The Bootlegger’s Legacy

by Ted Clifton

  After Joe graduated, they were married. Joe was offered a great job right out of school at the local box manufacturing plant. He was an assistant controller. Liz thought that sounded important. She’d never really cared what Joe did, as long as he was making money—and leaving her alone. It had been easy to turn Joe’s sex drive on—it turned out to be a little harder to turn it off.

  Joe spent a lot of time at work. He also spent many evenings out drinking with his work buddies. Liz thought that was fine, as long as he gave her his paycheck every two weeks. Joe was quickly promoted into more responsibility and money. After a short while they had plenty of money. Liz was very happy.

  Once Joe passed the CPA exam, he started talking about opening his own accounting practice. Liz wasn’t supportive. She just wanted Joe to continue to make money and not risk anything. Joe didn’t listen. But it worked out. Joe knew a lot of people, some of whom he met drinking and hanging out at bars. His business grew quickly, and he was a success.

  While Joe was growing the business, Liz was having children. The world according to Liz couldn’t have been better—of course, Joe wasn’t a factor in that world, except to provide money.

  Liz had sacrificed so much to make everything better for everyone. She knew they didn’t appreciate what she’d done, but it didn’t matter. She had kept her family together all of these years, and one day her children would thank her for it.

  Liz prayed every day for the strength to continue to make the world a better place for her children and herself. She knew that the day was coming when she would leave Joe. He just didn’t have the same moral standards as Liz and her children. In some ways she regretted ever marrying Joe, but she’d done what she had to do—there hadn’t been a choice. She knew she would leave Joe, but it would have to wait until she had more financial security.

  Joe’s accounting practice was growing every day. One day soon she would get a divorce and get half of all of the assets, including the business. She dreamed about that prospect: half of the money and no Joe.

  The other aspect of her life that was important to Liz was associating with important people. Of course, they were also rich—that’s why they were important. This had begun at church. She’d organized several charity events that had been attended by the high society of the community, and she’d quickly become enamored. Coming from dirt poor people, she’d never dreamed of hobnobbing with the elite, but here she was sipping wine with the upper echelon of society. She was hooked. It was like a drug. She wanted to attend every event and couldn’t get enough. Of course Joe wouldn’t go. “Who gives a shit about the high and mighty?” he’d say rudely. It made her realize how much she had grown, while Joe had not.

  Liz attended one society event after another—Joe never went. Liz spent money like it was free—Joe worked until he went to drink, never doubting that he was digging a hole with his credit card that he could never fill. It couldn’t go on much longer—but it continued without changing. One of these days it would have to.

  Las Cruces, New Mexico—March 1987

  Ray Pacheco had been the Dona Ana County Sheriff for over nineteen years. A good life. He had always taken pride in his job and his department. Ray didn’t just give lip service to his role serving and protecting his community—he lived it. These were his neighbors and his neighbors’ kids, no matter how bad or rotten they sometimes were.

  Law enforcement was Ray’s life. He had lost his wife to cancer more than five years before, and his only son had moved to Boston to take a job with a top-notch law firm. Ray was proud of his son, but he also agonized over a deep resentment he felt toward him for moving so far away.

  Ray was originally from Macon, Georgia. That was where he met and married his wife. His first years in law enforcement were in Macon. He’d also spent a short time with the Jacksonville, Florida, police force before he answered an ad in a law enforcement magazine for a Chief Deputy Sheriff in Las Cruces, New Mexico. Ray and his wife debated the craziness of moving to New Mexico—the distance, the difference in cultures, all the various risks. They were excited about the opportunity for Ray to advance in his career, but also concerned about moving so far away to such an unknown place.

  Even when the Dona Ana Sheriff’s office offered Ray the job, the mixed feelings remained. After heart-searching discussions, their decision was made. They took the plunge, and they fell in love with Las Cruces and Dona Ana County. Ray’s wife became active in civic matters almost at once and began to feel connected. She had made Las Cruces seem like home to Ray.

