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Onofre’s prominence in this trade had long ago earned him the title of the Staurolite Baron.

At least twice a week, during dry spring, summer, and autumn days, Onofre loaded his truck with grandchildren and great-grandchildren and barreled up one canyon or another to hillsides positively reeking of pulverized rocks among which a diligent kid, given four or five hours and a dime per salable staurolite, could usually find at least a dozen of the lovely little curiosities.

Joe and Nancy Mondragon were hunched over beers at the bar; the Staurolite Baron, Onofre Martinez, was hunched over the pay pool table quietly shooting up a rack; and Tranquilino Jeantete was hunched in his wooden chair behind the bar.

Onofre’s three-legged shepherd leaped to the ground as the Staurolite Baron slammed the door, and, with a triumphant grin riding on his face like a soaring hawk, Onofre pulled out the driver’s side windshield wiper, making it that much easier for Bernabe to slide his ticket into place.

One reason they usually parked elsewhere was because one-armed Onofre Martinez, the Staurolite Baron and father of Bruno Martinez the cop, always parked his mottled-green, 1953 Chevy pickup in front of the meter.