“Wish the Torrances well for me.” Estelle opened the car door. “See you at the house, then. Anytime is fine.”
I raised a hand in salute, still unmotivated to resume whatever it was that I was doing before this. Estelle was headed back to her office. Deputy Dennis Collins and Officer Beuler had left the neighborhood, no doubt already prowling the highways and school crossings. That’s what the young do when someone older dies, I suppose—pause a minute or two and then get on with life. Us older duffers reacted a little differently. Losing one of my oldest, closest friends had punched out some of my stuffing, and I wasn’t ready just yet to draw a line through George Payton’s name. George would have laughed at me.
I ambled back to the SUV and called the hospital, saving myself a trip of four blocks. Dale Torrance had been transferred to Las Cruces so that an orthopedic surgeon there could whack away at the lad’s wrecked knee. I switched off the phone, relieved that I didn’t need to visit Posadas General. Its antiseptic atmosphere wasn’t good therapy for me just then, anyway. I’d be apt to glance through some door left ajar and see someone I knew, withered and old, intubated and helpless.
The sun felt good as it streamed through the Chevy’s window. I sat for a few minutes, finishing Herb Torrance’s livestock transportation permit. Herb and Annie had gone on to Cruces, but Pat Gabaldon could sign off just as easily. It wasn’t as if a giant, bellowing herd was tramping across four states. The single, modest trailer load wouldn’t even leave the county. It was the sort of mindless attention to bureaucratic detail that allowed my mind to roam free, picking at this and that, remembering this and that.
By the time I returned to the Torrance ranch, Pat had the twenty-four critters all buttoned up in the trailer, the rig turned around and ready to head out the driveway. He was leaning against the front fender of Herb’s huge diesel dually one-ton pickup, cell phone pasted to his ear, and raised a hand in salute at the sound of my approach. Pat continued his conversation as he sauntered out to meet me. A short, compact kid in faded, sweat-stained denim, he ruined his cowpoke image with an Oakland A’s baseball cap worn askew, brim to the rear. He shared the old trailer behind Herb and Annie’s place, the modern equivalent of a bunk house, with Dale Torrance.
“Dale’s still in surgery,” Pat said as I rolled the Blazer to a stop. He snapped the phone closed. “Herb says they don’t know how long it’ll be.”
“God damn nasty break,” I said. I didn’t explain why I had been delayed so long in town, but Pat had made good use of the time. Horses and tack were tended to and he’d trailered the cattle with just the help of Socks, the blue heeler, who now sat in the truck, tongue lolling, excited to be going someplace where he could chase things.
“I was going to head on up to the mesa,” Pat said. “Didn’t see any point in sitting around here.” He turned and maneuvered his wad of snuff a bit so he could spit.
“There’s that,” I agreed. “If I can get you to sign on the dotted line, we’re all set.”
Pat cocked his head and looked at the paperwork. One hand strayed to his hip pocket. “I ain’t got thirty-eight bucks,” he said.
“Herb’s good for it,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.” Pat signed in cramped, angular printing, and I gave him Herb’s copy marked “paid”, which would make the state bookkeepers cringe if they knew. But they didn’t need to know. I included one of my business cards as well. “I can’t imagine anybody giving you grief, but if you have any problems, give me a call.”
“You bet. Thanks.”
With the great work of the state finished, I left the H-Bar-T ranch and drove north on County Road 14, a rough, jouncing ride that I usually avoided. But this particular day, it felt good to be out and away. The sky was touched here and there with jet trails that wafted out and turned into wispy clouds, the wind just enough to occasionally kick up a little dust and whip it around in tiny devils. I ambled along with the SUV’s windows open.
A mile north, beyond Herb’s last section fence, dust blew off the tops of fresh tracks that had turned off the main road. The derrick of a well-driller’s rig rose above the runty piñon and juniper a few hundred yards to the east. It surprised me that someone imagined that there was still water left under that dry patch of desert. Nosy as ever, I turned and followed the tracks. The trail wound along the flank of San Patricio Mesa, dodging stands of cacti, water-stressed juniper, creosote bush, and the occasional snarl of stunted oak. Amid a growing litter of beer cans, plastic oil jugs, plastic bags and similar touches of human grace, the two-track headed up a particularly picturesque canyon. It couldn’t continue in that direction for long, since the jumbled rock of the mesa edge reared up in the way.
