fireplace, turned over the pictures on the walls, and looked through every book on the bookshelf.
Gutierrez's taste ran from horror novels to popular mysteries. He took one last look around the room, put the couch upright, and sat down in disgust, thinking maybe there was absolutely nothing to find. On the carpet by the overturned lamp table was a stack of unopened mail, mostly bills and advertising flyers. He flipped through the accumulation. One thick envelope had a return address from Gutierrez's office and carried first-class stamps instead of the usual metered imprint government agencies use. He opened it. Inside was a handwritten list on sheets of lined yellow paper. Kerney read it with growing awe.
Rifles, pistols, saddles, uniforms, sabers, holsters-all in quantity and all dated as over a hundred years old. Many were brand-new, according to Gutierrez's estimate. If the list was real, and there was no reason to doubt it, Gutierrez had been moving truckloads of material off the base. He read on. Military clothing: boots, coats and hats, dress uniforms, greatcoats were listed by the dozens, all packed in the original crates. There was enough to outfit several squads of pony soldiers and their horses. The tack list was just as impressive: saddles, halters, bridles, saddle girths and blankets, saddler and blacksmith tools. The inventory went on for pages, written in Gutierrez's compulsively neat script: leather cartridge boxes, forage sacks, waist and saber belts, fatigues and stable frocks, halter chains, gloves, cartridge belts, and spurs. Kerney stopped reading and visualized the cave at Big Mesa. It must have been packed to the ceiling. He returned to the list. Gutierrez had recorded every coin and letter recovered from the truck. Each coin was described by type, denomination, date, and condition. Each letter was summarized by author and subject. The last entry was for another mail pouch. Again, Gutierrez provided a summary of each letter; most of them were from members of the 9th Cavalry to family and friends back home. Gutierrez had added a note in the margin, written with a different pen. It read:
"Delivered to buyer to prove authenticity." Kerney folded the list and put it back in the envelope. Gutierrez had hit a treasure trove; definitely the spoils from at least one Apache raid-maybe more. He couldn't begin to estimate the value, but people paid enormous sums of money for rare historic objects. He needed to get a general idea of the value, just to be sure. The next question was equally simple: where would Gutierrez find the most likely buyer? Probably through a broker, eager to do business with him. It was stuff that museums, universities, and individual collectors would drool over.
***
There was no sign of activity at the ranch when Kerney got home. His arrival was greeted by the whinnying of the mustang in the horse barn. It was the lonely sound of a neglected animal. He chastised himself for keeping the horse penned up for no good reason other than his own convenience. He apologized with fresh oats, a clean stall, and some soothing words, which didn't seem to be quite enough. The mustang snorted and turned away. He got a halter from the tack room and slipped it over the animal's head. "You deserve better," he said, leading him out of the corral. There wasn't going to be any breeding stock on Quinn's ranch for a very long time, if ever. No big deal. It was just another setback. He opened the gate to the north section, where the grass was best and the restored windmill fed clear water into a stock tank. The horse picked up his ears in anticipation. Kerney scratched the mustang's nose and apologized again. Halter off, he wheeled through the gate and galloped into the darkness. Silently he watched until the thought struck him it was time to give the mustang a name. He'd call him Soldier, in honor of Sammy. It wasn't very imaginative, but he hoped Sammy, wherever he was, approved.
* * *
Greg Benton picked the lock to Gutierrez's apartment, flipped on the light, and surveyed the mess. Not good, he thought to himself as he closed the door and eased the semiautomatic out of the pocket of his windbreaker. He did a quick room-to-room search, encountered nothing except more disarray, and left the apartment complex, hurrying quickly to his car. Two blocks away he stopped at a convenience store, dialed a long-distance number, let it ring three times, and disconnected. He repeated the process, got back in his car, an inconspicuous compact rental that was too cramped for his large frame, and headed for the interstate. His mind was racing. It was bad enough that Gutierrez had blown the rendezvous to deliver the merchandise, but now it looked as though Eppi had flapped his mouth and queered the whole gig. Time for damage control, Benton decided, with a tight smile. He held the car at 65 and settled back to think things through. Traffic on the interstate was light. In the distant Jemez Mountains, Los Alamos winked down at Santa Fe. The pinon-studded hills along the right-of-way were filling up with subdivisions, and across the valley, streetlights lined new roads to new neighborhoods outside the city limits. Too much was riding on the deal to let it go sour now. Benton wondered if Eppi had decided to keep the last shipment for himself and do a little freelancing. A dumb move. But the apartment had been tossed by a pro, probably looking for the goodies. Benton had to find Gutierrez.
***
Leonard Garcia smiled warmly at his visitor and had him sit by the window with the nice view of the interior courtyard of the Palace of Governors Museum. The morning sun barely touched the tops of the trees and the robins were undisturbed, yet to be chased off by museum visitors. As a high school senior, Leonard had persuaded a small band of his friends to help him protest the closing of the last drugstore on the Santa Fe Plaza. Armed with a truckload of cow manure, they waited for the day the new art gallery was to open in what had once been their favorite hangout. In the middle of the night they dumped fresh dung against the entrance and drenched it with gallons of water. It was so much fun they did it again the next night. The daily newspaper carried the escapade as front-page news. It was the talk of the town. It was heady stuff for the anonymous heroes or villains-depending on the point of view. Leonard had plotted a third foray against Santa Fe gentrification and been caught in the act by the man sitting in his office. Leonard owed Kerney one very big favor. Officially, he and his pals were never apprehended.
