The City of Rocks

by Don Travis

  Nothing more happened—and I recorded that into my log as well. As a matter of fact, I recorded everything except the pressed ham and cheese I had for lunch—until 12:14 p.m., when the postman stuffed Vermillion’s box with several envelopes. At twelve twenty the front door opened again. As the subject went to the mailbox at the sidewalk alongside his driveway, I videotaped his walk, as well as his hearty wave to a next-door neighbor. Then I dictated another note for the log.

  When my car began attracting attention as the neighbors came and went, I shifted to the other side of the street. I noted that in my log as well. I always bring a book or magazine, along with some snacks, to make it look like I’m a businessman on break or a salesman stealing time from my employer, when a stakeout in a neighborhood like this makes me vulnerable. The client tends to freak when a stakeout is busted. Of course, I bring a pee bottle as well, but I don’t advertise that activity.

  All remained quiet until 2:33 p.m., when the garage door opened and an older-model Mercury Montego that Hazel’s notes said was registered to Bertha Vermillion backed out and pulled away. Since the garage door remained open, I moved my car directly opposite the garage, noted the events in the log, and settled down to wait—again.

  Two hours later the Montego returned, nosed up the driveway, and eased into the garage. The driver gave a sharp tap on the horn before getting out and going to check the mailbox her husband had already emptied. I thought for a moment she had seen me, but once she had satisfied herself the box was empty, she walked back up the drive.

  Then the interior garage door opened, and Jordan Vermillion, dressed in khaki walking shorts, a green golf shirt, and sandals, came out and waited until his wife opened the trunk. My cam caught him leaning over and lifting two large grocery bags out of the car. As a bonus he dangled a gallon of milk from the fingers of his right hand. I got it all on the cam. And I don’t care what the lawyers said, it felt like a “gotcha” to me.

  I stuck it out the rest of the day before terminating the surveillance at 10:14 p.m. I hummed the “Triumphal March” from Aida all the way back to the office. It seemed appropriate to the moment. I’d caught out a conniver in one working day, and now the insurance company’s lawyers could handle the rest. An honorable job well done.

  I HAD just finished dictating my report on Jordy baby the next morning when Hazel buzzed through a phone call from Millicent.

  “BJ, have you made your recommendation to the insurance company on my claim yet?”

  “I don’t make recommendations. I merely present the facts my investigation has uncovered. I reported those to the attorney who hired me on their behalf yesterday afternoon.”

  “But you have experience in these matters. Do you think what you reported will support my claim or not?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t give you an opinion on that.”

  “I understand. But has your legal obligation to the insurance company been fulfilled?”

  “Yes. I’ve rendered my final report.”

  “Then I’d like to hire you.”

  “To do what?”

  A lengthy silence grew before she spoke in a small voice, one that did not seem so mannish. “I don’t know. I just need help.”

  “Look, if you’re asking me to recover your property, I can’t do that. We both know that duck—dead or alive—is somewhere over the border. I don’t have contacts over there. There are good PIs in Las Cruces and El Paso and Tucson. Any of those can probably do you more good than I can. I’ll be happy to touch base with some of them and make a recommendation.”

  “No.” Her voice built to full throttle. Mud Hen was back. “I need less investigating than I do advising. I like the way you handled things while you were here. I think you’re an honest man. Would it be asking too much for you to come back down here? To talk.”

  “Millicent, I don’t come cheap. For the life of me, I can’t think of any advice I can give that would be worth the cost. As a matter of ethics, I can’t advise you how to handle the insurance claim; I’ve already admitted I can’t recover the duck. So what possible value could I be to you?”

  The line sputtered and crackled for a moment. “I may be forced to sell the ranch. And I’ve had an offer.”

  I spent ten minutes trying to convince her I had no special knowledge of ranches, ranching, or ranch real estate values, hence I could not properly advise her whether an offer was fair or not. In short, I could contribute nothing. Then I asked who had made the offer.