A tawny swale of dry bunch grass had been flattened to dust by traffic, and the drill rig sat on its hydraulic feet, a flood of dried, cracked slurry paving the area around the drill hole. I parked and gazed at the rig, thinking this a damn odd place for a water well. The bulk of San Patricio Mesa protected the area from the breezes unless the wind was from the northeast, and the last time we’d had a ‘downeaster’ in southern New Mexico, the ice age was in control. A windmill in this spot would sit idle most of the time.
Turning in my seat, I surveyed the rimrock above me. No electric lines passed closer than those behind Herb Torrance’s house, a full mile away, with the buttress of a mesa between here and there. From the drill site, the land sloped down the swale, losing another hundred feet of elevation to the prairie to the north. In the distance, I could see the brown line of CR14 snaking off toward the state highway. Bringing in electric lines would be no problem, as long as the wallet was fat.
Switching off the SUV, I unbuckled and climbed out. Except for its being picturesque, I could see little reason to be drilling for water here, unless Herb had managed to pick up this piece of land from a neighbor and planned to extend his pasturage. That made sense. For him, it was convenient.
Off to the west of CR 14, I could see the rise of the hills behind Reuben Fuentes’ old place, long abandoned now. Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s great uncle had been as colorful as they come, and he and I had shared an escapade or two on both sides of the border—but that was long before Homeland Security took all the fun out of adventures like that.
Whoever owned the drill rig hadn’t painted his company name on the weathered doors, but the driver’s side wasn’t locked, and I helped myself. The cab reeked of oil, chewing tobacco, and diesel fuel. A broken clipboard lay on the seat with a receipt from Posadas Electrix under the clip showing that Scott Paulson had bought a new super-duty battery the day before. I didn’t know Scott Paulson, and that in itself was surprising.
Since this enormous, ponderous unit drove over the highways and bore a commercial license plate, there should have been a registration in the dash box. Should have been. I climbed down and surveyed the rig and walked around behind. The license plate was mud encrusted, torn and battered, and carried a two year-old tag. Knowing that it meant nothing to me, but still in my busybody mode, I jotted the license number down in a small pocket notebook, and then strolled back to my vehicle.
Gayle Torrez was working toward the final hours of her day shift and certainly wouldn’t mind something to do.
“Gayle,” I said when she answered the phone, “do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” she said. “What do you need?”
“I’d like a ten-twenty-eight on New Mexico alpha bravo kilo niner one zero one, if you’ll run that plate for me.”
“Sure. Do I dare ask what you’re up to this afternoon, sir?”
“Being nosy.”
“Ah, good.” She didn’t pursue the matter but sounded satisfied. I could hear the tappety-tap of computer keys in the background. After another thirty seconds, Gayle came back on the line. “Alpha bravo kilo niner one zero one should appear on a 1971 gray Brockway registered to Scott Paulson, 101 Commercial Avenue, Lordsburg. No wants or warrants.”
“Expired?”
“No sir. Current. Expir
es in October.”
“He keeps the new sticky tags in his pocket, I guess,” I said. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Are you behaving yourself?”
“As much as possible,” I said. “Is his nibs sleeping in his office?”
“I think he’s out by the fuel pumps with Tom Mears. You want me to haul him in here?”
“No. Just ask him for me when you see him next. I should remember, but I don’t. Who owns the property just north of Herb’s place on 14? It looks like a long, narrow strip that runs right along the back side of San Patricio Mesa? I didn’t see any boundary fences, so it goes all the way from the road back to this new well site where I’m parked at the moment. It’d be the piece immediately adjacent to Herb’s.”
“That’s easy enough. Bobby has his cell with him, if you want to talk with him. Thirty-nine hundred.”
“No, that’s all right. It’s not that important. If I had any gumption I’d stop at the assessor’s office and do it myself. I guess I was wondering if this was one of those parcels that the BLM picked up in that land swap with George Payton.”