  He did well in the department. He and the Sheriff made a good team—the Sheriff was very political, while Ray knew law enforcement—so the Sheriff could spend time at meetings and political events, which he enjoyed, while Ray ran the department, where he excelled. Ray formed some great relationships with the deputies, and they learned to trust him. He always backed his men, and he became a resource for everyone in the department on the best way to handle any matter.

  The job of Sheriff opened up rather suddenly when the old Sheriff was seriously injured in an auto accident. Unable to perform his duties, the Sheriff resigned. The county commissioners scheduled a special election. Many people encouraged Ray to run, and he decided to give it a shot. His biggest hurdle was that he was totally non-political. He answered every question as truthfully as he could, and if he didn’t know the answer he said so.

  Ray’s last name was Hispanic—Ray was not. He’d never paid much attention to his Spanish heritage when he lived in Georgia. He’d never much cared what tribe people belonged to—he treated everyone more or less the same. The old Sheriff had made a mistake when he hired Ray, sight unseen, based on his Hispanic last name, although it had worked out well for everyone.

  There was a three-person race for the Sheriff’s job and both the other candidates were Hispanic, one from the department and the other a car salesman with local political connections. They attacked Ray for being white and an out-of-stater. The white part was never said outright, but often implied. The other candidates captured the majority of votes, but Ray got the most votes of any individual candidate. There was no process in place for a runoff—Ray was Sheriff.

  His first year was a little rough. Ray tried the best he could to be a little more political, or at least diplomatic, but on occasion he still ruffled some feathers. Soon, though, it became obvious to anyone who was paying attention that there had been an overall improvement in the department. After that, he was entrenched in the job. His ability to successfully run a Sheriff’s department and fairly represent everyone’s interests overrode his sometimes less-than-politically-correct, direct manner. He won the next race in a landslide.

  Ray was generally described as burly, about six feet one and just a little on the heavy side. He’d recently grown a mustache, which gave him an old west cowboy appearance. He dressed in his sheriff’s uniform every day, except Sundays and the one other day he took off each week, which rotated. On those days he was most comfortable in jeans, an old work shirt, and a cowboy hat.

  Nothing felt the same to Ray after his wife died. She had kept him connected to the world outside of the Sheriff’s department. Her death and his son’s move across the country to Boston caused him to withdraw from most civilian activities. The department became his family and law enforcement his life. The county was his sole focus. He made it his goal to know everyone by name, and to make sure they knew him.

  Still, the last few years had presented some problems. The new deputies he was hiring seemed different. Where Ray saw neighbors and friends, most of the new people saw threats and danger. The world was changing, and Ray wasn’t sure he liked what he saw.

  Dona Ana County covered an area about the size of some states back east, with a population of a little over 150,000 that was concentrated in Las Cruces. With a major college located in town—New Mexico State—there were another 25,000 or so visiting students. Like most of New Mexico, the majority of the population was Hispanic and proud of it. Green chilies and M
exican food were the cuisine of choice—the hotter the better. Most people described this part of the country as unique, picturesque, and extremely friendly. To Ray it was home and very comfortable.

  Ray had been reelected Sheriff about two years before to a three-year term. At sixty-four, he’d decided this would be his last term. He still hadn’t given much thought to what he might do when he retired—he’d made up his mind to retire the previous year during a very difficult time dealing with the county commissioners over changes they wanted made to the department. Every commissioner except one, in Ray’s opinion, was a complete asshole. A couple of the new commissioners were in their thirties and acted like they knew everything there was about running a Sheriff’s department. It was during this period of confrontation, while dealing with complete morons, that Ray decided it was time to step down. He loved his job. The politics were something he couldn’t handle any more.

