Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Nine

Just before six, I pulled into the parking lot of the Broken Spur Saloon. Victor’s little place was a haven for local ranchers and a watering hole for folks heading north and south-the last chance to tank up before crossing the Mexican border, and the first place for northbound folks to celebrate their arrival in the United States.

Five vehicles had collected in the lot, with a sedan sporting Michigan plates pulled up to the self-serve fuel pump island that Victor had installed the year before. The rest were local trucks, and I tucked the Trail Blazer in at the end of the line beside electrician Roy Ocate’s overstuffed van, leaving Socks with a view of the open prairie on his side.

I left the engine running with the air conditioning on full blast, cracked three of the windows a couple of inches, and lowered the passenger front window far enough that Socks could stick his muzzle out comfortably, but not squirm his shoulders through. I locked the door, depending on my Swiss cheese memory to recall the entry code for the door’s touch pad when the time came.

A clutter of projecting ladders, pipes, vises, and whatnot sprouted from Ocate’s vehicle, and I skirted those and made my way across the graveled parking lot. Victor Sanchez eschewed air conditioning, and with good reason. Even on the hottest days, his saloon was a dark, cool cave, the thick adobe walls an effective fortress against the outside world. I entered and paused for a moment, letting my eyes adjust.

“Hey, there’s the Man,” Gus Prescott called. The rancher was sitting with Ocate near the end of the bar, both of them enjoying a long-neck. The trouble with being a retired cop with decades of memories was that I had learned more nasty little secrets than I really needed or wanted to know. One of the reasons Gus Prescott was a marginal, hard-scrabble rancher was that he spent way too much time curled around a bottle. His daughter Christine-the target of Dale Torrance’s randy infatuation that led to rustling-was working behind the bar, and that certainly put her in an interesting position with the old man. A sociologist or psychologist would have had a field day.

“Gents.” I nodded at Christine, a strawberry blonde who looked as if she should be center on a college volleyball team…lithe, muscular in a fetching way, gorgeous clear complexion that she didn’t ruin with gunk, and her thick hair swept back in a ponytail. She had tried New Mexico State University in Las Cruces, but my theory was that she worried too much about her old man and chose to work at Victor’s so she could be near at hand.

She nodded an affectionate greeting at me, held up the coffee urn and raised an eyebrow. “Or ice tea?”

“You bet,” I said. “The coffee’s fine.”

I watched her pour, and as the mug slid across the bar, she glanced at me and asked, “How’s your day going, sir?”

My response was automatic and not entirely truthful. “Well, fair, I guess.” I didn’t want to talk about George Payton, and I didn’t want to talk about the dog currently panting out in my truck, since to do that I’d have to talk about Herb’s cattle roaming free and then about Dale going to Cruces for surgery-I could be stuck reciting gossip all afternoon. “Has Pat Gabaldon stopped in this afternoon? I have some paperwork that I need to give him.”

“Pat? I haven’t seen him. He doesn’t hang out here much.”

“I think he’s runnin’ errands for Herb,” Roy Ocate offered. “I seen him headed toward town in Herb’s rig a while back when I was headed for Regál.” A short, rotund man in dark green work clothes, Ocate regarded his watch. “Jeez. It’s been that long…”

“What time was that?” I asked.

“Oh, goin’ on three, four hours now,” Ocate said in wonder. He looked down the bore of his beer bottle. “I guess I need to be headin’ on up the pike.” He rose from the stool. “Gonna miss dinner if I don’t.” I already had.

“Did you happen to notice if anyone was with him?”

Ocate paused, wallet in hand. “Didn’t. Nope, I sure didn’t. He mighta had, but,” and he shrugged. The kitchen door opened and Victor Sanchez emerged, three platters expertly balanced. He headed for the table by the window and left two plates there with the tourists, then angled across behind the bar and slid the third platter in front of Gus Prescott.

“You want anything else?” Victor said to me. He glanced at my coffee, maybe to see if I’d taken advantage of the creamer and sugar. He carried the aroma of the kitchen with him like a personal cloud but must have been in a fair mood, since he didn’t just say, ‘What do you want?’

“No, thanks, Victor. This is fine. I just stopped by, still looking for Patrick.”