“Bobby will know,” Gayle said cheerfully.
“That’s what I figured.” There had been a blizzard of land titles when the feds purchased the land that included the newly discovered limestone caves not far north of Reuben’s place. No Carlsbad Caverns, the discovery was still of some local interest, and there was the promise of a decent tourist attraction if anything was ever developed. When her great-uncle had died, Estelle Reyes-Guzman had missed out on inheriting something spectacular by about a thousand yards, give or take. The Bureau of Land Management had snapped up the parcel to protect it, and now plans for the feature were plodding through the federal labyrinth.
I took a few minutes to scribble a bunch of notes to myself, including the information on Scott Paulson. No livestock appeared to be involved, so none of it was any of my business. Still, sitting there and jotting log entries felt good and proper.
Chapter Six
Posadas County was split east-west by three state highways. County Road 14 ran north and south over on the west side of the county, like a wriggly noodle laced through the tines of a fork. I continued north on the county road until it intersected with NM17, the old route made obsolete by the interstate that paralleled it. Entering the village of Posadas from the west, NM17 became Bustos Avenue, and as I cruised into town, a stomach grumble reminded me that it had been altogether too long since breakfast.
Any small amount of discipline at that moment—and it was fast approaching five o’clock—would have prompted me to pull in my belt a notch and wait for dinner at the Guzmans’. But even an hour is a long time to wait. I pulled into the parking lot of the Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant, determined to have just a small jolt of coffee and wee bit of the aromatic magic for which the place was justly famous. Just an appetizer, so to speak.
There had once been a time when Fernando Aragon’s restaurant would have closed between two to five each day, giving them time to prep for the dinner rush. But those days were as long gone as the copper mines and the rush of travelers, and the restaurant remained open from 6 a.m. to 9 p.m., seven days a week, working to catch any stray customer.
When I walked in that day, the place was quiet as a tomb. No maitre d’ greeted me, and I could have slipped away with the cash register, although no doubt it didn’t hold much. I headed for my favorite haunt, a booth far in the back with a view to the southwest and the San Cristóbal mountains that separated us from old Mexico.
The kitchen door opened and Aileen Aragon, Fernando’s daughter, waved at me. I thought her expression was a little less cheerful than usual. A rotund woman who wore T-shirts that didn’t flatter her figure, Aileen was on the down slope past forty. During the decades I’d lived in Posadas, I could count on one hand the times I’d seen Aileen anywhere but at the Don Juan. Her parents had built the place, and she would work herself to death to keep it.
“JanaLynn will be with you in a sec. Sheriff,” she called, and I slid into the booth. Aileen was one of many Posadas County residents who had become so used to my tenure that they just found it easier to continue using the title rather than my name. In a moment JanaLynn Torrez pushed through the kitchen door carrying a two-foot stack of brass baskets for the tortillas and dinner rolls. The sheriff’s youngest sister had worked at the Don Juan for a dozen years, and I think that I favored the place as much for her cheerful, attractive demeanor as for the food.
She stashed the baskets, filled a tall, green-tinted glass with iced tea, and as she approached, her dark, dramatic features were sympathetic. “We heard about Mr. Payton,” she said, setting down the glass. She reached out both hands to take mine. “We’re so sorry.”
“Yes,” I said. “Not the best day.”
“His heart?”
“I would guess so,” I sighed.
She looked down at me for a long, empathetic moment, gave my hands a final squeeze, and knowing that comfort lay with good food, asked, “What can I get for you?”
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t want to ruin my dinner, so I was thinking of just a piece of pie, maybe.”
“Would you like to try one of the tostadas? Aileen’s been prepping those, and they’re going to be really good.”
“Oh, gosh.” I twisted my left arm behind my back and feigned a pained grimace. “Okay, you win.”
“The plate is going to include two, but if you’re having dinner soon, you might want half a serving.”
“What’s the world coming to,” I muttered, but nodded agreement.
“And green, of course.”
