Steven Havill - Scavengers

He lifted a hand in salute when he recognized Bill Gastner, and the livestock inspector pointed toward the back of the yard. Florek nodded and went back inside the Airstream, apparently seeing no point in offering an escort service.

The lane that Gastner chose through the meandering rows of automotive carcasses was narrow, and Estelle watched the flow of vehicular history with fascination until they pulled to a stop in front of a Nash Ambassador.

Estelle looked at the forlorn heap, the teeth in its grill shed of all their chrome like an old man who’d spent his long life eating, drinking, and smoking all the wrong things. “It’s hard to imagine that car sitting on a showroom floor,” she said.

Gastner grunted, “My father owned one, can you believe it?” He nodded at the camera bag. “Do you need a hand with the camera gear?”

“No. I can manage.”

“It’s not too far, but there’s so much shit in the way that we have to hoof it.”

“I can’t wait. Beware of the goats,” she said as she slid out of the truck. Bill Gastner hadn’t revealed the actual reason for their visit to Florek’s, but Estelle could see that he was enjoying himself. And she knew that if their expedition hadn’t been important, even for the most obscure of reasons, he wouldn’t have bothered her.

“Goats are the least of our problem,” Gastner said. “They’re just the admission ticket.” She followed him through the maze of dead cars and trucks until they reached an area where the vehicles were stacked three high. He stopped and stood still, hands thrust into his pockets. “There’s no easy way through this goddamn mess, so you be careful. If there’s an earthquake tremor or a sonic boom, run for your goddamn life.”

“I’ll just follow you, Padrino ,” she said. Bill Gastner had recently celebrated his seventy-first birthday, and spry wouldn’t have been the first word Estelle would have chosen to describe his movements. At that particular moment, she was glad of it. Thirty pounds overweight, with bifocals that he’d worn for ten years but never gotten used to, Gastner stepped with methodical care, often punctuating a lapse of balance with colorful expletives reminiscent of his early years in the Marine Corps. More than once, he reached out to pat a thrusting fender, and whether it was to restore balance or just a moment of private reminiscence, Estelle couldn’t guess.

After working their way back through another decade of cars, they reached the tall, weathered board fence that marked the rear boundary of Florek’s Wrecking Yard. Set tightly edge-to-edge when they’d been first nailed into place thirty years before, the six-foot tall boards had shrunken over the years, leaving a half inch gap between.

“The spot I want is right beside that old dump truck,” Gastner said, pointing to his right. The Diamond Reo truck was doing a fair job of sinking into the sand, its stripped remains bleached by the New Mexico sun and rusted to an even reddish-brown patina.

He picked his way along the truck’s hulk to a spot where the rear of the frame was snugged up against the fence. “Box seats,” he said. With one hand on the fence boards, he stepped up onto the frame with a grunt. He extended a hand to Estelle. She rested the camera bag on the truck’s brown skeleton and stepped up beside Bill Gastner.

Feeling like a little kid outside the fence at a baseball game, Estelle leaned against the warm wood. A dozen yards from the fence, five goats looked up at her, their eyes noncommittal and jaws idly oscillating. Eleanor Pope’s dwelling was one of those interesting affairs that had grown over the years into a hodgepodge of angles and alcoves. What had started out as a single twelve-by-sixty mobile home was now two trailers, joined in a T, with a framed addition budding out of the middle, its roof somehow tarred onto the metal of the trailers. If it didn’t rain, it didn’t leak.

A vast collection of outbuildings filled the acre behind the house, together with half a dozen fifty-five-gallon drums lying on their sides. Two of the ones closest to the fence had wire mesh over the open ends. Estelle frowned. “What’s in the drums?”

“Rabbits,” Gastner muttered. He nodded off to the right. Meeting Florek’s fence at a right angle was a row of metal-roofed sheds, each with a fair imitation of a two-by-six framed half door. “Here. Take a close look at the sheds.” He held out a small pair of binoculars. Estelle took them and adjusted the focus and spread until the images jumped into sharp detail.

“What are those? Burros?”

“Miniature donkeys,” Gastner said.

“It’s hard to see with the shadows.” She scanned the four stalls.

“How many do you count?”

“It’s almost impossible to tell,” she said. Bracing the binoculars against the wooden fence, she concentrated on the first stall. “They’re packed in there like sardines. I think I see six in that first stall, maybe-but I can’t see into the back. It’s too dark.”

“I counted eight yesterday,” Gastner said. “And I estimate that stall is twelve by twelve. No bigger than that. Eight animals in one stall.”

“And the others are the same?”

“I expect so. Maybe thirty of the damn little things in four stalls. It’s a wonder that they don’t kick themselves silly. Might as well jam ’em all in a livestock trailer.”

Estelle lowered the binoculars and turned to look at Gastner. “What’s going on, sir? What’s she doing with them?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say that she’s acting as a motel.”

“I don’t follow.”

“A bit of a tip came my way. These little guys came up out of Mexico. Cameron Florek happened to see the truck that brought ’em. It’s hard to imagine, but there’s a good market for ’em. The folks who own all those half-acre ranchettes, and want to be real cowboys? Drop a burro or donkey in your front yard, and you’ve got a piece of ‘living sculpture,’ as a friend of mine calls ’em. Sidestep the permits and health inspections and all that government trivia, and there’s a fair amount of money to be made.” He leaned on the fence. “My guess is that these animals haven’t been here for more than a couple of days. And I’d guess that they won’t stay here long, either.”

“You want to go in there with a warrant for a surprise visit. That’s what this is for?”

“You betcha. I’m not going to chat with Mrs. Pope first, that’s for goddamn sure. A good picture or two will help me convince Judge Hobart to cut a warrant loose, but I think I want to wait a bit.”

“I can’t imagine that the judge would hesitate,” Estelle said.

Gastner shrugged. “Not with the animal health problems we’ve got now. Everybody’s worried, you know, and not just in England or Europe. That hoof-and-mouth disease thing is a real nightmare.” He nodded at the sheds. “Bring in animals like these, without proper health inspection, and we’re just asking for some real trouble.”

He paused. “Transporting these little guys around the state without a permit is just a misdemeanor. Hobart’s not going to get excited about that. Me neither. But if these animals are headed out of state, that’s a different story altogether. That’s felony time.” He thumped the fence with the palm of his hand. “She’s got ’em packed in those stalls like cordwood. Maybe that’s what bothers me most.”

“Bizarre,” Estelle said, and handed the binoculars back to Gastner. “It’d be interesting to know where they’re going.”

“That’s the deal. If I just bust in there and confiscate ’em, I might never find out what her connections are.”

“Let me see what it looks like,” Estelle said. She bent down and unzipped the camera bag, selected the largest lens and screwed it onto the camera body. She rested the lens in the V formed by the top of two boards. “Are the Popes home now?”