Bad Country: A Novel

by CB McKenzie

  When every man is friend to every man and all are equal in the world then nobody is a friend to anybody and then I will be the Last Man and the end times will have arrived.

  You alone, Ronald?

  To be truly alone a man must be a god, the man said. Do you understand me?

  Not really, Ronald.

  Let’s start with something simpler for you then, Mr. Garnet.

  Ronald Rocha looked around and made eye contact with some pedestrians but they moved on. He pressed the blade against the dog’s neck and the dog whined.

  A man’s dog is always the easiest soft spot to exploit since killing a man’s dog only amounts to destruction of property in most states including the Fair State of Arizona.

  Do not kill my dog, Ronald. There’s no point in that.

  If I need to kill something in this world I usually find a reason for killing it, friend.

  The man drew the blade against the dog’s throat just hard enough to draw blood. The dog did not now make a sound, did not even whimper gripped with terror and on the verge of nervous collapse as he was.

  What do you want with me, Ronald?

  Since I am both the cause and the effect of human relations I create a lot of useful contact points in the universe and one of these points of illumination informed me that you were pursuing me and that course of action must cease, said the man.

  Were you planning on shooting someone from that sniper’s nest on A-Mountain, Ronald?

  My plans are my plans, friend.

  Did you kill Samuel Rocha because he knew something about an assassination you were planning on somebody? Or maybe a fake assassination? Maybe on Randy Miller?

  I would follow Colonel Miller into Desert Hell again without question. And I loved Sammy Rocha.

  So you didn’t shoot Samuel off the bridge? Rodeo asked. And you were only going to fake an assassination attempt on Randy Miller to bolster his political career?

  As I said, friend, my plans are my plans.

  What do you want from me, Ronald?

  I would like to kill the person who is responsible for my Sammy’s death. But I do not know who that person is. I think you do know or will soon find out who that person is. And I want you to give me this information.

  I thought for sure it was you, Ronald. So now that you said it isn’t you, I don’t know who killed your boyfriend.

  But you are going to find out who killed Sammy, said Ronald Rocha. You are going to commit yourself to finding the person who is responsible.

  If you’ll just let my dog loose, Ronald, I’ll do it for you.

  The man on the motorcycle said nothing for a moment but then nodded.

  I think you will, friend, said the man. And if not then you will pay in a variety of ways. None of them nice. For you or yours.

  Ronald Rocha let go of the dog, sheaved his knife, kick-started his motorcycle and disappeared with a howl in a fog of blue exhaust.

  * * *

  The dog collapsed, his breathing irregular and weak. Rodeo reached behind the seat, grabbed a mechanic’s rag and staunched the blood seeping from his dog’s neck. He awkwardly shifted into first gear and barreled to the edge of the parking lot, where he paused since his vet was all the way across town on the eastside and he had no idea where another nearby veterinarian’s office could be.

  He swiped his eyes with a shirt sleeve, turned left and without checking for traffic, ran a stop sign onto Fourth Avenue and headed toward downtown. He roared through the underground tunnel under the railroad tracks and onto Congress and then made a sharp left that pulled the tires of the truck off the ground as he cut through the parking lot of the Rialto Theater and then accelerated across Broadway barely missing a city bus. The winos lined up outside at the blood bank and ranged around Armory Park stared at the old truck and horns honked around him but Rodeo did not slow until he shot a gap in Sixth Avenue traffic and came to a stop in front of the old Quonset hut. He jumped out of the truck and hurried to the passenger side, opened the door and lifted the dog from the seat, carried him into Tucson Famous Pets and Aquarium Design Center.

  * * *

  Summer Skye swept vitamins and brochures and pet magazines onto the floor to clear the counter space.

  Put him down on his side so his snout is facing me, the vet said. Carefully.

  Rodeo did as instructed.

  What happened to him? she asked. Was he hit by car? Does he have internal injuries? He has some pellet scars in his flank. Did he get shot? Where is he bleeding from?

  His throat was cut, Rodeo said. He did not bother to explain and the former veterinarian did not ask for more explanation. She pulled back the blood-soaked mechanic’s rag and then grabbed a roll of paper towels from under the counter and pressed the whole roll into the dog’s neck.

