Chapter 12
Keith and Clark walked into the lobby of the Hotel Albuquerque shortly after five. Wade rose to his feet in anticipation when he spotted them across the long lobby. Keith opened the conversation with the introductions, “Wade, this is my younger brother, Clark. He’s somewhat familiar with the area you have in mind and I thought he might be helpful in answering your questions.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said Wade looking up at Clark. Wade was the type to assume subordination solely due to a greater physical stature. “I’d like supper for you all to be my treat.”
Having seen this obsequious reaction by others now fairly often, Clark smiled and allowed his hand to virtually engulf Wade’s. “Delightful, I accept,” said Clark. “Where are we going?” he asked of Keith.
“I thought Las Mañanitas would be convenient as well as having a bearing on the subject at hand even though a number of years removed. Wade, I’ll drive. Let’s allow your wheels some well deserved rest.”
“Sounds good to me. What’s the connection of the restaurant?” asked Wade.
The conversation stopped as they worked their way through the revolving doors out to the front parking lot. Finally, Keith continued, “Las Mañanitas is a restaurant now owned by one of the area’s new car dealers. Prior to that, it was owned by one of our grandfather’s fraternity brothers and they held numerous rush parties there in grampa’s college days. And well before that, it was once a stagecoach station on the old Albuquerque to Cabezón run.” Wade nodded his head in acknowledgement. Since the restaurant was just straight up Rio Grande Boulevard from the hotel, they arrived in minutes.
It took awhile for all three to negotiate the multitude of small rooms and the extremely low lintels of the doors between them. These especially discombobulated Clark. The immediate service of chips and salsa, however, assuaged his displeasure as food almost always did. As they admired the ‘ojos’ and other decorations on the walls, Keith looked to Wade apologetically and said, “More chile, I’m afraid, but it’s hard to avoid in New Mexico. I’m sure that you will enjoy the tacos. They’re not hot. Or you can opt out completely with the hamburguesa.”
“Actually, I think I’ll order some guacamole. I like avocados and, besides my car, my stomach too could use a little respite,” laughed Wade. “You know, I’ve noticed that sometimes menus spell it ‘c-h-i-l-e’ and sometimes ‘c-h-i-l-i’. What’s the deal?”
Clark took that one. “The official spelling by act of the state legislature is ‘chile’ with the ‘e’. The only ones who spell it ‘chili’ with the ‘i’ are big chain restaurants and other outsiders who don’t know better. And our chile doesn’t look like, doesn’t taste like, and isn’t made like Texas chili or Cincinnati five ways chili.”
They all placed their orders. Keith had a chicken enchilada and Clark had a beef enchilada. Both rejected rolled and opted for flat. Upon further questioning by the waitress, Keith chose green chile and Clark chose red. Upon further questioning, Keith chose mild and Clark chose hot. “No kidding,” continued Clark, “the state legislature also passed the official state question ‘red or green?’ Our grandparents had a foreign exchange student live with them a number of years ago. It was her observation that you can’t get anything to eat in New Mexico without answering a half dozen questions.” Coffee and dessert supplemented their entrees. They all tried cherry empanadas, a traditional fried pie, for dessert.
After a quick tour of the facility, they had no doubt that it might have once served as a stagecoach station. The bill having been paid, the three returned to Keith’s car and Wade was asked to brief both of them on just what this so-called ‘treasure hunt’ was and what he had in mind.
Wade’s story went like this: “My daddy is in the precious metals recapture business in western Tennessee. He also buys gold and silver jewelry, copper wire, surplus metals, scrap metals, old photographic material, whatever. Prices are right and business is good. If it can be recycled, he’ll buy it. My first cousin was workin’ for an electric company in northwestern New Mexico last year when they were constructin’ a new set of power lines from the four corners area down to Albuquerque. He heard about a solid silver bell that had been abandoned in a church that has been deconsecrated in a ghost town named Cabezón. The bell, albeit relatively small, had been cast and shipped up from Guanajuato supposedly over three hundred years ago. My father’s partner swears that that bell is up for grabs. It’s just like a ship at sea devoid of all personnel, a derelict. It’s a maverick and my pa is payin’ me and all my expenses to go get it. You thought I was funnin’ you before, Keith, but here I am and I aim to please my daddy.”
“Je me souviens,” remarked Keith, smiling only at his quick application of the motto he had recently seen on a Quebec license plate.
“What on earth does that mean?” responded Wade somewhat irritably.
“It’s ‘I remember’ in French,” said Keith wishing that he had not spoken at all.
“If that’s true and you’re going to fetch it, the window is about to close because as soon as a local rain falls in there, that caliche gets wet and gets as slippery as monkey mierda and you won’t be able to get in or out of there unless you’re on a horse. It’s dry right now. Every summer, the USGS hauls a trailer in there for temporary housing for a field man to take sediment samples from the upper Rio Puerco and one of its major tributaries, the Arroyo Chico. The trailer is right at the confluence and is about two miles from downtown Cabezón. We towed the trailer in two weeks ago,” said Clark.
“This is some derringdo if you ask me. I don’t claim to be a lawyer,” expounded Keith, “but it seems to me that, while you might not be guilty of desecration which is considered a very serious act in this state, you certainly would be guilty of grand larceny. Surely, that whole town, that is what there is of it, belongs to somebody. Have you ever seen anyone in there, Clark?”
