The Bootlegger’s Legacy

by Ted Clifton

  “These guys have a unique design. They have special security measures to make it difficult to duplicate the keys, and if they’re not inserted along with the bank’s key, they can break off in the lock. I used to work on these for some banks in town—well, before my little slip.”

  Joe’d heard that Fred’s “little slip” involved theft, followed by four years in prison. Good thing he hadn’t had a big slip.

  “Can you tell what bank this key came from?” Mike looked like he was starting to believe the key was some kind of magic wand. Joe thought it was just a little key to a bank lock box issued by one of, say, five thousand banks. I suppose narrowing it down to banks is progress, but how can we figure out which bank?

  “Not really. On the front you can see the lock box number: 487. And on the back there are letters stamped right into the metal, CB. Maybe that’s the initials of the bank—like Commerce Bank, City Bank, Citizens Bank, Colorado Bank, Connecticut Bank. Or maybe Central Bank—no way of knowing. Could be those are the initials of the manufacturer of the lock boxes—Columbus Boxes, California Beaches—anything. Sorry, Mike. I’d like to help you more, but I have no idea how you’d narrow it down.”

  Joe spoke up, “Well, since this was your dad’s key, I think we can assume it was an Oklahoma bank, and maybe even an Oklahoma City bank. We have a Commerce Bank in the city, a Cattleman’s Bank, a Central Bank, and a Citizens Bank. That’s four banks—not hard to go by each one and see if this is their key.”

  “Well hell, Joe—you make it sound easy. At least it’s something to do. If it works, great—if not, we just give up since we could have hundreds, if not thousands, of banks after the short list is exhausted. It makes sense that dad would use a local bank, so let’s get going.”

  Mike was looking more like a believer today. Maybe he’d dreamed about the millions and how they could make all, or almost all, of his problems go away.

  “Mike, you know I want to help, but I’ve got a ton of things that I need to do today. How about you visit the banks and see if you can learn anything. If I can help after that, you give me a call.” Mike didn’t look happy that his playmate couldn’t play anymore, but he cheered up quickly and agreed that he’d go see the banks that day and the next, then give Joe a call to let him know what had happened.

  “Hey Joe, not much luck in my bank visits.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “It’s a pain in the butt to drive all over town in this heat and humidity and with the crazy Oklahoma drivers.”

  “Anything about the banks?” There were times Mike made conversation difficult.

  “Yeah. Well I visited all four banks. Basically got the same answer everywhere. Not their key. They said as far as they knew no one in this area ever had CB on their keys. Their keys always had the bank’s full name stamped on the back because there were other banks in their market with the initials CB. One guy suggested that I look at banks in smaller markets where the CB would be unique to one bank in that town. Basically this has been a waste of my valuable time. Oh wait, my time is not worth crap, so no harm.”

  “Shit, what now?” Joe wasn’t sure they would ever find out about the key.

  “Well, that isn’t all I learned. They told me even if it had been their key I’d have to have a bunch of legal shit before they’d allow me to access the box. One guy said that alone could take months. Plus, if the box rental hasn’t been paid after a certain period of time then the bank can open the box and, if there’s anything of value, they turn it over to the state.”

  Mike went on, “So, if they’d opened the box and found a bunch of cash, they would have given it to the state. Who, I imagine, would contact the police or the IRS or somebody who would have come snooping around to try and find my dad and arrest him, or tax him, or something. That never happened. I think this whole thing is a waste of time—nothing more than Dad losing his mind and giving me an old key he probably found somewhere.”

  “Yeah, well it does kind of sound like a pipe dream. You need money and suddenly the strange things your dad did at the end of his life start to sound less strange, maybe a solution to your money problems. I think we’re just fooling ourselves into believing something magical is going to happen that will fix the world—but we both know it’s not.”

  “How about I meet you at Triples?”

  When in doubt, drink.