  “Heck. Hector Acosta.”

  Chapter 16

  “INTERESTING COUNTRY,” Paul said. We raced down the stretch of road midway between Las Cruces and Deming. We hadn’t spoken much since stopping for lunch in the City of Crosses.

  I had agreed to visit the Lazy M provided my companion could take the weekend off and accompany me, making the trip pleasure rather than business—sort of a precelebration of his summer classes ending in a week or so. And in my opinion, that was all this would turn out to be—a vacation trip. I glanced over at the man beside me and decided that was enough.

  I’d declined payment for my time because of the anticipated nature of the trip. Millicent’s only obligation consisted of providing us with accommodations, nourishment, and a couple of mounts. Paul liked horseback riding; I tolerated it.

  He had been born and raised in Albuquerque and never strayed far from his home grounds. On the other hand, fascinated by local history, I had wandered the length and breadth of New Mexico’s hundred and twenty-one thousand square miles. Our state was rich in both geological and human history. Home to four Native American reservations and nineteen Indian pueblos, the tattered remnants of once huge Spanish land grants and old Hispanic family names brought over late in the fourteenth century littered the territory. We had an official aircraft, the hot air balloon; our own fossil, the Coelophysis; and an official question, red or green, which referred to the kind of chili you preferred.

  A place of awesome sunsets, broad blue skies, sudden thunder squalls, and massive displays of brilliant and sometimes deadly lightning, it was the land of turquoise and roadrunners, of blue grama grass and the Lord’s Candle—otherwise known as the yucca—and of Smokey Bear and Clovis Man. It had earned its name—the Land of Enchantment.

  I pointed out where Liver Lips Martinson died in his pickup, and when we got to Deming, we took time to visit the real City of Rocks, the state park north of town, which dwarfed the formation on the Lazy M Ranch like New York City overwhelmed Albuquerque.

  Just short of 8:00 p.m. we reached the turnoff to the ranch house. The dying sun silhouetted Big Hatchet Peak to the southwest, turning it into a black monolith haloed by reds and purples—the hot colors of the prism.

  Maria opened the door to our ring, but it was Poopsie who greeted us with sharp yips and an excited dance, her hard little claws clicking on the flagstone entry. Millicent met us in the great room in a stonewashed denim skirt with a matching vest over a white cotton blouse. She wore sneakers instead of her usual cowboy boots.

  “BJ, thank you so much for coming.”

  After that greeting and the introduction that followed, I watched Paul and Mud size one another up. I had merely told her I was bringing a companion without explaining further.

  “Hope you haven’t already eaten. Bert and the hands are still out, and Maria’s holding dinner. I think she’s prepared barbecued baby back ribs.”

  “Homemade sauce or out of the bottle?” Paul asked.

  “Don’t let Maria hear you ask that,” Millicent admonished. “Her own recipe, of course.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Paul smiled, dimpling his left cheek and making a conquest.

  “Bert’s back at work?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. You can’t hold that man down. He went out and got the whirlybird the day after he got shot.”

  “It’s kind of late for them to be out, isn’t it?”

  “Some fences were cut last night. We had moved most of the stock west of the highway, but there were stil
l a few head in that pasture. Some of them wandered across. Bert and the crew went to round them up.”

  My eyebrows climbed. “Across? You mean across the border?”

  She nodded. “It happens occasionally.”

  “Is it all right? I mean, do the Mexican authorities get involved?”

  “Our neighbor over there is a rancher. He understands.” Her mouth tightened. “We need to talk after dinner.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’d like Bert to be in on this. Paco Rael’s here. Perhaps he can entertain Paul while we talk. He’s out with Bert and the crew at the moment.”

  “Do you mind if Paul and I freshen up and then go for a walk around the place while we wait for the others?”

  “Certainly. You have the same room as last time. Paul can have the one adjoining it on the east. Maria will show you the way.”

