The Bootlegger’s Legacy (21 page)

“That makes perfect sense, Mike. There are a couple appraisers here in Las Cruces and one that I know of in T or C. Let me know if you decide to hire someone and I’ll give you some names.”

Owen handed Mike a map with a circle indicating where the cabin was located. “There doesn’t appear to be a key that anyone knows of. I’ve asked Max, whose father used to own the place, if he happened to have a key but he said no. The Sheriff was up there not long ago and looked around, but he didn’t go inside. I think, if you can get something from your attorney stating that you own the cabin, you may be able to have a locksmith go up there and unlock it and put on new locks. And, of course, the Sheriff’s offer is based on the inside not being a big hole in the ground. Sheriff Pacheco told me he couldn’t tell what the inside might look like, although the outside was in surprisingly good condition considering how long it’s been since there had been any sort of upkeep.”

“Well, thanks, Chuck, you’ve been very helpful. Sounds like I have a few things to get done before we can transact any business. Joe and I will be in Las Cruces for a few days, but my guess is that we will have to come back once the attorney gets all of the paperwork in place. Oh, by the way, Chuck, you had mentioned something about a bank account paying the property taxes and you thought that might be my mother’s?”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I got that wrong. The property taxes have been paid every year and the clerk I talked to said it was probably something set up by the owner of the property. But I talked to the clerk again and she said the tax bills were being sent to a law firm in Dallas and they paid the taxes.”

“Okay, thanks Chuck. Here’s my card with my work number—if anything else comes up, just give me a call.”

Owen reciprocated with his card and asked Mike to keep him informed about progress on the legal stuff. They shook hands and agreed to stay in touch.

Once they were in the car, Joe had a few thoughts. “Not sure how much I would trust old Chuck. Something about him seemed a little too eager to please—don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know. Yesterday, this all seemed like a dream, inheriting an old cabin, flying down to New Mexico—now it all seems like a bunch of work. No telling what it will cost in legal fees just to get to point where I can sell this old cabin. Now I probably need an appraisal and a locksmith. Plus I guess I need to contact that damn Dallas law firm and find out what they’ve been doing all of these years. I just don’t know Joe, I guess I just wanted it to be a bunch of fun, not a bunch of work.”

“Hey, slow down Mike. Chuck said the Sheriff would pay $17,000. So you have a few expenses—you’re still going to net out a nice little pile of cash. I think that helps.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Seems like all I do lately is deal with problems and complications—I guess I’m just a little on edge. Let’s get over to the attorney’s office and see what he has to say. Maybe this will be easier than it sounds.”

They drove a few blocks and pulled into a parking lot adjacent to what appeared to be the tallest building in town—ten stories. Bates and Young was on the fifth floor. First National Bank of Las Cruces occupied the entire first floor and at least half of the rest of the building and by all accounts was the largest bank in town.

They entered the fifth floor offices and asked the middle-aged receptionist if they could see Mr. Young. She looked like they were an unwelcome interruption in her day and held her stare a little too long. Mike was beginning to think that maybe they’d come to the wrong office, when she finally responded, “Do you have an appointment?”

Joe wasn’t paying much attention, but sure noticed the tone. Maybe these attorneys had all of the business they could handle and they had hired this receptionist to run people off.

“Yes, my name is Mike Allen and I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Mr. Young—I know we’re early and, if Mr. Young is not available, we can come back.” While Joe could tell Mike was still feeling grumpy, he was being very polite.

“Please be seated and I will tell Mr. Young you’re here.” This was more of a command than a request. Joe and Mike took a seat.

After a short wait a tall, handsome, youthful Mr. Young came out to greet them. “Mr. Allen, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thanks, this is my friend Joe Meadows.” After handshakes Jeff Young showed them into his small but comfortable office. “My partner has a meeting going on in the conference room right now, but we can meet in my somewhat messy office if you don’t mind?”

“No problem at all. This is very comfortable. And please call me Mike.”

“Okay Mike, and call me Jeff. Now, how can I help you? You had said on the phone something about a piece of real estate that you’d inherited but hadn’t known about—is that right?”