Sanchez clacked his heavy ring against the edge of the counter. “All right, then,” he said, and turned to head back toward the kitchen. I hadn’t asked him a direct question, so he hadn’t offered an answer. The Broken Spur was as discreet as a Swiss bank.

“Herb was going to take some cattle up on the mesa,” Gus Prescott said, exploring the meal in front of him. This was one of Victor’s specialties, an open-face burger and a generous mound of French fries smothered under a vast sea of chile sauce, melted cheese, lettuce, onions, and tomatoes. The dish might lack the fine touch of the food from Fernando Aragon’s Don Juan, but it still provided enough flavor, calories, and aftereffects to last a long day. The rancher raked a load of fries through the cheese and sauce and forked them into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I was thinkin’ I might apply for a lease up there next year.”

Gus wouldn’t, but he’d think about it. His daughter filled a mug of coffee for him without being asked, perhaps heading off another beer, and then took the coffee out to the tourists. She had perfected not listening to bar chatter unless it was directed at her and demanded a response. Watching Gus eat wasn’t going to accomplish much, and I drained my coffee.

When his daughter returned, I said, “Christine, if you happen to see Patrick, would you ask him to give me a call?”

“You bet, sir.”

“Roy says that he saw Pat in the Torrances’ rig earlier. Did you happen to be looking out?”

“No, I sure wasn’t,” she replied quickly. She’d have to either step outside, or walk into the adjoining little dining room to accomplish that. The bar itself was a windowless cave. I patted Gus on the shoulder. “Talk to you later, Gus.” With professional interest, I glanced at Gus’ plate and saw that Victor’s chile had a heavy scattering of seeds, par for the diced stuff that comes from a big #10 can from the food vendors-hot enough to fry the inside of the mouth, the seeds guaranteed to light up unsuspecting diverticuli.

And that stopped me short. Earlier in the day, an idea had crossed my path, and then just as promptly had been forgotten.

Leaving the saloon, I’m sure I carried the cacophony of aromas with me, because Socks launched into another dance, his piercing bark greeting me as I opened the door of the SUV. He would have enjoyed a beef burrito, hold the cheese, sauce, and garnish.

Before leaving the parking lot, I jotted a quick note to myself so I wouldn’t forget again, then called Herb Torrance. The rancher sounded weary when he picked up, and even more so when I reported that I hadn’t crossed paths with his employee-or his truck and trailer.

“Look,” he said, “I’m headin’ back this evening. Annie’s staying the night here with her cousin, so that works all right. I was hopin’ that I could depend on Pat to feed the horses and such, but if he ain’t showed up…”

“Haven’t seen him,” I said. “I left notes for him both on his door and on his truck. Socks is still with me.” I reached out and stroked the dog’s smooth head.

“Well, look, I’ll pick him up when I get to town,” Herb said. “You going to be home?”

“Probably at the Guzmans’,” I said. “Give me a call and I’ll meet you wherever it’s convenient. How about the sheriff’s department parking lot?”

“That’ll do it. Thanks, Bill. I appreciate it. Did Pat pay you for the permit?”

“No. I figured you’re good for it.”

Herb rasped something that might have been a chuckle. “’Preciate it. I’ll square up with you when I get in.”

“Give my best to Annie. And the boy.”

“I’ll do that.”

I thumbed in Estelle’s number and waited through six rings before her quiet voice came on the line. “Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked.

“Not a bad time at all, padrino,” she said. “I heard you were chasing cattle.”

“No more,” I said. “We need to award your deputy the Cowpuncher’s Silver Spur award, though. He did a good job for me.”

“I’m glad to hear that. You’re still coming for dinner, we hope.”

“Indeed, if Irma hasn’t given up on us. But I need to see something first. You’ll be in the office for a bit longer?”

“Yes.”

“I need to look at some of Linda’s pictures. See, I had this brainstorm, and I want to know what you think.”

“Easy enough,” the undersheriff said.

“I’m inbound from the Broken Spur. See you in about twenty minutes.” I switched off and saw that I was driving far too fast. I forced myself to slow down to the speed limit, straight-arming the steering wheel and taking deep breaths to help me think.