Bad Country: A Novel

by CB McKenzie

  Not but one envelope was addressed to anyone named “Billy” or “William” so they had been stolen or found by the homeless man. Some of it seemed the type of thing he would steal or keep if found, things that seemed to have value and yet did not—fake checks from fast loan businesses, fake credit and ID cards from AARP or Citibank and the like. Only one bit of mail stood out as personal. The envelope was pliable from folding and yellowed as old newsprint and smelled of Billy or of something equally pungent and human. The USPS cancellation mark was indecipherable but the stamp was clearly from the 23rd Summer Olympic Games at Los Angeles. The return address was partially smudged but legible as “Mrs. Thomas O’Neal, 726 South Ambrose Street, El Paso, Texas.” The addressee was WILLIAM O’NEAL: C/O CROSSROADS MISSION: NOGALES, ARIZONA. Rodeo read the letter.

  Dear Billy Boy,

  You are my Darling Dear Boy, always, always. I wish you would come Home to me. Your father is gone now for almost ten years and you know that. We miss you so.

  Our Jane is working hard at Saint Ignacio. Sister enjoys her duties and prays for you daily. We both miss you so. Sister sends her Best Regards.

  I can send you A Ticket Home, Dear Billy. You know I cannot send you plain money because you might use it for drugs and alcohol and only aid That Devil’s Work.

  But I can send you a bus ticket for Home.

  You know how much we love you, both Sister and I. Your father loved you too as your Father in Heaven loves you. You must forgive your earthly father or in the End Times Our Father in Heaven will not forgive you.

  Your loving Mother in Christ,

  Mrs. Thomas O’Neal

  Rodeo stared at this mother’s missive for a while. He then refolded Billy’s letter and slipped it back into the envelope that had long contained it. He hesitated but slipped the envelope into his shirt pocket. He sorted through the rest of Billy’s mail stash and trash and found a small sheet of lined notebook paper from a spiral notebook.

  You will never know how much I know

  You miss your El Paso. But lost is where we go,

  When we look for Home. If home is just a poem

  Then I hope there’s a sky-lit word dome

  Behind your wasted eyes flared with death

  And vision quest poems clouded on your beer breath.

  My homes are drunks that crushed and betrayed

  Our sibling dreams. But I still dream her golden hair

  Floating across the sky, then landing, twining,

  Her golden braid wrapped around me where I am standing,

  But the bitchwitch is saying in her wasted slur

  You are worthless, how did this occur.

  And I say, you.

  I saw, you.

  To: Billy

  From: Samuel Rocha, Poet

  Rodeo folded up Samuel’s poem to Billy and tucked it into his pocket. There was a variety of third class mail coming from several different sources and aimed at different destinations, offices and residences. Two envelopes were addressed to Erica Hernandez, the sitting U.S. Congressperson from Arizona District 7 who lived in South Tucson very near Starr Pass Road, one addressed to her home and one to her office. These envelopes were unopened but the addresses were circled with a Sharpie as if these locations were the object of the theft of them.

  There was also a folded flier advertising an upcoming dedication ceremony for the new West Wing of the Juvenile Detention Center, a ceremony that would feature Representative Hernandez as keynote speaker and Former Arizona House Speaker Judge Randy Miller as Master of Ceremonies.

  Three envelopes seemed cleaner, more recent and official. One was from C-23 Auto Paint and Body Shop, “In Bisbee Since 1982.” Another was from American Country Home and Auto Insurance Company and another from Verizon. These envelopes were held together with a rusty paper clip and all were addressed to Mrs. Katherine Rocha at 72602 Mark Street, Tucson, Arizona.

  * * *

  Rodeo sat his truck and reread the letter from Billy’s mother, then reexamined the rest of the mail he had lifted from the homeless man’s nesting place. The phone bill addressed to Katherine Rocha indicated that an overdue payment for cell phone service had been received. The letter from American Country Home and Auto Insurance was a reminder that she only carried liability coverage on her vehicle and so was not entitled to reimbursement for any repairs. The bill from the auto repair shop in Bisbee was dated May 6 of that year and showed six hours of labor at $270.00 plus $425.00 for parts, including a used front panel and one new headlight set. There was a separate bill from the same company in the same envelope for a paint job in the amount of $607.37.

