by Don Travis
He merely grunted, but his body language said he’d accepted my explanation. When he’d asked all his questions, I talked him into taking me to the ditch where Lopez died.
THE EXTREME southern edge of the city limits was semirural, with a few small residences interspaced with derelict buildings and vacant lots. The weed-littered ditch where Lopez died was a perfect place for dumping a body. On the other hand, it also served as a good spot for a junkie to hide while injecting his veins with poison. Garza lifted the crime scene tape and led me down into the channel. I removed the small Minolta from its case on my belt and took pictures—of weeds. Upstanding plants and crushed stems. Footprints here and there and discarded candy wrappers, paper scraps—the usual detritus of a place like this.
I asked if he would share the results of the autopsy with me as we made our way back to his cruiser.
“Don’t see why not. You hanging around?”
“Yes. I’ll probably switch motels tomorrow, but you have my cell, so you can always contact me. Has a canvass of the neighborhood turned up any information?”
He expelled a heavy breath of air. “The people around here are suspicious of cops. Yeah, I know, that’s true up in Albuquerque too. But some of these people are undocumented or they’re sheltering others who are. We asked all the right questions but got no answers. Except descriptions of your Impala. They’re not so reluctant to talk about outsiders.”
“Did the Firebird’s tire tracks tell you anything?”
“Faxed the photographs to Manny. His shots of the tracks they found at the Martinson crash scene were pretty poor quality, but he thinks they’re from the same car.”
“That tells me this was murder.”
“You probably right, but I’ll wait for the autopsy.”
On the ride back to the station, Garza pointed out a middle-priced motel on Pine east of the police station. It looked far superior to the Border, so I told him I’d be there starting tomorrow afternoon. I recovered my car and headed off in search of a meal. Sometimes I do my best thinking while eating.
I didn’t make it to a restaurant. As I wheeled into the parking lot of a small neighborhood café, a distinctive clatter caught my attention. I looked up through the windshield to see a Bell bubbletop with one large upright M and another toppled on its side painted on the belly—the Lazy M’s helicopter. I pulled out of the parking lot without stopping and headed for the local airport. Bert Kurtz might have an idea of where Paco Rael was. The bird would be on the ground before I could get there, but perhaps seeing to the tie-down of his craft would delay Bert long enough for me to catch up with him.
I arrived in time to see Paco Rael approach on foot as Bert gave instructions to a ground attendant. When the rancher turned around and spotted his buddy, a great grin split his lips. They talked animatedly as they moved toward the parking lot. They were so totally engaged in conversation they took no notice of me. Paco must have met Bert to give him a lift from the airport. Was he driving a black Pontiac Firebird?
Not today. The two men made their way to an old Plymouth Duster. The once-rich gold paint had faded to a sickly yellow, and there were dings and dents on the body. But when Paco fired it up, the motor had the muted roar of a powerful engine.
It’s hard enough for one man to shadow a mark in a crowded city, but in a small town—forget it. Nonetheless, it would probably take them a while to figure out I was following them, maybe enough to determine where they were headed. And if they called me on it, I could truthfully claim I had gone to the airport to meet Bert in the hope he could tell me where to find Paco.
I pulled out of the airport lot and headed west, trailing along behind the Duster. A few blocks later, Paco parked in a lot in front of a small strip mall. Both men got out of the Duster and headed straight for me.
“BJ,” Bert said, extending a hand. “You following us?”
“Trying to run you down, as a matter of fact. I saw the helicopter.”
“Well, you caught me. What can I do for you?” He indicated a cantina at the west end of the mall. “We’re going to have a beer. Join us?”
“I wouldn’t mind a Dos Equis, if they serve it.”
“Everybody serves Dos Equis around here. You remember Paco, don’t you?”
“Sure.” I turned and offered a hand. Shorter than I remembered—probably around five eight—his handshake was firm. “How are you, Paco?”
“Doing fine, Mr. Vinson.”
