The Bootlegger’s Legacy (24 page)

“Well, I’ll pass that along to Bill. I’m fairly new to this area and don’t have all of the history. I know Bill Bates and Jim Emerson are not buds. Anyway, sounds like you had a busy day. Now, let’s go see what is in that lock box.”

They entered the bank and waited to see Rick Lopez. He walked out to where they were sitting. “I’ve got some bad news for you. I’ve been told that our legal counsel can’t approve you opening the lock box today. I have to admit I’m a little surprised because when I talked to him earlier this afternoon there didn’t appear to be an issue. But I just got off the phone and he said no. I’m really sorry you had to come back and go to all of this trouble, but I guess you’ll have to contact the bank’s lawyer.”

Jeff was not happy. “What the fuck are you talking about? This man has the legal right to access his possessions—your lawyer has made one serious fuck up. I’ll be in court tomorrow and we’ll have access to that lock box.” He was clearly pissed, probably because he’d been embarrassed in front of his clients.

Rick Lopez seemed a little stunned by Jeff’s outburst. He apologized, and once again said he didn’t know what had happen but, without the bank lawyer saying it was okay, he didn’t have the authority to do anything. He said that we should contact the lawyer and see if we could get things cleared up.

Jeff made it clear he didn’t need Rick’s advice.

Joe, Mike, and Jeff headed outside. “I can’t believe this shit. I’m going back to the office right now. I will get hold of this asshole bank attorney and find out what the hell is going on.”

Joe and Mike said they appreciated Jeff seeing what he could do. They were going back to the hotel to try to figure out what they should do next. They said their goodbyes.

Joe stated what they were both thinking. “No coincidence there. Jim Emerson owns the bank. He had something to do with what just happened with that lock box.”

“Yeah, we may be trapped in small town hell.”

When in doubt drink.

Back at the hotel, Mike went off to call Samantha. Joe went to his room to lie down for a while, then decided to call Liz—why the hell not. Of course she wasn’t home. He didn’t leave a message, just headed to the bar.

Mike showed up a little later. “Talked to Jeff. He said he talked to Bates. Bates called the bank’s attorney, but couldn’t get him to move off his position. He said they would file a civil complaint with the local court tomorrow to hear the matter as soon as possible. Jeff still sounded pretty pissed. But, bottom line, he said this could take a few weeks to get resolved.”

“Sounding like we should head home tomorrow.”

“Yep, I agree. I called the airlines and there’s a flight out of El Paso tomorrow at 4:30 getting into OKC about 8:15—I went ahead and booked two seats.”

“I think what I’m going to do in the morning is call Chuck and tell him I want to list the cabin. Even though it’s not settled yet, I’ll ask him to put the paper work together. We can go by tomorrow morning and I’ll sign it. Maybe if he goes ahead and lists it, someone else might be interested. The Sheriff’s deal is probably the best I’ll get, but since there’s going to be a delay anyway I should advertise it and see what happens.”

“Sure, why not. Of course, one point is that if the Sheriff buys it you could cut Chuck out of a fee.”

“Jeez, all of this stuff is giving me a headache. I think I’ll just go ahead and sign the listing with Chuck and let him handle it once Jeff gets the legal okay.”

“Okay by me.” Joe was losing his enthusiasm. He was not real sure why he was even here.

“Joe, I know this trip hasn’t been a lot of fun. Listening to all this crap about my father, having someone shoot at us—not exactly the most fun we ever had. But I want you to know something—if there’s something out there from my dad, I want you to participate in the prize.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Actually, I don’t know exactly. But let’s say there are millions, like he said—you can have half of it.”

“That’s just fucking stupid. First, there is no way there are millions. Your dad had some money and some of it may be in the lock box, but not millions—maybe hundreds or a few thousand. Second, no way I am taking your money left to you by your dad. My god, Mike, you really are fucking stupid.”

“Okay, I’m fucking stupid, and you’re a fucking genius. If there’s nothing but the cabin and a few thousand in the lock box I’ll keep it and pay my accounting bill—okay, asshole? But let’s say there really are millions. You’ve helped me my whole life, and if it was just me by myself I don’t think I’d be have gotten this far in finding whatever there is to find—and I don’t want millions unless we can share.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. Just drop it. If this is something other than bullshit, it’s your money, your cabin, your mother, your father—not mine—so forget it.”

“Wow, what a fucking grouch.”

They ordered drinks and let the conversation drift off into the distance. Neither was going to change his mind. And neither believed there was anything real here anyway, except their friendship.

Several drinks later they had forgotten most of the day’s events and were passionately discussing the likelihood that the OU Sooners would be national champs in football the next season. When things start to get personal, turn to sports.

Las Cruces, New Mexico / Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

The next day they quickly set up an appointment with Chuck and checked out of the hotel. After dropping by and listening to various reasons why Mike should go ahead and sign the listing agreement, which was why he’d come in the first place, he allowed Chuck to convince him and signed it. Chuck said he would do his own quick appraisal of the cabin’s value and let Mike know in a day or two what he thought it was worth. Then they could decide on the listing price.

What should have taken minutes had taken hours—but it was done, and they headed back to the El Paso airport with plenty of time. They agreed that they would check their bags and enjoy a late lunch at the airport before they boarded. Going home was the right decision, but there was a lingering feeling that they hadn’t accomplished as much as they should have.

Joe reminded Mike that their biggest accomplishment was meeting the people who were going to be handling things for him in Las Cruces. Now it’d be easier to deal with them over the phone. Mike agreed. They had a light lunch and a couple of fortifying drinks, then boarded the plane.

