Less Than a Moment

by Steven F Havill

  “The thought crossed my mind. You got the gun, and I know you got the skills.”

  “Yeah, well, you taught me good. But sorry to disappoint. I didn’t. I don’t read that rag, and I don’t give a shit what they print. They screwed me out of a job, but what the hell. There’s others.”

  “You spent enough time shooting off your mouth about what you were going to do if your arrest ended up in the newspaper.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Yeah, well, what?”

  “That was the beer talkin’. You know I’ve had some trouble that way.”

  “And still do.”

  Quentin flushed with anger. His hands pushed hard into his back pockets. “Nobody’s got a perfect life around this town.”

  “You don’t work at it much,” the sheriff said.

  “We don’t need to come in, Quentin,” Estelle said. “But if you let us check that rifle, it relieves a lot of the suspicion.”

  “How long is that going to be locked up in your evidence room? If you get your hands on it, I mean.”

  “A hell of a lot longer if you force us to bother with a warrant,” Torrez snapped.

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugged with resignation. “Hell, you gave it to me, so I guess you can have it back. Just a minute.” He went back inside, giving the dilapidated door an extra nudge with his foot.

  “You gave it to him?” Estelle asked.

  “Yup. Sixteenth birthday. He was all hot to hunt back then.”

  The young man returned with a plastic rifle case, swung it horizontal and rested it on the hood of his uncle’s truck. He popped the latches, but paused with both hands resting on the case.

  “You promise I’ll get this back?”

  “Don’t promise nothing,” Torrez said.

  Quentin shook his head in disgust. “And I don’t get my truck, either. You’re something else, Uncle Bobby.”

  “Tune up that bike, Quent,” Torrez said. “You went down for the third time, so it might be a while.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “What ammo was you usin’?”

  “What do you mean by that? I wasn’t. Last time I went shooting was I don’t know when. I guess it was a couple of weeks ago. Me and Rolly went to that prairie dog town over by McInerney’s gravel pit. North of there.”

  “With a twenty-­two?”

  “Sure. Why not? It’s not like we were shooting at five hundred yards or something. You can get close out there.”

  “What ammo?”

  Quentin held his hands cupped to indicate a box the size of a softball. “That bulk Remington stuff. Used to be cheap.” He looked philosophical. “Used to be. What’s left of the box is in the case there. That and the magazines.”

  “And that’s all you got, what’s in here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Quentin, Maddy’s not home now?” Estelle asked. “I mean, not here?”

  “She went off to work.” He grinned. “Went off mad to work.”

  “Up at NightZone?”

  Quentin nodded. “She got a job in the restaurant.” He turned and extended a hand to the west. “She loves ridin’ that train. They got one that runs back here just after midnight, when she’s finished her shift. Then she rides her motorbike home from the airport terminal. In this good weather, that works just fine.”

  “She’s still staying with her parents?”

  “Not no more. She’s got that little apartment, over by the school?” He paused and a slow grin—­a grin of embarrassment, Estelle thought—­touched his face. “That’s what we were fighting about. I want her to move in here, she don’t want no part of it.” He turned and regarded the modest, aging trailer. “Not good enough for her, I guess.”

  He made a face. “That’s the trouble with workin’ topside. Fancy-­schmancy place like that, maybe she don’t want to come home to this. She likes that little apartment of hers better. But, hey, whatever floats her boat, right?”

  “Maybe it’ll work out, Quentin,” Estelle said gently.

  “Yeah, well. I thought I had me a job workin’ on the train as an apprentice, sort of. They were all eager, until that business came out in the paper. That killed that.” He snapped his fingers. “Went from ‘yes’ to ‘no’ just like that, overnight.”

  Torrez grunted something incomprehensible and popped the latches on the rifle case. He stood silently for a moment, staring at the rifle. Finally, without turning his head, he said to Quentin, “What the hell’s this?”

  “That would be my rifle, Sheriff.”

  “This ain’t the one I gave you.”

  “Well, it is. I’ve done a lot of work to it. I always wanted one of those thumb-­hole stocks, so I made one. I bought one of those ninety percent finished ones on the internet, and I’m about to finish it. Couple more coats of oil, and it’ll be ready. That and the heavy barrel make a nice set-­up.”

  Estelle could see that Torrez didn’t believe his nephew, but the sheriff huffed something without pursuing the matter and snapped the rifle case closed, and then slid it off the hood of the truck. As the sheriff stowed the case in the truck, Quentin extended a hand to Estelle. “Thanks for comin’ by with him,” he said quietly. “Somebody needs to buy him some happy pills.”

  “If you think of something we should know, will you give me a call?”

  “Sure. Don’t know what that might be, but sure.” He stood on the stoop of the trailer and watched them back out of the narrow driveway.

  “Tough times for that young man,” Estelle observed, but Torrez didn’t reply.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Late afternoon sun glinted off the silver finish of the propane-­electric locomotive as it backed along the platform that marked the eastern terminus of its run. Its four cars carried a fair assortment of tourists, as well as several day-­shift NightZone employees coming home at the end of the day.