  Rodeo called the C-23 Auto Paint and Body Shop in Bisbee and introduced himself as Bill Early, Insurance Claims Adjustor from American Country Home and Auto Insurance Company.

  HowcanIhepya? the woman on the other end asked.

  I am checking on an invoice that originated from your place of business, Rodeo said.

  What can I tell ya about it, sir?

  I understood from our client … Rodeo paused and rattled the paper in his hand into his cell phone. One Katherine A. Rocha of Mark Street, Tucson, that she brought in her car on May 4 of this year but the invoice says service by your company was on May 6. He used his Anglo voice and spoke as officiously as he could. Was she mistaken about these dates?

  I’m sure the car was brought in when she said, Mr. Early. But we woulda put on the invoice the date the work was completed so that’d be the confusion. We probably just didn’t invoice the job until it was done, the woman said.

  Our records are showing this was a front end repair and a full body paint job on a Buick LeSabre but there’s no VIN number for the vehicle on this invoice, Rodeo said.

  There was a pause. Wait a moment, Mr. Early, said the receptionist. Rodeo waited long enough to hear several Beatles songs sanitized into Hold Muzak. Then a man’s voice came on the phone.

  Who’s this I’m speaking with? The voice was thick and gruff and had a Southern drawl.

  Bill Early, Rodeo said. American Country Insurance.

  What’s your employee number?

  We don’t use employee numbers at American Country, said Rodeo.

  I know everybody in American Country, said the garage man. And there’s no such person as you in it.

  The garage man hung up. Rodeo headed to Bisbee, Arizona.

  * * *

  Rodeo found a Del Taco in the new section of Bisbee, and took his laptop into the fast food restaurant, ordered a Number Three Combo and ate a very late lunch or early dinner. He accessed their free Wi-Fi and used Google Maps to locate C-23 Auto Paint and Body Shop, which was just on the edge of Old Bisbee. Rodeo finished his meal quickly then drove his old truck to and past the garage on a moving reconnaissance. The office was closed for business but the garage doors were up and work still ongoing at C-23.

  In the “show-off” spot in front of the paint and body shop was parked a beautifully restored late 1960’s Chevrolet Impala modified as a lowrider with silver spinning rims and sparkling sour-apple green paint job. The car described by Billy.

  Also parked in front of the shop was a well-restored Firebird from the mid 1970s. The Firebird had both FOR SALE and LA VENTA signs wedged under its windshield wipers.

  Rodeo pulled into a parking slot in downtown and unloaded his camera gear, binocs and sighting scope from the lockbox and put this equipment on the front seat, relocked the toolbox. He retraced his route, parking in a fairly protected space in a pull-out a quarter mile from the C-23 shop. He leaned back on the bench seat and aimed the camera out the driver’s side window. He took a dozen photos of the green-apple Impala including close-ups of the copper Arizona license plates. He also wrote down the plate numbers—HTX8—in his notebook. There was no FOR SALE/LA VENTA sign on the lowrider Impala.

  He evaluated the situation for five minutes. There were several men still busy in the work bays. Rodeo focused his lens on the FOR SALE and LA VENTA signs on the Firebird and dialed the contac
t phone number listed on both signs.

  This is Jessie Storm, wasssssupp?

  I’m interested in your Firebird, amigo. Rodeo spoke quickly and in his Mexican voice. If you can get off work you could meet me at the Brewery Lane Saloon in about ten minutes.

  You could come by the shop.

  Buyers set the scene, man, Rodeo said. You snooze you lose.

  Two minutes later a young Anglo man walked alone out of the auto body shop with a spring in his step, pulled the FOR SALE/La Venta signs off the windshield of the Firebird and left rubber on the road as he drove to the center of Old Bisbee. Rodeo waited five minutes then drove to Brewery Lane Saloon and parked a few spots from the Firebird. He stored his gear back in the lockbox while he waited long enough for the young mechanic to get impatient but not so long that he would leave. Rodeo moved to the saloon, stood for a few seconds in front of the plate glass window pretending to adjust his hat so he had time to locate his mark. He saw the young mechanic sitting near the server’s station and walked directly to a barstool one removed from the man. He pulled out his wallet, slapped down a twenty, looked around. There were four other customers in the saloon as 4–6 Happy Hour was winding down.

