The Bootlegger’s Legacy (22 page)

The menu covered breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with a lot of green chili items and a hefty dose of fried foods, all to the delight of Joe and Mike—your basic truck stop food kind of guys. Joe had chicken fried steak, Mike had the green chili cheeseburger, and they each had fries. You had to die of something, might as well be a heart attack—at least it would be quick.

After a meal that they probably enjoyed way too much, they paid up and headed further north, following the map. As they got closer to the lake, the terrain became hillier and there were more trees. It began to feel less like New Mexico and a lot more like Colorado. After several wrong turns, they eventually found the area drawn on the map and could identify where the road had been before it washed out.

After getting their bearings, they went on foot toward the spot on the map where there was supposed to be a gate. Walking was an effort after their mega-lunch, but it was also much-needed exercise. They began to relax a little and enjoy the scenery. The land was still harsh and rough looking. There were no gently flowing grass fields—everything was rocky and hard. But they were both getting used to the look of the New Mexico land. While not as green as they were used to, it had its own charm.

They’d only walked a little while when they saw the gate. It was no effort at all to bypass it, hopping over the low fence. Beyond the gate were the obvious remains of a road. Off to the right there appeared to be some kind of outbuilding in the distance. They seemed entirely isolated. They hadn’t given any thought to the possibility of running into anyone and they approached without any concern.

Once they got closer they could see the cabin a little further off. The outbuilding hadn’t been mentioned by anyone—probably an oversight since it was no doubt part of the same property as the cabin. They decided to walk to the cabin along a more or less direct path through the underbrush. If they had given their plan a little more thought they might have gone back to the partial road that looked as if it curved around the cabin and came up from behind. But they were feeling like adventurers, so off they went.

As they got closer they could see that the cabin was originally a high quality building. The logs and detail reflected craftsmanship. It also was obvious that it could use a little attention and clean-up. Mike started feeling a pride of ownership and had just turned to comment to Joe—when a shot knocked him to the ground. The sound was not very loud, but Joe immediately hit the ground, getting some scrapes along the way. He rolled over to where Mike was lying.

“Are you okay?”

“Hell, no, I am not okay. Somebody just shot me. What the fuck is happening?”

“I don’t know. Can you move?”

“Yeah, I think so. Looks like I was just nicked on my shoulder. It’s not even bleeding very much. It wasn’t very loud—must have been a small caliber.”

“Roll over this way and get behind this hill.” Joe had scooted over behind a small rise and was lying flat against the ground. Mike, apparently not seriously harmed, joined him.

“Son-of-a-bitch, you know technically I think I’ve been shot for trespassing on my own property.” Shouting now, he called out. “Hey, whoever’s out there. I own this damn place. Do not shoot me again—understand asshole?” So much for diplomacy.

“Calm down, Mike. Let’s not start calling people names when they have guns and we have dirt clods.”

In the distance they heard a vehicle start up and begin moving away from them. They kept down for another ten minutes or so before Joe stood and declared the coast to be clear. Of course he could have been shot at that point since actually he had no idea if the coast was clear or not, but apparently it was. Joe looked at Mike’s shoulder and declared that he would live—good news for Mike.

Even though the wound appeared minor and the bleeding had stopped, they decided it would be best if they went to a hospital or something and had Mike looked at. They quickly reversed their path and got back to the car in much less time than it had taken to get to the cabin. Once they were back in T or C they stopped and asked a service station attendant where they could find a hospital. He directed them to Las Cruces. Well, it was a good thing Mike wasn’t bleeding—he’d probably have been dead by the time they got to Las Cruces. But by this point they were just as glad to say goodbye to T or C and head back down I-25 to Las Cruces. They saw a sign directing them to a hospital just a short distance off the interstate.

Mike was checked out in the emergency room and declared fit to travel, or something like that. He was bandaged up and given an ointment to apply when he changed the bandage the next day. The ER doctor said the wound was very superficial and looked like it was probably a 22. But, since it was a gunshot wound, they had reported it to the Sheriff’s office, who in turn had requested that Mike remain at the hospital until a deputy could come by and take his statement.

Mike completed the paperwork and paid for the hospital services with his credit card. He joined Joe in the waiting room. “Almost feels like a good excuse to revisit the El Grande—what do you think?”

“I think you’re a glutton for punishment. I do think that a drink is in order, but I was thinking more along the lines of a gin and tonic.” Joe had decided that maybe tequila was not his booze of choice.

Within a few minutes a Dona Ana County Sheriff’s Deputy appeared in the waiting room and asked for Mike. After introductions, Mike told his story. Joe added his own comments and observations. They hadn’t seen anyone. All they really knew was that Mike had been shot, and they’d heard some kind of off-road vehicle leave the area. The Deputy asked Mike about the property. Mike related the story about it being his mother’s cabin and explained that he was working with Bates and Young to get the legal issues resolved. He also told the deputy that he understood from Chuck Owen that Sheriff Pacheco was interested in buying the cabin as soon as all the inheritance issues were resolved.

The Deputy became more relaxed and friendly once they mentioned the names of familiar locals—especially his boss. He asked them where they were staying and how long they expected to be in town, and said that someone would contact them the following day. He made sure he had their contact information so he could follow up if something turned up about who had shot at them, and then he left.

Joe and Mike headed back to the Holiday Inn which was only a mile or so from the hospital. Mike said he was going to his room to clean up a little and call Sam. Joe said he was going to the bar, although he decided on reflection that maybe he should go to his room and at least change his shirt—rolling around on the ground hadn’t done it any favors.

