“Just misunderstood,” I said, and Herb laughed again.
“He don’t think much of cops.”
“Victor has his reasons.”
“Suppose he does. His son and all.” Herb didn’t delve into that miserable night several years before when Victor’s eldest son, Carlos, had been killed, but even long before that, Victor had perfected his impression of a miserable, short-tempered saloon keeper.
I left the Torrance ranch, and for a few miles the night was dark and quiet. Sidewinder personality or not, Victor enjoyed a thriving business at his Broken Spur saloon. I counted eight vehicles in the parking lot, and for Posadas County during the wee hours of the morning, that qualified as hopping.
Victor’s Cadillac-one of those older models that looked as if someone had chopped off the hindquarters with a cleaver-was parked behind the back kitchen door and the double-wide trailer where the saloon owner lived with his youngest son. Victor Junior worked in the kitchen of the Broken Spur, trying hard both to do as he was told and stay out of his father’s way.
I shut off the SUV and headed for the back door of the kitchen, knowing damn well that my entrance there would prompt acid comments from Victor. Pulling open the door, I saw his son at the sink, doing something with carrots. His father stood in front of the huge gas stove, watching eggs fry in pools of sizzling butter. He glanced at me as I entered.
“We got a front door,” Victor said almost affably. “You lookin’ for handouts or what?”
“Those eggs look tempting.” He flipped them expertly, then reached out with the stainless steel spatula and chopped a series of rows through a pile of hash browns. At the same time he reached up and pulled a plate off the rack. Four strips of bacon joined the eggs and potatoes, and he slid the loaded plate on the prep table.
“Order up,” he said, and Victor Junior jumped to deliver the goods.
Victor wiped his hands thoughtfully. He turned and looked at the clock, his expression not lost on me. Minutes before closing, he didn’t want interruptions.
“Somebody tried to kill Patrick Gabaldon,” I said. “They took Herb’s truck and trailer, bashed Pat in the head, cut his throat, and then headed for Mexico. They dumped the boy in an arroyo over at Borracho Springs.”
Without comment, Victor scraped the grill. The frown on his broad, homely face deepened, and he racked the big spatula with more force than necessary. “Christine said you were looking for him earlier.”
“He’s been lying out there for hours, Victor, and he sure as hell didn’t need to be. They airlifted him to Albuquerque.”
He wiped his hands on his apron again. “What do you want?”
“For one thing, I need to know if you or anyone here saw Patrick earlier. We’re trying to nail down some of the details here. We don’t know if Pat picked up a couple of hitch-hikers, or what. We think that the actual assault happened up on the mesa. Up on Herb’s grazing allotment.”
“How’d you get mixed up in all this?”
“I cut the permit for moving the cattle, Victor. That’s what Patrick was doing when he was attacked. But we’re all mixed up in it.”
“What’s he say?”
“Patrick, you mean? He can’t talk yet,” I said. “Look, this is a simple thing, Victor. You either saw him, or you didn’t. That’s all I want to know.”
He took his time turning off the stove as if it were a ceremony demanding serious attention. “I get along by minding my own business,” he said finally.
“Oh, for Christ’s sakes, Victor.” His son had returned to the kitchen and looked apprehensive. “That’s what Patrick was doing, too. He maybe thought he was doing a good deed by picking up a couple hitchhikers. They tried to kill him, they stole Herb’s rig, and they drove it to Mexico.”
“Then you need to talk to your buddy down there.”
“Naranjo will do what he can. Look…” and I moved over so that I could lean my hip against the prep table, my arms folded. I knew there was no point in trying to bully Victor, or threaten him. But for all his attitude, he was an intelligent man. “All I want to know is if you saw Patrick earlier in the day. Goddamn it, it’s not like you’re a priest giving away the secrets of confession.”
Victor surprised me by laughing-not much of one, mind you, but enough to show some gold.
“So what’s your stake in all this?” he asked. “You’re not sheriff anymore, last I looked.”
I regarded him in silence for a moment. “Nope, I’m not sheriff anymore.”
“Still runnin’ around in the middle of the night, though.” He glanced at the clock again, a not-so-subtle hint.
“We all have our demons, Victor.”
“Yeah, well.” He turned to his son. “Tell Christine that we’re closin’ up. Shag all the freeloaders out.” I hadn’t budged, and as his son left the kitchen, Victor dropped the spatula into the sink. He headed for the back door, and included me in a nod of invitation. The outside air was crisp and clean, and I could smell the rich kitchen effluvia on Victor’s clothing.
“Come here,” he said, and I followed him to the east corner of the building and then around to the parking lot. “I was helping some asshole at the diesel pump,” he said. “And no…I don’t know what time it was. Sometime this afternoon. There were two guys hitch-hiking right over there,” and he pointed west, toward the intersection with Herb Torrance’s county road a mile away. “The Gabaldon kid came out of the side road in the ranch rig, and picked ’em up. Right over there.” He pointed to a spot almost directly across the highway.
“Could you see their faces? Would you recognize them again?”
“No, I wouldn’t recognize them again. Just two guys with backpacks. One taller than the other.”
“What were they wearing?”
“Clothes.”
“Caps? Anything distinctive?”
“I told you. Why should I notice? Just two guys.” He pulled a ragged pack of unfiltered cigarettes out of his trouser pocket, grubbed one out, and lit it. “He picked ’em up, and they drove off toward town. You know, if the kid had pulled in here to buy some diesel, maybe I woulda seen ’em. But he don’t do that. Old man Torrance would rather drive all the way to town than buy it here.”
I wasn’t about to be suckered into that argument. “If you remember anything else, I’d appreciate your letting me know, Victor. This is a help.”
Victor didn’t care to know that he’d been helpful, of course. Two more quick sucks on the cigarette and he snapped it out into the dark.
“The sheriff or undersheriff might want to talk with you again,” I said to his retreating back, and he stopped abruptly.
“You make sure that don’t happen,” he said. “Then we’re about even.”
Chapter Twenty-three
My headlights picked up the door shield of Deputy Jackie Taber’s unit, parked behind the sign for Borracho Canyon. She’d come out of the shadows and would give travelers of the night a turn. Some of the lingering customers of the Broken Spur would redouble their efforts not to wander.
The deputy had seen me coming-maybe it was my snail’s pace. As I approached she clicked on the roof rack for a turn, and I pulled off onto the shoulder. She wasn’t parked such that door-to-door was possible, but by the time I’d stopped, she was climbing out.
“Good morning, sir.” She leaned both elbows on the door of my truck and watched an oncoming pickup roar by. “Quiet night.”
“And I’m glad of that,” I said. “I’ve had all the excitement I can stand.”
“Neat trick with the phone, sir. Tom was telling me how you found the Gabaldon kid.”
“Well, he got lucky. Look, I was just talking with Victor. He says that Pat picked up a couple of hitch-hikers just west of the saloon this afternoon-yesterday afternoon. No description other than that it was two men with backpacks. Maybe little by little we’ll pry some more out of him, but for right now, that’s all he’ll say.”