Bag Limit pc-9

by Steven F Havill

  “There’s no telling what goes through their heads, sir. Especially when they’re half-blasted. Something that seems dumb as shit to you or me makes perfect sense to them. At least we know where Matt bought the booze.”

  “We do? Where?”

  “I talked to Tommy Portillo. He remembers that Matt stopped by the convenience store shortly before ten. Beer and a couple of pints.”

  “Tommy knows better than that,” I snapped. “Jesus, he’s got kids who go in there all the time, and we’ve never had a complaint of sales to minors. I always thought he was one we didn’t have to worry about.”

  “He maintains that Matt had a valid ID that showed he was twenty-one, going on twenty-two. He says that he doesn’t know Matt all that well, so he glanced at it, saw that it was all right, and let it go. Matt’s one of those kids who could pass for anything between fourteen and legal.”

  “Like hell it was a valid ID.” I pulled the driver’s license out of my shirt pocket and handed it to Torrez. “I took this out of his wallet. He had this and seven bucks. The license says he turns nineteen in December.”

  Torrez nodded his head slowly. “He would have been nineteen on the thirteenth of December.” He tapped the plastic card against his thumbnail. “Portillo didn’t look very closely.”

  “Shit,” I said. “Damn right he didn’t look close. Either that or he can’t read, the dumb son of a bitch. I can’t believe he’d do a thing like that. Hell, he knows what kind of a heller your cousin is…he has to.” I grimaced in frustration. “And he couldn’t look out his own damn store window and see a carload of kids? Where the hell does he think the booze is going, anyway?”

  “He said the car was parked over on the side, where the newspaper vending machines are. Portillo said he glanced that way, and when he couldn’t see anything, didn’t pursue it. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “Terrific. He doesn’t see much, does he. Did you check whether there was anything else Matt was carrying? Something I might have missed in the wallet? It’s possible he had some other form of ID that he was using…something that a store clerk like Portillo would accept.”

  “We’re looking, sir. Taber’s working on that.”

  “Let’s see what she’s got.” I pushed myself away from the car and glanced down the highway. It was long and dark, stretching away empty in both directions.

  The ambulance pulled away, and the driver of the truck waited by his vehicle, his back to the road and one arm thrown up and resting against the massive hood and front fender, face buried in his coat sleeve. Bergmann stood beside him, talking to what didn’t look like much response. Gutierrez intercepted us as we walked out on the asphalt.

  “This is a real mess,” he said. “Tell you what we’d like to do, Sheriff, if you’re about through with us here. We’ll go on into Posadas and stop by the S.O. and write you up a deposition. You’ll be wanting that, am I right?”

  “Yes. I’d appreciate that.”

  “No problem. Starting Sunday, I’ll be on leave for a while, so we might as well get this all wrapped up right now.”

  I nodded. “Thanks. Beyond the deposition, I don’t see any reason to tie you guys up with this mess. Enjoy your days off.”

  “I’ll be around, though, if you need anything else. My step-father’s visiting from down south, and him and me and my sister are going to get in a little deer hunting down this way.”

  I shook my head in frustration. “If you figure out in a sudden burst of inspiration just what the hell happened here, you let me know.”

  Gutierrez frowned. “We just aren’t ever going to know.” He reached out a hand and I took it. “You take care, now.” I knew he was right. Maybe the red lights on the Border Patrol unit had spooked the kid. Maybe it was the three of us standing around, jawing. Maybe if I’d just driven on into Posadas without stopping, the worst-case scenario would have been a few shards of glass to pick out of Matt’s hair. Who the hell knew?

  Bergmann strode across the road, and when he reached us, he stepped so close that I could smell his cologne. “You’ve got a basket case over there, Sheriff. I wouldn’t leave him alone, if I were you.”

  “I don’t intend to, thanks.”

  Deputy Taber had expended the better part of two rolls of film, and Gutierrez raised a hand toward her. “All right to move it?” he called, pointing at the Border Patrol unit. The deputy nodded, holding up the camera to indicate that she had all the photos that she needed.

  When the two feds had left, I walked over to Taber. “About wrapped up?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I wanted to roll a few more measurements, but that will only take a minute.”

  “Did you find any kind of ID other than this?” I handed her Matt’s driver’s license. “I took this from him at the house. It was in the wallet, along with a few bucks.”

  She pulled her clipboard out from under her arm and thumbed the laminated license under the clip. “The wallet itself and the contents of his pockets are bagged, if you want a look. They’re over in my car.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing else? No other ID? No other driver’s license? Nothing like that? Something that has a different D.O.B.?”

  Taber shined her flashlight on the license I’d given her. “Looks like December thirteen, 1982.”

  The undersheriff leaned close so that he could scrutinize the license. “And that’s the right one. The family Bible never lies, sir,” Torrez said.

  “So either Portillo was lying, or the kid had another ID with him. One that we haven’t found. Maybe back at the house.”

  “We’ve never had trouble with Portillo before,” Torrez said. “But I guess there’s always a first time.”

