I turned south on Grande, heading south-east on State 61. In five miles, we would reach the dirt road that took off straight to the east, a road packed hard by constant heavy truck traffic. The gravel pit turn-off was still two miles ahead when we rounded a gentle curve and saw the late model Cadillac pulled off the side of the road. Well, half pulled off. The ass end of the big barge draped out so that the back bumper hung over the white line.
We hadn’t had any rain lately, so the shoulders were nice firm sand, and the back tires were still on asphalt. After turning on all of my own emergency lights, I idled 310 up close behind the Caddy.
“Go ahead.” I nodded toward the radio mike. How many times had this young lady called in a plate? Maybe never? She’d had the opportunity to hear others do it during the past few hours riding with me. But radios find the tongled tangs among the best of us, and rookies are sure fodder for tales from the air waves.
“PCS, three ten,” she said, and released the mike key, about as excited as we sound when we say, “Hi, how are you?” to a stranger we meet while passing through the automatic doors at the grocery store.
“Three ten, PCS.”
“PCS, ten twenty-eight three-niner-seven Romeo, Alpha, Mike.”
“Ten four, three ten. Ten twenty?”
Yes, soon-to-be-officer Reyes. Where the hell are you? The request for a twenty came out clipped and fast enough that I knew Dispatcher Barnes really wanted to add, “Don’t make me have to ask, damn it.” He would already be typing the plate number into the computer as he spoke.
“Three ten is just beyond mile marker four, State 61.”
“Tennnn four, three ten,” Barnes drawled. His tone gave me the impression that he’d have taken delight in giving the young lady a hard time had he not known she was right seat with me.
I hadn’t even noticed the mile marker post, although I would hope that I knew where I was without it. “Ten six,” I prompted, and Estelle relayed the message that the officer would be busy with 397RAM for a few minutes.
“So why did he park half on the roadway?” I asked, in no hurry to get out of the car. I recognized the big sedan, and that in itself was a puzzle, since Jack Newton, with his wrecked knees, bad hip, and bunions, wouldn’t have hoofed back into Posadas. Jack wouldn’t hoof anywhere.
“I think he’s lying across the seat,” Estelle said quietly. “I saw his hand as we approached.”
I looked across at her with keen interest. “His hand?”
“Yes, sir. As if he were lying across the seat, and raised his arm up in the air for something. Just for an instant.”
A sage nod of agreement was the thing for that moment. Hell, I hadn’t seen any hand wave at us. Maybe I’d been busy looking for damage as we rolled up, or traffic coming up behind us, or for Jack’s body slumped in the thorny weeds along the shoulder. Jack Newton was at least seventy-five, and his body was no longer eighty percent water, or whatever that figure is supposed to be. He was too thin and emaciated for that.
“Three ten, PCS. Be advised that three-niner-seven Romeo Alpha Mike should appear on a 1983 Cadillac, color maroon, registered to a John R. Newton, 41 Third Street, Posadas, New Mexico. Negative wants or warrants.”
“Ten four.”
“I’ll be but a moment,” I said. “Stay in the car.” Sure enough, Jack Newton was stretched out across the back seat of the Cadillac. The back seat. His keys hung from the ignition, and his wallet appeared to be resting in the center console, along with a pair of sun glasses and a Styrofoam cup. When I opened the passenger side door, the effluvium charged out, thick and sweet with a hint of tangy gut juice.
A 750ml bottle lay on the floor, just a swallow or two left. Normally, Jack Newton kept his drinking inside his modest little mobile home on a quarter lot on Third Street. I’d never arrested him for DWI, and couldn‘t remember the last time one of the other deputies had.
His wrinkled old face was flat against the Caddy’s fancy seat cushion, a trail of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth to stain the fabric.
“Jack, you with us? It’s Bill Gastner.” I swung the door as far as it would go and ducked inside far enough to be able to put two fingers on the side of his withered old neck. His pulse wasn’t paying much attention-a wandering beat just waiting for an excuse to lurch to a halt from the alcohol poisoning. And add a match and his breath would have made a cutting torch. He snuffled and jerked, and for a moment it appeared that he wanted to open his eyes.
A small man, Jack fitted neatly on the seat. Had I left him there, he no doubt would snooze the day away, or perhaps give it all up when some tired portion of his system collapsed. Or a semi might drift over a bit and smack the Caddy into the cacti. In the worst case scenario, Jack might awaken late in the afternoon, disoriented. He’d fumble behind the wheel again to weave his way home-and smack head-on into a station-wagon carrying the eight member Johnson family from Terre Haute, Indiana.
I sighed and glanced back. Ms. Reyes had stayed in the car, but her door was open.
“Oh,” Jack groaned, and a hand flopped unerringly toward the bottle.
“We’re going to get you out of here, Jack,” I said.
“I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled.
“I’m sure you don’t, Jack my friend. But you can’t sleep it off here.”
“Nicky…”
“Nick will come and pick you up,” I said. “Just hang in there, Jack.” His long-suffering son managed Posadas Auto Parts, and would be just delighted to break away to tend to his old man. Just delighted. The open bottle of bourbon on the floor, the Caddy skewed on the shoulder, the keys handy in the ignition…all those things sealed old Jack’s unhappy fate with this particular stunt. Nick would be doing a lot of waiting on this old man.
I hustled back to the car and settled behind the wheel.
“National Drunk Week. It’s not my favorite time,” I said to Estelle Reyes. “But I guess no time is a good time for Mr. Newton. He’s passed out on the back seat, and he’s got a pulse that would make a doctor go pale.” I keyed the mike.
“PCS, ten fifty-five this location. One adult male. Intoxication poisoning.”
“Ten four, three ten.”
“And expedite that,” I added. “Then call Nick Newton at Posadas Auto Supply and have him make arrangements to fetch the vehicle this location.” I saw the hand appear as Jack Newton tried to swim up from his alcoholic bog.
“Ten four, three ten.” We were three miles south of town, and it would be a couple of minutes before we had company. I watched a truck approach from behind us, and the driver swung all the way into the far lane to give us lots of room. Even so, his bow-wave rocked us. “We need to get Mr. Newton’s car off the highway,” I said. “The keys are in it, so as soon as the ambulance picks him up, we’ll move it. If we’re lucky…if Jack is lucky… we won’t have long to wait for transport.”
Back at the Caddy, I saw the restless, waving hand that said the old man was still trying to keep in touch. Mr. Newton probably weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds dripping drunk, and was as fragile as a sack of dishes. Leaning both hands on the Caddy’s roof, I chatted with him as if he was perfectly cogent. There would have been a time, I suppose, when I would have hauled his old butt out of the car, slapped the cuffs on him while spreading him over the trunk lid, and then marched him back to the patrol car for the ride back to town. But Jack Newton didn’t have that kind of reserve. We’d wait, and let the tax payers fork out a few extra bucks.
I reached out and checked his neck pulse again, grimacing at the aroma from inside the Caddy. As I straightened up, I heard approaching traffic slow abruptly.
The black and white Chevrolet Impala pulled off the highway and parked directly behind my unit, red lights winking. J.J. Murton got out of his patrol car without so much as a glance toward traffic that might be approaching from behind him. As he walked the length of my county vehicle, his eyes were locked on the passenger in 310. He nodded at Estelle Reyes as he passed.