  Estelle waited in the shade of the platform’s portico. To her left, a small gaggle of senior citizens gathered, lugging cameras and binoculars—­and at least half of them glued to their phones, either stroking the screens or engaged in dialogue with someone maybe half a continent away.

  In a moment, Hank Quintana appeared and made his way carefully down from the locomotive. As he stepped off onto the platform, he consulted his watch, then looked up and grinned at Estelle.

  “I got about five minutes, young lady,” he announced, and thrust out his hand. A short, powerfully built man, he wore the “uniform” that tourists might expect: clean bib overalls, dark blue denim shirt with the NightZone logo on the left breast, and a striped engineer’s cap topping his bald head. “It seems like every day, our passenger manifest grows just a little.” He glanced down the train’s length. “Walk with me?”

  “Sure.”

  His attention never left the locomotive and its train of four cars. “Don’t ask me how,” he said, “but last week we had a coyote caught up in one of Sadie’s axles.” He reached out a hand and patted the passenger car, third in line. “This is Sadie. Kind of a silly name for a railroad car.” He shrugged. “But that’s what the boss wants.”

  He stepped back away from the track, pointing at each car in turn as he recited the names. “Susie, Bea, Sadie, and Henri. Cute, huh? Bernard and Hortense are over in the barn.”

  “Very cute. And Bernard?”

  “Yep. I’m told the car was named after a cousin of Mr. Waddell’s mother.”

  “And Hortense? That’s another old-­fashioned name.”

  “Yep. Anyway, tell me how a coyote manages getting caught up like that. All mangled up, and took us a while to clean the mess. I mean, we don’t exactly go careening down the tracks with this rig.” He looked back at Estelle as if expecting an answer. “Apparently that dog was not from the fastest part of the gene pool. Anyway,
yak, yak, yak. You said you needed to talk to me.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that Quentin Torrez applied for a job with you. Is that correct?”

  Hank Quintana stopped and turned to face Estelle, his attention finally drawn away from the cars and their couplings, brake lines, and truck mechanics. “He did apply. And I was all set to recommend to Mr. Waddell that we take him on. He’s big, strong, agile, and smart.” He grimaced and shook his head. “Well, in some ways he’s smart. In others…” He shrugged. “Dumb as a post. He drinks like a damn fish. His application never mentioned his interesting history with the law, but one of my people saw the clipping in the Register. Third arrest for DWI. Is he going to see some jail time?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Well…that’s between him and our lenient judges, I guess. But on this rig? We can’t be running that kind of risk. Every member of the crew takes random urine samples, and we pay attention to the old pilot’s adage, ‘eight hours between bottle and throttle.’ That goes from the chief engineer,” and he smiled tightly as he rested a hand on his chest, “to any of our part-­timers in customer service. That’s one of my headaches. I guess you would know better ’n most how hard it is to find employees who stay clean?”

  “Yes, I do.” She knew that if she spooled down through the entire roster of the Sheriff’s Department employees, there would be at least one who could keep Quentin Torrez good company, sharing the bottle. “What position had Quentin applied for?”

  “On his application, he wrote down, ‘Any shift, any position.’ I liked that. Shows he knows he’s getting in down on the ground floor. But he said to me that he’d like to be an engineer someday. See, I like that, too. Young fellow wants in on the job early, wants to work his way up. Hey, we got us enough old geezers like me on board. We need some young blood. But like I said, this day and age, it’s hard. The drugs, the booze.” He shook his head. “We got the same problem the trucking companies do with this young crop. Damn shame, too. I was ready to hand him a job when that article in the paper came out.” He looked hard at Estelle. “Turns out that’s not the first time, either. So he lied on his application on top of everything else. You can imagine the shit we’d be in if we hired him on, and then something happened. Drunk or stoned on the job or something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His inspection reached the final car, and he stepped back and wiped imaginary grease from his hands. “Sweet rig, this. She don’t have the power that a proper diesel-­electric would have, but sure enough plenty for the light loads we run. No big grades, things like that.”

  “How many crew total?”

  He ticked them off on his fingers. “Engineer, fireman—­that’s more a historic title than a factual one, as I’m sure you know—­brakeman, conductor, and depending on the run, a steward or two. Don’t need a crowd, but you know what makes it hard?” He didn’t wait for Estelle’s answer. “The hours. Mr. Waddell wants us to run anytime there’s folks that want to come or go. We try to keep a strict schedule, but nighttime is big for us. And there are extra runs—­sometimes we don’t get much notice.”

  “You can’t be the only engineer, then.”

  “There’s two of everybody, just about.” He held up both hands. “Richard Wells works three days a week, Monday on to Wednesdays. I take the weekends.”

  “What was Quentin’s reaction when you broke the news to him?”

  Quintana grimaced. “Oh, a few choice words that I’m not going to repeat. But he was pissed. I mean, I could tell that he really wanted that job with us. And like I said, a shame. He’s personable, would have been good with the public, as long as you don’t step on his toes.”

  “Maybe so.” Estelle didn’t remind Quintana that Quentin Torrez had been fired from a garage job for mouthing off to a customer—­and whether it was the alcohol speaking or a moment of inherited rudeness didn’t matter.