  It looks like the blood is just flowing from the cut outward, she said. His lungs sound clear. He’s mainly in shock. Hold these towels firmly and don’t move and don’t panic. He can sense your emotional state, so emanate calm and love.

  The former vet left the man with his dog and ran to the back of the store and into a storeroom at the back. She returned a minute later with an old-fashioned, bellowed doctor’s house call bag.

  I’m going to give him a sedative. Hold him steady.

  Summer readied the hypodermic and started talking to the dog in a low, soothing voice.

  Good boy. You’re a good boy. What in the world happened to you, boy? You’re such a good dog aren’t you? Who would want to shoot you and slit your throat?

  The dog raised his cloudy eyes toward the face of the woman and she plunged the needle into his hip. His eyes began to close and his trembling subsided and in a few minutes his breathing regularized and he seemed simply to be asleep.

  Summer Skye straightened up from her hunched position and wiped the sweat off her brow. She looked over Rodeo’s shoulder to face a small girl and her mother, the girl holding a dog’s chew toy, the mother a bottle of vitamins. Without a word the mother guided her child away from Summer and the distressed animal on the counter top and they dropped their potential purchases on the floor and left the building, the little girl sobbing silently.

  Great, said Summer. That kid’s probably scarred for life now and they’ll probably never come back to my store and that kid will never even want to have a pet.

  Having pets is a bitch, said Rodeo.

  Having pets is not a bitch, said Summer.

  Rodeo’s eyes teared up. Summer sighed, leaned over the counter and patted Rodeo on his shoulder.

  So you owe me for that chew toy. Summer resumed her attendant position over Rodeo’s dog. And that bottle of multivitamins those customers were going to buy you are going to buy a year’s worth of them. Your old mutt needs them.

  Whatever you say, Doc, said Rodeo. You can design an aquarium for me too. As long as it doesn’t use much water.

  Rodeo wiped at his eyes and his face with his shirt sleeve as Summer removed his hand and the roll of paper towels from the dog’s neck. The woman tossed the soaked roll of paper towels into a trash can. She held Rodeo’s trembling hand for a long moment, let it go, then looked at his dog’s wound.

  You got any pet insurance?

  Rodeo shook his head.

  Well, since he’s probably not going to die of this wound you’re getting the Cheap, she said.

  Summer cleaned and dressed the dog’s wound, applying multiple butterfly bandages. She sealed the wound with Super Glue, covered the wound site with sterile pads made fast to the dog’s shoulder with duct tape.

  Is he going to be okay? asked Rodeo.

  I’ll keep him here for a day or two, Summer Skye said.

  I need to take him to my vet.

  Vets are pricey and there’s nothing anybody can do for this type of thing that I can’t do here.

  What does he need?

  Just my TLC, peace and quiet and the right sounds and smells around him for a little while. What does he like to eat?

  Bacon, said Rod
eo. And he loves to drink. But since he’s been sick I’ve had him on dry food and just a little Jack Daniel’s “light” in his water bowl when he whines.

  Bacon and booze it is then, said Summer Skye. Even though I’m a twelve-step semi-vegan. The veterinarian smiled at Rodeo. Where’d you two meet?

  I won him by losing a hand of poker at the Eagle’s Nest outside Gladewater Texas after the Round-up Rodeo about fifteen years ago. Though he’s not much a prize.

  Rodeo put a hand on the dog’s neck. His eyes teared up despite his best intentions.

  Do you have anybody else to cry about? Summer Skye asked.

  Not at the moment.

  Summer Skye removed Rodeo’s hand from the dog.

  Your pain won’t help his healing, she said. He’s better off with me for a while. You understand that, don’t you?

  Yes, I do.

  And if he’s healthy enough to heal he will. If he’s not, he’ll die and I’ll make sure he’s comfortable and you won’t have to pay a fortune to cremate him. What’s his main health problem?

  Something in his gut. I’m not sure of the details because I don’t want the details and I can’t afford chemo for him anyway.

