"Why do people like Watson come here?" Gilbert asked.
"I see we share the same resentments about the new pioneers," Hetcher noted.
"While Santa Pc still has appeal, it is not the place we once loved."
Outside, in the lateness of the day, Gilbert said goodbye to Hetcher, who waved his umbrella in response, and jaywalked to the plaza.
Gilbert smiled as he watched. He remembered the image of Hetcher sitting in the deep shade under the portal of his house on summer evenings, sipping his single malt scotch, and entertaining the endless stream of friends who dropped by.
Gilbert's family had a standing invitation to Fletcher's informal soirees, and the gatherings sparkled with eccentrics, bohemians, artists, writers, and the intelligentsia. Fletcher's friends were men and women of every imaginable persuasion and inclination who loved the city with a passion that made them a vital part of the community.
For Gilbert, going to Fletcher's house had been like opening a window on the world. He smiled at the memory of Pletcher and his pals leading everybody off on a walk to the plaza for band concerts and other festivities.
Those were magical evenings when Gilbert was young.
What did Fletcher call the people who had recently migrated to Santa Fe? New pioneers-that was it. The dry was glutted with affluent colonists busy discarding identities, leaving relationships, abandoning careers, forging new lifestyles, pursuing New Age aspirations, and picking through the Santa Fe scene like shoppers at an outlet mall.
There were probably more psychic healers, spirit guides, psychotherapists, and self-help gurus per square foot in Santa Pc than anywhere else in the country.
Stolen art and stolen culture, Gilbert thought. He pushed back the sour feeling. It was close to the end of the business day. Maybe Bucky Watson would still be at his design studio on Water Street.
"I felt like I was the target of an investigation," Bucky Watson said.
He'd been bitching from the minute he'd arrived in Roger Springer's office to discuss his meeting with Sergeant Marrinez.
"Stop worrying," Springer said. He sat across from Bucky, who drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair and shifted nervously.
"I told you on the telephone the state police would be asking questions," he added.
"About the O'Keefle fund-raiser," Bucky shot back.
"Not my property holdings."
"It's no big deal. I talked to Vance Howell at the governor's office.
They've got no leads, so the cops are taking a scattergun approach to the case, hoping something will turn up."
"I still don't like it." Bucky ran a hand through his hair.
"Is Amanda really a suspect?"
"Howell says the working assumption is that her loose talk may have planted the idea for the robbery."
"Can't she straighten this thing out?"
"She's on vacation in Belize."
"Do the cops know about you and Amanda?" Bucky asked.
Roger laughed.
"Amanda likes to keep her trysts secret."
"And I like to keep my business affairs private," Bucky snapped.
"Relax. I can ask the governor to flex a little political muscle, if need be. Given the size of your contribution to his reelection campaign, I'm sure he'd oblige."
"That would help," Bucky said.
Tm always glad to be of service to a friend."
Bucky changed the subject.
"I need to move more money into Rancho Caballo. What's the status on the equestrian center plans?"
Springer got up and went to the desk.
"It's ready to go. All I need is a signature and a check." He picked up a document and walked back to Bucky.
"Now that we've attracted the wealthy golfers, it's time to bring in the rich horsy set."
"How much?" Bucky asked, taking the papers.
"Nine million, to cover design, planning, and land acquisition. Can you swing it? The corporation is cash poor until we finish selling the remaining lots. We went overbudget on the clubhouse and golf course."
Bucky scanned the papers for the bottom line.
"Cobb stands to make a hell of a profit on the land sale to the corporation," he remarked.
"Stop complaining, Bucky. You get what you need out of the arrangement."
Bucky scrawled his signature and handed the papers back to Springer.
"When do you want the check?"
"Anytime this week will do." neil ordway fumed as he slugged back the double shot of whiskey. He wanted to grind the shot glass into the face of the owner of the Cottonwood Bar, who stood behind the counter smirking. His scuffle with Kerney had been reported to the town council, and instead of accepting his resignation, the council had fired him instead. His chances of getting another law enforcement job were now less than zero.
It had taken all of thirty minutes for the news to spread throughout the village.
After turning in his equipment, the keys to the office and patrol car, and his badge and commission card, Ordway had walked from the town hall to the bar brooding over ways he could get back at Kerney.
He glared at the proprietor, a chunky man who always dressed Western and prided himself on looking like Kenny Rogers, the country singer.
Ordway was sure the man dyed his carefully trimmed white beard and razor-cut long hair to intensify the similarity.
He pointed at his empty glass. The owner filled it quickly and moved away.
It was dinnertime and Ordway was the lone customer in the bar. The Cottonwood, a sleazy joint that smelled of sweat, stale liquor, cigarettes, and cheap perfume, catered to hard-core boozers. The crappy, dingy atmosphere suited Ordway's shitty mood perfectly.
He downed his drink, ordered one more for the road, drank it quickly, bought a fifth to carry home, and stepped out into a cold night wind.
There was no one in sight, and the main drag was virtually empty except for a few cars parked across the street in front of the Laundromat.
Ordway buttoned up against the cold and started walking. A car passed by and he stiffened with embarrassment as the glare of the headlights caught him.
Even though his rented house trailer behind the Shaffer Hotel was just a few minutes' walk away, Ordway felt humiliated at the thought of being seen hoofing it home. He hurried across the main drag before another car cruised by, and ducked down a side street.
At the corner where Pop Shaffer's old, long-deserted motor lodge cabins stood, Ordway stopped and looked down the sidewalk toward the hotel. He smiled wickedly at the sight of Robert Cordova parading up and down in front of the weird concrete fence next to the hotel.
Half drunk, Ordway remembered getting a message earlier in the day that the county jail had released Cordova from protective custody. He stuffed the paper bag with the whiskey bottle inside his jacket, walked to Cordova, reached out, and yanked Robert's hands away from his ears.
"Hey, Robert," he said pleasantly.
Robert opened his eyes.
"Puck you," he snarled, trying to pull away.
"Be nice. I got something for you."
"You ain't got nothing I want," Robert said, still struggling to free himself from Ordway's grip.
"It's from Kerney. He sent you a present, a carton of smokes. Asked me to make sure you got them."
Cordova relaxed and Ordway released his hold.
"Where are they?" Robert asked.
"In my police car around the corner. Come on. Let's go get them." He patted Cordova on the shoulder and walked him away from the hotel lights.
When they reached the darkness of the motor lodge, Ordway pushed Cordova into die small courtyard that separated the stone cabins and slammed his fist into Robert's mouth. He heard Cordova's rotten teeth crack. He hit him again and felt some teeth break free.
Robert sank to his knees, blood bubbling out of his lips.
"How do you like your present, you crazy little motherfucker?" Ordway asked as he brought his knee up to Cordova's chin.