  The engineer thrust out his hand, and his grip was warm and just shy of crushing. “Did he get himself mixed up in that deal the other night? Over at the newspaper office? Damnedest thing I ever heard.”

  “We don’t know yet who’s responsible, sir.”

  He grinned without much humor. “Yet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That sheriff of yours has a little pit bull in him, doesn’t he?” Estelle wondered if Quentin had worn his dog shirt to his job interview.

  “That’s a good way to put it, sir.”

  “Best of luck to you. Ride with us when you get the chance.”

  “Thank you. I have, and I will.”

  The train was, at best, sedate. With three stops to drop off and pick up hikers and bird-­watchers, it finally hove into view fifteen minutes after Estelle had arrived and found a viewing spot on one of the overlooks behind the NightZone auditorium. The train snaked through the trees and around picturesque outcroppings, looking like a large worm prowling the prairie.

  Estelle watched it sigh to a stop at the terminal behind the parking lot. Twelve passengers got off, seven got on. A cheap tour bus or van would have delivered tourists for a hundredth the price of operating the locomotive…maybe even less than that. But Miles Waddell was right: What was exciting about a tour bus? During the train’s run, only briefly was it ever within view of a highway, giving the excited passengers the idea that they were out in the middle of the western wilderness.

  She turned away and headed for the restaurant, the spectacular wing on the north side of the auditorium/planetarium. The heavily tinted doors slid open silently, and the tiniest aisle lights marked the path toward the maître d’s desk. A handsome woman, dressed entirely in a blue so deep and rich it mirrored what might be expected in outer space, greeted Estelle.

  “Well, how delightful to see you,” Carmine Quintana said. “Business or pleasure?” She hooked an errant strand of silver hair behind her ear and looked at Estelle expectantly.

  “Some of both, I think. I just spoke with Hank a little bit ago, just before the last run with the train.”

  “Isn’t that thing just so marvelous? Hank just loves every nut and bolt.”

  “Yes, it is. Is there someplace where we might talk for just a few minutes?”

  “Most certainly. How about a cup of coffee to perk things up?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Water? Tea? Wine?”

  “No, really.”

  “Then let’s slip into my office. It’s quiet this time of day, and if we have guests, Maddy can take care of them.” She glanced at the faint, almost ghostly face of the clock that seemed to hang suspended, like a silver moon, from the rich tapestry of the wall.

  The first door to the right led to three rooms, one of which was Carmine Quintana’s office. She closed the solid door and touched a rheostat. “Tell me when you’re comfortable,” she explained. “We get used to living in the dark, but many people are uneasy…at least at first.” She turned the rheostat until Estelle could see the defined contours of the woman’s face.

  “That’s fine.” Without windows, even with the high-­tech lighting, the room seemed claustrophobic.

  “Please…have a seat.” The furniture was curiously utilitarian in appearance—­stout, but with heavily rounded corners. Estelle settled into the padded leather that was anything but utilitarian. “Now then, what can I do for you?”

  “Esmeralda Lucero.” Estelle nodded toward the door. “Maddy, I think she goes by.”

  “Oh, what a doll,” Carmine said eagerly. “She’s been with us for just a month, but my, how she’s come along. Just a delight.” She looked concerned. “I hope there’s no problem.”

  “I just need to speak with her for a moment or two.”

  Carmine looked at her watch. “She comes in at five, and as far as I know, she always rides the train in from Posadas. So…” She stopped abruptly at the sound of a burst of feminine laughter from the restaurant. “She
’s here now. I recognize the voice.” Rising quickly, Carmine reached for the door. “You’d like to see her now?”

  “If I might.”

  “Certainly. One moment.” She slipped through the door, closing it behind her. Estelle turned in her chair, surveying the office. With only one heavily shuttered window, the room could have felt stuffy, but the plethora of space art—­photos both large and small, dominated by an enormous portrait of Saturn—­gave the impression that the room’s occupants were floating in space. On the wall opposite Saturn was the famous print of Earthrise, showing the home planet just appearing over the lunar horizon.

  Carmine Quintana’s desk was home port for a fleet of silver framed photographs, all of them a younger generation of relatives, along with a single portrait of engineer Hank Quintana, standing with one hand affectionately on the NightZone locomotive’s broad flank.

  Estelle turned back as the door opened.

  “Maddy, this is Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-­Guzman. She would like a few minutes of your time.”

  Esmeralda Lucero was indeed a beauty, with jet-­black hair wrapped into a tight bun secured with a simple silver and turquoise clasp. Her widely set eyes were so dark that her pupils were invisible. She offered up a smile that struck Estelle as a little too nervous, and her hands fluttered, smoothing imaginary wrinkles in her black skirt.

  Estelle smiled warmly, trying to put the girl at ease. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Sure. I mean, I guess.” Maddy glanced at Carmine, who nodded her assurance.

  “You two make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be out on the floor if I’m needed.”

  “Carmine, thank you.” Estelle gestured toward one of the leather chairs, and Esmeralda sat down on the very front edge of the cushion, as if poised to flee. “This is an incredible place, isn’t it?” Estelle said.