  The mechanic turned and eyeballed Rodeo for a long moment.

  You looking for somebody? the mechanic asked.

  I didn’t know this was that kind of bar. Rodeo used his regular voice and the mechanic listened to it then blushed.

  A bartender appeared and jerked his head up at Rodeo.

  A Jack Black and Bud back for me, Rodeo said. He waved rather grandly at the mechanic. You got mechanical knowledge, buddy?

  Say what? asked the mechanic.

  I said I see by your outfit that you are a mechanic.

  Yeah.

  Rodeo jerked a thumb at the mechanic and then looked at the bartender.

  Give the kid a shot and a beer too, Rodeo said.

  The bartender slid the twenty off the bar and set two shots and two draft Budweisers with small change in front of Rodeo and the mechanic and disappeared into the kitchen again.

  I know you, mister? asked the mechanic.

  I hope not since I don’t know you and so if you know me then I am getting old and losing my memory of people. Rodeo threw back his JD and slammed the shot glass on the bar then turned to the mechanic in a bar buddy way. But I’ll just be straight with you, buddy, Rodeo said. I got an old beat-to-shit Ford 150 that I just need a professional opinion about. And since I see by that patch on your coveralls that you come from C-23, which I heard is a pretty good shop around here, I was wondering since I bought you that round you maybe might give me your professional opinion about whether I should junk my old ride or fix it.

  The mechanic stared at Rodeo. He looked around the saloon and looked at his cheap plastic watch and then shrugged.

  All right, he said.

  Rodeo described his own pickup at great length and then folded his arms.

  First off, replace your points and plugs if you been runnin’ on ’em a long time, then replace all your alternator wires, the mechanic said. Could be you’re shortin’ out on occasion just ’cause you got a old wire with a bad casin’ and when the truck jiggles that wire it’s hittin’ up against the block sometimes and that causes you to stall out. Otherwise get a rebuild if you’re so in love with the truck.

  It was my mother’s, Rodeo said.

  Well then, said the mechanic. Do the right thing by it. Good truck’s never failed if it was put together right and maintained right. Ought to last a man a lifetime if he don’t live too long.

  Much obliged, said Rodeo.

  Just common sense, said the mechanic.

  The pair sat in silence for several minutes. The mechanic glanced around nervously.

  Rodeo nodded at the patch on the mechanic’s pocket. How you like C-23? he asked.

  It’s all right. We mostly do regular stuff. It’s Bisbee, you know. Small town shit. But I’m good at the work and it’s something I can do. I wadn’t no good at school but I got a good eye and a good hand for bodywork. The owner is a asshole from Arkansas but his wife who runs the place is sweet as pie.

  You do much custom work? asked Rodeo. I saw a green-apple Impala on the street in front of your shop that looked like a pretty nice ride.

  Yeah, that’s Xavier Monjano’s ride. Sweet idn’t it?

  ’68? asked Rodeo.

  ’67.

  Rodeo sipped his beer as if he was in no hurry.

  “Monjano” sounds familiar to me. Rodeo attempted a casual tone. Is Xavier Monjano a Tucson guy?

  Xavier’s got a buncha cousins in Tucson, the mechanic said. The one I know is a Indian cop, I think. Which is funny when you think about it.

  Why? Are the Monjanos characters? asked Rodeo.

  Monjanos they got a variety of solutions to various problems if that’s what you’re askin’, the mechanic said. Xavier’s supposed to be paying ten cents in Florence but he split back to Chihuahua, what I heard. I don’t know nothing about it. They don’t let me ride with them, so I don’t really know them.

  Xavier’s people wanna sell that car for six thousand? Rodeo lowballed the price.

  Get real. The mechanic shook his head in an exaggerated way. That ride’s got a cherry hemi in it and them rims alone cost six or seven bucks a piece and that custom paint cost four, so six wouldn’t touch that automobile. The mechanic looked around the room again then turned to his beer and drank some, wiped the foam off his mouth with the back of his dirty hand. Anyway Xavier loves that ride and if somebody sold it out from under him while he was gone that’d be two cut-off balls for somebody.