  I glanced out the window. A big black shape moved in the dying twilight. “Uh, are the Dobermans on the loose?”

  “Yes, but we’ll introduce you to them again. They won’t bother you.”

  “Do you think the dogs know that?” Paul whispered as we followed the housekeeper up the stairs and down the hall.

  After we washed off the road dust, Luis went outside with us to make certain Bruno and Hilda sniffed Paul and me in all the important places so they would know we were friends. At least that’s what Luis claimed. A few minutes later, we were alone beneath a jeweled sky. The night was too impressive to waste in talk, so we crossed the oriental bridge and strolled aimlessly over the yard. The vast universe was silent except for the scuffle of our boots in the grass, the occasional grunt of one of the dogs, and a few crickets playing love songs on their back legs. Then a long, muted cry floated over the distance.

  “I haven’t heard a coyote in a long time,” Paul said. “It gives me chills. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything lonelier.”

  The muffled padding of paws, a big dark shadow, and a cold, wet nose startled me. One of the Dobermans nuzzled my hand, begging an ear scratch.

  “Jesus!” Paul exclaimed. “Frigging dog about freaked me out. This guy wants to be petted.”

  “This one too.”

  Trailed by our silent shades, we resumed our walk.

  Paul’s hand grasped mine. “It’s so big and empty out here. Quiet. But you know what? I think I could get to like it. It was sorta like this in the South Valley when I was growing up down there.”

  A brilliant light suddenly blinded us. I blinked a couple of times and discovered we’d wandered out to the helipad.

  “They’ve turned on the lights. Bert must be on his way. He travels by helicopter.”

  “To chase cattle?”

  “He claims he can herd them better in the chopper than from horseback.”

  “Hell, I’d think it would stampede them.”

  Still night blind, we moved away from the concrete pad as the distinctive chop of a whirlybird cut the night. A moment later, Paul pointed out pulsing red dots approaching from the southwest. We watched in silence as the helicopter’s landing lights came on prior to the machine gently settling onto its skids. The motor switched off. The rotors gave their distinctive whacking sound a few seconds longer before switching to a whine as they slowly ground to a halt. The hatches opened, and two men got out of the passenger compartment. Bert’s weathered Stetson was shoved back, probably because of the bandage around his head. Paco was with him.

  Greetings and introductions were made on the move; everyone was hungry and tired.

  Maria was a magician, a mágica. No one could tell the meal had been held for hours. Her salad greens were crisp; the ribs, spicy and steaming hot. The potato salad just the way I liked it—red potatoes, not russet, and chopped small. I’ll swear she even home baked the bread. Likely she churned the butter as well. The result was a feast that tasted like the meals of my childhood.

  The spread’s three cowhands arrived in the middle of the meal—horses are slower than helicopters—and livened up the atmosphere. The earthy cow talk they brought to the table seemed appropriate to the setting. As he had the last time, Paco Rael was part of, yet apart from, the group. He came in for his share of ribbing and responded to it well, but he remained more of an observer than a participant, unlike his parents, who were clearly members of this household.

  Paul, with his interest in sports, fit right in and soon engaged in a friendly dispute with Linus over the merits of this year’s Dallas Cowboys. Linus was pro; Paul, con. Would this easy camaraderie survive once they figured out our relationship?

  The three Lazy M hired hands, plus Paco and Paul, adjourned to the bunkhouse for a friendly game of poker while Millicent, Bert, and I retired to the office for a talk.

  “How are you doing, Bert? I’m surprised to see you’re flying already.”

  “Clean bill of health.” He touched the fresh bandage circling his head. “This damned thing gets in the way, though. My hat rubs my head sore.”

  “So don’t wear the hat for a few days.”

  His mother gave a horselaugh. “Cowboys would rather be caught without their britches than their hat. And Bert’s one hundred percent cowboy.”

  I turned to her. “What is it you think I can help you with?”

