dontravis.com blog post #635
Last
week Monday met Wednesday and Friday, and they got something going together.
This
week, a totally different tone. Hope you enjoy it.
****
ROBERTO DENOFRIO KELLY
Anyone else would introduce
himself as Robert or Bob Kelly, but not Roberto Denofrio Kelly. You got the
full moniker every time. And to top off matters, if you used the familiar with
him, he insisted on Bobo.
“If my proper Christian name
is Roberto, not Robert, then my proper nickname is Bobo, not Bob,” he endlessly
explained.
Roberto always had a flair for
the dramatic, so this affectation should have come as no surprise. It was
easier to tack on the “O” than to argue with him. But I had to get back at him…
just a little bit.
“Well, my name’s properly
Bryson Charles Haggerty, but it’s okay if you call me Bryce.”
He’d been a part of the social
set I ran with long before I moved to Albuquerque, so putting up with him was a
must if I wanted to hang with the others. I often wondered how his wife Estelle
put up with him, but she was a mousy thing who seemed to let a lot of things
sail right over her head… which was probably the answer to my question.
My friends threw me a birthday
party—the first one in my new habitat—at my house this past week. Wasn’t a
surprise. They’d openly planned it for a couple of weeks. I had the grace to be
born in late June so we were able to grill steaks and eat a decorated cake on
the patio. Joe the Jock—probably my closest friend since we worked in the same
law firm—and his wife Francine, Brimley the intellectual—appropriately a
professor of history at UNM—and his wife Nancy, and the Kelly couple laughed
and joked with me for two solid, pleasant hours. I was solo since I’d moved
here last year from back east following the termination of an unhappy marriage.
Did I fail to mention Bobo
owned a popular neighborhood bar not surprisingly called “Roberto’s?” So
naturally, there was a surplus of alcohol at the party. Joe got snockered,
which was unfortunate because he had a court date at ten the next morning. Brimley
drank steadily, but booze seemed to have no effect on him. Bobo didn’t drink
more than the birthday toast. I guess being around alcohol so much left him
looking for other outlets. Oh, I exaggerate. He usually had a glass in his hand
or on a nearby table at the party, but I seldom saw him sip from it. Me, I
simply got pleasantly looped. I had neither a drive home nor a morning court
date, so I was okay.
The ladies pretty well stuck
to their end of the patio, gossiping among themselves, except for the occasion
foray to our end to say hello or plant a peck on an appropriate cheek,
including mine as the birthday boy.
As agreed, the gifts were minor
and jocular—an awful, psychedelic tie that would never adorn my neck, a pair of
equally scandalous socks—but Bobo handed over a bottle of twenty-five-year-old
Laphroaig Scotch that must have cost five hundred bucks. Despite my protest it
was too much, he refused to take it back. So I popped the cork and allowed my
guests to partake of the excellent whiskey or whisky—Bobo informed us that
while Scotch is whiskey, it’s whiskey without the e. Hey, I’m a lawyer,
so I know the law. He’s a barman, so he knows his whisky. However you spell it,
it was outstanding, and probably wasted on that lot.
****
A week later, I returned home
from the office at the same time Bobo pulled up in front of the house in his
Mercedes. We met on the sidewalk and shook hands.
“Bobo,” I acknowledged him,
trying not to smirk as I did so.
“Bryce,” he accordingly
responded. “Glad I caught you. Wanted to talk a little business if you’ve got
the time.”
“Business? Isn’t the place for
that in the office.”
He shook his head. “Not law
office business. Business between you and me.”
Curious, I waved. “Come on in,
and I’ll serve you a drink of twenty-five year-old Scotch some generous soul
gave me.”
We mentioned the beautiful weather
and the state of the union and other tidbits while I poured. Then we took seats
in my den.
As he settled himself into an
easy chair across from me, it dawned on me he was a good-looking man with an
easy manner. Perfect for a lounge owner. He could put his customers at ease and
in a drinking mood without breaking a sweat. “What can I do for you?” I probed.
“Appreciate it if we can keep
this confidential. Just between us.”
I went on guard. “Sure, if I
can. I mean—”
“I know what you mean. Shouldn’t
be any problem.” He paused for a sip of his drink. “I’m not certain how much
you know about New Mexico liquor laws.” He hesitated.
“Not much,” I filled in the pause.
“My practice hasn’t rubbed up against the Alcohol and Gaming Division much so
far.”
“Well, to put it succinctly, I’d
like you to obtain a dispenser’s license. You get it, and I’ll lease it from
you.”
“Why?”
“I want to open a new place.”
“You have a license.”
“Yes, but in New Mexico you
can’t split licenses. Need one for each place of business. But you can lease
them. That’s what I want to do.”
“Have your wife or son get
one.”
“I don’t have children, and I
don’t involve my wife in my business.”
“Not even as a place holder?”
“Not even as a place holder.
Let me tell you what I have in mind. I’ve got a prime spot in the North Valley
on hold. It’ll attract a totally different crowd from Roberto’s. I’ve got a
young Latino on salary as my assistant manager. Bright young fellow in his
thirties. Good at working with the crowd. Understands the business. He’ll
manage it for me.”
“Then have him get the
license.”
Bobo wrinkled his brow. “I’d
rather risk half a million on a solid, reputable professional man.”
I felt my eyebrows climb. “It
cost’s half a million dollars to get a license in this state?”
“Naw. Costs between five and
ten grand, depending upon the type, but we’re limited to the number of licenses
the state can issue, so that means new bars have to buy or lease existing licenses.”
“Where would I find one?”
“I’ve located one.
“Then lease it from the owner.”
“The old boy’s in his nineties.
Doesn’t want to lease. Wants to sell, but I already own a license and can’t buy
it. That’s where you come in. Interested.”
“I don’t have five-hundred
thousand to invest.”
“Don’t have to. I’ve got it
worked out. That way, your lease fee is pure profit.”
Both my interest and my
antennae rose. My ex took a hell of a lot of my assets with her in the divorce…
but for some reason this just didn’t seem right.
****
Smells fishy
to me too, but the liquor license game has been going on in New Mexico for a
long, long time, so I guess we shouldn’t rush judgment. Let’s let it play out
next week.
Until then, stay safe and stay strong.
Now my
mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so
say it!
Please
check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra
Incident and ending with The Cutie-Pie Murders.
My
personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com.
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3
See you next Thursday.
Don
New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.
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