Bad Country: A Novel

by CB McKenzie

  I need some work, Luis.

  I got something for you over on Tuxson Res, your home turf, Luis said. An old woman she wants you to look out about her grandson’s killing. Familia name’s Rocha.

  I don’t know her, Rodeo said. She know me?

  She knows about you at least.

  All the Indians I ever known on the Res are poor, said Rodeo.

  You got anything better to do, brother?

  Rodeo shook his head. The 800 numbers attached to his listings for “Private Investigator” in the Yellow Pages of Tucson, Casa Grande, Phoenix, Scottsdale, Tempe, Nogales, Los Cruces, Silver City and El Paso had not rung in weeks though his renewal payments for these advertisements were past due.

  What’s the job, Luis?

  This kid’s death, it’s probably just a drive-by and not much you can do about it anyway, Luis said. But it should be a day or two cash wages.

  What killed him?

  It’s a mystery, Luis said. Some cowboy found the Rocha kid up under some brush in the Santa Cruz riverbed near the Res. The kid might have been shot off the Starr Pass Road bridge or just fell off.

  Rodeo shook his head.

  For ten dollars I can get you a folder together on the whole thing if you’ll come by tomorrow? Give you something to do.

  Rodeo sat for a moment staring at his hocked objects under the glass top of the counter.

  I’ll have to owe you the ten for the contact, he said.

  I’ll put it on your tab, little brother. Luis pulled a pencil stub from behind a cauliflower ear and scribbled on a notepad. You staying out at the Estates then? Even with a dead man in your yard?

  They’ll move him eventually, said Rodeo.

  The sheriff’s car horn honked and Rodeo whistled up the dog who stirred himself with great effort.

  That old dog he’s driving you to financial ruin, Luis said. For ten dollars I could shoot him dead for you. Be painless for you both.

  I’ll shoot my own dog and save the ten dollars when it comes to that, Rodeo said. He scooped up the dog in two arms and carried him out of the trading post. The sky was clear but for one small, silvery cloud suspended over El Hoyo like a weather balloon. Rodeo established the dog in his regular depression on the bench seat of the pickup. The dog went immediately back to sleep as he always did when he was tired or bored.

  Rodeo moved to the double gas tanks of his pickup, uncapped one and plugged in the unleaded nozzle, set the pump on automatic. He added a quart of Dollar Store forty weight to the crankcase of the F-150 without even checking the dipstick. When he looked at the tally on the pump he did not fail to notice that Luis Azul Encarnacion had allowed him twice what he had paid for. He recapped the rear gas tank, hopped in the truck, rubbed his dog’s head for luck and aimed his pickup at the county road. It took fifteen minutes to get back to the murder site where vultures and crows feasted on and fought over the corpse dressed in a shirt of blue, white and mostly red.

  * * *

  Rodeo parked his truck well behind a black-on-black Los Jarros County SUV that was parked very near the corpse. Ray Molina parked in front of Rodeo and unfolded out of his county cruiser as if he were measuring the number of moves he made and could not go beyond a certain allowance for the day. Rodeo stayed in his vehicle. The dog stayed where he was in the shotgun seat, whining still about the scent of blood. Deputy Buenjose Contreras did not exit his black 4 × 4 but talked on his cell phone and smoked a cigarette. There was no crime scene tape in sight nor had the deputy made any attempt to fend off the carrion fowl.

  The sheriff drew the big Colt revolver from his holster and fired in the air two times quickly and all of the crows and but one of the vultures flew away. The sheriff aimed and fired in the general direction of the remaining vulture and winged the feasting bird, which started flopping and screeching.

  Oh for chrissake, the sheriff said. Even the birds out here in The Hole are stupid as shit.

  Ray Molina killed the recalcitrant vulture with a headshot from ten yards. Rodeo exited his pickup and leaned a hip on a fender.

  You can still shoot, Ray.

  The lawman acknowledged this compliment with a nod then turned and pointed the revolver at his deputy in the black SUV. He rolled his wrist and the revolver around and then re-holstered his six-shooter as his underling rolled down his car window and stuck his pale brown face into the world.