  How did this current injury happen? Summer Skye asked. I’ve never seen such a fine cut made outside of surgery.

  It’s a long story, Doc, said Rodeo. I’m a private investigator on a case and this was collateral damage from an ongoing case. The less you know about it the better probably.

  What about the shotgun pellets? Hunting accident?

  Ex-girlfriend accident.

  The woman did not press Rodeo for more information.

  You sure you’re okay with this, Dr. Skye?

  You don’t trust me?

  I don’t trust anybody particularly, said Rodeo. But some people I think are competent and others not so much. You seem competent to me.

  Thanks.

  Thank you, Dr. Skye. I appreciate you. You don’t know how much.

  Yes, I do. I’ve had lots of old dogs in my care.

  Well, I’ve only had this one, said Rodeo. And I don’t know what I’m going to do when this one’s gone.

  Get another one, she said.

  I doubt I will.

  Summer Skye shrugged. Most people say that but then most people do. Out with the old, in with the new. Dog people always just get another dog.

  I doubt I will, said Rodeo. After this one. He’s special. Rodeo rested a hand on his dog.

  That’s what everybody says and that’s part of what got to me and made me quit my practice. Either pet owners were so distraught over their pets’ illnesses and deaths they just infected me with their sorrow or else they were so casual about it like, whatever, sell me a live one to replace the dead one.

  Are those the only options—total devastation or callousness? Rodeo asked.

  I see your point, she said. Go the middle way.

  If you don’t aim too high or aim too low you’ll often at least hit the target, said Rodeo. If not the bulls-eye.

  The ex-vet wiped at her blue eyes.

  I do get wrapped up in things to a debilitating degree sometimes, she said.

  Doesn’t Hudson help?

  Hudson?

  Your girlfriend? asked Rodeo.

  Oh, you remember that Hudson. Summer smiled at Rodeo. You’ve got a really good memory.

  For some things, Rodeo said.

  Hudson’s not really the nurturing type.

  Sorry to hear that.

  No worries. Hudson is my sugar momma and she’s okay with that so I guess I’m okay with that too.

  Neither person said anything as the dog breathed regularly but raggedly between them.

  Stay with him while I go get his place set up in the back, Summer said. Then I’m going to ask you to leave for a while.

  I’d rather stay, Rodeo said.

  You’re too close to him, the woman said. I mean, that’s good. It’s obvious you love him a lot. But you’ve got nervous parent vibe. He’ll pick up on your anxiety if you hang around and that won’t help him. He just needs calm around him right now. And some doctoring. Trust me, I used to be a doctor.

  * * *

  When his triage place was ready they moved the dog to the back room, and then Rodeo reluctantly headed for the exit. Summer let the man out the front door and gave him her contact info. He stored both her cell phone and the store’s phone numbers in his own phone.

  Don’t worry about him, she said. He’ll sense your worry and guilt, even from long distance and that won’t help him heal.

  He wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for me, Rodeo said.

  He’s lived a long time and from the looks of him has lived pretty well. You’re probably responsible for that too.

  Rodeo reached his hand out and the woman shook it.

  You done me the biggest favor here, Doc, said Rodeo. I owe you.

  You seem like the type who’ll pay me back, said the woman. So I’ll take care of your dog for a couple of days gratis and call you when he gets well or if he’s going to die.

  Rodeo handed over his calling card.

  Summer Skye examined the calling card then looked at Rodeo.

  Go get some rest, Rodeo, she said. You look like you need it.

  Actually I got some work to do, Rodeo said.

  Well, take it from a used-to-be doctor who had a major nervous breakdown. The ex-vet paused and looked at Rodeo full in the face. Don’t lose your head about something that might turn out to be okay later on, she said. Sometimes we make a big deal out of something when making a little deal out of something would have served us just as well.

  I don’t think it’s like that right now, Rodeo said.

  He walked farther down the path, got in his truck and lifted a farewell hand as Summer Skye closed the door of her shop. He started the truck and reached toward the shotgun seat. His hand hovered over the empty space for a moment. He frowned and put his hand back on the steering wheel.