  The biggest jerk on the county commission was Bill Emerson, the son of the richest man in town, Jim Emerson, bank president and owner of about one third of all Las Cruces real estate. Not only was Bill a complete know-it-all, his dad was the biggest piece of shit Ray had ever had to deal with. He would not miss any of the dealings he’d had to endure with the Emerson family.

  Today Ray was headed toward downtown Las Cruces for a Kiwanis club executive committee meeting being held in the board of directors’ conference room at Citizen’s Bank. The Bank owned by Jim Emerson. Civic activities like this, which came with the job, were the least enjoyable part of Ray’s duties.

  The Citizen’s Bank was located in one of the oldest buildings in Las Cruces, dating from the late 1800s. The stories about the building included years as a brothel, several murders, and almost eighty years as a bank. The beginnings of the bank were rumored to be rooted in substantial deposits from some rather unsavory citizens of Mexico. Ray was of the opinion that the building itself had much more character than its owner.

  The ornate conference room had the distinct atmosphere of a different time. Ray could imagine sitting in this room seventy years before discussing the major events of 1915. The room still had a certain flair about it that gave any gathering a grand feel. The attention to detail that showed through in every aspect of the bank building, and in particular in the conference room, was something from a different time. The level of craftsmanship in the construction was breathtaking.

  Ray sat back and tuned out a discussion about the Kiwanis club’s plans for the annual Spring Arts Festival. From his perspective this meant overtime for his deputies, dealing with crowds, and a very popular beer tent that had grown over the years to cover almost a whole city block.

  “Hey, Ray, looking forward to retirement? Going fishing every day. Boy that sure is what I’d do. Hear the fishing is really good right now at Elephant Butte. Maybe you should move up to Truth or Consequences and enjoy the good life.” This burst of wisdom was directed at Ray by Max Johnson. Max owned several car washes in town and seemed to mostly do very little except empty the coin machines a couple of times a day. He was also very active in the county Republican Party. Ray had never really figured out where Max had come up with the money to build those car washes. Rumor had it that someone in his family had died and left him some substantial cash, but Max had never confirmed that as far as Ray knew.

  “Yeah, maybe that is what I should do alright Max. The biggest problem is that I always hated fishing. But living on the lake up at T or C might be just the way to go when I retire. Don’t you have a cabin or something in that area, Max?”

  “My family used to—dad sold that a long time ago. We used to use it some after he sold it, because the guy who bought it was never there. My dad had a deal where he could use it if he looked after it. But after my dad died we lost contact with the guy—I think he lived in Oklahoma somewhere.” What the hell was he doing chattering on like this to the Sheriff? Shut the fuck up you moron. Max’s eye started to twitch. Hell, it didn’t matter, the stupid Sheriff was never going to go up there anyway. “Gotta run. I can hear those quarters calling me now. See ya later, Ray.”

  Ray always figured Max was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, although he’d done okay for himself. He had a lot more money than Ray, that was for sure. He gave some thought to what Max had said. Living at the lake in an old run-down cabin actually sounded just fine to Ray. His needs were mostly on the Spartan side of things. Moving an hour away from Las Cruces and out of Dona Ana County might also simplify his remaining years.

  Later that same day Ray dropped by Owen’s Realty to see his old buddy Chuck, who’d been selling real estate in New Mexico for as long as Ray could remember. He’d made a fortune doing very little except acting as Jim Emerson’s realtor. Ray always thought the real talent Chuck had was sucking up to Jim to maintain those commissions over the years. All in all, Ray thought Chuck was an alright guy.

  “Afternoon Chuck, what the hell’s going on.”

  “How the hell would I know Ray? All I do is sit at this desk and talk on the phone. There are days when the whole town could sink into a black pit and if it didn’t affect my office or the phone lines, I wouldn’t even know. If it wasn’t such easy money, I’d give it up.”

  “Well, you could always become Mayor and go around kissing ass for nothing. At least you’re paid well.”

