Steven Havill - Bag Limit

“So you got an offer from Sophia, too.”

He nodded. “Basically a blank check. She plays hardball.”

“I bet she does. I can understand how she’d be delighted to have you guys in the neighborhood. I’m a little surprised that you’d consider going from big to bigger, though. If you think Rochester is a busy place, imagine Veracruz. What is it, about five times bigger?”

“About four times,” Estelle said, and I felt a little pang of comfort that she’d taken time to check.

“Not to mention about fifty times bigger than Posadas on a busy day,” I added. “What did Sophia offer?”

“Like I said, basically a blank check,” Francis said. “She owns a building that would make a nice clinic. One block from the beach.” He flashed a smile full of perfectly regular white teeth, and I had no trouble imagining the young doctor on a surfboard, beard dripping salt water, arms spread for balance. “More important, there’s a real need there.”

“I’m sure there is. There’s a need anywhere that there are human beings. It just depends what you want.”

The smile spread wider. “Counteroffer?”

That took me so by surprise that for a moment the words didn’t register. To stall for time, I took a second sip of the powerful brandy. No sounds issued from the bedroom. Either the combatants had all fallen asleep, or the game was getting to the deadly stage where a single hand tremor could send the tower crashing to the floor amid high-pitched cries of “Idiota! Idiota!” I set the brandy glass down with care.

“I didn’t realize that you would seriously consider coming back to Posadas,” I said.

“We haven’t ruled out anything yet,” Francis said.

“What would be the attraction?” I asked, and even as I spoke the words, I wondered if there was anyone who had lived for any length of time in any of the thousands of tiny communities around the country, or for that matter the millions around the world, who hadn’t been asked that question at one time or another.

“It’s small,” Estelle said quickly, and I sympathized. I couldn’t imagine her finely tuned senses bombarded by city life. The edge would dull quickly just to protect itself from sensory overload.

“And quiet,” I said.

“There’s a need, with more to come,” Francis said. “But most important, it’s close to home for Mama, and for Estelle. Even for me. And los ninos like it here.” He relaxed back. “And we’ve got a lot of friends here, you know.”

“A few,” I said. “One or two.”

“Now would be the time to establish something,” Francis said. “There’s going to be more and more interaction at the border. You’re going to get a twenty-four-hour crossing at Regal sooner than later…”

“That’s coming in January,” I said.

Francis held up his hands. “See? That opens up the culture crossover even more. The medical services in those border towns are pathetic. A good, comprehensive clinic here would be only thirty miles away from Mexico.”

“That would please your mother,” I said to Estelle.

“But not so much Sophia,” she said. “But she understands.”

“The new track would help you some, I guess,” Buddy commented.

“Sure,” Francis agreed, and I looked at my son, puzzled.

“What new track?”

“You need to read your own paper.” My son laughed. He stretched backward and hefted the bulk of the Sunday El Paso daily from where it had been resting behind the lamp. He shuffled sections until he found the one that passed for regional news, folded it to manageable size, and handed it to me. “Lower left.”

I took the paper and shifted my glasses. The article was nothing more than a small squib, boxed in the corner and buried by a feature story about a threatened minnow in the Rio Grande. I would have skipped it even if I’d been reading the paper carefully. As it was, I’d forgotten that the damn thing had even landed on my front doorstep.

Study Given Nod

POSADAS, NM-New Mexico State Gaming officials have approved preliminary study plans for a proposed facility in southern Posadas County that would include horse racing with para-mutuel betting, offtrack linkups, and limited casino-style gambling.

When completed, the facility would join El Paso and Ruidoso as a premier recreation area for enthusiasts from Mexico and the Southwest, promoters say.

“Competition for recreational dollars helps everyone,” developer R. Robert Waddell of Newton said.

“I’ll be damned,” I said, and read the article again.

“You hadn’t heard about that?” my son asked.

“No. Then again, I’ve been living under a rock lately.” I read the article a third time. “Well, that slimy son of a bitch,” I said.

Buddy pointed at my glass. “You want that stuff?”

“No. Help yourself.” I handed him the glass.

“Hate to see it go to waste,” he said. “That track thing might explain a little bit why Cliff Larson thinks it’s a good time to retire, Dad. It’s going to be a busy place if that racetrack starts up.”

“It doesn’t look like an ‘if,’” Estelle said. She handed the paper to her husband, who tossed it back on the table beside Buddy.

“Buddy showed me that article earlier,” Francis said. “Who knows? You might be able to lease out some of your back acreage for horse barns. I remember you were thinking about that once upon a time.”

“That’s just what I need,” I scoffed. “And I said I’d give Cliff Larson a couple of weeks to help him out. This thing won’t open a gate for two years, even without any snafus. It won’t be my problem.” I put my feet back up on the table. “Anyway, a few minutes ago, you asked me what my counteroffer was. Leave me half an acre around this house, without touching any of the cottonwoods out back of the kitchen. You can have the rest.”

Francis didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the first time in the ten years I’d known the Guzmans that I’d offered them my property. But circumstances had been different. “You’ve got room for any sized building you want, a new water line and sewer hookups on Escondido, space for parking, easy access to the interstate frontage road-and you’re less than two miles from the hospital.”

“Don’t forget the helipad,” my son added with a laugh.

“That’s right…and room for a helipad.” Another crash came from the bedroom, followed by a screech.

“It’s time the kids settled down some,” Estelle said, and untangled herself from her husband. “Otherwise we’ll never get them to bed. They’ll be going all night.”

“You think on it,” I said to Francis, trying to sound more reasonable and calm than I felt. The suggestion was as much for my benefit as the Guzmans’. I didn’t have the expertise of a good car salesman, and had no idea what I could say that would be just the right words to close the deal. I swung my feet down off the low table. “Anyone want some coffee besides me?”

Chapter Forty-two

That night, even the coffee couldn’t keep me awake. I closed my bedroom door, content to have a dark corner for retreat. My mind was a jumble of possibilities and anticipations. But instead of lying there in the dark staring at the ceiling, I fell into an exhausting series of cinematic dreams, each more ridiculous and disjointed than the first.

I awoke at one point-at least I assume I awoke…the three-inch-tall red numerals of the clock made sense and told me it was 3:47-after arguing with Francis Guzman about where he should park his Porsche. He had reserved a spot in the new clinic’s freshly paved parking lot, but it was hidden from my kitchen window view by one of the large cottonwoods. I tried to explain to him that if he wanted me to keep an eye on his exotic machine while he was busy inside, then he needed to park it where I could see it. He didn’t appear to understand.