Steven Havill - Bag Limit

“Let’s use the van,” she said. “I’ll drive.”

“That’s going to be a nuisance later,” I said, then stopped abruptly. “To hell with it. I don’t need the county car later, either, do I?”

“No, you don’t.”

We pulled out from the Sheriff’s Department parking lot, and instead of turning southbound on Grande, Estelle headed west-bound on Bustos. That reminded me, and I said, “I assume you guys have checked on your place on Twelfth Street?”

“It’s fine.” A wide smile spread across her dark face. “Until we turn on the water. Then everything will probably come apart.”

“Ah, well,” I said, and then leaned forward. “What the hell is going on here?” We approached the intersection of Bustos and Twelfth Street. Every available inch of parking space along the curbs and in the parking lot of the Don Juan de Onate Restaurant had been taken, a vast sea of vehicles that threatened to clog both Bustos and north Twelfth.

“Can you believe that? Somebody’s got a goddamn wedding reception on Election Day,” I said, and then braced myself as Estelle reached the intersection. Her house was four blocks south. We turned north instead, hooked in behind the restaurant, and rolled to a stop directly in front of the restaurant entrance, parking beside an immaculate older model Corvette with Texas plates.

Deputy Thomas Pasquale and Linda Real stood by the door. Pasquale stepped forward in a fair imitation of military manners and wrenched open the door of the van.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said.

I sat perfectly still, looking at him. Then I turned slowly and looked at Estelle Guzman. “Is this your doing?”

She reached over and patted my arm. “The doing of a lot of people, Padrino,” she said.

I got out of the van and Pasquale slammed the door hard enough to rock the vehicle. “You got pictures of the bullet strike?” I asked Linda, who couldn’t wipe the enormous, lopsided grin off her face.

“Yes, sir. We did.”

I found myself wanting to continue the conversation so that I didn’t have to go inside, but Estelle Guzman’s hand on my elbow was insistent.

I took a deep breath as she opened the door. “Torrez sure as hell better win the election after all this,” I said. “Otherwise he’s going to look damn foolish.”

Estelle leaned close so that she didn’t have to shout. “This isn’t for him,” she said. “And besides, Deputy Pasquale is checking for ‘I Voted’ stickers at the door.”

“Why does that not surprise me,” I muttered.