  Raise Doc Boxer, Buenjose, and call State to see if they got somebody extra to help out around here, said the sheriff. And just keep me informed about the incoming from your air-conditioned perch in the county taxpayers’ vehicle if that suits you all right?

  That suits me just fine, Sheriff.

  The deputy rolled up his window and picked up his radio receiver.

  It suits my deputy just fine to stay in his vehicle during this situation, the sheriff said. After he damned near parked on top of a murder victim and ruined a crime scene to no end. The sheriff sniffed at the foul scent in the air. And that’s the deputy around here who covets my job and wants to be sheriff of Los Jarros County one day. Probably one day soon if he has his way. Sheriff Molina glanced over at Rodeo. What do you think about that, Garnet?

  I think good help’s hard to find, Ray.

  I think that’s what Jesus said at Gethsemane, the sheriff said. He surveyed the scene again and shook his head. I can see these asshole victims getting killed on the paved roads around here, he said. That would make some sense to me. But there’s not any good reason for a dressed-up man like this to be out here on a dirt road in The Hole, Garnet. You’re the only one ever crazy enough to live out here. The Apaches gave this place up without a fight, the Spanish gave it up without a fight, Mexicans don’t want it, Anglos wouldn’t have it when it was free land grant and even dumbass Snowbirds from Canadia won’t move down here with three hundred and sixty-six days of sunshine a year.

  You know your Bible and local history, Ray.

  The sheriff looked at the ground as if it were moving under him.

  You all right, Ray?

  I’m fine, said the sheriff. Old. Tired.

  It happens to the best of them, Ray.

  You never expect it to happen to you, the sheriff said. Ray Molina rubbed the back of his creased neck as he surveyed the scene again. Did you hear anything when this happened, Garnet? Any piercing screams in the night or random gunfire or like that?

  I just got back from my yearly vacation in the Whites, Rodeo said.

  What have you got yourself into this time, Garnet?

  You know I don’t answer trick questions, Ray.

  I know you don’t, said the sheriff. And that’s a sure sign of your intelligence.

  The sheriff backed off from the cruiser, made a dramatic turn all around then stared for a while at the dead man.

  Well, if he didn’t walk out here then it looks to me like your little man in the U S of A flag shirt was in some vehicle, and if he was in some vehicle with people who might want to kill him he probably wanted out of that vehicle. The sheriff assayed the surrounding area again. And he’d only have the one way to go because on the northside of this so-called Elm Street of yours there’s just a hell’s deep arroyo to fall to death in, so he heads south, trying to get off the road and get to some cover. But your little man wasn’t fast enough to get to cover and got just about exactly as far as he is before he was dropped with some pretty goddamned large buckshot. Ten gauge or twelve?

  That seems about right, Rodeo said. Except he’s not my little man because I got nothing to do with him.

  The sheriff lifted his nose to the stench and sniffed again. Well, whoever’s he is he’s ripe, idn’t he?

  The dog smelled him from a quarter mile away, said Rodeo.

  You got any ideas about this rompecabeza? Or does your dog?

  Like you say, it’s a puzzler, Ray. But I will say that this man got here after I left for the Whites and before I got back from the Whites, so he’d be killed sometimes this past week.

  The sheriff wa
lked over to the corpse and crouched with obvious pain to examine what was left of the dead man. He raised his voice as he spoke over his shoulder.

  So, who is this little fella, Garnet? asked the sheriff. You know most of the hands and half the stock in Los Jarros, don’t you?

  That’s probably about the right percentages, Ray. But I don’t know this one.

  Looks sorta like an Indian but he’s not an Apache or Pie Face from around here. He’s not one of your Pascua Yaqui, is he?

  No. He doesn’t look like one of my tribe, said Rodeo. He’s a Mexican Indio, would be my guess.

  He’s a Wet then, said the sheriff. But I can’t see one of your Illegals walking across Sonora and keeping his new clothes clean. The sheriff stood and stared down at the dead man. Jeans have still got a Walmart sale tag on them, don’t they.

  Rodeo nodded and adjusted his lean against the truck so his sore back absorbed some of the heat stored there.

