there’s an earthquake tremor or a sonic boom, run for your goddamn life.”
“I’ll just follow you,
Padrino
,” she said. Bill Gastner had recently celebrated his seventy-first birthday, and
spry
wouldn’t have been the first word Estelle would have chosen to describe his movements. At that particular moment, she was glad of it. Thirty pounds overweight, with bifocals that he’d worn for ten years but never gotten used to, Gastner stepped with methodical care, often punctuating a lapse of balance with colorful expletives reminiscent of his early years in the Marine Corps. More than once, he reached out to pat a thrusting fender, and whether it was to restore balance or just a moment of private reminiscence, Estelle couldn’t guess.
After working their way back through another decade of cars, they reached the tall, weathered board fence that marked the rear boundary of Florek’s Wrecking Yard. Set tightly edge-to-edge when they’d been first nailed into place thirty years before, the six-foot tall boards had shrunken over the years, leaving a half inch gap between.
“The spot I want is right beside that old dump truck,” Gastner said, pointing to his right. The Diamond Reo truck was doing a fair job of sinking into the sand, its stripped remains bleached by the New Mexico sun and rusted to an even reddish-brown patina.
He picked his way along the truck’s hulk to a spot where the rear of the frame was snugged up against the fence. “Box seats,” he said. With one hand on the fence boards, he stepped up onto the frame with a grunt. He extended a hand to Estelle. She rested the camera bag on the truck’s brown skeleton and stepped up beside Bill Gastner.
Feeling like a little kid outside the fence at a baseball game, Estelle leaned against the warm wood. A dozen yards from the fence, five goats looked up at her, their eyes noncommittal and jaws idly oscillating. Eleanor Pope’s dwelling was one of those interesting affairs that had grown over the years into a hodgepodge of angles and alcoves. What had started out as a single twelve-by-sixty mobile home was now two trailers, joined in a T, with a framed addition budding out of the middle, its roof somehow tarred onto the metal of the trailers. If it didn’t rain, it didn’t leak.
A vast collection of outbuildings filled the acre behind the house, together with half a dozen fifty-five-gallon drums lying on their sides. Two of the ones closest to the fence had wire mesh over the open ends. Estelle frowned. “What’s in the drums?”
“Rabbits,” Gastner muttered. He nodded off to the right. Meeting Florek’s fence at a right angle was a row of metal-roofed sheds, each with a fair imitation of a two-by-six framed half door. “Here. Take a close look at the sheds.” He held out a small pair of binoculars. Estelle took them and adjusted the focus and spread until the images jumped into sharp detail.
“What are those? Burros?”
“Miniature donkeys,” Gastner said.
“It’s hard to see with the shadows.” She scanned the four stalls.
“How many do you count?”
“It’s almost impossible to tell,” she said. Bracing the binoculars against the wooden fence, she concentrated on the first stall. “They’re packed in there like sardines. I think I see six in that first stall, maybe—but I can’t see into the back. It’s too dark.”
“I counted eight yesterday,” Gastner said. “And I estimate that stall is twelve by twelve. No bigger than that. Eight animals in one stall.”
“And the others are the same?”
“I expect so. Maybe thirty of the damn little things in four stalls. It’s a wonder that they don’t kick themselves silly. Might as well jam ’em all in a livestock trailer.”
Estelle lowered the binoculars and turned to look at Gastner. “What’s going on, sir? What’s she doing with them?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say that she’s acting as a motel.”
“I don’t follow.”
“A bit of a tip came my way.
“I’ll just follow you,
Padrino
,” she said. Bill Gastner had recently celebrated his seventy-first birthday, and
spry
wouldn’t have been the first word Estelle would have chosen to describe his movements. At that particular moment, she was glad of it. Thirty pounds overweight, with bifocals that he’d worn for ten years but never gotten used to, Gastner stepped with methodical care, often punctuating a lapse of balance with colorful expletives reminiscent of his early years in the Marine Corps. More than once, he reached out to pat a thrusting fender, and whether it was to restore balance or just a moment of private reminiscence, Estelle couldn’t guess.
After working their way back through another decade of cars, they reached the tall, weathered board fence that marked the rear boundary of Florek’s Wrecking Yard. Set tightly edge-to-edge when they’d been first nailed into place thirty years before, the six-foot tall boards had shrunken over the years, leaving a half inch gap between.
“The spot I want is right beside that old dump truck,” Gastner said, pointing to his right. The Diamond Reo truck was doing a fair job of sinking into the sand, its stripped remains bleached by the New Mexico sun and rusted to an even reddish-brown patina.
He picked his way along the truck’s hulk to a spot where the rear of the frame was snugged up against the fence. “Box seats,” he said. With one hand on the fence boards, he stepped up onto the frame with a grunt. He extended a hand to Estelle. She rested the camera bag on the truck’s brown skeleton and stepped up beside Bill Gastner.
Feeling like a little kid outside the fence at a baseball game, Estelle leaned against the warm wood. A dozen yards from the fence, five goats looked up at her, their eyes noncommittal and jaws idly oscillating. Eleanor Pope’s dwelling was one of those interesting affairs that had grown over the years into a hodgepodge of angles and alcoves. What had started out as a single twelve-by-sixty mobile home was now two trailers, joined in a T, with a framed addition budding out of the middle, its roof somehow tarred onto the metal of the trailers. If it didn’t rain, it didn’t leak.
A vast collection of outbuildings filled the acre behind the house, together with half a dozen fifty-five-gallon drums lying on their sides. Two of the ones closest to the fence had wire mesh over the open ends. Estelle frowned. “What’s in the drums?”
“Rabbits,” Gastner muttered. He nodded off to the right. Meeting Florek’s fence at a right angle was a row of metal-roofed sheds, each with a fair imitation of a two-by-six framed half door. “Here. Take a close look at the sheds.” He held out a small pair of binoculars. Estelle took them and adjusted the focus and spread until the images jumped into sharp detail.
“What are those? Burros?”
“Miniature donkeys,” Gastner said.
“It’s hard to see with the shadows.” She scanned the four stalls.
“How many do you count?”
“It’s almost impossible to tell,” she said. Bracing the binoculars against the wooden fence, she concentrated on the first stall. “They’re packed in there like sardines. I think I see six in that first stall, maybe—but I can’t see into the back. It’s too dark.”
“I counted eight yesterday,” Gastner said. “And I estimate that stall is twelve by twelve. No bigger than that. Eight animals in one stall.”
“And the others are the same?”
“I expect so. Maybe thirty of the damn little things in four stalls. It’s a wonder that they don’t kick themselves silly. Might as well jam ’em all in a livestock trailer.”
Estelle lowered the binoculars and turned to look at Gastner. “What’s going on, sir? What’s she doing with them?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say that she’s acting as a motel.”
“I don’t follow.”
“A bit of a tip came my way.
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