“I haven’t personally, but guys in the office, who have spent the summer up there, tell me it serves as a line camp for the ranch so a couple of vaqueros are in and out of there from time to time. I believe it’s the Montoya ranch. And the Sandoval County Sheriff is a Montoya, Feliciano ‘Happy’ Montoya,” answered Clark.
Clark’s statement got Wade’s attention. “What’s a vaquero?”
Keith answered, “That’s ‘cowboy’ in Spanish. Early cowhands had trouble with the pronunciation. It finally worked out as ‘buck-a-roo’ for Anglos. It’s probably the sheriff you should worry most about. According to the gossip mill, he shoots first and asks questions later.”
“Does this Sheriff Montoya own part of the Montoya Ranch?” quizzed Wade.
“I don’t know, but they’re all related up there in Sandoval County. The family practically runs the courthouse,” Keith replied.
With the county seat of Sandoval County, Bernalillo, in mind, Wade relented some. “Maybe I should mosey up to Los Montoyas and nose around a little in the public records,” Wade said to Keith with a little wink.
For the first time in several days, Keith was feeling a degree of deliverance. The last part of this discussion took place in the hotel parking lot where they had arrived some time ago. As Wade now got out of the car, he asked, “Either one of you want to go for a little ride tomorrow?”
Keith and Clark replied at the same time in almost the same words, “Gotta work tomorrow, thank you very much for supper!” Keith added, “Call me when you get back.”
Clark’s “Pleased to meet you, Wade” got lost in the cacophony of a car door shutting and an engine coming to life.
Keith mumbled to Clark, “I don’t mind telling you that I’m getting bad vibes from this ‘Cabezón Campanile Caper’. This whole thing can’t end too soon!”
Harrell Wade went into the El Mescal Bar in his hotel for a nightcap. There was not much going on so he struck up a conversation with the barkeep. “ How you doin’, my good man,” queried Wade.
“Name’s Ralph. Tips are down, but quiet nights are good now and
again. I’m glad you survived your bout with the tequila girls. They come in about once a week and get the place hopping. What’ll you have tonight?”
“A Dos Equis sounds good, if you would, please. I see you’ve got a Go Hawkeyes sticker on the mirror. You go to school at the University of Iowa?”
“Nah! I was a real fan though. I worked just up the road in Cedar Rapids for Collins Radio before I got laid off and came down here to warm up,” replied Ralph as he served up the cerveza and then reached up to turn down the volume on the TV.
“What’s in the news today, anything of interest? asked Wade.
“Same ol’, same ol’,” replied Ralph. “Although they got the guys who stole the truckload of solar panels that were manufactured just south of here. Did you here about the paintings from the museum in my old hometown? Somebody made off with three Grant Wood paintings from there that I really liked. The most famous one is named American Gothic and everybody recognizes it. I don’t know if anyone has been arrested, but the cops located it within three days probably with the help of snitches, God bless’em. No news on the painting called Arbor Day as yet – it was my second favorite. It’s a grabber for mid-westerners because it shows a group of children planting a tree in a country schoolyard. The third one, lesser known, but probably equal in value in the art world, is a canvas called Young Corn. It’s a great agricultural landscape. Look! There’s a picture of the two missing paintings on the TV now. That’s Young Corn on the right with the contoured plantings on the rolling hills. Isn’t that a beaut? Supposedly, they had a hot lead on that one too that traced to some art dealer in western Arkansas, but the guy had apparently kicked off with a heart attack. Serves ’im right, I think. So it’s still missing; I hope they get the bastards.”
Wade suddenly started to sweat. He chugged the rest of his beer and bid Ralph a good evening. Fortunately, Wade had taken the ‘package’ with him up to his room when he checked in. With quivering hands, he carefully unwrapped the package enough to reveal the contents. It was a painting all right, but it had nothing to do with corn. It was a landscape of Pinnacle Mountain near the confluence of the Big Maumelle River and the Arkansas River just upstream from Little Rock according to a sticker on the back. Wade liked the picture; the mountain looked like a big breast to him. Not that he ever claimed to be an aficionado, but the artist was unknown to Wade. His heart had been racing, but Wade was now himself once again. He carefully re-wrapped the painting. Stashing it somewhere per his pa’s instruction ought not be as difficult as he had been making it out to be. In fact, he had an idea even now...and probably the sooner the better. With a degree of smugness about him, Wade called Keith.
“Keith, Wade. I forgot to mention something earlier this evening. I bought a mountainscape painting that I really liked as I was coming west, but I’ve got a problem. You remember that I had that old Chevy Citation? Well, it finally gave up the ghost. I got a replacement car in Los Lunas and the trunk is too small for the painting and I need to store it until I can come fetch it again. My pa warned me never to mail a painting because they are invariably damaged in shipping. You were telling me at school that your grampa’s poolroom needed some decoration. Could we act like the library program in Nashville where you check out paintings for a period? I would sure appreciate it.” Wade concocted that one rather easily and was surprised how half-truths worked out so well.
“Not a bad idea; at least I know my grandma would go for it. When shall I pick it up from you? And when do you think you’ll reclaim it? answered Keith.
“It might be a week or it might be 6 months before I get back here, but that’s no problem from my point of view. If you could pick it up here within the next three days, I could tag it for you and check it with the bell captain,” proclaimed Wade.
“Sounds like a plan. Thank you. I’ll take care of it for you,” said Keith.