  “Not sure I like that kissing ass remark—but shit, you’re right. If you’re going to have to be nice to all of these assholes, might as well make some bucks, right? What brings you to my playpen? Somebody accuse me of a crime?”

  “Not yet. I’m sure you know this is my last year as Sheriff, and I don’t really have a good idea of what I’m going to do next. A couple of things have come up and I wanted to run some stuff by you.”

  “I say use your authority and steal as much money as you can in the next few months, then head off to a Mexican beach with the prettiest, youngest senorita you can find—how’s that for advice?”

  “Sounds like that might fit someone else’s fantasy. My situation is a little less exciting. You know I have that big old house out by Hatch, and I was wondering what you thought I could get for it? Also I had a chat with Max at the Kiwanis meeting this morning and he suggested I should look at maybe buying something on the lake up in T or C—what do you think? ”

  “Okay, I’ll keep the senorita fantasy to myself. As far as your house in Hatch, I’d have to do some research. That area has some appeal with the newcomers moving into Dona Ana. Let me run some numbers and then I can give you a good idea what you could get and how long it’d take. There are lots of cabins in T or C for sale, some dirt cheap and some very expensive. Did you have a price range?”

  “Once I see what I can get for the old homestead I can make a better estimate of what I’d want to spend. Max mentioned something about an old cabin his dad used to own. Said he’d sold it to some guy in Oklahoma years ago—maybe fifteen or more years back. Said they were allowed to use it to compensate his dad for some upkeep he did, but then once his dad died they lost contact with the Oklahoma guy. Maybe you could do some research and see if that might be something I’d be interested in?”

  “Sounds like it could be a dump by now. Let me check the records, see what Max’s dad used to own up there, and then track down the current owner. Give me a couple days, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Chuck.”

  Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  Waking up on the small sofa in his home office was less than comfortable. Joe’s head hurt and he was cold. On the other hand, there was one real benefit—he hadn’t had to deal with Liz. He’d heard her and the kids in the kitchen while he remained in the office, hoping she wouldn’t come in and start one of her lectures about his shortcomings. After a while he’d heard the garage door open and close. Feeling a little guilty about hiding out until they left, he also felt a sense of relief that he didn’t have to start his day off with more confrontation. He headed toward the kitchen, looking for coffee and aspirin.

&nbs
p; Joe called in to the office and told Lucille, his office manager, that he was meeting with Mike again this morning and would be in the office about noon. Lucille didn’t say anything. “Hello, did you hear what I said, Lucille?”

  “I heard you, Mr. Meadows. You’ll be in about noon.”

  “Thanks, Lucille.”

  What a pain in the butt she was. Joe had thought about firing her hundreds of times, but she was just too good at what she did to let her go. She was the best bookkeeper and organizer Joe had ever seen. But in her world there were the good guys and the bad guys. The good guys went to church, didn’t drink, didn’t dance, didn’t cuss, didn’t... well, just about everything they didn’t do, including and especially anything to do with sex. How children came about in Lucille’s world, he wasn’t sure. Joe and most of his clients were the bad guys in her Bible Belt concept of reality. So Joe just put up with her thinly veiled disapproval—one more person damning him to hell probably didn’t make a whole lot of difference.

  After a little coffee and some toast, with the aspirin starting to kick in, Joe was beginning to feel more human. His depression wouldn’t leave him alone, though. Some days were worse than others. Just for a while this morning he’d felt like he couldn’t go on any more. But the feeling passed. He knew he wasn’t suicidal, although if he’d told someone about his feelings they might have thought that was exactly what he was. He didn’t want to be dead, what he really wanted was to be someone else. With a coffee go-cup in hand, he headed out to see Mike and maybe find out about the mystery key.

  “This is for a bank lock box.” Mike’s key guy, Fred, looked even worse than Joe felt. My gracious, this guy looks like he slept in a dumpster. But Mike seemed to think he knew what he was talking about and they sure didn’t know anyone else who might be a key expert.