“I’m BJ. Actually, it was you I’m hunting. I called the ranch this morning, but your mother said you’d left. I thought Bert might know how to get in touch with you, and sure enough, here you are.”
A slight frown marred his sleek features. “Me? What you want with me?”
“A friend of yours died this morning, and I thought you’d want to know.”
“You mean Lopez? Yeah, Bert told me. What happened to him?”
“It looks like an overdose, but I’m not so sure.”
“Why not?” Paco’s dark brown eyes studied me intently.
“It’s a long story. Let’s have that beer, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
As soon as we were settled at a table with chilled bottles of Dos Equis in front of us, both men turned to stare at me. My problem now was how to extract information without giving too much away. Ignoring the noise in the place, I thumbed on the tape recorder at my belt hoping it would catch something of our conversation.
“Do you live here in Deming, Paco?”
The question obviously took him by surprise. “Uh, no. I live in Palomas. South of here.”
“On the other side of Columbus, right?”
“Yeah. Little ways. But what’s this about Lopez?”
“The couple of times I met him, he claimed he was a weed man.”
Paco snorted. “Yeah, right. A pothead. But he liked his grass boosted a little. He went for yerba mala or fry, and he’d go crazy for some bazooka.”
I recognized the street terms for marijuana mixed with PCP and formaldehyde and crack cocaine. Any of them could have produced the symptoms I observed in the Impala. “How about meth?”
“Sure. I’ve seen him on meth. The ganja wasn’t too bad, but I didn’t like to be around him when he was on meth.”
“Where did he get it?”
“Where does anybody get it? You just go out and find a source, man. There’s some around.”
“Do you know who supplied him?” Bert asked. And here I had pegged him as a MYOB kind of guy.
“Hell, I don’t know. I don’t use that shit.” Paco turned back to me. “But if he was on meth, he could have overdosed, couldn’t he?”
“Sure,” I agreed. “How did he take his meth?”
The question got me a Latin shrug. “Burned it, I guess. I’ve never been with him when he was taking it, but I’ve seen him under the influence.”
“Did he ever inject it?”
“I already told you I don’t know. Could have, but I got the idea he didn’t like needles too much.”
“I got the same feeling. I didn’t see any needle marks on his arms, except the one that killed him.”
“Not everybody shoots up in the arm,” Paco said.
“True. But I’m willing to bet the coroner won’t find evidence of it anywhere. We were talking when a car drove up, and he about went crazy. Tore out of my Impala and took off running.”
“What kind of car?” Bert asked.
“Black Firebird. Tinted windows. Red-and-white flames on the hood and sides. Mexican plates.”
“I don’t know it.” He turned to Paco. “Do you?”
“Nope. I mean, I’ve seen black Pontiacs, some of them Firebirds, in and out of here, but it’s not a car I know.”
“You have any friends who drive Firebirds?”
“Probably, but I don’t remember anybody in particular.”
Paco spoke in the American vernacular. No inflection, no mispronunciation, and no unusual syntax to identify him as a Mexican citizen. But then, he�
�d been educated in the Deming school system, so that wasn’t surprising.
“Paco, do you mind if I ask you some questions? You too, Bert. Sometimes you don’t realize you know something until you’re asked a question.”
The men exchanged glances before Paco leaned forward with his elbows on the table and laid his hands on top of his forearms. Had he just closed his stance? But his eyes met mine as he spoke. “Sure. It’s okay.”
Bert grunted, and I took that as agreement. I pulled out my small recorder and put it in the middle of the table, pretending to flick the On switch as I did and hoping they hadn’t noticed it was already running.
“I record all of my interviews,” I explained. “Saves trying to remember everything people say.”
When neither man objected, I went through the ritual of stating who I was interviewing, the date, time, and place, and then started asking questions. I was interested in learning who might have a drug connection in the area—who might have supplied both Lopez and Martinson with weed or meth or anything else, for that matter. Beyond learning the names of a couple of friends or acquaintances, I got little for my efforts. Then Bert leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.
