by Ted Clifton
Pacheco & Chino Mystery #1
Ted Clifton
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EPUB edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-66-9
Kindle edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-67-6
Paperback edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-65-2
Copyright 2015 Ted Clifton, all rights reserved.
Cover
Title Page
1: Friday, 1988
2: Friday
3: Saturday
4: Sunday
5: Monday
6: Tuesday
7: Wednesday
8: Thursday
9: Friday
10: Saturday
11: Sunday
12: Monday
13: Tuesday
14: Wednesday
15: Thursday
16: Friday
17: Saturday
18: Some Days in the Past—Monica’s Story
19: Monica’s Story, Part II
20: Monday
21: Tuesday, Cloudcroft
22: Wednesday
23: Thursday
24: Friday
25: Friday
26: Saturday
27: Sunday
28: Monday
29: Wednesday
30: Fishing
31: Some Time Later
32: Late Evening
Preview: The Bootlegger’s Legacy
Prolog: Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, 1952
1: Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, February 1987
2: Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
3: Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
4: Las Cruces, New Mexico, March 1987
5: Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
6: Las Cruces, New Mexico, April 1987
About The Author
Books By Ted Clifton
“Hello, Ed.”
“What the hell do you guys want? Look, I didn’t tell them anything while I was in jail. Fuck, man, I don’t know anything.”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and come with us before you make us mad.”
The two goons gave Ed a shove toward the door. He was terrified, trying to calculate what would happen. How the hell had he gotten mixed up with these animals? He’d been depressed and lonely. Then he’d found drugs and life had seemed okay for a while, although things weren’t always real clear. But this fucked up world just wouldn’t leave him alone to be a loser drug addict. It cost a goddamn fortune to illegally self-medicate. If he’d been rich he’d have been under the care of some asshole psychiatrist, getting all the drugs he wanted.
As the morons shoved him into the back seat of their ratty car, Ed began to wonder if he should just run. These fat bastards would never be able to catch him—would they shoot him in broad daylight on a city street? He decided they would, mostly because they were too stupid to understand how dumb that would be.
They were probably just going to hurt him some, anyway, like last time. All they wanted was money—kill him and he could never pay anything again. He felt calmer once he realized they were just going to beat him up, maybe break an arm or a leg. If things went too far he could tell them about the evidence that would go to the cops if he turned up dead. But then they might force him to tell them that he’d mailed it to his mother, in which case they’d probably just kill him and then kill his mother, too.
“Ed, you must be the dumbest fuck who ever lived. Why did you get your mother involved in this shit—what kind of asshole son are you anyway?”
“Jeez, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My mother? She isn’t involved in anything. Sometimes I say things that aren’t right—no way my mother’s involved in anything—you assholes better leave her alone.”
The goon turned around in the seat and popped Ed a good one right in the jaw. The world became suddenly less real, more distant, and he keeled over in the back seat. He seemed to be dreaming about his mother and father. He cared about them so very much. Why had he hurt them? He’d done it repeatedly over a lot of years. He wasn’t sure why. He certainly didn’t mean to—it just seemed to happen. So much in his life just happened, without any obvious reason.
Ed drifted back into semi-consciousness, unsure of where he was. Then he remembered the goons. He didn’t raise himself up, just stayed still and hoped that everything would go away. He’d decided against telling them anything about his little surprise package. He’d stay quiet and everything would go away. That’s what was going to happen. It would all go away for Ed.
Friday, 1988
1988: The Hubble Telescope goes into operation, exploring deep space. A bomb explodes on Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie in Scotland. Prozac is sold for the first time as an anti-depressant. Hit movies include Rain Man, Die Hard, and A Fish Called Wanda. Cell phones and internet technology are in their early stages. The top-rated television show is “The Cosby Show.” The U.S. president is Ronald Reagan. Roy Orbison dies. And CDs outsell vinyl records for the first time.
Ray Pacheco had been the sheriff for Dona Ana County New Mexico for twenty years when he retired and took up fishing. He’d been good at his job, but he wasn’t driven. He thought of the people who lived in his county as friends and the kids of friends. The new breed of law enforcement seemed to see enemies everywhere, from terrorists to druggies. Everyone was a suspect. He couldn’t work that way and decided he’d rather just quit.
Ray had made a deal for an old abandoned cabin close to Elephant Butte Lake outside the oddly named city of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. He’d retired from being a cop and, to some extent, from being around people—he’d decided to just hide out for a while. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people—quite the opposite. He liked them fine, he was just tired of dealing with the bad ones, and one of the hazards of being in law enforcement is that you come in contact with a lot of bad ones.
So here Ray was, retired to a remote cabin by a lake with nothing to do. After a few months of doing very little he was getting jumpy. Well, hell, there was fishing. He’d never fished in his life. He knew it didn’t fit the stereotype of a rural county sheriff, but he’d just never been much of an outdoorsman. Under the circumstances, though, it seemed like the thing to do.
