Hidalgo asked him, “Have you requested to have electricity here?”
“Well, you know those poles they use to hang their power lines on?”
“Sure,” answered Hidalgo.
“They said they would install the first five power poles for free, after that they would charge me for the poles, do you know how much a single pole cost?
“I can imagine their not cheap.” answered Hidalgo.
“I can’t afford one of them, much less a dozen of them.” Poking his finger at Hidalgo he said “I can’t do like those young en’s around here that have a bunch of babies just so they can collect checks from the government.”
Hidalgo deafly grabbed his finger in mid poke and said, “Aren’t you a little old to be jealous of others?” Letting the finger go and reaching out in a handshake, a grinning Hidalgo could empathize with him.
Empathy
New Mexico was changing as a result of money being generated from an ever expanding population. Wages were being generated for many, particularly as a result of the military and scientific communities. Investors and speculators were investing money, particularly in the scenic areas that New Mexico had to offer. This created jobs but at a cost. Bankers who represented investors and speculators come in and assumed properties by paying the taxes, therefore assuming ownership. As the cost of paying for community improvements raise, taxes go up. For people who have lived marginally any increase in the cost of living becomes a significant problem so they sell out. And if nothing else works, they simply buy them out with cold hard cash. Those people are of course, taxed on their monetary gain they made as a result of giving up their land. It is a no win situation for them.
After the new ski area, mountain retreat, or land development is built, taxes are required to pay for the community improvements such as roads, power, sewage, flood control, schools etc. This is all wonderful for the investors, but is of little value to the majority of the local citizens. Jobs are generated by the construction of new developments but as soon as the construction is done, the jobs run out, but of course the taxes never go down. Then a land grab occurs by people who want to make even more money. As long as the population continued to grow money would be generated and the cycle would continue.
Hidalgo thought to himself how this situation was just like what had happened too many of his fellow Native American Indians. After they were conquered by a superior armed foe they developed a dependence upon the goods their conquerors produced. With the government’s approval and deliberate manipulation they always found themselves in dept, the American way. The manipulation went all the way to Washington DC where bankers, lawyers and politicians hatched a plan to relieve the natives of their property. When the natives couldn’t pay off their debts, they paid with the only thing they owned which was their land. In time, the white race owned nearly everything but the natives peoples never got out of debt.
But even in little backwater places like Torreon or Tajique the process continues to this day. Then there are holdouts, those people who do not want to sell at all. If those people cannot pay the higher taxes levied as a result having to pay for all of those improvements they are forcibly removed from their ancestral homes. Now this process was happening even in the poorest places in New Mexico. If land could be obtained, it would then be subdivided into small residential tracts to be sold to an ever expanding population of newcomers. It was the way the world operated. Unfortunately many of the victims of this insidious growth and expansion never understood what was happening to them.
“May I ask you where you got the money to pay for the water well” asked Hidalgo.
“Well,” said Sanchez, “I went into Estancia and talked to a Mr. McDowell. He seemed happy to give me a loan, he took what money I had and made arrangements for a crew to come out and do the drilling.”
“Yes, I’ll just bet he was,” said Hidalgo, “Now you are a slave to the note even though you have no water.”
“That’s true,” says Mr. Sanchez, “I owe him a little over $1400 dollars.” He paused a moment then said, “Just look around you Mr. Hidalgo, I am not a rich man.”
It was true. Hidalgo had recently torn down better chicken houses than the house he was now in. There was no food in the house other than a few Kerr jars full of stewed vegetables, a sack of corn meal and a smaller sack of flour. “Would you mind if I talked to the banker and see what I can find out?
“Could you do that?” asked Sanchez hopefully.
“Sure,” answered Hidalgo, “And if I can prove that he is taking advantage of you perhaps there is some legal things we can do against him.”
Sanchez asked, “Are you a lawyer? I never heard of a Navajo lawyer.”
Hidalgo answered him, “No, I am not a lawyer, but I have important friends who know people in high places. Anyway, if we can solve your problems and make it possible for you to keep your land would you be happy?”
“Sure,” answered Sanchez, “All I really want is to live in peace without constantly worrying about losing my home.”
“Can I come back and talk to you some more after I learn some things?” asked Hidalgo. Sanchez answered with a little hope in his voice, “You know I think I am going to like you. I still don’t trust you, but I like you. Come back anytime you want.” Even the dog was wagging his tail when Hidalgo left. He knew he had a job waiting for him in Estancia but it would have to wait for another day. Outside it was already dark. Hidalgo drove down the road a quarter of a mile, pulled over and, curled up in a sleeping bag in the back of the truck.
The Banker
Walking into the Estancia Valley Bankers Association in Estancia, Hidalgo walked up to the nearest bank teller.
“Mr. McDowell is a very busy man,” the perky blond said “But I will see if we can work you in.”
He settled into a chair waiting to see the bank representative. After waiting about twenty minutes, John C. McDowell opened the door to his inner sanctum, took a fast look at Hidalgo, and then disappeared again for another forty minutes. Finally the pompous little man reappeared and waved Hidalgo in. “What can I do for you?” He gruffly asked.
