and more computers.
Posadas County residents hadn’t paid a cent in raised taxes for the expensive renovation. The gleaming hardware, updated information-retrieval systems, and even the new furniture were all testimony to Sheriff Martin Holman’s grant-writing talents. No one had ever convinced me that a tiny New Mexican county with fewer than eleven thousand residents needed any of it, but I had learned to keep quiet.
Parts of the renovation I liked. Parts of it made me grimace.
In most places throughout the building, the floor was beautiful polished tile that didn’t generate either static or warmth. It was easy for a lackadaisical trusty to mop clean, and drunks could vomit all over it, or even bleed on it, and it could be wiped clean in a jiffy. On a cold winter’s day, it was as comforting as an ice cube.
The tile ended outside my door, and I could walk across aging boot-polished wood to my leather swivel chair and oak desk. But sure enough, time marched on. A single computer terminal perched on my desk, its bland face dark.
And it stayed dark, most of the time. In spare moments the previous spring, Gayle Sedillos had surreptitiously helped me explore some of the machine’s surface mysteries. When things were really slow—say in deep February on a weekday night—it was sort of fun to watch the toasters float across the monitor’s face. Sheriff Holman had been quick to point out that the screen-saver program, flying toasters and all, was somehow more economical that just leaving the damn thing turned off.
That was as far as I’d gotten. Estelle Reyes-Guzman could make the computer do magic, of course, and that was just fine with me.
That evening, Gayle followed me to the door of my office. She waited patiently while I found the correct key. “Sir,” Gayle Sedillos said as I headed for my desk, “there are a couple of messages that came for you this afternoon.”
“Aren’t you due to go home?” I asked, taking the yellow slips of “While You Were Out” paper from her.
“I thought I’d stay for a few minutes and give Ernie a hand,” she said. Ernie Wheeler, our other senior dispatcher, didn’t need any hand. He was as steady as they come.
I glanced at the clock and saw that it was after seven. “Don’t wear yourself out,” I said. “Something may break tomorrow. We’ll need you sharp.”
Gayle nodded and turned to go. “And Estelle just called,” she added over her shoulder. “She wondered if you were here yet.”
“I’m here,” I said. My daughter had indeed overheard the conversation up on Cat Mesa that promised a visit to the office, and as part of a compromise package with Camille, I had agreed to spend most of the day resting. At first, it had seemed like a waste of time, but then I got a lot of thinking done.
I looked at the papers Gayle had handed me. One of the slips was from Marjorie Davis, asking if I’d call her at home when I got in. After twenty-five years of watching reporters work, I knew damn well what the problem was. It wasn’t just that the youngster was lost on the mesa.
The Register had a midweek edition coming out, and that meant Ms. Davis was staring at a deadline, with editor/publisher Frank Dayan staring at her. If something broke and they missed it, all the metro dailies around the state would beat the little Posadas Register to an important local story, and the Register would end up looking lame and late playing catch-up the following Friday.
I dropped the note on my desk blotter, near the phone, and grinned. The double whammy was that Wednesday was the day the grocery stores ran their full-page ad spreads. That meant lots of readership for the right story, if it broke in a timely fashion.
“Marjorie, Marjorie,” I said, and looked at the other notes. One was from Sam Preston at Preston and Sons Real Estate, and I knew what he wanted. The third was from Stanley Willit, with an out-of-state area code. Gayle’s neat handwriting recorded that he’d
Posadas County residents hadn’t paid a cent in raised taxes for the expensive renovation. The gleaming hardware, updated information-retrieval systems, and even the new furniture were all testimony to Sheriff Martin Holman’s grant-writing talents. No one had ever convinced me that a tiny New Mexican county with fewer than eleven thousand residents needed any of it, but I had learned to keep quiet.
Parts of the renovation I liked. Parts of it made me grimace.
In most places throughout the building, the floor was beautiful polished tile that didn’t generate either static or warmth. It was easy for a lackadaisical trusty to mop clean, and drunks could vomit all over it, or even bleed on it, and it could be wiped clean in a jiffy. On a cold winter’s day, it was as comforting as an ice cube.
The tile ended outside my door, and I could walk across aging boot-polished wood to my leather swivel chair and oak desk. But sure enough, time marched on. A single computer terminal perched on my desk, its bland face dark.
And it stayed dark, most of the time. In spare moments the previous spring, Gayle Sedillos had surreptitiously helped me explore some of the machine’s surface mysteries. When things were really slow—say in deep February on a weekday night—it was sort of fun to watch the toasters float across the monitor’s face. Sheriff Holman had been quick to point out that the screen-saver program, flying toasters and all, was somehow more economical that just leaving the damn thing turned off.
That was as far as I’d gotten. Estelle Reyes-Guzman could make the computer do magic, of course, and that was just fine with me.
That evening, Gayle followed me to the door of my office. She waited patiently while I found the correct key. “Sir,” Gayle Sedillos said as I headed for my desk, “there are a couple of messages that came for you this afternoon.”
“Aren’t you due to go home?” I asked, taking the yellow slips of “While You Were Out” paper from her.
“I thought I’d stay for a few minutes and give Ernie a hand,” she said. Ernie Wheeler, our other senior dispatcher, didn’t need any hand. He was as steady as they come.
I glanced at the clock and saw that it was after seven. “Don’t wear yourself out,” I said. “Something may break tomorrow. We’ll need you sharp.”
Gayle nodded and turned to go. “And Estelle just called,” she added over her shoulder. “She wondered if you were here yet.”
“I’m here,” I said. My daughter had indeed overheard the conversation up on Cat Mesa that promised a visit to the office, and as part of a compromise package with Camille, I had agreed to spend most of the day resting. At first, it had seemed like a waste of time, but then I got a lot of thinking done.
I looked at the papers Gayle had handed me. One of the slips was from Marjorie Davis, asking if I’d call her at home when I got in. After twenty-five years of watching reporters work, I knew damn well what the problem was. It wasn’t just that the youngster was lost on the mesa.
The Register had a midweek edition coming out, and that meant Ms. Davis was staring at a deadline, with editor/publisher Frank Dayan staring at her. If something broke and they missed it, all the metro dailies around the state would beat the little Posadas Register to an important local story, and the Register would end up looking lame and late playing catch-up the following Friday.
I dropped the note on my desk blotter, near the phone, and grinned. The double whammy was that Wednesday was the day the grocery stores ran their full-page ad spreads. That meant lots of readership for the right story, if it broke in a timely fashion.
“Marjorie, Marjorie,” I said, and looked at the other notes. One was from Sam Preston at Preston and Sons Real Estate, and I knew what he wanted. The third was from Stanley Willit, with an out-of-state area code. Gayle’s neat handwriting recorded that he’d
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