Ray drove down to the lake and stopped at the largest bait shop—Jack’s Bait, Boats and Beer, the triple B. He sat in the Jeep for a while, wondering if he even wanted to go in—it was like entering a different world. Even before he got through the door, the odor was a little off-putting. Not real sure if it was the bait, or maybe the beer, but it didn’t smell good at all. He entered what had to be the most cluttered store that ever existed. There were things hanging from the ceiling that could easily have been there fifty years before—and he wasn’t real sure what some of that hanging stuff was.
Even finding the sales counter took some time. Once Ray reached what he thought must be it—after all, there was an old cash register sitting on it—no one was there. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t see anyone anywhere. While he wasn’t sure there was much here anybody would steal, he couldn’t believe that there wasn’t somebody around somewhere. At that moment he heard noises out back, and he followed them out a back door onto a dock area, where several men were occupied loading things into a boat.
One man looked up. “Hey, be with you in a minute—soon as I get the rest of this shit loaded.” Must be the store owner. He looked to be in excess of three-hundred pounds and was chewing on an unlit cigar that seemed a likely source of the offensive odor.
The man finished his task, thanked his customer, and headed towards Ray. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in—guess I had my head up my ass. As usual. What can I
do for you?”
“My name’s Ray Pacheco. Just moved up here a few months ago and I’m mostly looking for some information.”
“Well, hello, Ray Pacheco, name’s Big Jack—I own this pile of shit business and also give out free information on almost any topic you can dream up.” Big Jack’s smile was big. Everything about Big Jack was big. Ray sensed that he’d be more than willing to share his opinion on almost anything—the problem would be deciding which parts were true. There was a twinkle in the man’s eye that suggested he found merriment in being a little off-center. Ray wasn’t sure how anyone could tell when Big Jack was lying or telling the truth—he was willing to bet that most of what Jack said at least stretched the truth some—but at the same time there was something about his manner that suggested he might be a lot smarter than he looked. My god, he’d almost have to be.
They shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Big Jack. I’ve retired up here and decided that I’d take up fishing. I’ve never fished in my life and I’m looking for some guidance.”
“Oh my, I think I just caught something on my line.” Big Jack started laughing so hard Ray was a little worried he might topple over.
After several minutes of enjoying his own humor, Big Jack started to quiet down. “Sorry, Ray. Just couldn’t resist. Okay, so you want to be a fisherman. First thing is don’t buy anything. Do you see a little tear in my eye, Ray? Yep, that’s what I said—the first thing you need to do is go fishing. Just borrow or rent some stuff and figure out if this is something you really want to do.”
Son-of-a-bitch—honest advice. Ray was impressed. “That makes sense, Big Jack. But I’m going to need someone to help me get started. What should I do?”
“Just gettin’ to that. There are several fishing guides who work this lake. All but one are not worth shit. The problem with the one who does know shit is that he’s almost always drunk. But my advice is go see this guy and if he can stand up at all, hire him to show you how to fish. And don’t believe the dumb Indian schtick—it’s an act. He’ll charge you some money, but it’ll be a whole lot cheaper than buying the stuff now. Especially from someone like Big Jack, who enjoys screwing with most people.” Jack was amused with himself again and Ray waited for the fit of laughter to pass.
After Ray left with the fishing guide’s name and directions to his camp site, he thought a while about Big Jack. The guy was loud and obnoxious, and claimed to be untrustworthy and out only for his own benefit—but his actions seemed to say the exact opposite. Told Ray not to waste his money until he knew he was actually going to enjoy fishing and maybe knew something about what he needed to buy—all in all, very good, honest advice. The opposite of what Ray was used to dealing with, which more often than he liked was crooks pretending to be good guys. This guy was all bombast, but genuinely good underneath. He smiled. He was glad he’d stopped in—plus the smell was starting to go away.
Finding the campsite took a lot longer than Ray had anticipated. While there were occasional signs, most of Big Jack’s directions were based on landmarks. Eventually he found some people in an RV who showed him where he’d gone wrong. They added some details to Ray’s map and said they knew exactly where he wanted to be. He’d been pretty close, and with the revised information he quickly found the right spot.
Ray parked in an area that had been cleared for that purpose and headed down the trail that was supposed to lead him to the fishing guide’s camp. He’d already had more activity in this one day than any time since he’d moved up to the lake, and it made it clear that he had to get out more. He felt better, and his bones felt better—if he just sat in that cabin all day he’d rot away.
As Ray rounded a large mesquite bush, he found himself at a fairly large campsite. There were two tents, plus two more areas covered by tarps. Under one of the tarps it looked like there was a boat. On one of the tents was a handwritten sign that read, “Tyee Chino Fishing Guide.” This must be the place.
“Hello? Anyone about?” There was no response. Ray wasn’t sure what campsite etiquette required after yelling. He went over to the tent that bore the sign and yelled again. “Hello, anyone home?”
“Fuck you evil white man—leave me in peace.”
Okay—not the response he’d been expecting. “Sorry to bother you. Big Jack said you could be hired as a fishing guide.”
“Fuck Big Jack.”