Hidalgo had a good idea what he was dealing with and he didn’t like it, but he had a game plan. Hidalgo asked the banker point blank without introducing himself, “I understand that you are interested in acquiring land up around Tajique and Torreon?”
“Everyone is interested in acquiring land up there in those little Mexican towns,” He answered. “So are you selling or buying land?”
“Neither,” answered Hidalgo, “Why are you acquiring land in Tajique?”
Mr. McDowell was flustered, “That is something that I really can’t talk to you about.”
Hidalgo answered him with one word, “Why?”
The banker was beginning to show even more frustration at Hidalgo’s impertinent question. “Everyone knows that people from Albuquerque are buying up small patches of land up there. They all want to raise a horse or two, along with a bunch of kids. They like to pretend that they are operating a real ranch, what’s wrong with that?” asked McDowell.
“It depends upon how they are acquiring the land,” answered Hidalgo.
“They buy it from us bankers of course,” answered Mr. McDowell, “That’s our business, now if you don’t have any real banking business with me I’m going to ask you to leave.”
Hidalgo answered very quietly, “I will leave, politely I assure you, as soon as you tell me how you would feel if a well-documented report was sent to the New Mexico banking commission that over sees your operations here. What if they discovered that you were causing people to lose their property just so you can make money?”
Mr. McDowell was about to go ballistic, “What are you, one of those agitators? You need to leave now, I have work to do. If you want to communicate anymore you will need to do it through my lawyer. Good day sir.”
Hidalgo slowly placed his hand on the arms of the easy chair he was sitting in, rose up, and then said, “You will hear f
rom ‘us’ again sir and I assure you, you will need your lawyer.” Mr. McDowell held his hand out in front of him and flipped his fingers back and forth in a dismissal gesture. Hidalgo returned to the perky blond who had avoided him in the first place.
“Can you tell me how much is due on the Sanchez note for the water well that was drilled up in Tajique?” asked Hidalgo.
After looking through several files of papers, she came back with, “He is currently six payments behind. The bank will be placing a lien against the property at the end of this month followed by foreclosure proceedings.”
Hidalgo asked, “How much?”
“He is behind some six hundred dollars,” she curtly answered him.
Hidalgo pulled out his wallet and took out six one hundred dollar bills and handed them to her. “I’ll need a receipt for that,” he said. She handed him the receipt and Hidalgo thanked her politely. As Hidalgo was turning to leave, a red faced Mr. McDowell came out of his office and demanded that the teller come immediately into his office. Hidalgo hung around just long enough to hear the perky blond get a royal butt chewing for helping him. Hidalgo left with the receipt carefully tucked away in his wallet.
Mi Casa is Su Casa
Hidalgo drove over to the small mercantile store that provided food for the citizens of the town of Estancia. Walking up and down the aisles he received curious looks from the predominately Anglo shoppers as he filled two shopping carts with all manner of foodstuffs including bacon, coffee, toilet paper and anything else that couldn’t be obtained on a small farm. Returning to the Sanchez farm and making friends with the dog again, he unloaded it into the house where a very mystified Mr. Sanchez seemed eternally grateful.
“Mi casa is su casa,” said Sanchez. “You can come here anytime you want if you bring groceries like that.”
Mr. Sanchez had not seen groceries like that for several years now. Suddenly his life had taken a serious turn for the better and when Hidalgo showed him the receipt for the payments on the well he became ecstatic. Now Hidalgo, as well as his friends could do anything they wanted around the well. “I will have my friend, Enrique Archeletta, come over and get his bull out of the pasture if you promise not to leave the gate open.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” agreed Hidalgo. That afternoon they drove, in Hidalgos truck, out to the drill site. Just a short drive off the blacktop road, and though the proverbial closed and locked gate, they arrived at the drill site with no trace of a mean bull in sight.
“Actually, he is not a mean bull at all, but those gringos don’t know that,” Mr. Sanchez grinned as if he had really pulled one off on someone.
The well site actually looked like it could have been a good place to find water. At the bottom of an ancient draw that was bordered by a small limestone bluff that followed the contours of the land, a single four inch capped pipe was sticking up out of the sand.
“Why did they put down this big of a pipe,” asked Hidalgo? “It requires either a large diesel powered engine or a good electrical pump to get water out of a well this big.”
“I wondered about that myself,” answered Sanchez. “The banker was the one that arranged for the drilling company to come out and do the work. I would have been happy with a two inch well. I had hoped that a windmill would work for me.”
Hidalgo studied the drill site for clues as to how a shaft could be cut into the ground to reach the caverns underneath. His best bet was to cut a horizontal shaft from considerable distance downhill or to drill a vertical shaft wide enough to allow humans to enter the caverns.
Sanchez continued to press Hidalgo as to what was so important at the bottom of the well. Hidalgo explained that there had been a camera dropped down the pipe.
“What did they see down there,” asked Sanchez.
“What appears to be a very large human hand,” answered Hidalgo. Mr. Sanchez crossed himself several times with the classic Catholic gesture and murmured something in Spanish that Hidalgo couldn’t hear.