  “First and last,” I muttered. “What the hell is the point of asking for an ID, and looking at it, if you’re not going to enforce the date?” I held out a hand. “Let me take that license. I’ll see how well Portillo reads.” Deputy Taber hesitated for an instant, then unclipped the license and handed it to me. “Thanks.” I slipped it into my pocket, took a deep breath, and stepped over to the truck driver.

  He lifted his head out of his arm, but didn’t meet my gaze. In the psychedelic light from the various sets of flickering roof racks, it was tough to read his expression.

  “I’m Sheriff Gastner,” I said. “We haven’t had a chance to talk yet.”

  “God, I wish you could have grabbed him,” the man said, and as he turned a bit more, I could see his face was wet.

  “You and me both,” I said. “These things happen sometimes.”

  “I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even see him until just before…”

  “I know that,” I said. “Right now, my concern is getting this rig out of here, and you safely into town.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “You’ll be able to drive?”

  “I guess so.” He tried a faint chuckle. “We’ll see.”

  “Undersheriff Torrez can drive the rig in for you. That might be better. You can ride in with the deputy.”

  He shook his head and backed away from the truck. “No, that’s all right.” He took a couple of steps until he was even with the big chrome bumper, looked down, and then jerked his head up. He turned his back to the truck. It was too dark to see anything, of course, but just the idea of what had happened was replaying in his mind-and would continue to do so for months, sneaking back to jar him awake in the night, or to make him wince in the middle of a meal or the middle of a movie.

  “Do you need me for anything else?” he asked.

  “The deputy has everything,” I said. “If she needs any additional information, she’ll give you a call. She’ll want you to sign a formal deposition when she finishes, but that’ll be later today.”

  He nodded. “Well, okay,” he said and walked around the front of the truck. There was just enough room between the left front fender and the barbed-wire highway right-of-way fence for him to squeeze through.

  “You’re sure you’re going to be all right?
” I called after him.

  “No, but I don’t guess there’s anything you can do about that,” he said, and swung himself up into the truck. His knees still must have been jelly, because he stalled the rig three times before he managed to back it away from the fence and then judder through the loose sand to the pavement.

  Chapter Seven

  Tommy Portillo had owned his convenience store on Grande Avenue for seventeen years. Before that it had been a vacant lot that collected weeds, junk, and disparaging comments from the folks who wanted Posadas to be something.

  Portillo bought the lot and built his store with a design that featured plastic, shiny metal, and vivid colors, reminiscent of the automobiles of the same period. For a while, the place was an optimistic reminder of what was new and stylish. After a while, it was as much of an eyesore as most old cars are.

  I knew Tommy Portillo well enough that we usually stopped to chat for a few minutes when our paths crossed downtown.

  Of the nine merchants in the county who owned liquor licenses, I knew of five who had sold to minors at one time or another. Sometimes it was just an ignorant or sloppy employee who made the sale. Regardless of the reason, one slap on the wrist by the state Alcoholic Beverage Control Board was usually enough that even folks with gray hair found themselves carded.

  Because the Handiway store was within eyesight and an easy two-block walk of Posadas High School, Tommy Portillo had lots of opportunity. But I had no reason to think that he took advantage of it.

  In fact, on one occasion I’d been in his store browsing through a magazine when I overheard a heated conversation between Portillo and one of his suppliers. All the heat was from Portillo’s end as he blistered the man up one side and down the other, and then told him to “get those damn things out of my store. What the hell do you think you’re doin’? That’s just what kids need. You ought to know better.” And so on.

  After the harangue died down, the salesman left mumbling to himself. I ambled up to the counter.

  “Hey,” Portillo said. “I didn’t see you over there.”

  “What was he trying to sell you?” I asked.

  “You should see this,” he said, and reached down. “I threw it in the trash.” He straightened up and held out a vinyl sleeve, the bright red and white of a popular brand of soda.

  “What’s this for?” I said, and then figured it out for myself.

  “You just slide that over a can of beer, see, and the whole world thinks you’re drinkin’ soda pop.”

  “Clever way to make a buck. I’d think this would be a hot seller.”

  Portillo snorted. “Of course it would. That’s why they make ’em. That’s all we need, is those things out and around.”

  “You mind if I keep this?”

  “You just help yourself,” Portillo said.

  I had kept the slick little plastic sleeve, and still had it some-where in my desk. This time, though, despite all of Tommy Portillo’s show of righteous bluster on that day, one thing was certain now: three teens had had a roaring good time for a while, and by his own admission, he’d supplied the fuel.

  The clock ticked 3:15 that Saturday morning when I pulled into the parking lot of the county’s Public Safety Building and switched off the car. The Border Patrol unit was parked in the spot marked RESERVED DA. At least they hadn’t taken my slot. I was too tired to walk an extra step.

  I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. I sat for a moment and stared at the adobe wall ahead of the car, and my own private cinema replayed the film. I had missed grabbing Matt Baca by a hairbreadth after he stumbled into me.

  Somehow it reminded me of that ludicrous poster with the old biplane that had crashed into the top of the only tree in the middle of a huge field. One tree, and the pilot had found it. There had been one truck, and Matt Baca had found that, too.