The message light was blinking when he came into the room. It was Liz saying that she and the kids were going to a church function and wouldn’t be home until late. She hoped he was having a good time and maybe she’d talk to him tomorrow. She seemed almost pleasant, or maybe was she being sarcastic—Joe couldn’t be sure. But he was now officially off the hook as far as calling her went. He changed his shirt and headed to the bar.

“Well, let me tell you—Samantha flipped out. Shot—she just kept screaming
shot!
Why in the hell was I shot—what was Joe doing while I was shot?” Mike had joined Joe at a table in the bar.

“I’m sure she’ll decide that I’m the one who shot you—she’s probably on the phone with the Sheriff’s office right now telling them to arrest me.”

Mike laughed. “Yeah, her opinion of you is not real good. You know, she thinks the only reason I’ve lost so much money in the hardware store is because you’re such a lousy accountant.”

Mike thought it was funny, but Joe already knew exactly what Sam thought and it really pissed him off.

They sipped their drinks—neither of them having an El Grande—while discussing the events of the day. They agreed that it probably could have gone much worse. Why someone would take a potshot at Mike was anybody’s guess. Maybe they thought Joe and Mike were trespassing. Could be someone had started squatting at the cabin and now considered it theirs, or maybe someone mistook them for somebody else and it had nothing to do with the cabin and nothing to do with them. They decided that they might never find out why it had happened.

The news about the attorney knowing Mike’s father was very interesting. How that might involve this Emerson guy, they still weren’t sure. Of course, the mention of Citizen’s Bank and the fact that it was a likely the source of the key was very intriguing.

They began to lay out a plan for the next day. They needed to determine whether or not there was a lock box in Mike’s father’s or mother’s name at Citizen’s Bank. They decided that the best way to handle the issue was to ask Bill Bates to help them. They also needed the attorneys to continue on with the legal transfer of the cabin. They decided that, rather than wait for someone in the Sheriff’s office to contact them, they would go see Sheriff Pacheco. Joe, especially, thought the best approach would be to see how interested he was in the cabin for themselves, and to establish a line of communication directly with the Sheriff. He didn’t want to say so to Mike, but he’d started to worry that maybe the shooting was somehow tied to Mike’s father’s past.

The final thing they needed to accomplish the next day was a visit to Jim Emerson. They still weren’t sure how he fit in, or even if he did, but they thought they shouldn’t leave Las Cruces without meeting with him.

Since they seemed to have a plan of action for the next day, it was time to move on to the pressing matter of dinner. After a quick inquiry at the front desk, they settled on La Posta in Old Mesilla.

The short drive was pleasant and took them through the greenest area they’d seen since landing in El Paso. The area known as Mesilla was close to the Rio Grande River and was filled with large trees and stunning flowers, giving it the atmosphere of a Mexican village. They found the restaurant after only two wrong turns and parked in the lot next door.

They entered to wonderful aromas and the sounds of exotic birds. This was looking to be a great choice for dinner. They were seated in a colorful patio area and served chips and salsa. While still a little gun-shy, they stuck with tradition and had margaritas—not El Grandes though.

The meal was the best Mexican food either one of them had ever enjoyed—just gloriously delicious—naturally they consumed way too much. Joe in particular seemed impressed with the cuisine, both the content and the presentation. He even asked for and got a tour of the kitchen.

While the smart option would have been to return to the hotel and lie down, they decided to take a quick walk around the Plaza instead. The night air was crisp and there were only a few other people out. The plaza had many little shops selling tourist items and there were places to buy food, from homemade fudge to tacos. On one corner was a bar, but they were too tired to investigate.

“You know, this must have been where my father bought that stuff he brought home from the one trip.” Mike said this with a melancholy voice.

Joe wasn’t sure what Mike was thinking—maybe wondering what his dad had been doing here—but he didn’t elaborate.

After one quick lap around the square they headed back to their car and returned to the hotel.

Las Cruces, New Mexico

The weather had cleared by the next day and the sunny skies were back. They had called and made an appointment with Jeff Young for ten that morning. They enjoyed a simple, low-calorie breakfast at the buffet in the hotel and then they spent some time in their own rooms waiting until they needed to leave. With a little time to spare, they headed downtown for their first meeting of the day, where the receptionist showed them into the conference room. She still seemed unfriendly—it appeared to be her nature rather than anything to do with them.

“Good morning.” Jeff entered the room in good spirits. “We were able to have most of what we’ll need for the property faxed to us yesterday by your attorney in Oklahoma City. I’d say that within a week or two we should be able to get a judge to sign off on the transfer of the property into your name, Mike.”

“That sounds great, Jeff. We also have a couple of things we’d like to discuss with you this morning. I didn’t mention this yesterday because, quite frankly, I’m still trying to figure out who to trust. After my father died, I received a letter from him, along with a key. Joe and I have determined that the key is for a bank lock box. We did some searching in Oklahoma City and determined that it wasn’t a bank there. On the back of the key it’s marked with the initials CB. After the discussion with you and Mr. Bates yesterday, we thought it was very likely that the key is for a lock box in Citizen’s Bank. How can we go about finding out if that’s right?”

“Interesting. So, you’re saying you think maybe your dad opened a lock box back in—what was that, like 1952—and then arranged to have the key delivered to you after his death? With no information or instructions provided to you about this key.” Jeff looked puzzled as he thought about the scenario.

“Boy, there are going to be a bunch of issues here. The first one I can think it that even if he did open a lock box, how was the rental paid? And if it wasn’t paid, then were the contents turned over to the state? And so, what happened to them? Or let’s say, the lock box has been paid all of these years—was it in your father’s name? Maybe this was also in your mother’s maiden name. I think we have lots of questions to answer.”