  * * *

  Rodeo drove to Santa Cruz River Park and parked nearby the indigenous plants nursery. He walked to the public restrooms and then to the fountain but didn’t see Billy. He sat on Billy’s bench for a few minutes and then strolled to the nursery, where he talked to four plant workers who were just finishing their lunch break. Though Billy was a familiar local character none of them knew the homeless man. None of them had been interviewed by TPD about the death of Samuel Rocha.

  How about a late 1960’s model Chevrolet Impala, bright green with spinning rims and copper Historic Vehicle plates? Rodeo asked.

  There was some hesitation on this question since lowriders were common in the area, but none of the nursery employees admitted they had ever seen any sour-apple-colored Chevy Impala in the vicinity of the nursery on a particular day in late July.

  Rodeo drove to nearby Parade Liquor.

  * * *

  The human crows again were all aligned on the guardrail across the street from the convenience store, this time with the addition of the Zander Jone. Rodeo parked in front of the store, went in and bought a twelve pack of Milwaukee Ice and a box of Black & Mild little cigars on his credit card and carried his purchases out of the store and across the road where he sat down next to the pool hustler, popped the tab on a beer and drank it down like he needed it. The regulars just stared at him.

  Fella, it’s cops all around here, idn’t it, the Indian woman said. You gonna get us all in trouble, fella.

  Rodeo ignored the warning.

  Y’all know that homeless fella named Billy? he asked. Stays sometimes down by the river, at the jogging path park near the water fountain by the bathrooms?

  Yeah, said Zander. I seen him around here for a long time. He’s from El Paso. Used to be a singer with some band over there he says. His sister’s a nun or something.

  Yeah, fella, the Indian woman said. Billy he’s always talking about El Paso. El Paso, El Paso. She shook her head. He really wants to go back to El Paso.

 
Anybody seen him today?

  Billy’s gone, fella, the Indian woman said. He’s not at Armory Park. And he ain’t in the River. I been all over today, fella, and Billy he’s gone.

  Y’all know where he sleeps at? Rodeo asked the group.

  One of the Indian men waved a hand over his shoulder toward a drainage ditch. He stays on a ledge over there. But I don’t sleep around him because he stinks so bad, so I don’t know if he was there last night or not.

  Rodeo nodded and said nothing more. The crows started shifting on the rail.

  Fella, what are you going to do with all that beer? the Indian woman asked.

  What I don’t drink right now I’m going to give to y’all if you all will keep an eye out for Billy and give me a call if you see him.

  We’ll do it, fella! The woman pulled a welfare cell phone out of her shirt front and waited, finger poised for Rodeo’s number. He gave it to her and she dutifully punched it in and repeated it back to him.

  I’ll give these cigars to somebody if they’ll show me specifically where Billy stays nights, Rodeo said.

  I would show you, fella, for sure, the fat woman said. But if I left for the smokes I wouldn’t get no beer, not one can.

  I’ll go with you, Rodeo, Zander said. I don’t need no bribe to do another rodeo cowboy a favor.

  Zander stood and hitched up his belt and his cronies stared at him with respect.

  We ain’t going no place, fella, said the fat Indian woman. So you can give me the cigars and I’ll hold them for Zander.

  Rodeo gave the woman the cigars and Zander shook his head as if he had just missed an easy layup shot in a high stakes pool game. He led Rodeo the hundred yards to the concrete culvert and showed him where Billy kept his night camp. The place was a riot of junk.

  Whew … Zander made a show of putting his forearm over his mouth. It really stinks down in there. Rodeo reached into his pocket, thumbed out four of Katherine Rocha’s dollar bills from his wallet and slipped the money to Zander in full view of the other Parade Liquor crowd.

  I appreciate you, Zander, said Rodeo. You know how to do another rodeo man a favor and I won’t forget that. See you back at the barn.

  Zander tipped his dime-store straw, pocketed the money with a flourish and headed jauntily back to his companions. Rodeo scrambled into Billy’s den kicking carefully through his stuff, cautious of needles, snakes, scorpions. When he uncovered a bundle of envelopes he picked it up and examined it.