“Yes, sort of. The property is in my mother’s maiden name, and I think she probably didn’t know about it. My guess is that my father purchased this cabin many years ago and put it in my mother’s maiden name for his own business reasons. My father had business dealings in Las Cruces and El Paso in the 40s and 50s. He passed away about ten years ago and my mother died about four years ago. When my father died, he apparently didn’t have a will, or at least no one could fine one. My mother had a will drawn up for herself after my father’s death, in which everything was left to me. Apparently, this piece of real estate, a cabin in the T or C area, has more or less been abandoned all this time. Your local Sheriff heard about it from the son of the person who sold it to my father and is looking into buying it as a retirement spot. Anyway, that’s how Chuck Owen got involved, and he did research on the owner—my mother, under her maiden name—and eventually tracked it to me. Now I need to find out what I have to do to claim ownership and sell the cabin.”

“Wow. That’s an interesting story. What kind of business was your father in?”

Now the good part. “Actually my mother and I never really knew. He may have been in the insurance business. He quit that business in the early 50s and went into retail hardware in Oklahoma City. So most of my life he was working in his own hardware store—obviously, that had nothing to do with Las Cruces or a cabin in T or C.” Mike paused. He was not real comfortable spilling the family secrets, especially since he didn’t know for sure if they were true.

“I see—I think. So you believe your father was in the insurance business in Las Cruces?”

“Actually I never really knew, and if my mother knew she never told me.” A little evasive but what did that have to do with his current legal needs?

About this time an older man with a regal air about him entered the room. Jeff stood in a show of respect.

“Excuse me for interrupting, Jeff. Just wanted to let you know the conference room is available now.”

“Okay, thanks Bill. Bill I’d like you to meet some people from Oklahoma. They’re asking us to help them clear up some title issues on some property here in New Mexico.”

“Joe Meadows and Mike Allen, this is my partner Bill Bates.” Handshakes all around.

“Mike Allen from Oklahoma—any chance that you have a relative named Pat or Patrick who used to have business dealings in Las Cruces?”

Mike just stood there—this was too weird. Could it really be his dad? And if it was, what did this Bates guy know?

Mike chuckled. “My heavens, what a small world—that could be my father. Did you know him?”

“Yes, I did. I did legal work for him in the 50s, back when I was a young man. I didn’t know him well because we only met a few times, but I remember him because he made such an impression on me. He was one of my first clients. I was never sure of the type of business activities your father was involved in—I was always curious. But I’m aware of the real estate I suspect you’re inquiring about—if it’s a cabin in T or C with the ownership in his wife’s maiden name, because I handled that transaction for your dad.”

Jeff looked stunned. “Maybe we should all go into the conference room and figure out what’s going on.”

With that they all headed to the conference room. Mike pulled Joe aside. “Where did you get this law firm’s name?” Joe had done the research to select a law firm in Las Cruces for Mike.

“I just called the attorney I use and asked him to give me a name in Las Cruces—he looked it up in some directory that attorneys have. What are the odds of it being one your dad used a hundred years ago? I can’t imagine what this means, but it has a very strange feel to it.”

“I know. What should I tell them—should I tell them I suspect my father was a big-time bootlegger? How the hell is the Sheriff going to feel about buying a hidden cabin from a bootlegger’s son? Jeez, every day my life gets stranger. Tell me Joe. What should I do?”

“Number one, whatever your father was, it’s obvious it didn’t involve you or your mother. Number two—well hell, I forgot number two. You’re just looking to clear up the legal mess, and as it turns out you’re probably talking to the guy who can get that done the easiest. He already knows all about it—he did it! So you need to go in there and tell them what you know and what you don’t know but can only guess.” Mike looked thoughtful, then agreed. Might as well just be truthful—after all, he wasn’t hiding anything.

