Bag Limit

Chapter Thirty-two

I drove home just as the sun was cracking the horizon. We’d be first in line to sample Sunday breakfast at the Don Juan if I could pry my son and grandson out of the sack. I opened the front door and stopped short as an assault of aromas flooded out of the old house.

The place was accustomed to the fragrance of fresh coffee at any hour of the day or night-that was the staple fuel that kept my system going. But I didn’t cook, despite the pleas from my housekeeper. Every once in a while she’d leave something, usually a casserole of some sort, neatly packaged on my kitchen counter in the vain hope that I’d hack out a piece and nuke it for a snack.

What she didn’t realize, in her own sweet, innocent way, was that sitting alone at my kitchen counter to eat a meal was the most dismal way I could imagine to spend my time. I saw enough of myself during the day without wallowing in me at mealtimes. I liked to eat on someone else’s dishes, with the food served bubbling hot by someone else-and that someone else preferably wearing a nice smile with no personal complications that I was expected to solve.

And so the aroma of breakfast in my own home jolted me to a halt. Coffee, bacon, a host of other things. I advanced cautiously, because I could see Buddy sitting in my large leather recliner in the living room, reading a section of the Albuquerque Sunday paper. That meant someone else was tending the burners, and the only other someone else in the house was my grandson.

Buddy looked up, saw me, and grinned. “Hey there.”

“Good morning,” I said. “I was going to take you out to breakfast, but it smells like someone beat me to it.” Tadd stuck his head around the corner.

“Neat,” he said. “You’re back.”

“I’m back.”

“Do you have time to eat?”

“I certainly do.” I walked into the kitchen, thrust my hands in my pockets, and surveyed the battleground. “And by the way, I don’t think that works.” I nodded at the old electric waffle iron sitting on the counter. The single idiot light that indicated preheat was dark, and I stepped over to it. From several steps away, I could feel the hot cast iron.

“I think it’s ready,” Tadd said, and opened the top. “One of the wires came off the contact in back,” he said. “I stuck it back on. It works fine.”

“It looks like my timing is impeccable,” I said, leaning over so that I could see the wires where they vanished into the chrome housing at the back of the waffle iron. “Where did you come by this interest?” I straightened up and moved to one side, watching as Tadd ladled the waffle batter onto the iron’s steaming surface.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said with typical teenage vagueness.

“Tell him about Mrs. Hooper,” Buddy said from the living room.

“Well, yeah, her,” Tadd said, and closed the cover of the waffle iron. “She teaches home ec and foods and stuff. I took Foods I and II, and this year, I’m working in the Hospitality Suite.”

“And what’s that?”

He shrugged. “The school restaurant. We serve lunch three days a week. It’s kind of a big deal. Cloth napkins, fancy silverware, waiters and waitresses and stuff. The whole bit. It’s a fund-raiser, too. Most of the faculty eat there. A lot of people from town, too.”

I watched the kid move around my kitchen as if he’d lived there all his life. I calculated backward and decided this was the third time Tadd had set foot in my house. The first time, he’d been on all fours as his principle mode of locomotion, and during his second visit, he couldn’t have been more than eight or nine.

“You can eat eggs, can’t you?” he asked, pausing in midstride from counter to refrigerator.

“I don’t have any,” I said, but he opened the door and took out a carton anyway.

“We did a little shopping,” Buddy said.

“I guess you did. And yes, I can and do eat eggs. And waffles. And anything else you know how to make.”

The breakfast progressed from there, served with perfect timing and a flair for presentation-green chile, cheese, and onion omelets, waffles and all the trimmings, along with what looked like a full pound of perfectly done bacon. He even knew how to con the drip machine into making hot, rich black coffee.

I did more than sample, too. I practically ate myself into a stupor, which amused and pleased my grandson no end. Finally, I put my fork down and leaned back, savoring a comforting sip of coffee.

“Amazing,” I said to Tadd. “And thank you.”

Buddy grinned. “We thought we’d keep him,” he said.

“Are you planning on doing this for a living?” I asked.

“Errrrr,” the kid imitated a game-show penalty buzzer. “Not.”

“I’m surprised,” I said. “I would have guessed this is where your interests lie.”

Tadd managed an expression that said interests were pretty much classified as a bother, but then reconsidered. “It’s a good way to impress the chicks, though,” he said.

“I suppose it is,” I said.

“I saw this movie once,” he said. “This guy, I forget who it was, made this really elaborate gourmet dinner for this girl he wanted to impress and stuff? I remember thinking at the time, ‘Hey, it’d be neat to know how to do all that.’” He shrugged. “And Mrs. Hooper makes it fun, so…” He pushed his chair back, arose, and returned with the coffeepot.

“Impress the chicks,” I mused as he filled my cup. “Gourmet cooking sure beats stealing cattle.”

“Are you about wound down on that one?” Buddy asked.

“Just about.”

“And the Regal fracas?”

“Far from wound down. We haven’t heard a thing beyond the preliminary autopsy, and haven’t found anything in Baca’s house to give us a lead. What we’re left with is an inconsistency in some statements by the witnesses. That and a puzzle about where the driver’s license came from.” I blew across the coffee. “First things first. I’ve got a woman down in Regal who’s saying a couple of different things, and I thought I’d start with her. Backtrack a little and see what I can find. You want to come along?”

Buddy held up his hands. “We’re going to let you do that on your own, Dad. Tadd and I have a few errands that we need to run after a little bit.” He grinned. “Give folks a chance to get out of bed first.” He twisted and looked at the wall clock. “What time does the Guzman mob roll in?”

“Their plane arrives in El Paso at eleven-fifty. I suppose that puts them here around two or so, all things being equal.”

“That’s perfect,” Buddy said. “We’re going to do some grocery shopping as soon as the supermarket opens.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Oh, I know it’s not. But it’s fun. We were going to see if we could get the grill working. Hell, the two Guzman brats would rather tear around your backyard and eat hot dogs than have to behave themselves out in public.”

“Just finding the grill will be a trick,” I said. “It hasn’t seen the light of day in fifteen years.” I groped in my pocket and pulled out my key ring. “Take my Blazer. It sits in the garage so much it’s starting to mold. You’ll have to move it anyway to get at the grill. Don’t get caught in an avalanche.”

Tadd had started methodically arranging the dishes by the sink, and Buddy caught the bemused expression on my face. “Mrs. Hooper taught them how to clean up first,” he said. “That’s what impresses the hell out of me. She deserves a Nobel prize.”

“I’d like to meet this woman,” I said.

“Well,” Buddy said, and pushed himself away from the table, “if you should ever decide to leave Posadas County, that could be arranged.”

“I do leave the county,” I said defensively, and took a final swig of coffee before handing the empty cup to Tadd. “Hell, just last week I was in Deming. And this morning, or yesterday, or whenever the hell it was, I drove through downtown Newton.”

“Positively cosmopolitan,” Buddy said. “Plan on lunch?”

“I’ll try my best,” I said, and turned to Tadd. “You cooking?”

“Yeah,” he said with obvious self-satisfaction, and then, with the odd raised, crooked elbow and three-fingered point of the Hollywood gang-banger amplified by a ridiculous caricature of a Mexican accent, he added, “The man be cookin’.”

“Then I wouldn’t miss it.”

I took a few moments to freshen up. When I left the house, my mood was upbeat. As I turned the car onto south Grande, I found myself still chuckling at my grandson’s comment. “The man be cookin’,” I said aloud, and then realized with a start that it had been a long time since I’d been preoccupied with something other than work.