Kerney took them one by one to their parents and had each boy confess. Punishment was left up to the family. Leonard lost his driving privileges for the summer, which, in turn, resulted in the loss of his girlfriend. For that he was grateful. He might never have started college if Loretta hadn't broken up with him in order to date Roger Gonzales, who, at the time, owned a very fine raked and lowered Chevy. Roger was now paying considerable child support to Loretta for their
three children. He asked Kerney what he could do for him.
"You're the only delinquent I know who has a doctorate in archaeology, runs a history museum, and owes me a favor," Kerney replied.
"I'm rehabilitated," Leonard countered. "Anyway, there isn't enough cow shit left in Santa Fe County to cover all the boutiques, galleries, and tourist shops. What can I do for you?" He handed Leonard the inventory.
"Take a look at this." Kerney watched Leonard's eyes widen as he read through the list.
"Is this real?"
"Yes." He read the list again while Kerney waited. Garcia had red hair and classic Castilian features. He could trace his family roots in Santa Fe to the Spanish reconquest of New Mexico. He tapped his finger against the papers.
"This is a major find. One any curator would give his eyeteeth to acquire. If it was purchased intact, I could get the museum foundation to build a new wing to house it."
"How much would you be willing to pay?" Leonard studied the list again.
"On the open market, who knows? It would be a bidding war. If I had an exclusive option, I'd offer three million dollars and probably go as high as four. Maybe more."
"And if the collection was sold piecemeal?" Kerney ventured.
"It would take longer to dispose of it, but you could make even more profit. Add another million," Leonard answered.
"Everything on the list has value. Especially now that anything to do with the frontier west is such a hot commodity among collectors.
For example, the letters from Grant and Sherman to General Howard: it's correspondence about Grant's peace policy regarding the Indians. Howard was a crusty, one-armed, pious son of a bitch who served with Grant in the Civil War. His men called him the praying general. Grant made him a presidential emissary. Any presidential correspondence of historical significance commands top dollar. Those letters are even more valuable because they fill in some gaps. Historians would kill to have them. I wouldn't sneeze at the Sherman letters, either. He ranks right up there as an important American personality of the time. The letters alone could bring hundreds of thousands of dollars."
"Thanks, Leonard." Kerney reached across the desk and retrieved the list.
"I'd love to have an opportunity to make an offer. Do you know who the buyer is?"
"Not yet," Kerney replied. "Any ideas where I should look?"
"It depends on the type of buyer. I'm assuming this isn't kosher."
"It isn't." Garcia gazed at the ceiling.
"Unfortunately, it isn't that hard to find unscrupulous dealers. If I was in the market to sell something illegally, I'd lower the risk and ship the merchandise out of the country. Western Americana is a hot item among collectors in the Far East and Europe. Especially the Japanese and Germans. They couldn't beat us in the war, but they sure can outbid us in the marketplace."
"Would that be likely?" Leonard nodded.
"With the quantity and quality of the list, I would say it's very likely. The mega bucks are overseas, and once the items are on foreign soil, the chances of getting caught are almost nil."
"Could an average citizen pull it off?"
"I don't think so. Not without a broker. There are too many complexities to deal with. If your crook isn't an expert in the field, he's going to have to split the profits with somebody who has the right contacts."
***
Eddie Tapia felt right at home on the Juarez strip. The gaudy, hot colors of the buildings, the rawness of the streets, the carnival atmosphere of the hustlers, whores, and street urchins, and the smells from the street vendors hawking food to pedestrians combined into one loud pulse of Mexican life. The streets were crowded with drivers playing a mad game of bumper cars. Shills made bilingual pitches along sidewalks, selling fake designer watches and gold jewelry that would turn green within a week. Bars cranked out loud Tex-Mex music to attract attention. The hookers wore dresses that stopped at the ass and pranced around in their spiked heels and cowboy boots working the streets. Open stalls in alleys displayed velvet paintings of Elvis, cheap sombreros, and pin atas Tapia soaked it all up. The first twelve years of his life he'd grown up in Mexican border towns along the Rio Grande. From Matamoros on the Gulf to Piedras Negras, he moved with his family from job to job. His father, who rebuilt generators, particularly those for prized American-made cars, could always find work. Still, it was necessary for Eddie and his brothers to make money. At the age of five, he became a beggar's apprentice, working for his Uncle Adolfo. Every day Uncle Adolfo put on a harness with a padded hump and transformed himself into a jorobado--a hunchback. To Mexicans the jorobado brought luck. Gamblers, whores, housewives--even the priests--would touch Adolfo's hump for luck and give him money for the privilege. Eddie shilled and sold talisman jewelry.
