’d loosen up a bit. Victor and I had crossed swords on several occasions, and I knew that he wouldn’t bubble with enthusiasm when he saw me walk through the door.
I pulled into the saloon’s lot and parked between a red Jeep Cherokee with New Mexico plates and a Chevy Suburban with Arizona tags. Two or three other vehicles, all pickup trucks, were widely spaced across the gravel.
The Broken Spur made up in darkness what it lacked in eye appeal. The small foyer was posh in wrinkled black velvet, a dark little hole to wait while the patrons decided which door to choose. To the left were the old-fashioned swinging half doors that led to the saloon. A gaping double doorway to the right opened into the small dining room.
As my eyes adjusted, I could make out a young couple seated in the dining room, hunched toward each other, deep in conversation. A single candle flickering between them. I pegged them for the Arizona plates.
No one was behind the short counter on whose glass top rested the bowl of mints and the stack of menus. Under the glass, the light winked on the gleaming collection of fake silver, fake turquoise, and really dead scorpions encased in genuine plastic. I turned left, toward the music. The saloon was darker than the foyer, and I moved slowly, the Loretta Lynn crooning from the jukebox just about the right tempo for my shuffle.
The long bar hosted a handful of customers, all of them men. I slid onto one of the bar stools out of easy talking range from the nearest, and rested my elbow on the bar. The air was thick with smoke, and it smelled good. I had told my oldest daughter Camille that one of the things I was going to do when I retired was take up smoking again. She hadn’t thought the remark was funny.
Two of the tables off to the left were occupied, but at that distance and in the dim light, the figures were little more than muted shapes.
“What can I get you?” The gal’s voice was a pleasant contralto, loud enough to be heard over Loretta, but not enough to jar frayed nerves. I didn’t recognize her, an experience that always surprised me. After thirty years minding the business of a small county, I had grown used to seeing familiar faces around every corner—or under every rock.
“Do you still have some coffee?”
“Sure. Do you need a menu?”
I smiled with surprise, and looked at my watch. “What time is it, anyway?”
“About one-thirty. Plenty of time.”
“Well, then…sure. No, wait. Don’t bother. If you can find a green chile burrito back in the kitchen, that’d suit me fine.”
“Smothered?”
“Sure. Smothered is wonderful.”
She nodded and slipped away, returning in less than a minute with a mug of coffee. She was an attractive kid, and it was pleasant to watch her move.
“Busy night?”
“No, actually, it’s been really quiet,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “Really quiet. That burrito will be right up.”
I nodded and relaxed, letting the warm, stuffy air meld into my bones. I realized I had gotten chilly standing out on that mountainside. If I sat in the Broken Spur very long, my eyelids would come crashing down.
True to her word, the bartender arrived in less than five minutes with a pretty respectable green chile burrito—nothing on a par with what the Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant in Posadas served, but fragrant and savory nevertheless.
“And Victor says to tell you that Matt Baca didn’t buy anything when he came in here earlier,” she said as she arranged the hot plate in front of me.
I looked askance at her, and then turned toward the kitchen. The swinging door was closed, but I suppose old Victor could see through the little diamond-shaped window.
“Victor says that, does he?” I tried a small mouthful of the burrito. It was pretty good—just a touch on the wet side, one of those constructions where the chef doesn’t know enough to let the green chile stand alone, but pollutes it with a soup base to turn it into a sauce. “In what prior lifetime did you and I meet?”
She smiled, resting both hands on the lip of the bar. I was willing to bet there was a whole population of old drunk ranchers who stopped by the Broken Spur regularly, just on the off chance that her one-hundred-watt smile would favor them.
“The first time was about three years ago. I was one of the alternate jurors for that Wilton kid’s trial. You testified quite a bit.”
“Sure enough,” I said, not remembering. I remembered the trial, all right, but not the jurors. I looked at her again, and decided that she was in her late twenties.
“And your picture’s been in the paper off and on since then.” She leaned forward a bit and lowered her voice. “You can’t hide.”
“I guess not.” I laughed. “What’s your name? My memory leaks.”
“Christine Prescott,” she said. “You know my folks.”
“Ah, indeed I do. And I haven’t seen either one of them in months. How are they doing?” The Prescott ranch, two miles north of Moore off Route 56, was a tough operation in the best of times. Gus Prescott had never been lucky enough, or positioned just right, to land himself one of the federal grazing leases. Instead he made do with a couple hundred acres of his own. With creativity and hard work, those acres were enough to keep the family right on the line between destitution and poverty.
She hesitated a bit too long and took a deep breath. “Okay, I guess.”
One of the patrons farther down the bar caught her attention, and she excused herself before she had the chance to elaborate. I made a mental note to stop by her parents’ place sometime. I knew damn well that I’d lose that note in the vast brain-pile of the misplaced, ignored, or forgotten—a pile that grew like a huge landfill, swelling every year.
Christine Prescott showed no inclination to gravitate toward my end of the bar for several minutes, but eventually returned to refill my coffee.
Before she had a chance to turn away again, I asked, “You said Matt Baca came in earlier?”
She nodded, but like the good bartender she was, didn’t volunteer any elaboration.
“But he didn’t buy anything?”
“Not for want of trying,” she said, and stepped away to set the coffeepot back on the hot-plate. She returned and stood with her back to the rest of the bar. Her posture said, “You’re going to ask, so get it over with.”
“Was anyone else with him?”
She shook her head. “He came in for just a minute, but he sure didn’t need anything else to drink.”
“Had a little trouble navigating, did he?”
“Just a little,” she said, rolling her eyes with the understatement. “He wanted a twenty-four pack, but I told him no, and he fished out his driver’s license. I guess he thought I was refusing him because he was underage. It took him a while to get it out.”
“So you checked his age and refused him anyway?”
Christine grinned. “No. I never got a chance to see the license. Victor came out of the kitchen, saw Matt, and told him to beat it.”
“And Matt didn’t argue with him?”
“Well, he started to, but you know how Victor can be.”
“Indeed I do.”
“Victor told him, ‘I don’t care whose ID you got. You just go away.’ I guess he and Matt’s dad have known each other for years.”
“And Matt left after that?”
“Yep. And the chase was on.” She smiled and pointed at the single window that faced the highway, most of the glass area taken up by the bright neon tubes of the beer logo. “We saw the red lights.” The smile faded. “And then later the ambulance went by, and then the tow truck. Was that Matt? I assumed that it was when I saw you walk in.”
I nodded. “They’re all right. There were three of them in the car. No big deal.” I was sure that none of the teenagers would have agreed with my assessment. I turned to see Victor Sanchez emerge through the kitchen’s swinging door. Wiping his hands on his apron, he ambled up behind the bar, pausing to say something to each one of the patrons. But I knew exactly where he was headed.