“Sure enough.” I loved red chile, but it didn’t love me—a tragedy I had shared with George Payton. If I hadn’t planned to spend the evening in polite company, I might have risked it.
She bent down to give my shoulders a hug. “Back in a minute.”
“No rush.” The booth offered the same familiar, comfortable lumps and bumps, even the same old strap of duct tape that sutured a rip in the plastic. I settled back, arm across the back, fingers tapping on the windowsill. The iced tea was good, although almost too fresh to have any real character. JanaLynn hadn’t suggested pulling the blinds, and the sun that blasted in was soothing. The restaurant’s air conditioning hammered, but they could have saved the electricity as far as I was concerned. For the past week, temperatures hadn’t broken eighty-five degrees during the heat of the day—a perfect September in southern New Mexico.
Five minutes of musing about nothing in particular was all I was allowed. Then Jana reappeared with an attractive little platter that featured a six-inch corn tostada so fragrant I could smell it despite the symphony of other goodies that blanketed it. That small tawny continent was covered with thin-sliced roast pork joined by perfect pinto beans in green chile, and a garnish of greens and diced tomatoes. Knowing my penchant for something to cool the effects of chile on a cranky gut, Aileen had remembered a touch of sour cream peaked off to one side. George Payton would have scoffed at that and called me a sissy.
JanaLynn came by to keep the iced tea filled, but otherwise left me alone with my thoughts. I wish that I could claim that those thoughts were deep and relevant, but they weren’t. My mind roamed from here to there as I did justice to Aileen’s artistry, and the sun and the chile consorted. A nap started to sound like a really good idea, and I figured that I’d timed this whole thing just right. I’d finish here, then dive into my badger hole for an hour before dinner.
Halfway through the meal, I was hauled up short, as if I’d chomped down on a wad of aluminum foil. I chewed thoughtfully, using my fork to take apart the remains of the tostada, separating the bits of perfect pork from the slender cuts of Hatch chile. I skated the beans off to one side.
I had eaten my first meal at the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant more than thirty years before. I’d commiserated with Fernando and Bea Aragon when fire had leveled the first iteration of the Don Juan in 1988, and had
been one of the first customers to celebrate the phoenix from the ashes. I’d settled on the wonderful, megacalorie burrito grande as my signature dish after very little menu experimentation, and I could practically guess Fernando’s mood by any minor changes that might add or detract from the core triumph.
Today, this tostada was right up there with all the rest of the Aragons’ food—a menu that would have made them world-famous had the rest of the world known where the hell Posadas, New Mexico, might be. And that was what brought me up short. So short, in fact, that it prompted a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I told myself that this was all my imagination working overtime, and forced myself to clean my plate.
After a final exchange of pleasantries with JanaLynn, I left a twenty-dollar bill at my plate and glanced at my watch. Gayle Torrez would still be on duty, and Estelle would likely be in the office. The undersheriff would listen to me patiently, and then tell me if I was crazy or not.
I had left the window of the SUV open so my butt wouldn’t weld to the roasting vinyl when I slid inside. Approaching the truck, I could hear the cell phone’s ring. With the giggling of rough roads, the phone had slid under the junk on the passenger seat. Normal folks who eschewed belt rigs often use phone clips or brackets in the vehicle, or even those nifty little wells in the center console. I knew that and still lost the damn thing more often than not. By the time I’d found it this time, the caller had established his patience.
“Gastner.”
“Ah, good,” Gayle Torrez said. “I just missed you at the Don Juan.”
“What’s up?” I asked. “I was just headed your way.” Gayle wouldn’t be so persistent just to chit-chat.
“Sir, Dennis is up on 43, and he says that there’s a herd of cattle on the highway, headed down hill. They’re about a mile up from the quarry.”
I laughed. “Tell him to ask the lead cow if she has her papers with her.” When a rancher decided to move his cattle, it was my business. When old Bossie elected to go awandering, that wasn’t my affair, and I wasn’t about to run around in the sunshine, with a fresh tostada settling in my stomach, shouting at livestock. “They’re not called dumb animals for nothing,” I added.
Red, Green, or Murder Page 5