After putting Isabel and the baby on a bus to Brownsville, Eddie had purchased all the material needed for his transformation: soft cowhide, which must feel like skin under his shirt; padding, which had to be firm yet pliable; a harness to round his shoulders; and finally the clothes of a beggar. He crossed the bridge into Juarez as a hunchback. Neither his wife nor Captain Brannon would have recognized him. Finding Petty Officer Yardman's trail hadn't been all that difficult. Concentrating on the GI hangouts and clip joints, Tapia quickly learned that Yardman had won a considerable amount of money and had stayed in Juarez for over a month. His winning streak was remembered by the dealers in the clubs he favored. There was talk that when he started losing. Yardman borrowed heavily to keep gambling, before dropping out of sight. Some people thought he was still in Juarez, hiding from a loan shark, while others reported he'd left town.
If he was still around, nobody knew where. After a long night, Eddie left the strip and walked through a working-class neighborhood. The casitas were small and packed tightly together along the street, but the sidewalks were clean and the houses well cared for. There were no whores, hustlers, or junkies in sight. He came to a small plaza with a gingerbread bandstand in the center, a wrought-iron fence around the square, and tall shade trees. He sat by the gate of an old hacienda with high, whitewashed adobe walls and watched the morning parishioners on their way to early mass. The church, with two tall spires and a bell tower, also painted white, gave the neighborhood a small-town feeling. Opposite the church, the largest building fronting the plaza was a converted general store that had been turned into a nightclub, restaurant, and gambling parlor. Lettered in Spanish on the door was the name of the establishment: the Little Turtle. It was open for business, and morning customers--mostly locals on their way to work--ducked in for a quick roll of the dice, a cup of coffee, or breakfast.
It was a relief to get off his feet. Eddie's muscles ached, and the straps around his shoulders had rubbed the skin raw. He wanted a shower, with lots of hot water and clean, dry towels. It would have to wait. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and checked the grime under his fingernails. Next to the gambling house was a boarded-up cantina. The two front windows were covered with plywood. On the sidewalk, padlocked to a streetlight, was a homemade food cart. It had automobile tires for wheels, a tin awning supported by metal brackets, and a screaming-pink paint job.
A stern voice interrupted Eddie's preoccupation. "Move on, jorobado. You cannot beg here." The policeman standing over Eddie had small eyes above full cheeks, thick jowls, and a head much too big for his body. A pencil-thin mustache under a fat nose drew attention to his crooked teeth. Eddie smiled, reached into his pocket for some bills, and held out his hand.
"Perhaps you would allow me to stay." The cop took the mordida. With the bribe transacted, he smiled at Eddie.
"What is your name?"
"Eddie."
"I am Dominguez." The cop was burly, broad chested and had a huge gut.
"You will not make much money this time of day."
"No matter," Eddie replied.
"I will rest for a while and be on my way." Dominguez nodded and rubbed Eddie's hump for luck.
"Don't stay too long," he warned, before lumbering away in the direction of the gambling house. Eddie watched Dominguez enter the nightclub. The door to the adjacent cantina opened and a man in a white apron hurried out carrying trays of food. He was a fair-skinned, blond gringo with a full beard that hid his face. Yardman was blond and the same size as the man in the apron. The man placed the trays in the cart and went back into the cantina. Soon a street vendor emerged, opened a compartment at the rear of the cart, and put a box inside. Then he removed the padlock and pushed the cart down the street. During the next half hour, carts arrived at the cantina on a regular basis and the same routine occurred.
The gringo brought the food, and the vendors stowed boxes in a compartment of each cart. To Eddie, it looked like the cantina was used to distribute more than just tacos to sell on the streets. He decided to get a closer look. He crossed the plaza, sat on the curb, and watched the next group of vendors. They stocked the carts with bags of marijuana and cocaine. "Get out of here, pendejo.
"The gringo was behind him. As Eddie hurried to his feet, the gringo kicked him in the butt and shoved him off the curb into the street, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. Keeping his temper, Eddie shuffled away, convinced the gringo wasn't Yardman. He decided to move on, find a telephone, and report in to Captain Brannon. Dominguez stopped him as he crossed the square.
"Did you have a problem with the gringo junkie?"
"Who?"
"Duffy. I saw him kick and push you." Dominguez shook his head. "That was wrong of him to do. I will tell
Senor De Leon."
"Senor De Leon?"
"A very important man. Well connected. He owns the Little Turtle."
"Does he also own the cantina?"
"Of course. It is one of his businesses."
"There is no need for you to tell the senor," Eddie replied.
"You are wrong, my friend. If I do not tell him, someone else will, and I could lose a mordida I have come to depend on." Dominguez stopped at the corner.
"Will you come back?"
"Perhaps."
"I will look for you."
"I welcome your protection," Eddie said.
***
Tom Curry sat at the conference table with Sara and an FBI agent named Johnson, a dour man with thin lips and a long, serious face, matched by a lanky frame. He wore a brown suit, white shirt, and regimental striped tie. "Who found the body?" Johnson asked, tapping the tip of his pen on the desktop, prepared to take notes.
Tularosa - Michael McGarrity Page 14