“What’s that for?” I smiled as she stepped away.
“General principles, sir.”
Chapter Fifty-three
Everyone seemed to have something to do, and we agreed to meet for lunch at 2:00 PM-that would give the mammoth breakfast time to settle, and Tadd enough time to decide what creation he wanted to try next.
I walked into my office shortly after eleven, with every intention of cleaning the place out. My office was spartan and neat. I was not one to cover every available flat surface under a landslide of paperwork. Besides, I had started the transition process more than a month before, first by taking active files and farming them out to Torrez and the other deputies.
Since there was nothing personal to William C. Gastner in the files, I could have just slammed the file cabinet drawers shut and tossed the keys on Bob Torrez’s desk. Instead, I found myself kicked back in my old chair, feet up on the desk, reading each file methodically, as if all the memories needed prodding one last time.
“Sir?”
I looked up with a start. Gayle Torrez stood in the door. “Hi there.”
“Excuse me, sir, but can you take a call from a Lieutenant Nunez from Del Rio? He’s the officer that Bobby talked to earlier.”
“Did I hear your husband say earlier that he was going back down on the mountain?”
Gayle nodded and glanced up at the clock. It was twenty minutes before two. “Yes, sir. They found the bullet mark on the rocks. He went down to help them measure the angles.”
“Good deal. Sure, I’ll take the call.”
I reached out and picked up the phone. “This is Sheriff Gastner.”
“Hello, Sheriff! Leo Nunez in Del Rio, Texas. How’s your life way up there in God’s country?”
“Things are going well, Lieutenant.”
“The undersheriff tells me that you’re stepping down today. After how many years?”
“Something like thirty-one, thirty-two. Altogether too long.”
“Well, congratulations. Say, we’ve had a hell of a morning. Boy, what you guys got us into.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you know. I have a couple men over at Walsh Motors. The dealership’s closed up, and we’ve got a court order to seize any and all records. Makes for real interesting reading.”
“I bet it does.”
“Best of all, the floor manager, a fellow by the name of Terry Baggerly, knew pretty much what Walsh was doing. Baggerly would like to stay out of jail, so he’s singing a really nice melody for us.”
“That helps,” I said. “What was Walsh’s game, anyway?”
“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.”