  She picked up a string of amber beads from the desk and leaned back in the chair. Millicent caught me looking at them as she deftly rubbed each between her thumb and forefinger. She lifted what I had taken to be a rosary and dangled it from her hand.

  “Ren bought them for me years ago when we were in Marrakech. They’re worry beads, and believe me, I’ve done lots of worrying over them. They’re a comfort.” She got a dreamy look in her eyes. “We stayed in a little hotel with only a dozen rooms in the Medina, the old fortified city.”

  She rambled on about the sights and sounds and smells of the once imperial capital of Morocco. Bert brought it to an end by shuffling his feet and clearing his throat.

  “Ah well. That was another time, another world. What I need to know now is what the insurance company is apt to do.” She caught my frown. “Not what they’re going to do as much as how they will do it? When we’ve had claims before, we usually got pretty prompt service. A check inside of thirty days or so. But I get the feeling this might not be a usual case.” She stopped and awaited a response.

  “I told you over the phone, I cannot ethically advise you on this matter.”

  “But you know them. You can give me some guidance.”

  “No, I don’t know them. I know the attorney they hired. I’ve worked with him a lot over the years. He’s a straight arrow, but he has no control over what his client—and that would be the insurance company—will do or how they will do it. I don’t think it takes a lot of serious brainpower to conclude that somebody over there’s got his tail in a crack by overinsuring a duck for a quarter of a million dollars. But that’s internal politics.”

  “And it’s the internal politics that may sink me. I’m in a jam, BJ. You know what’s happening to the economy. It’s tanking. I don’t know a rancher around who expects to make a profit this year or next. Everybody’s nailing the barn door closed. And it’s not just the credit markets drying up. The environmentalists have been after the government to withdraw the leases on public land, or at least raise the rent on them enough to bankrupt us. Add to that the torrent of illegals and drugs coming through here and tearing up our land and improvements, and it spells economic disaster. Armageddon is more like it.”

  The amber beads clicked audibly. “And when you add the theft of Quacky to that, it’s certain ruin.”

  I glanced at Bert. He sat immobile, holding his thoughts close.

  “Then why did you make that bonehead bet?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t a bonehead bet. It made perfect sense, and it could have turned this year into a profitable one. I’ve beat that Florida peckerwood two times out of three with my precious.”

  I stretched my legs out in front of me. “Millicent, the first thing I tell
a potential client is that if he lies to me, I walk away. My job is hard enough when I have all the facts. It’s impossible when I’m only given half the information. Sooner or later almost all of them do lie, or at least shade the truth in their favor, but if I catch them doing it right off the bat, I’m gone. And you just lied to me for the third time.”

  She tossed the beads on the desk. “I didn’t lie, but I didn’t tell you everything either. I found out that scumbag intended to challenge me to a sucker bet by putting in a ringer. But he was wrong. I had him set up for a fall. I found out his racer got hurt. Leg caught in the coop so bad he had to take her to the vet. I not only accepted his bet, I insisted on a default clause saying the two named ducks had to race against one another. He accepted even though he’d have to race a substitute for Thunder Duck. When he did, I’d have called him on it, and he’d have been in default.”

  “I don’t understand. One duck looks like another to me, but professional duck farmers can surely tell the difference.”

  “It’s not always that easy. We mark our valuable birds—brand them, if you will. If he gave the stand-in Thunder Duck’s mark, it might be virtually impossible to tell the difference. But I had an ace up my sleeve. Don’t ask me how, but I got my hands on the vet’s report, including X-rays. So I could have proved he cheated.”

  The world had just tilted again. Except for the ransom note—if that’s what it was—Liver Lips could have been hired by a crooked duck owner to cover his fanny—although I did not believe anyone paid Liver Lips for the job. The shock on his face when I wanted to know who had hired him to steal the duck had been real. He hadn’t realized the significance of the act he was recruited to perform.