Steven Havill - Bag Limit

I looked across at Estelle. “Did you guys get a chance to look at the back property this morning?”

“We built a fort in the leaves,” Francisco announced around taco chip crumbs before his mother had a chance to answer.

“A leaf fort? How does that work?” I asked.

“It’s a long story, Grandpa,” Tadd said with a sad shake of his head.

“Well, you cheated,” Francisco said, and butted my grandson’s arm with his head. His younger brother nodded in sober agreement.

“Francis, Bill, and I walked the whole thing,” Estelle said. “It looks like they’re planning to build something down on Escondido a ways where they extended the water line.”

I nodded. “I’ve heard fifteen different stories about that, everything from another trailer court to a new truck stop. Whatever it is, I don’t think it would affect my property much, except by increasing the traffic around the back side. So what did you guys think?”

I reached out with a chip, loaded it with salsa, and was navigating it to my mouth when I saw one of the county cars pull into the parking lot. Deputy Tom Pasquale got out and strode purposefully toward the Don Juan’s front door.

“They found me,” I said. “Pasquale isn’t coming here for lunch.” I poked Francisco in the ribs. “Excuse me, nino . I need to slide past you.” I managed to navigate myself away from the crowded tables without disaster, and met the deputy out in the foyer.

“Sir, Jackie Taber just called from Cruces. They think that Connie French is going to make it.”

“That’s good news.” I looked at him expectantly, since the eager expression on his face told me that he hadn’t driven to the restaurant just to tell me that.

“And there was something else, too,” he said. “She’s got a bad skull fracture, a smashed lower right arm, a broken left shoulder, a fractured pelvis, and a broken knee. The left knee.” He ticked the list off on his fingers as he made his way down the injured girl’s anatomy.

I grimaced. “That’s quite a ‘something else,’ Thomas. There must be a bone or two that she didn’t break. No spinal damage?”

“They think not. But she had a bullet wound in her right calf.”

“A bullet wound?”

“That’s what they said. Not too serious, like maybe from a ricochet. They removed a pretty good chunk of brass jacket that was wedged up against the bone.”

“Enough there for a rifling match?”

“Bob says that it’s worth a try. In the meantime, me and Linda and a couple of the others are going back down to look for the bullet strike.”

“Walsh is the only one who fired,” I said. “So who was he shooting at? You can’t intentionally hit someone with a ricochet. He was either aiming at Connie and missed, or he was aiming at Scott-and missed.” I shook my head, perplexed. “Keep me posted, all right?”

He nodded and turned toward the door, eager to be on the road. I turned to go back inside. I’d asked Estelle a question. I was eager to hear an answer.

Hell, I knew that Posadas was a meager, dusty little place, a dinky watering hole in perhaps the most bleak part of New Mexico. I knew that where Dr. Francis Guzman and his family ultimately decided to settle was none of my affair. And depending on the current definition of “opportunities,” there were probably more of them in a myriad of other places.

In all fairness, Estelle Guzman’s answer was the best that I could hope for. “We’ve got so much to think about,” she said.

“Yes, you do,” I said, and let the conversation drift to other topics. The six of us ate enough for twelve, a leisurely, sloppy grub fest that ended with sopaipillas squirting honey in all the wrong places.

As I was starting my third cup of coffee, Fernando Aragon sauntered around the small island where the coffee machines lurked. He picked up one of the decanters and brought it to our table. I covered my cup with my hand but quickly moved it when he showed every intention of pouring anyway.

“How was everything?” he said.

“Awful, as usual,” I replied. “The chile was green, the sopaipillas were full of hot air…all that sort of thing.”

“Good, good,” he said, and favored the two wide-eyed children with a vast, perfectly capped grin. “Those kids are sure growing up, eh?”

“Kids do that,” I said. “And by the way, what’s with the sign on the door? How can you do that to me?” I nudged my empty plate. “What’s life without a green chile burrito, especially tomorrow?”

“How’s it feel, eh?” Fernando said. “You finally going to do it?”

“I have no choice.” I grinned. “And it’s a good time, Fernando. Robert will do a fine job.”

“I’m sure he will. So what are you going to do with yourself? All this time on your hands.”

“I don’t need to worry about that until tomorrow,” I said.

Fernando grinned. “I hear that you’re going to take over Cliff Larson’s job.”

“This is indeed a small town,” I said. “I’m going to help Cliff out for a few weeks. That’s all. It’s a favor.”

He regarded me through narrowed eyes, and then swung his gaze to Estelle. “What do you think about this guy?”

“El resolvera su problema aunque le lleve toda la noche,” she said.

Fernando Aragon laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “This guy,” he said, and if possible his accent thickened for the occasion. “At six o’clock in the morning, he’s at the door, wanting dinner.”

“That’s because you don’t open at five,” I said. “When ordinary people eat.”

“That’s okay,” Fernando said. “When you stop coming in, that’s when we sell the place. To hell with it.” He smiled widely again. “People today don’t appreciate what it takes.” To Estelle he said, “El esta en ayunas de manana?”

She shrugged and said in English, “I think so.”

“You think so what?” I asked.

“We’re painting the kitchen ceiling tomorrow,” Fernando said. “That’s our excuse for closing. I told her that if you’re starving to death, drop by and knock on the back door. I’ll fix you something.”

“Paint chips and all,” I said. “Thanks, anyway. I can survive a day.”

He patted me on the shoulder again, and nodded around the table at each one of us in turn. “Take your time. I have to go back in the kitchen and mix paint, but if there’s anything else you want, just ask Janalynn.” He held up a hand in salute. “Hasta…hasta cuando.”

“Thanks, Fernando. Give my regards to your lovely wife.” I watched him saunter back to the kitchen, sliding the coffee decanter back in place with one smooth, practiced motion without breaking stride.

I turned to Tadd. “So tell me what they actually said, Tadd.”

He grinned at Estelle, who raised one eyebrow in that characteristic expression that said she was waiting for someone to dig a deep enough hole.

“She said that you’d figure out what you wanted to do if it took you all night.”

“Uh-huh. And he said?”

“Uh…that he’d see us whenever.” He shrugged. “ Hasta cuando means sort of like that. See you whenever.”

“I see.” I studied him through my bifocals for a minute. “You’re pretty good in that language, son.”

“Yes, he is,” Estelle said, and took a deep breath. “Well…they probably want some peace and quiet around here. What’s on your docket for the rest of the afternoon?”

“I need to run by the hospital for a few minutes,” I said. “When Scott Gutierrez comes out of it, I want to make sure he knows that he’s not going to have to wade through this mess all by himself.”