  They met at Triples, but rather than talk about the world’s problems—including Mike’s impending financial woes—they discussed football at great length, with special emphasis on the OU Sooners and how they were expected to fare the following year. Kind of hard to live in Oklahoma and not be an OU fan. Discussing sports at length can be a balm to a wounded male ego. Might be a complete failure in life, but I sure the hell know a lot of useless information about sports teams and their players. It’s amazing the depth of knowledge a beer-guzzling lowlife might have about some long ago college football game or long dead baseball hero.

  Months passed, not much happened. Joe was preoccupied with tax season and more or less kept his head down and concentrated on work. Liz and the kids went about their business without much interest in what he was doing or not doing—as long as the bills were paid and the credit cards worked. Joe gave some thought to seeing a doctor about his depression, but the idea of being put on some kind of happy pill for the rest of his life was—well, depressing. Instead, he decided to continue occasionally self-medicating with a little gin and hope for the best.

  Joe talked to Mike almost every week, helping him gather information about his finances. The bank had been more understanding than Joe had predicted and hadn’t foreclosed or forced much of any action on Mike’s part. The store was generating enough cash to spread around among the parties and keep anyone from taking any immediate action. Mike knew this couldn’t go on forever, but he had little motivation to force anyone to do anything. He would follow the Joe mental health plan—he would occasionally self-medicate with a little scotch and hope for the best.

  Neither of them forgot about the letter, or the key, or what Mike’s dad had said—they just had no idea how to proceed. They discussed the possibility of finding someone else to look at the key, but it seemed like a waste of time. Mike’s father’s ramblings seemed increasingly likely to be meaningless the more they thought about them. Without some further hint, their search for the buried millions would stop before it really began.

  Maybe it was for the best. They both needed to face the reality of their day-to-day circumstances and deal with them. Dreaming about millions would only delay the inevitable pain of facing life and its various problems. So long to get-rich-quick fantasies.

  Las Cruces, New Mexico—April 1987

  “Ray, this is Chuck—give me a call when you get this message. Think I have the name of the owner of that cabin up in T or C you asked me to check into a couple of months ago. Sorry it took so long, but looks like I have a lead now and I was wondering if you wanted me to pursue it. Talk to you later.”

  Ray was not real sure what he thought of Chuck. The man was annoying, but also oddly likable. Chuck had gotten back to him real quick on an estimated value on his house—no doubt because there was a real chance of a fee on that deal. Ray still couldn’t make up his mind if he wanted to move or not. The old place sure held a lot of memories, but it was about five times the amount of space he needed. A small, simple cabin would be something he could take care of by himself for many years without having to deal with housekeepers or pay a bunch of people good money to keep the place in reasonable condition. It made sense to move into something smaller and to get away from all of the nosy gossip that went on in Dona Ana County.

  “Chuck, this is Ray. What do you have for me?”

  “Glad you called back, Ray. You’ve been giving some thought to listing your house—now’s a good time as we move into spring.”

  God, you could not have a normal conversation with this guy. He was always in salesman mode. “Well, I’m still thinking about it. Wh
at did you learn about that cabin Max’s dad used to own?”

  “Yeah, sure. But, remember, don’t wait until you’re ready to move to put your house on the market. More than likely it’ll take a few months to find a buyer. So as soon as you’re sure, we need to get a listing signed.”

  In an ideal world Ray would just hang up on this annoying little pest and go take a nap. “You bet, Chuck. As soon as I decide, I’ll give you a call. How about the cabin?”

  “Well, I was able to get the records by searching for Max’s dad’s name, so I found the details of the sale. You may not remember this, but Max’s dad was Bud Johnson—he was something of a mystery man.”

  “What do you mean mystery man?”

  “Well, this is old gossip, mostly from my grandfather. He thought Bud was a crook. He was long gone before you became Sheriff. I think he died in the sixties—not real sure, but I think that’s right. Anyway my granddad said all of Bud’s money was from illegal liquor. Mostly he was talking about the late 1920s and early 1930s, when there was prohibition. My granddad said that Bud was a big shot in this area and also had a bunch of holdings in El Paso. He said the rumor was that he was connected with some of the wealthiest Mexican families in Juarez. How much of this is true is kind of beyond me. Seems like there are a lot of unsavory stories about a lot of our best citizens. But who am I to gossip, right?”