Well, this was starting to feel like he was on duty again. A lot of people had told the sheriff to fuck off.
“Look, if you’re not interested in work that’s fine. I’ll just leave. Sorry I bothered you.” Ray had yet to see anyone—the whole exchange had taken place without anyone emerging from the tent.
Ray turned around and headed back to his car. Figured he’d go by and ask Big Jack about the other two guys, the ones who didn’t know shit—maybe they’d at least be a little easier to deal with.
“Wait. I need work—I’m best fishing guide in whole damn country. You should hire me—even if I tell you to fuck off.” Standing outside of the tent was an Apache Indian. He was over six feet four inches and appeared to be very muscular. His long hair hung in a braid. He was frowning—which might’ve been his natural look—but Ray thought he saw a mischievous intelligence in the man’s eyes. He also appeared to be quite drunk.
Ray wasn’t real sure if this was some kind of strange sells pitch, or if Tyee Chino was just the dumbest fishing guide who ever lived. “Tell you the truth, I’m not sure you could guide anyone to anything right now, Mr. Chino.”
“I drank too much. Come back tomorrow morning at seven—I’ll be ready. I’m best damn fishing guide in whole damn country.”
Ray wasn’t sure what to do. What the hell—maybe he was the best damn fishing guide in the whole damn country. “You know tomorrow’s Saturday?”
“Fishing guide works weekends—come back tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll be here at seven tomorrow.”
Tyee Chino grunted and went back inside his tent. Ray went to his car.
As Ray drove back to his cabin he made notes on the map, which was by that time covered in scribbles. He was a little concerned about finding Chino’s tent again the next day—he sure the hell didn’t want to be late and have this strange, very large man mad at him.
Friday
Monica Jackson pulled off the interstate at T or C to get some gas and make a phone call. Her 1985 Subaru Wagon was her pride and joy and got excellent gas mileage, but it did have a small tank, making frequent gasoline stops necessary. She was still a very active sixty-three, but even so the frequent stops were a convenience for her as well as the car. She needed bathroom breaks and to limber up her joints.
Traveling with Monica was her best show dog, an Icelandic Sheepdog named Bruce. Monica bred the friendly dogs, and she showed them at regional dog shows to increase her visibility. She lived not too far off of I-25 just south of Albuquerque in an area called Bosque Farms, in a small place with plenty of room for her fifteen dogs. Bruce was the smartest dog she’d ever raised. He seemed to know as much about the dog shows as she did—he was a showman, or a show dog, and he loved being in the spotlight.
He was a wonderful dog, but he wasn’t a perfect specimen. The judges at the dog show events were some of the snobbiest people Monica had ever met. Most of the top prizes went to the same owners over and over, and everyone knew it was politics that won, not necessarily the best dogs. If a judge decided who was going to win in advance, then it was easy to find flaws in the others since there was no such thing as a perfect dog.
Most of Monica’s life she’d been an elementary school teacher. She’d become a teacher mainly because that’s what had been expected of her. It hadn’t been exactly what she’d wanted in a career, but she’d gone along with what her mother and her husband advised her to do—always taking the path of least resistance.
Then Monica’s whole world had turned upside down, about ten years ago now, when she divorced her husband, Mike Jackson, who was a dentist. Mike had had
a silly affair with his young—maybe better to say very young—dental assistant, Terri. There was no doubt in Monica’s mind that Mike had been pursued and lassoed by the little tart—who had nothing better to do than capture old men as prizes. Like it was some kind of national contest. The consequences of her actions and use of her unbelievable body were beyond anything Terri could comprehend. Actually, she seemed not to comprehend much except screwing. Maybe Monica should have forgiven poor old weak-willed Mike, but she was tired of always being the understanding one so she divorced him instead. Then she quit her job. Everyone says she retired early, but of course that’s bullshit—she just plain quit. Used some of the divorce money frivolously, purchased a home south of Albuquerque, and became a dog breeder.
Now, it would probably have helped if she’d known something about being a dog breeder beforehand—but too late. Suddenly she was one. Since then Monica hadn’t been very successful financially. On the other hand, she’d never enjoyed herself as much as she had these last ten years. The dogs were wonderful to be around and, except for the judges, most of the dog people were generous and thoughtful.
After getting gas, Monica headed down Main Street looking for a place to get a quick bite and to use a payphone. She spotted the Lone Post Café and parked in front. She made sure Bruce had his water bowl and food, then patted him for a minute before going inside.
The aroma of the café was fantastic. Even if Monica wasn’t hungry, she was going to have some of whatever smelled so good. She was shown to one of the booths, served water immediately, and given a menu.
“Hello, how are you today?”
“Just fine. What’s that wonderful smell?”
“Does smell good doesn’t it? Mostly what you’re smelling is green chilies. And those chilies can go on most anything we serve—including pancakes. Although I don’t think I’d recommend that.”
“Maybe I’ll have the small green chili breakfast burrito and a glass of iced tea.”
“Very good. My name’s Sue. I’ll put your order in and it’ll be ready in just a minute.”