Privileged to Kill Read Free

sheriff’s department…or, as Sheriff Marty Holman was fond of calling our office when he wanted the county legislators to fork over more money, the “Public Safety Building.”
    As I idled the county car down Bustos Avenue, Holman drummed his perfectly trimmed fingernails on the passenger window sill. “Did you see the Register today?”
    “Yes. In fact, it’s in my briefcase here.” I lifted my elbow so he could reach the paper if he wanted it.
    He shook his head and said, “Did you read the editorial?”
    “I read the whole paper. Right down to the last want ad.”
    “That’s right. I forgot that you do that. So what did you think?”
    “Politics is not a hobby I’m considering, Martin. But most of the newspaper’s endorsements made sense.”
    “Ah, most , you say,” and he grinned as if he’d sprung a clever trap. “I was half expecting them to come out in favor of Estelle.”
    I shook my head. “Not likely.”
    “Why not?”
    “Not in this century, Martin. She’s a woman, she’s under thirty, she’s college educated, she’s a Mexican…how many more reasons do they need?”
    “And you’re not going to publicly endorse, are you?”
    “No. And not privately either, for that matter.”
    Holman chuckled and then frowned. “If I win, do you think she’ll quit the department?”
    “I would hope not. But that would probably depend more on you than on her.” I turned at the intersection of Twelfth Street and Bustos, then bumped the patrol car up into the restaurant’s parking lot. Half a dozen cars were parked helter-skelter. Leaning against the building near the west entrance was Wesley Crocker’s overloaded bicycle.
    Holman saw it as well. “Jesus,” he said. “Now there’s hobby for you, Bill. Pedal one of those things from Alaska to Argentina. Or L.A. to New York.”
    I parked the patrol car with its nose facing Bustos Avenue and got out. Holman walked across to the bicycle and scrutinized it. “Look at all this stuff,” he said, pointing at the side packs and front duffel bag. Crocker’s heavy navy surplus coat was folded over the seat. “Probably everything he owns.” He knelt down and looked at the back tire. “Only flat on the bottom,” he said. “I sure as hell would hate to have to push that thing.” He grinned at me. “I haven’t seen a bike like that since the Norman Rockwell covers on the Saturday Evening Post .”
    “Looks like something out of about 1950,” I said.
    “Columbia Roadmaster,” Holman said with authority. “That’s what they called ’em. It’s probably worth some money to a collector.”
    We went inside and Holman wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
    “They’re burning some piñon in the fireplace, Martin. It lends ambiance. They probably prefer to call it ‘aroma.’”
    “Shit, smells like they should clean their chimney.”
    Shari Chino saw us standing in the foyer under the ugly velvet painting of Don Juan de Oñate, his helmet shimmering against a background of gaudy purple and black. If the don had known that he was going to be remembered that way, he might have drowned himself in the El Morro pool up north, instead of carving his paso por aqui on Inscription Rock.
    Shari hustled over. “Two for dinner?”
    I nodded, but Holman saw an opportunity. He painted on his best public relations smile and handed Shari one of his campaign cards.
    “Appreciate your vote,” he said.
    “Do you want your usual table, sir?” Shari asked me, deftly sliding the campaign card into her apron pocket without a glance. That was one vote for Estelle Reyes-Guzman. Holman kept smiling. She led us back to an isolated alcove whose tinted window faced Twelfth Street.
    “I’ve lived in Posadas for thirty years,” Holman said as we settled into the fake-leather-upholstered booth. “Don’t ask me why, but I have. How come I don’t have a ‘usual table’ anywhere, except home?”
    “One of the very few advantages of living alone,” I