  The wiseass answer would have been you’re the biggest gossip in town—that’s who you are. But this was interesting stuff—why not let him continue? “Wow, that’s interesting Chuck. So when did Bud sell the cabin, and who did he sell it to?”

  “The records indicate he sold it in 1953. That means this cabin could be nothing, just a pile of trash by now. Even if Bud or someone was taking care of it into the sixties, that’s still a long time to just sit up there abandoned. It’s kind of an intriguing story, but I really don’t think you want to retire and spend your last remaining years restoring an old broken-down cabin, do you?”

  “You’re probably right, Chuck. Did you get an address? Maybe, just as a lark, I’ll run up there this weekend and see if anything still exists.”

  “Sure, 405 North Deer Trail. This is actually a Hot Springs address, before they changed the name to Truth or Consequences. I have no idea if that street—or trail, or dirt road, or whatever—still exists. But let me know if you find anything.”

  “Thanks, Chuck, will do.” Ray hung up and debated whether this meant anything to him or not. But the weekend was looking to be unusually warm, and this would be a good excuse to get out and spend some time doing something other than dealing with one bureaucratic screwup after another at the department. It occurred to Ray that Chuck hadn’t told him who Max’s father had sold the property to. He debated calling Chuck back, but the thought of listening to him drone on some more persuaded him to leave it until later. It might not matter—there was probably nothing left of the cabin to buy.

  The Saturday morning was as promised: sunny skies and warm temperatures. Spring had arrived in the high desert. Ray had only lived in this part of the country for about twenty years, but he’d learned to love the desert and mountains as much as if he’d been raised here. The trip to T or C was an easy drive of about fifty minutes. It was early morning when Ray reached the town and he decided to stop at the Lone Post Café, which many locals considered one of the best breakfast places in New Mexico.

  Ray was in his civvies, so he didn’t expect anyone to bother him. He settled into one of the well-worn wooden booths and ordered coffee and a breakfast burrito with lots of green chili. The smell of the place alone was worth the visit. He had grabbed an El Paso paper from one of the boxes outside and settled in to wait for his breakfast.

  “I’ll be damned, is that Ray Pacheco? How the hell are you, Ray? Kind of a long way to come for breakfast.”

  What luck. Staring down a long cigar was none other than Hector Hermes, the county sheriff for Sierra County. Not one of Ray’s best buds, Hector complained to anybody who would listen that his county got the short end of state and federal money because they weren’t considered as important as Dona Ana.

  “Hey, Hector. How’re things going?”

  “As well as can be expected I guess. What’re you doing in my neck of the woods on such a beautiful Saturday morning?”

  Ray understood that Hector’s friendly act was just that—the man wanted to know what the hell he was doing in his private domain. Ray decided the best approach with this guy was to be honest. What he was doing up here had nothing to do with their less-than-friendly competition. Plus, maybe this jerk didn’t know he was retiring—that ought to make him happy.

  “Well, Hector I’ve decided to retire at the end of my term. So, been thinking maybe I would move into your county and become an old fogey livin’ in a remote cabin, just enjoying my remaining years.” Ray was starting to annoy himself.

  “Retiring—no I hadn’t heard.”

  “Well, it’s not a secret—not anymore. I just recently decided. Could be you’ll want to run for the opening.”

  “Golly, I don’t know. Wow, this really is sudden.”

  “By the way maybe you can help me with an address. I was looking for an old cabin that was owned by a Las Cruces resident a long time ago. His son mentioned it to me, and I thought I would check it out in case it fits my needs. The address is—let me see—four zero five North Deer Trail. Know where that is?”