“Look, a lot of the stuff—you know, the recreational stuff—comes right out of that place where Liver Lips used to work, R&S Auto Repair over on South Iron. Hell, the police know it. The state cops know it. Even the DEA knows it. But if you ever say I told you, I’ll deny it.”
Rael sat up straight and motioned toward the recorder. “Dude, you just taped yourself telling him.”
“Oh shit!” Bert said. He reached for the device but pulled his hand back abruptly. “Forgot about the damned thing. All right, BJ, I’m at your mercy. You keep me out of this, okay?”
“Sure.” I brushed aside his concern. If this turned into a real case—as it appeared to be doing—the tapes would belong to my client, not to me. “Why don’t they bust the joint if they know that?”
“They’ve tried,” Paco said. “This local cop named Garza would like to pin Rybald’s ears back, but he hasn’t had any luck so far. Zack’s penny ante, but he’s got a sweet setup. Just about everybody in the county goes in and out of that shop from time to time. They leave their cars and trucks and vans, and who knows which ones are carrying the shit?”
I agreed. “You’re right, it’s a natural. But the authorities must realize that too.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know how to handle it.”
“I met your boss.”
Paco’s features froze for a millisecond. “Yeah, who’s that?”
“Actually he was Liver Lips’ boss too. Hector Acosta.”
“No shit. You met Don Hector?” His Spanish roots showed in the pronunciation of the last two words.
“I’m a history buff. All my life I’ve read about the Spanish dons, but I didn’t realize they still used the title.”
“Yeah, for men who have some respect, some standing. You know, like the local banker or a big ranch owner. Where’d you meet him?”
“I had dinner with him the other day. I knew Liver Lips used to work on his ranch, and when I learned he was in Cruces, I asked for a meet. He’s a pleasant man. Good company.”
“Yeah, he’s great. Liver used to come down and help out with the gatherings. For such a scrawny shrimp, he was a damned good cook.”
“Mr. Acosta said you were a good hand too. A good vaquero.”
“I do all right. Don’t embarrass myself on a horse. But I do more than haze cattle. He trusts me to run errands for him. Take deposits to the bank. Make deals for feed and with the veterinarian. You know, stuff like that. He had me running all over the place for him.”
As Paco reached for his bottle of beer, I got the distinct impression he felt he’d let his mouth get away from him. He wasn’t comfortable talking about his patrón, and I wondered why.
Chapter 11
LATER THAT afternoon I had the meal I’d missed by chasing down Bert and Paco and decided not to spend the night in the Border, switching to the motel near the police station. I gnawed on a greasy hamburger and some surprisingly good onion rings while I worked the phone. By the time night fell, I had talked to two more area duck farms and the largest poultry processing plant in the state.
While everyone agreed Millicent’s flock was the best around for its down and pâté, she also had a decent income from the sale of eggs. And buyers were free to incubate the eggs and theoretically upgrade their own gaggle. Therefore, I was close to eliminating the improvement of a flock as a reason for the theft. However, that didn’t exonerate other duck farmers completely. Maybe someone thought the loss of Super Duck would degrade Mud Hen’s quality.
Colonel Guerrero had confirmed Acosta was known to wager a buck or two on horse races and dog races, so why not duck races? Guerrero had dug deeper into the rancher’s finances and learned Acosta had a lot of money to risk on such ventures. One of the richest men in northern Mexico, he invested in cattle, gemstones, gold, banking. Everything he touched seemed to prosper. His latest venture was said to be an attempt to rejuvenate some depleted oil fields in southern Texas by deep drilling.
As I planned my next day, Charlie called. He sounded tired.
“You’re working late.” I glanced at my travel clock. Eight p.m.
“Just like you, I imagine. If it’s true there’s no rest for the wicked, then PIs must be evil sons a’ bitches. I just picked up an e-mail from the guy we hired down in Florida to check out Hammond.”
“He come up with anything?”
“I guess Kenny—everybody calls him Kenny down there—is as happy as a mouse in a cheese factory. Seems like Mud Hen cleaned his clock two years running. Some people claim she took close to a quarter of a million from him. That’s probably an exaggeration, but it’s serious money, that’s for sure.”