  Who takes care of Xavier’s ride while Xavier’s back in Old Mexico?

  One of his cousins, the mechanic said. The Indian cop from Tucson. But he has to keep Xavier’s ride up here in Bisbee. That’s the deal, I guess.

  You got a name for the cousin? asked Rodeo. Maybe I could negotiate with him on price?

  The mechanic looked Rodeo over from head to toe and shook his head. I’ll tell you the fella’s name is Carlos Monjano but they call him Caps and if you want to talk to him about Xavier’s ride Caps comes up here almost every week since Xavier’s run off and takes the ride out. The mechanic finished his beer. But you’re wasting your time on that Impala, mister. They ain’t gonna sell it for any price. The mechanic nursed his shot of liquor as if he meant to make it last. He turned abruptly toward Rodeo. I got a ride for sale though, mister. The young man pointed out the window at the Pontiac. That Firebird out there. It’s clean as a whistle and runs like a top.

  Rodeo shook his head. Sorry to disappoint, buddy, but you know how it is with old guys and their old pickups. We ain’t looking to lay down no serious rubber no more. Just trying to keep running what we already got.

  The mechanic nodded glumly.

  Where you from, buddy?

  I’m from Vail right down the road a bit. You?

  Tucson, born and bred. Rodeo took a sip of his Bud. You get much Tucson business at C-23? he asked.

  Sometimes we do but mostly it’s just Locals. Too far to drive over here.

  I think an old friend of mine did bring her car over here though. Rodeo said this as if he were just recalling it. She said there was a good place over here to get quality work done cheaper than Tucson prices.

  The young man raised his eyebrows. I did do a front fender and panel job with paint a couple of months ago, he said. Some dumbass tacked a spoiler on a classic Le Sabre and that was a pain in the ass to deal with during paint. The mechanic frowned. Waste of brain space for whoever did that.

  That might have been the ride, Rodeo said. I think it was in May or June she brought it over here. Old lady though and batty as hell, so she probably wouldn’t recall right. I think her car was for shit anyway. Nothing a skilled technician like you would probably work on.

  I do as good a job on a shitty car as on a fine ride, mister, the mechanic said. And charge the same too, more or less. That’s the mark of a profess
ional. The young man pulled on an earlobe. And I do remember that car, now you say it. A Buick LeSabre, ’84, I think. Nice ride, actually. Clean insides and real low miles, I remember. But I don’t remember it was a old lady’s.

  Whose was it? Rodeo rotated his shot glass on the bar and stared at it.

  Some kid’s I think and he probably had put the spoiler on hisself which is plain stupid. Got to let a professional do professional work or it’s just gonna be a mess, you know?

  I agree, said Rodeo. Amateurs should let professionals just do the work for them. Did you say anything to the kid about ruining the ride?

  I don’t say shit to nobody about nothing, mister, the mechanic said. I clock in, I clock out and I just do my job every day. That’s the American Way. The mechanic looked at Rodeo again very carefully as if he had just realized he had betrayed his own code of conduct. You 5-0, Mister?

  I am much worse than 5-0 because Police is nine-to-five, five days a week but me and my people are twenty-four hours a day three hundred and sixty-five days a year, Rodeo said. He smiled at the mechanic and then leaned over and pulled out his big wallet and slid a school photo of Samuel Rocha in front of him.

  The mechanic squinted at the small photo.

  This the kid who brought that LeSabre in? asked Rodeo. I’ll give you three seconds to answer. Yes or no are your only options on this question.

  Yes.

  Is this kid related to the Monjanos somehow? asked Rodeo.

  Yes. The mechanic’s eyelids fluttered and his upper lip beaded with sweat. No. I mean I don’t know if he is or he isn’t.

  I worded that question badly, Rodeo said. So relax and just tell me what you know about this kid in the photograph and tell me quick. When Rodeo shifted his eyes from the mechanic the young man lurched off his barstool to make a run for the door. But Rodeo grabbed the mechanic’s hand and folded his thumb down until the man coughed and his eyes turned ruby and ran. Rodeo looked quickly around the bar. No one seemed interested in them, so he guided the young man back onto the barstool.