  “Hmmm... North Deer Trail. Sounds familiar, but I’m not sure. Let me run out to the car and radio the station and have them look it up for you. Just take a second.”

  Before Ray could say anything Hector had gone out to his car and was on the radio. Ray hadn’t been sure how he was going to proceed once he got here, so running into Hector had turned out to be a good piece of luck, at least once the man had gotten past his initial suspiciousness.

  While Hector was gone, the waitress brought Ray’s breakfast. The burritos were large enough to feed a family of four, but Ray was willing to give it his best shot. Spicy and delicious. He was about halfway through when Hector came back in.

  “You going to need any help with that, Ray?”

  “Just might, but I’m going to give it a good college try. What’d you learn?”

  “Kind of strange, we don’t have a North Deer Trail anywhere in the county. You know a lot of those older names were in areas that no longer have any residents, usually due to fire or flooding. So the names just get dropped. Sorry for your wasted trip Ray. I’m sure you can contact a realtor up here or in Cruces—there are a lot of cabins for sale around the lake. Good to see you, though.”

  Hector left. Something about their exchange struck Ray as odd. Hector had seemed nervous and eager to leave. Maybe it was just his imagination. But now how was he going to find the address if the county had no record of it?

  Ray decided the best solution was the one he often used in Las Cruces, the public library. He was a frequent visitor to the library to research anything that had happened years before or to locate information about something that was going on in the area. He found the main library just a few blocks from the restaurant. He had visited the T or C library once before when he was assisting with a federal operation at Elephant Butte Lake.

  “Hello, I was wondering if you could help me find an old address from back when the town was Hot Springs.”

  “Sure no problem.” The woman behind the counter could have posed for a Norman Rockwell painting of a small town librarian. She guided Ray toward the back of the library and began pulling down books of maps. She quickly went through them and gave Ray instructions on how to use the map book to search for the address he needed. After she thought he had a good idea of what to do, she went back to her post at the front desk.

  Ray spent considerable time going through the books, looking for the right year and then searching for the street name. Eventually he found the street on the map. He took the book up to the librarian and asked if he could get a copy of the map.

  “Sur
e, I can do that right now. It’ll just take me a minute.” She was gone for just a few moments, then came back with a copy and gave it to Ray. She told him that she was fairly familiar with the area since she’d lived around the lake her entire life.

  “This was an area that had a massive wildfire and most of the high-dollar cabins up there burned to the ground, although a few survived. After the fire there was a huge rainstorm and it washed out almost all the roads in the area. Once that happened it was mostly just abandoned.” She was pretty sure that the county didn’t maintain any roads up there since there was nobody living in the area. “If you go up there, you need to be careful—it can be a dangerous area.”

  Ray wasn’t real sure he wanted to venture off into an unknown area. The wise thing to do would be to just forget it and go back home. Although after that mega-calorie breakfast a little walking might be just the thing he needed. And it was still a beautiful early spring morning.

  “Well, thanks for your help and the map. I was looking for an old cabin that probably isn’t there anyway—but still it’s a beautiful day for a hike—so I guess I’ll go have a look. Thanks again.”

  It took Ray almost an hour to find the spot the librarian had pointed out on the map. While the area wasn’t deep wilderness, the roads turned out to be horrible. This alone caused him concern about moving into the area. Maybe Sierra County wasn’t getting its share of state money after all, or if it was it sure wasn’t being spent on road maintenance. He rocked along in his old four-wheel drive Jeep for a very uncomfortable mile or two, then decided to stop, get out, and explore a little.

  The area felt much more remote than the distance from town could justify. It was for sure there wasn’t much up here. Ray hadn’t seen any houses or cabins for at least a half hour. There were no other cars on the in-need-of-repair road. And while there was a comfort in being away from people, there was also an unease in being away from people. He would have been embarrassed if someone had seen his jumpiness, but it didn’t matter—there was no one around. He reached into his glove box, removed his service revolver, and stuck it in his belt. Alone or not, it made him feel better.