Steven Havill - Before She Dies

“Sure.”

“Keep this conversation to yourself, all right?”

“Goddamn right.”

“If this works out the way I think it will, I’ll buy that,” and I pointed at the Blazer on the showroom floor.

Victor Sanchez watched me pull into the parking lot of the Broken Spur, but he didn’t stand on ceremony. He walked inside using the side door and let it slam shut in my face.

I followed him into the utility room beside the kitchen.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“You snakebit or something?” I said. The utility room was neater than the last time I’d seen it. Victor continued unloading the sacks of paper products that he’d brought in from his truck.

“I’m busy,” he said, his back still turned to me.

“Then I’ll wait until you’ve got a minute,” I said pleasantly. I leaned against the edge of one of the prep sinks and crossed my arms over my stomach. Victor ignored me. While he muttered and arranged-and rearranged-his dry goods, my eyes drifted around the room.

There was nothing unusual, nor did I expect there to be. That’s why what was obviously a rifle barrel arrested my gaze. The gun stood behind the back door, in company with several old brooms and a squeegee-mop. I pushed away from the sink, walked over, and hefted the antique. It was an old junker, one of those single-shot break-open things that cost about $49.95 when they’re new.

I pushed the lever and the breach opened. It was loaded. I slipped the little.22 shell out and turned it this way and that in my hands. It would do to kill a jackrabbit who made the mistake of holding still, or maybe a rattler by the back door.

“That ain’t the gun that killed the deputy,” Victor said.

I turned and looked at him, the shell in one hand, gun in the other.

“I can see that,” I said.

“Leave it loaded.”

I put the cartridge back in the gun and set the weapon down in the corner.

“I got five minutes,” Victor said. “What do you want? Where’s the girl?”

“The girl?”

“The one who works for you. The detective. Reuben’s niece.”

“She’s in the hospital with a broken leg.”

“That’s too bad,” Victor said-and he said it about the same way he’d say, “cut up this bunch of celery.”

“I wanted to ask you about someone else,” I said, and walked back to my leaning spot against the sink.

“Don’t you ever get tired of stickin’ your nose in other people’s business? I’ve got a business to run here. I ain’t got the time.”

“Victor, you’ve got all the time in the world.”

He glanced over at me, his ugly round face framing unblinking eyes. No doubt Victor was a real charmer as a bartender. I could imagine a disconsolate traveling salesman pouring out his heart and soul to Victor during a Christmas Eve drinking binge at the Broken Spur. Right at the climax of the salesman’s sob story, just before he rose from his stool to walk into the restroom to blow his brains out, Victor would say, “Look, you want any carrot sticks or not?”

“I oughta just throw you out.” He said it without much conviction.

I shrugged. “You could do that, I guess. Hell, old and fat as I am, it wouldn’t take much.”

“You people are bad for business.” He gestured toward the parking lot. “That car out there…ain’t nobody going to stop while it’s here. If it ain’t parked there, then you guys sit down at the windmill.”

“Help me put somebody in jail, and we’ll leave you alone,” I said.

“Who are you talking about?”

“I want to know about Tammy Woodruff.”

He laughed a short, harsh bark. “What you think, you’re going to put Tammy in jail, now?”

“I didn’t say that. I just want to know a little more about her.”

“So would every other tachon in the county,” Sanchez snorted.

“I know she was a little wild, Victor. That’s why it’s important. She may have known something about the other night,” I said. “Give me five minutes.”

“You could write a book about that ramerita .” He pushed a six-pack of paper towels into perfect alignment on the shelf, then stood facing the shelves with his hands on his hips. I didn’t say anything, and finally he turned around and regarded me. “You want some coffee?”

“Sure.”

He walked through the swinging door to the kitchen and I followed. The coffee was a lot fresher and more fragrant than I was used to and I didn’t bother drowning it with milk and sugar.

Cup in hand, he beckoned me out toward one of the dining rooms off the main barroom. We sat down at a chrome-edged table, Victor turning his chair sideways so he could lean against the wall. I turned mine so my belly wouldn’t crowd the table.

“What’s she done now?” Victor asked.

“We’re trying to find one of her boyfriends.”

Victor almost smiled. “You got a good cutting horse? It’s a big herd.”

“So I’m beginning to understand.”

“What’s his name?”

“We don’t know.”

He regarded me with interest. “Not such a good time for you, eh?”

I thought about the last week. Victor was right. “No. Not such a good time.”

He took a sip of his coffee and then lit a cigarette. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“We can’t. She’s dead.”

The coffee cup had gotten halfway to Victor’s mouth before his hand stopped. He didn’t say anything for a long time. I didn’t break the silence. Without taking a sip, he set the cup back down. “How did she die?”

“We think she was murdered, Victor. Up on San Patricio Mesa.” He knew who lived near the mesa as well as anyone.

He frowned and looked off into the distance. Then, so softly I could hardly hear him, he said, “This is bad.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Did you talk with the Torrance boy?”

“Yes.”

“He followed after her with his tongue down to here,” Victor said, and dropped his hand to his crotch. “But that’s not so strange. At one time or another, I think she gave a turn to everyone in the county, except maybe old Francisco Pena.”

“Brett Prescott?”

“Sure.”

“Who was she with Sunday night?”

“I didn’t see her Sunday night.”

“Patrick Torrance was in here then?”

“I already told you he was.”

“And you didn’t see her come in that night? The boy told me that she did.”

Sanchez shrugged. “If she did, it was when I was in back. You could ask my son. Maybe he saw her. She even made a pass at him one time. I told him to mind his own business. He’s too stupid to know any better.”

“Who was tending bar that night?”

“I was.”

“And you didn’t see her?”

He looked at me with remarkable patience considering his temperament, but he didn’t bother answering the repeat question.

“Do you know who drives an older model pickup truck with a wrought-iron stock rack on the back? Pulls a big stock trailer once in a while? Whole rig covered with mud?”

“Half the ranchers in the county, maybe. You want more coffee?”

“No thanks. No one in particular?”

He shrugged. “If I saw the vehicle standing in front of me, maybe I could tell you. Otherwise…” He ground out his cigarette.

“Did you think there was anything unusual about the way Patrick Torrance was acting Sunday night?”

“I didn’t notice.” He looked at his watch. “You know, I got concerns of my own. I don’t pay any attention.”

I didn’t pursue the questions any further. Being the “see nothing, hear nothing” bartender that he was, nothing I could say was likely to jar Victor loose. He could sit on a keg of gunpowder, and when it exploded, he’d say, “You know, I might have heard something, but I couldn’t be sure. I was too busy.”