Hidalgo walked up and down the ancient wash looking for any sign of an entrance into a natural cave. He found nothing, but in several places he found where the small cliff face had caved off into the floor of the streambed. He wondered if well up stream one of the large piles of rock hid an opening to an underground world.
Criminal Elements
Hidalgo returned to Serpiente to wait for a message from Richard Holliday. It came sooner than he expected so again he drove the long drive back to the South Valley. When he arrived at the Holliday home, he was surprised to see Arturo Jaramillo as well as his cousin and three other young men, Jessie, Magnelena, and Ricardo. All had their share of experiences to share with Hidalgo but no names and no real leads, only a vague description of two men who confronted them. They had been told that they would be contacted and not to try to contact the men. Arturo did have one clue he could provide, the enforcers were two men from Mexico and both men wore very fancy cowboy boots with silver skulls covering the toes. In Spanish, the boys were told that they shouldn’t say anything to anyone because the contacts had connections to a Mexican gang, and not just any gang. This gang was a well-organized Mexican drug cartel.
In Mexico, thousands of poor farmers or campansanos who are often Yaquis Indians live in agricultural areas and work for the cartel. Normally the farmers in Mexico live a subsistent existence, eating only what they can grow on small plots of land. The money that could be made from working for the cartels was much more substantial than attempting to live off of the land. By working for the cartel they could do more than just eat, they could put clothes on the backs of their families.
These farmers are slaves to the economics, a way of life. Of course they own no land of their own because it was long ago given to a select and politically active group of pure blooded Spaniards by the territorial government. They were the patrons, the ricos” Despite the fact that Mexico is a wealthy country if you consider mineral, cultural and scenic beauty, the ordinary citizens there are very poor. In Mexico you are wealthy or desperately poor and the poor often look to the drug cartels for their livelihood. Their allegiance is to them. For anyone who interferes with this system, the cartel could become a brutal pack. The law is afraid of them. Anyone who crossed them would wind up dead.
In Albuquerque and other Southwestern cities, the members of these cartels would propose a fight in which people thought they could win lots of money, but usually it was done strictly by word of mouth with only a few locals who might provide a relative who they thought could fight well. It was obvious that there was money in betting on the cock roosters as the fighters were called. But there were many added incentives for winning. Winners would be rewarded with the pleasure of enjoying young girls brought in from Mexico. Sex slavery was an up and coming business. Winners could become enforcers for the cartel. But there was more to it than meets the eye. Once they were in a community the real reason they were there became apparent as drugs entered the community. The system both promoted and fed upon its self.
Hidalgo had had a dim hope in his own mind that sooner or later word would get out and the fight game would die by its own accord, but now he was realizing that the layers of crime were far deeper than he expected. The Mexican cartels were always using tournaments and events like this as a way of getting into a community. They often invested large sums of money into those communities. The business, whether a restaurant, a car wash, or even a bank, would then seem absolutely legit, but secretly they also acted as fronts where money could be laundered.
Every American community has the opportunity to encounter criminal elements. Once inside the community, marijuana, meth, heroin, and a variety of artificial substances would appear which is of course, how the real money was made. The police and authorities would find themselves overwhelmed while dealing with the problems created by the new criminal element. Addicts would commit all manner of crimes in order to support expensive habits.
The fight game itself was a diversion for the cartel, for them it was mo
re of a hobby, but it served its purposes. For Hidalgo, he had only one clear goal in mind, to have the leaders of the fight game arrested. The police would have to take care of the rest. Hidalgo was no longer a policeman but he still thought like one.
After comparing notes he told the group that he wanted to go back to Lorenzo’s, the café where Corey and he had encountered the fight game. The place did have good food, and this time he wanted to enjoy a good meal in peace. They asked Hidalgo about his other pursuits. They seemed interested in his caving adventure and so he told them about his plans to check in with Don and Leslie in hopes of exchanging information. Maybe he could come up with a game plan to get back on the property.
He took the short drive to the same café he had stopped at with Corey. Again, it was almost deserted except for the cook and the waiter. He enjoyed his favorites, cheese and meat enchiladas with real Rio Grande chili, not the cheap sauces that is fed to the crowds of tourist that crowd most commercial restaurants around Albuquerque.
He felt relaxed and ate several extra sapodillas with honey. Totally satisfied and full, he paid his bill leaving a good tip to the friendly waiter then he walked out the door and headed to his parked Jeep Cherokee. His wheels were just four cars down the curb, but just two cars down, three well-dressed young men were just getting out of a car. The first two were carrying on a rather animated discussion and appeared to totally ignore him. They causally passed him, or so he thought.
The third guy acted like he was trying to catch up with the other two when he suddenly lunged at Hidalgo driving his fist directly into Hidalgo’s sternum. Another blow immediately came to his stomach. His arms were instantly grabbed and held. He attempted to bend over in an attempt to keep his dinner, but it was not to be. The third man stepped back, took aim and did a front snap kick to Hidalgo’s groin. He was held there while the third man beat and kicked at him for several minutes while he vomited, then suddenly and mercifully he lost consciousness from a blow to the back of the head.
The Family at Serpiente Page 47
