Steven Havill - Bag Limit

I shook my head. “Nothing else? No other ID? No other driver’s license? Nothing like that? Something that has a different D.O.B.?”

Taber shined her flashlight on the license I’d given her. “Looks like December thirteen, 1982.”

The undersheriff leaned close so that he could scrutinize the license. “And that’s the right one. The family Bible never lies, sir,” Torrez said.

“So either Portillo was lying, or the kid had another ID with him. One that we haven’t found. Maybe back at the house.”

“We’ve never had trouble with Portillo before,” Torrez said. “But I guess there’s always a first time.”

“First and last,” I muttered. “What the hell is the point of asking for an ID, and looking at it, if you’re not going to enforce the date?” I held out a hand. “Let me take that license. I’ll see how well Portillo reads.” Deputy Taber hesitated for an instant, then unclipped the license and handed it to me. “Thanks.” I slipped it into my pocket, took a deep breath, and stepped over to the truck driver.

He lifted his head out of his arm, but didn’t meet my gaze. In the psychedelic light from the various sets of flickering roof racks, it was tough to read his expression.

“I’m Sheriff Gastner,” I said. “We haven’t had a chance to talk yet.”

“God, I wish you could have grabbed him,” the man said, and as he turned a bit more, I could see his face was wet.

“You and me both,” I said. “These things happen sometimes.”

“I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even see him until just before…”

“I know that,” I said. “Right now, my concern is getting this rig out of here, and you safely into town.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“You’ll be able to drive?”

“I guess so.” He tried a faint chuckle. “We’ll see.”

“Undersheriff Torrez can drive the rig in for you. That might be better. You can ride in with the deputy.”

He shook his head and backed away from the truck. “No, that’s all right.” He took a couple of steps until he was even with the big chrome bumper, looked down, and then jerked his head up. He turned his back to the truck. It was too dark to see anything, of course, but just the idea of what had happened was replaying in his mind-and would continue to do so for months, sneaking back to jar him awake in the night, or to make him wince in the middle of a meal or the middle of a movie.

“Do you need me for anything else?” he asked.

“The deputy has everything,” I said. “If she needs any additional information, she’ll give you a call. She’ll want you to sign a formal deposition when she finishes, but that’ll be later today.”

He nodded. “Well, okay,” he said and walked around the front of the truck. There was just enough room between the left front fender and the barbed-wire highway right-of-way fence for him to squeeze through.

“You’re sure you’re going to be all right?” I called after him.

“No, but I don’t guess there’s anything you can do about that,” he said, and swung himself up into the truck. His knees still must have been jelly, because he stalled the rig three times before he managed to back it away from the fence and then judder through the loose sand to the pavement.

Tommy Portillo had owned his convenience store on Grande Avenue for seventeen years. Before that it had been a vacant lot that collected weeds, junk, and disparaging comments from the folks who wanted Posadas to be something.

Portillo bought the lot and built his store with a design that featured plastic, shiny metal, and vivid colors, reminiscent of the automobiles of the same period. For a while, the place was an optimistic reminder of what was new and stylish. After a while, it was as much of an eyesore as most old cars are.

I knew Tommy Portillo well enough that we usually stopped to chat for a few minutes when our paths crossed downtown.

Of the nine merchants in the county who owned liquor licenses, I knew of five who had sold to minors at one time or another. Sometimes it was just an ignorant or sloppy employee who made the sale. Regardless of the reason, one slap on the wrist by the state Alcoholic Beverage Control Board was usually enough that even folks with gray hair found themselves carded.

Because the Handiway store was within eyesight and an easy two-block walk of Posadas High School, Tommy Portillo had lots of opportunity. But I had no reason to think that he took advantage of it.

In fact, on one occasion I’d been in his store browsing through a magazine when I overheard a heated conversation between Portillo and one of his suppliers. All the heat was from Portillo’s end as he blistered the man up one side and down the other, and then told him to “get those damn things out of my store. What the hell do you think you’re doin’? That’s just what kids need. You ought to know better.” And so on.

After the harangue died down, the salesman left mumbling to himself. I ambled up to the counter.

“Hey,” Portillo said. “I didn’t see you over there.”

“What was he trying to sell you?” I asked.

“You should see this,” he said, and reached down. “I threw it in the trash.” He straightened up and held out a vinyl sleeve, the bright red and white of a popular brand of soda.

“What’s this for?” I said, and then figured it out for myself.

“You just slide that over a can of beer, see, and the whole world thinks you’re drinkin’ soda pop.”

“Clever way to make a buck. I’d think this would be a hot seller.”

Portillo snorted. “Of course it would. That’s why they make ’em. That’s all we need, is those things out and around.”

“You mind if I keep this?”

“You just help yourself,” Portillo said.

I had kept the slick little plastic sleeve, and still had it some-where in my desk. This time, though, despite all of Tommy Portillo’s show of righteous bluster on that day, one thing was certain now: three teens had had a roaring good time for a while, and by his own admission, he’d supplied the fuel.

The clock ticked 3:15 that Saturday morning when I pulled into the parking lot of the county’s Public Safety Building and switched off the car. The Border Patrol unit was parked in the spot marked RESERVED DA. At least they hadn’t taken my slot. I was too tired to walk an extra step.

I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. I sat for a moment and stared at the adobe wall ahead of the car, and my own private cinema replayed the film. I had missed grabbing Matt Baca by a hairbreadth after he stumbled into me.

Somehow it reminded me of that ludicrous poster with the old biplane that had crashed into the top of the only tree in the middle of a huge field. One tree, and the pilot had found it. There had been one truck, and Matt Baca had found that, too.

I swore a single heartfelt expletive and hauled my carcass out of the car. I didn’t head for the side door, the entrance used by employees. The front door was two dozen steps closer, and didn’t require that I fumble for a key.

Three straight-backed leather chairs and a matching bench lined the foyer, with large framed photographs of former Posadas County sheriffs lined up on the wall behind them. I had refused to sit for a portrait, but Linda Real, our department photographer, had snapped a pretty good shot of me sitting at my desk, scowling at the computer screen.

I thought that the scowl was a pretty good comment, and since the photo didn’t feature the unphotogenic lower three-quarters of my body, grudgingly allowed the picture to join the rogues’ lineup.

I was startled to see Tommy Portillo sitting in the chair under my picture.

“Hello there,” I said. “Can’t sleep?”