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Book: Tularosa: A Kevin Kerney Novel (Kevin Kerney Novels) by Michael McGarrity
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Authors: Michael McGarrity
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both did good work."
"Any time. Lieutenant," the gangly kid replied, his face breaking into a big smile. The officers watched the door slam shut behind Kerney, looked at each other, and went to find the incoming shift. The troops would definitely want to hear about the new lieutenant with the bad leg, searching for a missing soldier, who seemed to be the sheriffs friend. *** According to the insurance agent, Sammy had asked for a rate quote for a Toyota he planned to buy from D amp;B Auto Sales. Kerney found the used-car dealership along a four-lane highway on the outskirts of the city. The business, situated on a long, narrow lot, consisted of an old residence converted to an office, a detached single-car garage that served as a repair shop, and fifty or so cars parked under pennants strung between light poles. On top of the office a billboard announced that the dealer would finance any car with a low down payment.
Kerney parked on the street and walked between tightly packed rows of cars to the office. It was unoccupied. At the far corner of the lot, a portly older man was talking to a young Hispanic couple and gesturing at a black Pontiac Firebird with a customized paint job. He spied Kerney and waved. Kerney waved back and waited, his attention drawn to the angry yellow sky.
The evening winds were kicking up a dust storm on the desert beyond the river valley. Billowing plumes of sand diffused the sunlight, creating a false sense of coolness. It was still hot as hell and dry as a bone, but the clouds told of a big blow and the promise of rain sometime soon.
As a boy Kerney had stretched his imagination in those clouds, even as he learned to read them from his father, who ranched with one eye on the stock and the other on the weather. The salesman walked the young couple to their car, talking vigorously and pointing back at the Firebird. The man shook his hand, got the girl in the car, and drove away. Kerney met the salesman halfway across the lot.
He was a roly-poly fellow with a chubby face burned bright pink by the sun.
"How you doing today?" The man asked, extending his hand.
"I'm Dewey Boursard." Kerney identified himself and showed Boursard his badge.
"My lot boy said the police had called here a while ago. I was picking up a new battery at the time. He doesn't speak very good English, so he didn't tell me very much."
"Do you remember a soldier by the name of Sammy Yazzi who wanted to buy a Toyota?" Dewey smiled.
"Almost closed the deal. He was interested in a nice little Toyota subcompact. Came in twice to look at it. Second time I knocked the price down a little and he gave me a hundred dollars in earnest money to hold it until he could arrange financing.
"I sure thought I had a sale. Those Army boys don't get paid enough to give up a hundred dollars that easy. I held that car way past the delivery date. Cherry little vehicle. Low mileage. One owner. I even tried to call him at the base to let him know I'd finance the contract myself if he was having trouble getting a loan."
"Did you get through to him?"
"No. I left a message. He never called back."
"Do you still have the car?" Dewey smiled and shook his head.
"That puppy sold real fast. A college kid from the university bought it. I advertise in the student newspaper. Get a lot of my business from the kids out there."
"Did he ever drive the vehicle?"
"Both times he was here," Dewey replied.
"The second time he came in, he brought a buddy along with him."
"Tell me about the buddy," Kerney invited. Dewey pursed his lips.
"I didn't catch his name. He was a black man. A little shorter than you. Maybe six feet tall. He looked to be twenty-five or so, I'd guess. Had an East Coast accent. A mechanic."
"Why do you say that?"
"He drove a '68 Ford Mustang he restored himself. I offered to buy it. Mint condition. Real collector's car."
"That doesn't make him a mechanic."
"He knew cars. Went over that Toyota real careful-like. I think he tagged along to
"Any time. Lieutenant," the gangly kid replied, his face breaking into a big smile. The officers watched the door slam shut behind Kerney, looked at each other, and went to find the incoming shift. The troops would definitely want to hear about the new lieutenant with the bad leg, searching for a missing soldier, who seemed to be the sheriffs friend. *** According to the insurance agent, Sammy had asked for a rate quote for a Toyota he planned to buy from D amp;B Auto Sales. Kerney found the used-car dealership along a four-lane highway on the outskirts of the city. The business, situated on a long, narrow lot, consisted of an old residence converted to an office, a detached single-car garage that served as a repair shop, and fifty or so cars parked under pennants strung between light poles. On top of the office a billboard announced that the dealer would finance any car with a low down payment.
Kerney parked on the street and walked between tightly packed rows of cars to the office. It was unoccupied. At the far corner of the lot, a portly older man was talking to a young Hispanic couple and gesturing at a black Pontiac Firebird with a customized paint job. He spied Kerney and waved. Kerney waved back and waited, his attention drawn to the angry yellow sky.
The evening winds were kicking up a dust storm on the desert beyond the river valley. Billowing plumes of sand diffused the sunlight, creating a false sense of coolness. It was still hot as hell and dry as a bone, but the clouds told of a big blow and the promise of rain sometime soon.
As a boy Kerney had stretched his imagination in those clouds, even as he learned to read them from his father, who ranched with one eye on the stock and the other on the weather. The salesman walked the young couple to their car, talking vigorously and pointing back at the Firebird. The man shook his hand, got the girl in the car, and drove away. Kerney met the salesman halfway across the lot.
He was a roly-poly fellow with a chubby face burned bright pink by the sun.
"How you doing today?" The man asked, extending his hand.
"I'm Dewey Boursard." Kerney identified himself and showed Boursard his badge.
"My lot boy said the police had called here a while ago. I was picking up a new battery at the time. He doesn't speak very good English, so he didn't tell me very much."
"Do you remember a soldier by the name of Sammy Yazzi who wanted to buy a Toyota?" Dewey smiled.
"Almost closed the deal. He was interested in a nice little Toyota subcompact. Came in twice to look at it. Second time I knocked the price down a little and he gave me a hundred dollars in earnest money to hold it until he could arrange financing.
"I sure thought I had a sale. Those Army boys don't get paid enough to give up a hundred dollars that easy. I held that car way past the delivery date. Cherry little vehicle. Low mileage. One owner. I even tried to call him at the base to let him know I'd finance the contract myself if he was having trouble getting a loan."
"Did you get through to him?"
"No. I left a message. He never called back."
"Do you still have the car?" Dewey smiled and shook his head.
"That puppy sold real fast. A college kid from the university bought it. I advertise in the student newspaper. Get a lot of my business from the kids out there."
"Did he ever drive the vehicle?"
"Both times he was here," Dewey replied.
"The second time he came in, he brought a buddy along with him."
"Tell me about the buddy," Kerney invited. Dewey pursed his lips.
"I didn't catch his name. He was a black man. A little shorter than you. Maybe six feet tall. He looked to be twenty-five or so, I'd guess. Had an East Coast accent. A mechanic."
"Why do you say that?"
"He drove a '68 Ford Mustang he restored himself. I offered to buy it. Mint condition. Real collector's car."
"That doesn't make him a mechanic."
"He knew cars. Went over that Toyota real careful-like. I think he tagged along to
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