The flight was uneventful, though with a little more turbulence than the flight out. As they made their final approach to Oklahoma City, Joe realized that he hadn’t told Liz he was returning. Probably didn’t matter, but it felt rude. Something had to give in their relationship—it couldn’t go on like this. He would have to talk to her. It was approaching nine o’clock—maybe he would run by Triples. No, that was just plain stupid. He would go home and face the music.

The landing was a little rough, but it was good to be home. They said their goodbyes and agreed to make contact in a day or two to discuss the trip and what was left hanging. Joe and Mike went to find their cars in the long-term lot, both of them feeling apprehensive.

Joe arrived home about thirty minutes after he’d picked up his bags at the carousel, officially exhausted. As he approached the house, he could see there were no lights. More than likely, no one was home, and he felt a sense of relief—another sure sign that he really had to deal with Liz about their future. His guess was that Liz would be overjoyed to get a divorce as long as she ended up with every last fucking cent Joe had—which was exactly what was likely to happen.

Entering the house, it became clear that there was no one there. Joe turned on the lights and got the impression that there hadn’t been anyone there for some time. He went into the kitchen and sitting on the kitchen table was a note.

Joe,

I have no idea when you will be home so that you can find this note. I thought about trying to track you down to tell you I wanted a divorce but decided I just did not care that much.

Thanks a lot for keeping me and kids informed about what you are doing. It’s obvious you’re doing something you shouldn’t be—and I will not stand for it. The kids and I have gone to my mother’s in Tulsa. We will stay there until you and I can get the divorce. That’s the only solution to the way you treat me and your children.

You have become a boorish drunk who cares nothing about his family or their welfare. I have tried every way I know to make a good life for you, but you just keep spitting in my face—and that will not continue.

I have hired a lawyer who will contact you (if he can find out where the hell you are) and start the process of us ending this so-called marriage. I don’t hate you, but you cannot treat me and your children like we are not even a part of your life. The kids and I will be fine. We have our faith and many good friends—we do not need you.

Liz

Joe started to cry. He wasn’t sure why—after all, most of what she said was true. A little biased toward her viewpoint, but Joe had become an asshole. He felt alone and unloved, which he now was. He sat at the kitchen table and cried.

He went into his home office and collapsed on the sofa, almost immediately asleep—a very familiar pattern.

The next morning Joe awoke and wasn’t real sure where he was. As it came back to him, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be there at all. He fixed some coffee and re-read Liz’s note. It made him feel bad. He got dressed and decided he’d have to face the world whether he liked it or not. He drove to his office.

As he walked in, Lucille handed him a pile of messages. It crossed Joe’s mind that he hadn’t called Lucille either, but she, without question, did not give a shit. His impression was that she was pissed he was back. If he’d taken the time to have a shot of gin for breakfast, he might have just strangled Lucille first thing. Call the cops and confess. Start his new life as a convicted bitch killer. As it was, if he was going to divorce Liz and give up his kids, along with most of his money, he sure the hell was getting rid of Lucille.

Joe went to his cluttered desk and fell into his chair. The morning has just begun and he was already tired. Most of the messages were from clients wanting one thing or another—nothing critical. There were a couple of messages from Liz. He wasn’t sure that he understood the sequence of the message at the Holiday Inn and these messages—he would think about that later.

He sorted through the client messages and returned some phone calls on the matters that seemed the most urgent—none of them were. After thirty minutes or so he was all caught up. Great. Go away for a few days and your wife divorces you but no one else really much notices. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, so he simply sat there and waited for something to happen—maybe a sign from God.

The phone call from God didn’t come, but one from the fucking devil sure did. Liz’s attorney was a real piece of work. Within seconds he had claimed that Joe had had several extramarital affairs and had squandered most of the family’s vast wealth—and, as a professional, had the skills to earn huge amounts in the future, which should all go to his grieving ex-wife and starving children. Someone else to add to the soon-to-be-killed list.

Surprisingly, Joe was almost calm. He told the man he would have his lawyer contact him and not to call him again, then hung up. Now, of course, he had to hire some goddamn lawyer to exaggerate his side of the deal. Or he could just call the asshole attorney back and say fine, everything was hers—but he would never ever work again so any future earnings would be zero. He honestly wasn’t sure which path to take.

It was early mid-morning, and Joe was basically done for the day. Working hard to support Liz, his kids, her attorney, Lucille, the IRS. Well fuck it—he was not going to do it anymore. Joe, in his amateur way, realized that he was having some kind of crisis, and that a sane person would probably seek the help of a professional. A less-than-sane person would seek help of a bartender—Joe headed to Triples for an early lunch.

Mike took the seat next to Joe at the bar. It was about four in the afternoon. “Hey, little early to be shitfaced isn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Your buddy behind the bar gave me a call—said you might need a ride home.”

“He’s a wise man.”

“Yep, he is.” Mike helped Joe to his car. No question, Joe could not drive—but it was also obvious he needed a friend. Mike drove him home and started a pot of coffee—for himself. Joe fixed a drink. He talked for a while about Liz and the mess he’d made of his life. There were no solutions, just a lot of misery. Joe fell asleep on his couch and Mike went home. He left Joe a note in case he needed a reminder in the morning of where his car was.

The next morning Joe was still not right, but he was no longer thinking about a kill list. Mike’s note was much appreciated since Joe didn’t have a clue where his car was. He called a cab and went to work.

The next few weeks blurred together for Joe. He worked hard and completed a lot of tasks he needed to get done to assist his clients. He’d even been nicer to Lucille, who had not changed at all.