Steven Havill - Bag Limit

“You know, that’s the damned thing about it all. He’s makin’ just a shitload of money with this dealership through legit sales. For a few thousand, he’s willing to risk it all.”

“Some people just like to gamble, Leo.”

“Well, he kept good records, that’s for sure.” Nunez made a sucking sound through his teeth. “I always wondered why crooks went to all the trouble to write stuff down. That’s pretty stupid, no? To keep records of just the things that would put you in jail?”

“Even presidents have been that stupid, Leo.”

“True, true. You want to send down a deputy? I understand from Undersheriff Torrez that there’s a possible tie-in up your way.”

“Appears to be. Walsh’s stepdaughter worked at the Motor Vehicle Division here. It appears that she was issuing fake licenses for him. That’s what we’re guessing right now. We don’t know the extent of it.”

Nunez laughed, a rich, rolling laugh of delight. “Well, sir, let me tell you the extent. You got a minute?”

“Sure I do.” I sat back and swung my feet back up.

“For example, let me tell you about Ejenio Rocha,” he said, and for the next ten minutes I listened to the lieutenant’s softly accented voice spin the story.

Ejenio Rocha knew that the road to real wealth, the road to the good life, lay across the border in the United States. Ejenio had no family…it wasn’t a question of his having to support a wife, five children, and two sets of grandparents. He was twenty-six years old, educated through seventh grade, and ambitious. In addition to that, Ejenio Rocha loved trucks.

On August 8, Ejenio crossed the toll bridge over the Rio Grande at Ciudad Acuna, and then hoofed it the four miles into Del Rio, Texas. At nine that morning, he presented himself to James Walsh at Walsh Chrysler-Plymouth on the outskirts of south Del Rio.

He had visited the dealership several times before. The object of his affections was parked in the back row so that its size didn’t overshadow the shiny new vehicles that rolled from the lot with astonishing regularity, making Walsh one of the highest-producing dealerships in its zone.

Ejenio stood in front of the massive, blunt prow of the 1989 Chevrolet C-70 flatbed truck, and imagined the payloads he could haul…watermelons and other fruits, farm machinery, pumpkins, firewood, wrecked vehicles. The list was endless. Tons at a time.

James Walsh knew a hardworking young man when he saw one, and he was immediately impressed with Ejenio Rocha. Rocha was not interested in illegal drugs, or other border contraband. He wanted to drive a truck . If he could someday drive a semi and be a member of the union, so much the better. There was a catch. Ejenio was a Mexican citizen, with a Mexican driver’s license. He knew that his future wealth lay in the United States. He needed residency, and he needed a U.S.-issue commercial driver’s license. The paperwork wall appeared impenetrable. James Walsh agreed to help.

The Chevy, a good-looking machine when detailed, had served a long, hard life with Marathon Building Materials. With more than 140,000 miles on it, it was still a bargain at $9,500. Ejenio knew it was a bargain at $9,500. Ejenio could indeed buy the Chevy in Texas. He could buy it and drive it to Mexico, and license it there. But Mexico was not the place of Ejenio’s dreams.

Ejenio could not license the truck in Texas…or anywhere else in the United States, unless he was a resident of the licensing state. Walsh was sympathetic and helpful. Suppose Ejenio had a shiny new commercial driver’s license from New Mexico?

Ejenio had never been to New Mexico, and was unsure of why he would want to do that, but Walsh was persuasive. The laws were too complex to explain in just a few minutes, but suffice to say that the Motor Vehicle Division in New Mexico would help the young man through the test, would help him establish residency, would issue him a beautiful New Mexico CDL with his picture and address on it. For all intents and purposes, he would be a U.S. citizen.

The new license was $1,000, cash American. Ejenio hadn’t realized that the American government also operated on the theory of greased palms, but it seemed worth it. The thousand dollars was a lot of money, as much as the down payment that Ejenio had scraped together for the truck. But Walsh was quick to point out what Ejenio stood to gain.

If Ejenio licensed the truck in Texas, the license tax was seven and a half percent-$712.50-just in taxes. In New Mexico, the tax was three percent. The $427.50 that Ejenio saved would almost pay for half of his new driver’s license-his ticket to all things bountiful in the United States.

Ejenio drove a nifty Mercury Cougar with Texas dealer tags to Posadas, New Mexico, where, on August 9, Connie French issued him a New Mexico commercial driver’s license. His address on the license was 11 °Country Club Lane, 22, Posadas, New Mexico.

With license in hand, Ejenio received a freshly minted registration for the Chevy of his dreams, along with the license plate and a new sticker. He headed back to Del Rio a happy man.

“And he’s made four payments on the truck,” Nunez said. “Regular as clockwork. I’ve got the payment record right here in front of me. There’s also a photocopy of Rocha’s license and registration. Talk about a paper trail.”

“It never ceases to amaze me what people will do for a few bucks, Lieutenant.”

“More than just a few. Walsh is charging eighteen percent interest on the deal. A four-year note at eighteen percent. That’s two hundred and fifteen dollars every month.”

“It’ll pay the light bill.”

“For sure. So can you break a deputy loose?”

“Sure can. I’ll have him there tomorrow.”

“You have the girl-what’s-her-name,” and I heard papers shuffle. “Connie French? You have her in custody?”

“She’s still in a coma. So yes, I guess you’d say she’s in custody.”

“Too bad. This is going to put a dent in her life by the time it’s over.”

“She didn’t have to do it, Leo. That’s the other puzzler. Folks have a hard time saying no.”

My earlobe was practically numb by the time I hung up. Ejenio Rocha had another day or two at most to enjoy his apartment in Las Cruces, New Mexico, his amazing Chevy C-70 flat-bed, and the highways of the United States.

I stretched and walked out to dispatch. Brent Sutherland was settled in, and I frowned.

“Aren’t you about ten hours early?” I said.

“Gayle had to cut out, sir,” he said. “I offered to come in and cover for her.”

I frowned. Gayle Torrez didn’t “cut out” without damn good reason. “I’m glad you came in,” I said. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“The apartments behind the school? The Vista Del Montano complex at One Ten Country Club? How many units are there?”

Sutherland grinned. “I happen to know that, sir. A friend of mine lives in the last one. Number twelve.”

“Twelve? That sounds about right. I was just curious.”

I heard the outer door open, and turned to see Estelle Guzman. Dressed in an outfit reminiscent of the trim, khaki pants suits that she’d favored when she worked for the Sheriff’s Department, she looked right at home.

“Hey,” I said. “I was just finishing up. They’re making real headway down in Del Rio. Walsh had himself quite a scam going.”

She hooked an arm through mine. “Tell me about it on the way,” she said.

I looked back at Sutherland, who was grinning. “If Bob Torrez comes in, have him stop by the house. I need to fill him in,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” Sutherland replied.

On the way outside, I recounted a shortened version of what Nunez had told me, and Estelle listened with her usual frown of concentration until I started to walk toward the unmarked car I’d been using.