They sat around the large table in the conference room while Mike explained that he really didn’t know what his father did before the hardware store. “The rumors were that he was a bootlegger. It never made sense to me and my mom because he was such a great husband and father. His only fault was that he was gone a lot. He would go on trips several times a month and would be out at night quite often. He told my mother he was in the insurance business and she never questioned him beyond that. Then in the early 50s he said he had retired from that business and had bought a hardware store in Oklahoma City. From that point on he was never gone. He spent all his time with his family. We lived well, but not extravagantly by any means. And the rumors about his days as a bootlegger just felt silly. My mom said people made up those stories because they were jealous that my father owned his own hardware store. He was my dad, for goodness sake, not a bootlegger. So I never believed them. But I guess now, I realize, those stories could be true.”

“A bootlegger in Oklahoma in the 50s—well I’ll be. That could easily make sense. One of the rumors I heard was that your father was doing business with some people in Juarez—that could have been his liquor supplier. My word, isn’t that interesting.” Bates seemed more intrigued than upset.

“Do you know Jim Emerson?” Bill Bates asked this directly to Mike.

“No. Don’t believe I’ve heard that name, why?”

“There may be some legal confidentialities here—but I would suggest that you communicate with Mr. Emerson about the company he operates, Blue Devils Development, and about his dealings with your dad. You should be aware that Mr. Emerson is the richest man in southern New Mexico and not someone you want as an enemy. One of his biggest holdings is Citizens Bank, here in Cruces.”

“Are you saying he was in business with my dad?”

“I think it’d be best if you asked him that question. Once you’ve talked to him we should probably meet again. Regarding the property, we can begin work immediately to get the legal questions resolved. If you can provide us with a copy of your mother’s will and maybe the name of the attorney in Oklahoma who handled the probate, I think we can get something done pretty quickly.”

“Sounds great. We’re staying at the Holiday Inn and we’ll be in town at least two days. Also, if you think it’s okay, we’d like to go up and look at the cabin. No one seems to have a key, and I guess it is boarded up and may take a little effort to get inside. We thought we could at least go up and see what it looks like from the outside.”

“We don’t have any problem with you doing that. I would think that maybe even by tomorrow, if we can get some details from your attorney in Oklahoma, we could be comfortable with you accessing the inside and having the property secured with your locks. Why don’t you give us a call tomorrow afternoon?”

With that they broke up the meeting and said their goodbyes. Back in the car, Joe and Mike just sat and stared for a time. Joe spoke first. “I guess you made the connection with Citizens Bank and the CB on the lock box key?”

“Yeah, I didn’t say anything to Bates because I’m still nervous as hell about how all of this is related. But that just has to be the bank where the key belongs. Do you think there’s any chance there’s still something in the lock box after all these years?”

“Don’t know Mike, but so far it sure seems like your father was a much more complicated man than you knew.”

“No shit, Sherlock!”

Their next move wasn’t obvious. They could try to find Emerson, but that sounded like it might easily turn into one big fuck-up, walking into the office of the richest man in the county and asking him if he used to be a bootlegger. Joe persuaded Mike that they should wait to see Emerson until they were clearer what their position was going to be. So, with nothing better to do, they decided to head toward T or C and see if they could find the cabin.

They got on I-25 and headed north. The country didn’t change much, although there was a subtle increase in the amount of vegetation. The effect wasn’t dramatic, but the tone of the land was greener the further they went. The T or C exit took them into downtown. They made a pit stop at a local diner—this was Mike’s choice. His preference was always something run by people, not corporations, especially when it came to food. Joe was more the fast food type guy where the food was made by a formula approved by a board of directors in New York City. Joe would say that at least it was always the same. Mike would say it was always bad.

The Lone Post Café was doing a booming business. That was good, as a testimony to the food, but bad if you wanted to get a table quickly. Since the pickings seemed slim as far as local food places went, Joe and Mike decided to wait to be seated. Sitting in the front on hard wooden chairs made the time pass as slowly as if they were waiting to be executed. But within a relatively short while a booth opened up, and they were seated and served big glasses of sweet iced tea without being asked if they wanted any. Must be everyone was expected to want this sugary delight. Well, it was pretty good.