  The sheriff glanced around again. Why not just drag him back across the road and dump him into the arroyo and let this country work him down to bones with nobody the wiser?

  Maybe somebody wanted him found, said Rodeo.

  Goddammit. Less than five hundred murders in all the state last year, said the sheriff. And now we might have almost a handful of Unsolveds in the last few weeks just here in Los Jarros.

  Buenjose Contreras honked the horn and rolled down the window of his SUV.

  State Highway says they’ll send a grunt from Traffic over here for crime scene perimeter if you want, Sheriff, and then SIU can get a evidence van over here but not for two or three hours, said the deputy. Medical Examiner is getting around to getting out here asap as soon as possible too, but Doc Boxer and them are all wrapping up at the Boulder Turn-Out just now so …

  Hell, it’ll be dark before any of them gets here, said the sheriff.

  Nothing I can do about that, Sheriff.

  Nothing you can do about anything, Buenjose, said the sheriff.

  The deputy rolled up his window and the sheriff tipped his cattleman’s to block the westering sun and looked at Rodeo’s casita in the near distance.

  You say your house was locked or unlocked when you got back home here, Garnet?

  I didn’t say, Ray. I hadn’t even been over there yet.

  Anybody else got a key to your house?

  Luis does. My lawyer had a key to the storage shed but I changed that lock … Rodeo hesitated.

  And Sirena Rae? Did my daughter ever get a house key to your place out here when y’all were living together in Tucson?

  I never gave her one …

  Rodeo quit talking.

  But you wouldn’t put it past Sirena to lift one and make a copy?

  No, I wouldn’t, Ray, said Rodeo.

  I wish that girl had just stayed in school, said the sheriff. He took in and let out a big breath of hot air. She had a full free ride academic scholarship at Arizona State, you know. The ones reserved for genius level. But she was too damned lazy to even go to her classes.

  I know about her, Ray, said Rodeo.

  Water seeks its own level, doesn’t it?

  Usually at the lowest point, Ray. Rodeo changed the subject.

  Why would anybody in particular want in my place anyway? he asked. Even with keys to the one door you’d only be in a old house full of worthless shit except for the gun safe.

  Which is uncrackable, right? asked the sheriff.

  My safe’s rated T-30 but there’s nothing an intelligent person can’t do with enough time and the right tools, Ray, you know that. He thought for a moment. But no Law Enforcement, not you or your deputies or State or Federal ever comes around here. Not even the watchdog vigilantes ever comes to The Hole, so anybody could operate out here at their leisure when I’m on my yearly vacation if they had a mind to.

  You got all your guns in that safe?

  I got guns all over the place, Rodeo said.

  That’s another sure sign of your intelligence, Garnet.

  What’re you looking for, Ray?

  At this point I’m looking for anything, the sheriff said. Because I seriously cannot make hide nor hair out of the killings around here in Los Jarros lately. Mostly all killed by shotgun and all left near roads not dragged out into this desert. He looked around at the barren landscape and shook his head. They’re not drug hits, I don’t think. And they’re not relative-murders. All’s I can figure is that they’re all Indians of one type or another that are getting killed. But Conquistadors and Cavalry are all gone now, so who’d want to kill Indians just to kill Indians these days?

  I don’t know, Ray.

  All right then, said the sheriff. Just sit in your truck till the Medical Examiner and Special Investigations and State Highway Patrol … and God knows who-all else in Law Enforcement get out here. Then we’ll see what in hell everybody in the world has to say about this here.

  It’s getting late, Ray. I want to go home.

  Humor me, Garnet.

  Rodeo reentered his pickup, leaned his head back on the bench seat, laid a hand on his agitated dog and within a couple of minutes both the man and his dog were asleep.

  * * *

  The Arizona Department of Public Safety Highway Patrol “grunt” arrived in a blue-on-white Ford Crown Victoria with no siren on but bubble lights swirling red and blue. The AZDPS cruiser parked behind Rodeo’s truck. The single patrolman got out, put on his stiff Statie hat and walked to the Sheriff. He jerked a thumb at the corpse.