  I swore a single heartfelt expletive and hauled my carcass out of the car. I didn’t head for the side door, the entrance used by employees. The front door was two dozen steps closer, and didn’t require that I fumble for a key.

  Three straight-backed leather chairs and a matching bench lined the foyer, with large framed photographs of former Posadas County sheriffs lined up on the wall behind them. I had refused to sit for a portrait, but Linda Real, our department photographer, had snapped a pretty good shot of me sitting at my desk, scowling at the computer screen.

  I thought that the scowl was a pretty good comment, and since the photo didn’t feature the unphotogenic lower three-quarters of my body, grudgingly allowed the picture to join the rogues’ lineup.

  I was startled to see Tommy Portillo sitting in the chair under my picture.

  “Hello there,” I said. “Can’t sleep?”

  He got to his feet, a hand reaching out to the arm of the chair for support. He reminded me of a doughnut-pasty complexion and round through the middle. If anything was worse for the waistline than long hours in a patrol car fleeing boredom, it had to be working in the very source, the mother lode, of fresh junk food.

  “Who can sleep?” he said.

  I knew what was on his mind. “Come on in. Let’s collapse together,” I said. He tried a little chuckle, but it didn’t work.

  Behind the dispatcher’s console were the neat rows of mail slots, and I could see the bouquet of “WHILE YOU WERE OUT” notes taped to the lip of mine. They could wait. Before I had a chance to disappear into my office, Brent Sutherland surfaced from the conference room.

  “Are Gutierrez and Bergmann in there?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. And…” He stopped when he saw Tommy Portillo in trail. “Mr. Portillo wanted to see you.”

  “We’ll be in my office. Did Bob Torrez go home?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I nodded and reached out a hand to usher Portillo through the door of my office. “Get comfortable,” I said. I sat down and swung my feet up on the corner of my desk, relaxing my head back against the old leather of the chair. After five slow, deep breaths, I turned my head and looked at Portillo.

  He was sitting on the edge of the chair in front of my desk, hands folded between his knees, shoulders hunched, head down as if he were trying to think away an inflamed prostate.

  “You’ve been listening to the scanner, eh?” I asked.

  He looked up and met my gaze without flinching. He was wearing an Oakland A’s baseball cap, and I realized that I couldn’t remember ever seeing him without it. I’d have to go to a service club meeting just to find out what was under it.

  “The undersheriff stopped by to see me,” he said.

  “So I understand. I’d like to hear about it.”

  “I told him that Baca came in around ten o’clock. That’s as close as I can estimate it.”

  “And you told him that Matt Baca showed you a legal ID of some sort?” I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out the New Mexico driver’s license that I’d retrieved from Matt Baca’s wallet. The photo showed a good-looking kid, dark and lean-featured, embarrassed to be sitting in front of a camera without quite knowing how to look tough.

  Portillo watched me, and could figure out for himself what I was holding. He waited until I was finished and then reached over for the license when I extended it to him.

  Frowning, he turned the plastic card this way and that, and then shook his head.

  “This is not the license that Baca showed me.”

  “I can’t remember which side of the bed I’m supposed to get up on most of the time,” I said gently. “After a quick glance, there isn’t a chance you could be mistaken?”

  “No, I mean this isn’t the one. And I look, you know? I mean, I really do. Not just a glance.”

  “All right.” I kept my tone noncommittal.

  “This is the old style. Here.” He handed it back to me. “The license that Matt Baca showed me earlier tonight was the new kind.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out his own wallet, then extracted his license. “Like this. I got this on my birthday last month.” He held it up
so I could see it.

  “The new style,” I said, as if we didn’t deal on a routine basis with the licenses issued by the Motor Vehicle Division.

  “The new ones-with all those state seals on them. They kinda shimmer, like.”

  “Uh-huh.” I tapped Matt Baca’s license against my thumb. “He showed you a brand-new license. That’s what you’re saying?”

  Portillo nodded. “That’s why I came in. First, the undersheriff stopped to talk to me…I guess it was about midnight. And then later I heard about…” He let it trail off with a helpless wave of his hand. “When I talked to Torrez, you didn’t have the kid in custody yet, is that right?”

  I nodded.

  “When I heard about what happened, I knew that you guys would be wanting to talk to me again. But believe me-if I’d thought that Matt Baca was underage, I wouldn’t have sold him the liquor.” He shrugged helplessly. “I just wouldn’t. I wanted to come in and tell you that.”

  “That’s thoughtful of you,” I said. “Did you happen to notice his date of birth?”

  “I remember that it was before this date in 1980. You know, that’s how we do it. Just has to be before…” He let it drift off, realizing that he was lugging coals to Newcastle.

  “But you don’t remember the year that was on the license?”

  “No. Seems to me that it was ’79. I don’t remember for sure. I mean it was close to that, but as long as it’s before 1980 what’s the point of paying attention, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did you happen to notice the date of issue?”

  “Date of issue?”

  “It’s on the license, in small print.”

  “I didn’t notice that, no.”

  “It had his picture, though?”

  “Yes.”

  “Same one as this?” I held up Baca’s license.

  Tommy Portillo leaned close and squinted. “No.” He settled back in the chair. “It wasn’t the same picture.”