Steven Havill - Heartshot

“No, he doesn’t.”

“I just thought that maybe, maybe one of you guys should know. I probably shouldn’t have told you, but hell, I’m no priest or no lawyer. There’s no law I can’t mention it to you, is there?”

“I appreciate it. I have no idea where I heard it.”

Payton got to his feet and pulled his golf shirt away from his sweaty schmo-like body. “Yeah, well. The last thing we need right now is one of those gun-toting vigilantes who goes around blowing everyone away, you know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean.”

“I mean, if you came in and bought that stuff, I’d just think that maybe the county gave you a raise. And there’s about fifty other good customers who might buy it and I wouldn’t turn a hair. But Fernandez?” He scoffed. “I just thought you should know.”

I reassured him that he’d done the right thing, and started to show him out. He suddenly stopped and turned, hand on the doorjamb.

“You remember Cuffy Oates?”

“Yes.”

George nodded. “Man like him, never owned a gun in his life. Comes in the store, talkin’ about how he’s worried about snakes, and wants something for that. So I sell him a little inexpensive thirty-eight revolver. Remember that?”

“It wasn’t your fault, George.”

“No, but I never thought to question him any, either. So he goes home, turns on the television, sits down in the rocker and blows his brains out.” George shook his head, heaved a great sigh and turned away. “I’ll see ya, Bill. Take care.”

I watched him waddle off down the hall. It wouldn’t have made George feel any better if I’d told him that Cuffy Oates had tried suicide about five different ways before taking the sure way out. George wanted me to do something about Fernandez. I could have gone over to the restaurant and confronted the man, asked him what the hell he was planning to do with a 9 mm cannon that could fire fifteen rounds from one clip. But he had a right to it, just like anyone else. At least we had gained a little edge if he was after something other than rabbits.

Hewitt and I had arranged to meet at home for dinner, and he showed up just about the time the lamb chops turned to charcoal. I had forgotten about teenage-or near-teenage-appetites. He finished three chops to my one.

“You coming off a week-long fast, or what?” I asked.

“I think I got a tape worm or something,” he said. “You cook good, though.”

“Most people who live alone do. It’s either that or eat out all the time. I do too much of that as it is.”

“Your wife died eleven years ago?” He looked at me over the top of an ear of corn.

“Yes.”

“Airplane crash, wasn’t it?” He had done his research thoroughly, but I had no intentions of discussing the past-especially those few minutes long ago when the airliner had fought a wind shear and lost.

“Did you make any progress today?” I asked, ignoring his question. He glanced down at his plate, embarrassed, then shook his head.

“Not really. Well, maybe some. I don’t know. Tonight, maybe. I found out a couple places to check out. The burger place on Grande is one. I can probably even get me a job there. Kids hang out in that parking lot like flies on a dead dog. And there’s a place out in the National Forest, too. I don’t know just where.”

“You mean out at the lake? Up past the old Consolidated mill?”

“No, no. Way the hell and gone out in the forest. There’s some place where they can have campfires and a bunch of rocks keeps the fires out of view of the fire tower.”

“Oh.” I nodded and rescued another chop before they all disappeared down the human garbage disposal. “That’s out County Road 21. Turn on Forest Road 420. About a mile, and turn off on Forest Road 562. Big limestone outcrop on the south side of the canyon. They call it ‘the Rec Room.’ They don’t use it much anymore after the forest fire three years ago. That kinda spoiled the view. And the Forest Service sits on it pretty hard. If you get on the right road, you can’t miss it. All kinds of graffiti on the rocks around there. You got a map?”

“Yeah. But I got to work on getting somebody to take me out there. No way you’re going to let me take your Blazer, is there, Gramps?” He grinned widely.

“You got that right, punko.”

“Maybe I can just hot-wire it sometime.”

I ignored the thoughtful look on his face and asked, “Who’d you talk to, anyway?”

“I only found out this information after hours of resourceful digging.”

“I bet. Who?”

“I stopped by the library. One of the clerks seemed to know all about it.”

“If it was Mary Ellen Coburn, it’s because she has three high-school-age kids. Hefty gal with freckles?” Hewitt nodded. “I’m surprised she talked to you.”

“I was my most persuasive self,” Hewitt said and grinned. “And speaking of persuasive, you never told me your department had the best-lookin’ detective in the state. I saw her riding with Bob Torrez today.”

“You mean Estelle Reyes.”

Hewitt wagged his eyebrows. “How’d someone like her hook up with you guys?”

“She’s from Mexico, about five years ago. Graduated first in her class at the Police Academy in Santa Fe. Hell of a good cop. She does more good in plain clothes than in uniform… spends most of her time as our juvenile officer.”

“Plain clothes…no clothes,” Hewitt said, and grinned some more.

“And her fiancE will slice you thinner than salami,” I said.

Hewitt groaned and looked sickened. “Tough dude, huh?”

“He’s a vascular surgeon in Las Cruces.” I smiled pleasantly. “Keep your mind on your work.”

Hewitt nodded and held up his hands philosophically, then pushed his plate away and stretched like a contented cat. “God, that was good. I wish we could get sweet corn like that up in Gallup.” He glanced at his watch. “Got about two hours till dark. Guess I’ll roam a little, then maybe twist some headlights or something.”

“Twist headlights?”

Hewitt looked startled that I didn’t know. “Yeah. Twist ’em. You get a Phillips-head screwdriver, and when the cop goes in for coffee, or in the office or something, you twist the hell out of the adjustment screws on one headlamp.” He crossed his eyes wildly and cackled. “The cop car cruises around looking moronic. They can never figure out why the kids always know it’s them coming up the street.”

I looked skeptical. “And the cop doesn’t notice? They’re that stupid up in Gallup?”

“No, but, you’d be surprised. With the streetlights and all, it works pretty good with city cars. Not for the country, of course.”

“Of course. I can see that the younger generation of Posadas is going to profit mightily from your sojourn here, however short.”

“You betcha.” He stood up and shook his pant leg as if he had a dog attached. I glanced down and then did a double take.

“You’re kidding,” I said, pointing. He looked down, then up at me, puzzled. “An ankle holster?” I asked.

“Why not?” He pulled up the leg of his jeans. The little Smith amp; Wesson Model 19 rested in a suede holster with the Velcro strap just above his anklebone.

“You can run with that on?”

“Sure.”

“And you can get it out without dancing around on one leg like an awkward ballerina?”

“Sure.” He demonstrated, bending at the waist and pulling up his knee at the same time. One hand pulled pant leg, the other pulled S amp;W, all in one fluid, practiced motion. He snapped it back in.

“Huh,” I said, noncommittal. “I’ve seen ’em in the movies.” I started to gather dishes. “I don’t think I’d be happy with one.” Hewitt’s expression of polite amusement told me that he could imagine the result as well as I. Grab down, suffer back-muscle spasm, throw out trick knee, stagger sideways and sprain other ankle. Fall and land on left wrist, refracturing an old break. At least I would be left with a good right hand and the S amp;W for permanent pain relief.