  Looks like one dead man and one dead vulture, Sheriff Molina. Was it a shootout?

  The sheriff ignored the joke.

  Where’s the CSI van at, Ted?

  The Special Investigations Unit is still on scene at what you all call the Boulder Turn-Out, said the policeman. I came to secure this scene but I see you already got your Number One Lady Detective on the job. The state trooper inclined his flat-brimmed hat at the County 4 × 4 where Deputy Buenjose Contreras was talking into his private cell phone and lighting a fresh cigarette. You’re not in a big hurry with this investigation, Sheriff Molina?

  He’ll keep, the sheriff said.

  It’s your county, Sheriff, said the trooper.

  It is that. The old lawman scratched his chest as if his heart itched. For better and for worse.

  Rodeo stepped out of his truck and walked over to Sheriff Molina and the AZDPS cop.

  Do I know you from somewhere? the patrolman asked.

  I don’t know who you know or where you been, Officer, said Rodeo. So I couldn’t say.

  The sheriff grunted. You two jokers ought to get along just famous, he said. This is Ted Anderton. The sheriff looked at the state trooper and then nodded toward Rodeo. And this is the homeowner near the scene of the crime as it were, name of Rodeo Grace Garnet.

  Neither man attempted to shake hands.

  Do you work in this area, sir? The policeman’s voice was artificially polite. His stare at Rodeo also verged on the impolite.

  Garnet here is a famous private eye, Ted. You know the drill. Citizen goes online, takes a test or two and gets a bounty hunter license, buys some handcuffs, lots of guns and Tasers and a flak jacket then starts calling himself a cop—

  You’re the private investigator who beat Charles Constance to death several years ago. The state trooper interrupted the sheriff and stared at Rodeo.

  Garnet’s also the man who found Charlie Constance out when nobody else in Law Enforcement could, including your own Arizona Special Investigations Unit and the entirety of the USA FBI, said Sheriff Molina. And so some down here in this county consider what Garnet did to Charlie Constance a public service. The sheriff moved half a step closer to standing between the Statie and the PI. But however you see it, since no charges were ever filed against Garnet the Constance Case is dry water under a old bridge we don’t speak of anymore around here. The sheriff squinted at the state patrolman. If that suits you, Ted.

  The Statie turned to look at the corpse near the gates.


  Can you identify this deceased, Mr. Garnet, or do you have knowledge of the other recent murder victims in the area?

  Who’s that, Officer? asked Rodeo.

  One, the recent victim found under the interstate overpass. Two, the vic at what you local people call the Boulder Turn-Out on Agua Seco Road. There was also a third death, down in Sells a few weeks ago, a young man shot with an unidentified .38. Plus this vic makes four. All these murders within the last few weeks are within the boundary of Los Jarros County. That’s an inordinate number of murders for such a small, isolated area and in such a compressed time span.

  That kid down in Sells that was gutshot near the Dairy Queen, he was from up at Lake Havasu, Ted, said the sheriff. You know how shorthand we are in Los Jarros but I did my diligence and sent Pal Real up there to the Lake to interview the vic’s people.

  Did Deputy Real make any pertinent discoveries?

  No he did not, said the sheriff. That victim was just a regular kid for nowadays. Had some little job at a convenience store and spent the rest of his day playing those video games they play and jacking off to porno, Pal Real said.

  What was that vic doing in this area? asked the state trooper.

  Kid had some cousins on South Tohona O’odham Res and was down here in our country for a little powwow somebody had going on near the border, said the sheriff. His cousins and kin in Los Jarros and up at the Lake were all clean too, except for DUIs of course. They all said the kid was just going out for a walk and to have a smoke, probably some reefer he was smoking, and he never came back. The sheriff wiped a hand over his face. They found the kid a few hours later, bled out in the barditch not far from the Dairy Queen. But with no computer matches on the slug in his guts and with no way to separate tire tracks and with no witnesses, no motive, no gang connections and nothing on the kid we got nada but drive-by, culprit or culprits unknown. Apache Ray jerked his head toward the nearest dead man. But it’s sure not a .38 gutshot on this one here.