Free Bag Limit by Steven F. Havill

vehicle, his truck would certainly fool somebody once. Mostly flat black mixed with a little gray primer here and there, the old Chevy was a monstrosity. There was enough junk in the back, behind the ornamental iron scrollwork that protected the back window, that the rig must have weighed three or four tons.
    The front door of the Don Juan was open, but I paused with my hand on the handle, regarding a large, neatly printed sign. When Torrez joined me, I said, “What’s with this?”
    Rather than hasty black marker, someone had taken the time to letter the sign in beautifully decorated calligraphy.
    The Don Juan de Oñate will be closed
all day Nov. 7.
We will reopen Nov. 8 at our usual time.
    He shrugged. “No liquor sales that day anyway until the polls close at seven. Fernando must have decided to take a vacation.”
    “Fine timing.” I pulled open the door. “Where are we supposed to celebrate your win?”
    Torrez caught the door and followed me inside. “At home, maybe?”
    I led the way around various dividers, tables, and the empty salad bar unit and settled in the third booth from the back, where the window faced the parking lot and a fine view to the west. When I slid all the way into the booth, I could see the alcove of the front door.
    Arleen Aragon, the owners’ daughter-in-law, appeared around the divider. “Hey, you guys,” she said. In one sweeping move of her right hand she collected two mugs, and with her left hefted the full coffee carafe.
    “Some night, huh,” she said as she clunked the two cups down on the table in front of us. Apparently everyone in the world had a scanner tuned to the Posadas County hit parade. Or maybe she’d just overprepped the hash browns, blackening the edges. I didn’t pursue what she meant.
    “I guess,” I said. Arleen filled the cups within a hairbreadth of the rims and started to turn away.
    “Neither of you take cream, right?”
    I shook my head.
    “Breakfast?”
    I nodded. She replaced the coffeepot and returned to stand with her hands on her ample hips. “You, I can already guess,” she said, looking at me. “Burrito Grande green, extra smothered, sour cream on the side.”
    “Perfect.”
    “How about you, Bobby?”
    The undersheriff took a deep breath. “I don’t know how hungry I am,” he said, and started to reach for a menu.
    “You gotta eat,” Arleen said. “That’s the number one rule around here. A burrito would do you good. It looks like that wife of yours is starvin’ you.” At six-four and 230 pounds, Robert Torrez wasn’t my idea of undernourished.
    Torrez retreated from the menu. “All right,” he said. “The same.”
    “Except no sour cream, right?”
    Torrez grinned. “Right.”
    “I didn’t think that you liked that gringo stuff,” she said, and punched me on the left arm. “It’ll be a few minutes,” she added. “You kinda caught us before the normal breakfast rush.”
    When she had gone, I took a long sip of the coffee and then said, “You heard about the nine o’clock meeting with Schroeder?”
    Torrez nodded. “I told Brent to give him a call. I didn’t want the DA hearing it from some other source.”
    “Have you been out to see the old man?” Sosimo Baca was ten years younger than I was, but his love of alcohol in any form as long as it was in quantity had his family counting Sosimo’s birthdays in dog years.
    “I went out about four or a little bit before. I woke up Father Anselmo and had him go along.” Torrez grimaced. “Father said he’d been expecting something like this for a long time. He calls Matt
el cachorro impetuoso
. ”
    “Meaning?”
    “A wild pup. Roughly.”
    “And when you two went to Baca’s, are you sure that Sosimo understood what you were talking about?”
    “It appeared so. I made sure that the two girls were awake, too, just to be sure. Sosimo still smelled like a brewery, but the kids understood. I tried to keep it simple.” Torrez paused and took a deep breath. “I