Steven Havill - Bag Limit

After the sudden shot of adrenaline while having my car assaulted, I wasn’t the least bit tired when I walked into my office shortly after midnight. My desk was clear of projects. I knew that if I went home, I’d sit up and read most of the night, and I didn’t want to do that, either. If I remained in my office, odds were good that someone would want to talk to me, and I wasn’t in the mood to play father-confessor. Those were generally the only conversations to be had in the middle of the night.

I suppose what I really was avoiding was having to answer the irritating question, “So, what are you planning to do with yourself now that you’re retiring?” I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to explain to anyone just then that I didn’t know, and have to listen to a list of suggestions that didn’t interest me. Somehow, people couldn’t bring themselves to believe that I didn’t mind not knowing.

I took the unmarked car that the civil deputies often used during the day, and headed toward the Broken Spur Saloon on State 56. I knew that a chat with the owner, Victor Sanchez, was on Torrez’s short list. Sanchez would be closing the saloon in another hour or two, and maybe he’d loosen up a bit. Victor and I had crossed swords on several occasions, and I knew that he wouldn’t bubble with enthusiasm when he saw me walk through the door.

I pulled into the saloon’s lot and parked between a red Jeep Cherokee with New Mexico plates and a Chevy Suburban with Arizona tags. Two or three other vehicles, all pickup trucks, were widely spaced across the gravel.

The Broken Spur made up in darkness what it lacked in eye appeal. The small foyer was posh in wrinkled black velvet, a dark little hole to wait while the patrons decided which door to choose. To the left were the old-fashioned swinging half doors that led to the saloon. A gaping double doorway to the right opened into the small dining room.

As my eyes adjusted, I could make out a young couple seated in the dining room, hunched toward each other, deep in conversation. A single candle flickering between them. I pegged them for the Arizona plates.

No one was behind the short counter on whose glass top rested the bowl of mints and the stack of menus. Under the glass, the light winked on the gleaming collection of fake silver, fake turquoise, and really dead scorpions encased in genuine plastic. I turned left, toward the music. The saloon was darker than the foyer, and I moved slowly, the Loretta Lynn crooning from the jukebox just about the right tempo for my shuffle.

The long bar hosted a handful of customers, all of them men. I slid onto one of the bar stools out of easy talking range from the nearest, and rested my elbow on the bar. The air was thick with smoke, and it smelled good. I had told my oldest daughter Camille that one of the things I was going to do when I retired was take up smoking again. She hadn’t thought the remark was funny.

Two of the tables off to the left were occupied, but at that distance and in the dim light, the figures were little more than muted shapes.

“What can I get you?” The gal’s voice was a pleasant contralto, loud enough to be heard over Loretta, but not enough to jar frayed nerves. I didn’t recognize her, an experience that always surprised me. After thirty years minding the business of a small county, I had grown used to seeing familiar faces around every corner-or under every rock.

“Do you still have some coffee?”

“Sure. Do you need a menu?”

I smiled with surprise, and looked at my watch. “What time is it, anyway?”

“About one-thirty. Plenty of time.”

“Well, then…sure. No, wait. Don’t bother. If you can find a green chile burrito back in the kitchen, that’d suit me fine.”

“Smothered?”

“Sure. Smothered is wonderful.”

She nodded and slipped away, returning in less than a minute with a mug of coffee. She was an attractive kid, and it was pleasant to watch her move.

“Busy night?”

“No, actually, it’s been really quiet,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “Really quiet. That burrito will be right up.”

I nodded and relaxed, letting the warm, stuffy air meld into my bones. I realized I had gotten chilly standing out on that mountainside. If I sat in the Broken Spur very long, my eyelids would come crashing down.

True to her word, the bartender arrived in less than five minutes with a pretty respectable green chile burrito-nothing on a par with what the Don Juan de Onate Restaurant in Posadas served, but fragrant and savory nevertheless.

“And Victor says to tell you that Matt Baca didn’t buy anything when he came in here earlier,” she said as she arranged the hot plate in front of me.

I looked askance at her, and then turned toward the kitchen. The swinging door was closed, but I suppose old Victor could see through the little diamond-shaped window.

“Victor says that, does he?” I tried a small mouthful of the burrito. It was pretty good-just a touch on the wet side, one of those constructions where the chef doesn’t know enough to let the green chile stand alone, but pollutes it with a soup base to turn it into a sauce. “In what prior lifetime did you and I meet?”

She smiled, resting both hands on the lip of the bar. I was willing to bet there was a whole population of old drunk ranchers who stopped by the Broken Spur regularly, just on the off chance that her one-hundred-watt smile would favor them.

“The first time was about three years ago. I was one of the alternate jurors for that Wilton kid’s trial. You testified quite a bit.”

“Sure enough,” I said, not remembering. I remembered the trial, all right, but not the jurors. I looked at her again, and decided that she was in her late twenties.

“And your picture’s been in the paper off and on since then.” She leaned forward a bit and lowered her voice. “You can’t hide.”

“I guess not.” I laughed. “What’s your name? My memory leaks.”

“Christine Prescott,” she said. “You know my folks.”

“Ah, indeed I do. And I haven’t seen either one of them in months. How are they doing?” The Prescott ranch, two miles north of Moore off Route 56, was a tough operation in the best of times. Gus Prescott had never been lucky enough, or positioned just right, to land himself one of the federal grazing leases. Instead he made do with a couple hundred acres of his own. With creativity and hard work, those acres were enough to keep the family right on the line between destitution and poverty.

She hesitated a bit too long and took a deep breath. “Okay, I guess.”

One of the patrons farther down the bar caught her attention, and she excused herself before she had the chance to elaborate. I made a mental note to stop by her parents’ place sometime. I knew damn well that I’d lose that note in the vast brain-pile of the misplaced, ignored, or forgotten-a pile that grew like a huge landfill, swelling every year.

Christine Prescott showed no inclination to gravitate toward my end of the bar for several minutes, but eventually returned to refill my coffee.

Before she had a chance to turn away again, I asked, “You said Matt Baca came in earlier?”

She nodded, but like the good bartender she was, didn’t volunteer any elaboration.

“But he didn’t buy anything?”

“Not for want of trying,” she said, and stepped away to set the coffeepot back on the hot-plate. She returned and stood with her back to the rest of the bar. Her posture said, “You’re going to ask, so get it over with.”

“Was anyone else with him?”

She shook her head. “He came in for just a minute, but he sure didn’t need anything else to drink.”

“Had a little trouble navigating, did he?”