“Interesting.”
“And that’s not all. They say the two of them already made a king-size bet for the race coming up. And there’s supposed to be a forfeiture clause.”
“So if one party doesn’t race, he—or she—loses the wager?”
“You got it.”
“That’s odd. Millicent isn’t planning on going to Florida. She said there’s no point in it since Quacky’s gone. I wonder why she doesn’t race another duck? That gives her better odds than simply forfeiting.”
“Because she’s got to race that particular duck against Hammond’s—uh, let’s see—Hammond’s Thunder Duck.”
“How can sane people be so crazy? She’s a hardheaded rancher and businesswoman. I assume this Hammond’s got some shrewds too. If he’s a big-time Florida commercial developer, he’s bound to have brains. But here they are making crazy bets. You can’t handicap a duck race, for crying out loud. You can’t even train the damned things.”
“They must know something we don’t. The word is this year’s bet is a quarter of a million.”
I whistled. “That’s a hell of a motive.”
“Right, but who for?” Charlie asked.
“I see what you mean. It could be that Hammond had the duck stolen to ensure he wins the bet. On the other hand, if the duck became sick or disabled—”
“Or dead,” Charlie said.
“—or dead, Mud Hen could have had Liver Lips break in and steal the duck so the insurance company would cover her loss.”
“That’s the way I see it.”
“Who knows about this bet?”
“Half of south Florida, I’d guess. I don’t know about down where you are.”
“I haven’t picked up any whisper of it. I wonder if Bert knows.”
“That’s a good question.”
“Yeah, and he’s here in Deming tonight. He flew in this afternoon. He said something about a boy’s night off.”
“If he’s like the cowboys I know, find the nearest dance hall,” Charlie said.
“Or cat house.”
“Sometimes it’s kinda hard to tell the difference.”
I got off the line to
throw on some fresh clothes and look for the local country and western place. My cowboy boots and Stetson were in my bedroom closet at home, but I had a pair of black Levi’s. A pale blue dress shirt sans tie and a pair of cordovan ankle boots rounded out an outfit that wouldn’t get me thrown out of most places around here. If they looked like they were going to reject me, I could always find the nearest pasture and smear cow pies on my boots to add a little ambiance.
A SERVICE station attendant gave me directions to Lena’s Nightclub, the local version of Albuquerque’s C&W Palace. About half the size of the Duke City joint, it occupied a red-painted wooden building that looked like a Midwestern dairy farmer’s barn but without the usual gambrel roof. I pegged it as a rowdy honky-tonk. After avoiding a parking lot full of vehicles—mostly pickups—by parking on a side street, I elected to walk the long block to the front of the place.
Lena’s smelled and sounded like every other roadhouse I’d ever been in—except more so. The atmosphere… funky. These were working people, and some of them had apparently come straight from the field without bothering to clean off their boots. Human voices, shrieks, and laughter vied with the band for dominance. Sometimes one prevailed, and sometimes the other. Two beefy individuals stood just inside the door keeping a wary eye on everyone who entered. Bouncers. One probably spoke English and the other, Spanish.
The tiny entryway opened directly onto the bar, a long, curved, polished mahogany affair staffed by two bartenders and a barmaid working at high speed to keep bottles served and glasses filled for the denim-clad customers bending their elbows.
I nodded a friendly hello to anyone who might be watching and stepped toward the main source of activity, the big hall on the far side of the barroom. Pausing at the top of the three steps leading down into the nightclub itself, I took in the dance floor to my right. The sight of a double row of line dancers prompted a deep yearning for Paul. He would have been right at home here.
I shook off my mood as I spotted Bert Kurtz’s lanky form on the floor opposite a trim blonde dressed in cowgirl duds. Her skirt looked to be made out of black-and-white cowhide—Herefords, I think they called them. Steady or casual? Casual. Bert struck me as a man who preferred playing the field.
