Con Law

by Mark Gimenez

  ‘Do it.’

  Taekwondo is not about kicking someone’s ass. It’s about self-defense, self-control, physical and mental discipline, about knowing you can but deciding you won’t … But Book wanted to kick this big Aggie’s ass so bad it hurt. And he could.

  ‘Please do it.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Jimbo,’ Billy Bob said from behind. ‘I don’t want your blood staining my brand-new Aggie gray carpet.’

  He didn’t do it. He backed down.

  ‘Where’s the black truck you were driving yesterday?’ Book asked the goon.

  The goon shrugged. ‘Butch took it to Hell Paso.’

  ‘Convenient.’

  ‘Beats walking.’

  Book turned and pointed a finger at Billy Bob Barnett.

  ‘Nathan Jones’s son is going to grow up without a father because of you. I’m going to prove that you killed him … that these two goons ran us off the road and hurt Nadine … and that your fracking is contaminating the groundwater. I’m going to put you out of business, Billy Bob. When you hurt Nadine, you made it personal.’

  Book now turned to the men in maroon shirts.

  ‘Don’t invest with him. He’s going to prison.’

  Billy Bob smiled. ‘Have a nice day, Professor.’

  Carla Kent sat at a table in the courtyard at the Paisano Hotel. She had checked with the front desk; the professor and his intern hadn’t returned. The clerk said he’d heard there had been an accident the night before out on the highway. A motorcycle wreck. A man and a woman had been taken to the Alpine hospital. She had called the hospital; the professor was not a registered patient. But Nadine Honeywell was. There was no word on her condition.

  God, what had she done?

  Book stepped out onto the sidewalk fronting Billy Bob’s office and took a deep breath to gather himself. His body teemed with anger and adrenaline. He walked back to the Paisano and cut through the courtyard. He stopped. Carla Kent sat on the other side of the fountain, as if she had been waiting for him. He walked over to her. She stood. Her T-shirt read: Don’t Frack with Mother Nature.

  ‘Is she okay? Your intern?’

  ‘Word travels fast out here. She’ll be okay. Broken arm and leg.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Professor.’

  ‘Not your fault, Ms. Kent.’

  Her eyes went to the blood on his shirt and bandage on his head. ‘You okay?’

  He nodded. ‘Got tangled up in a barbed-wire fence.’ He blew out a breath to ease his blood pressure. ‘I wanted to ratchet up the pressure on the killer, almost got my intern killed.’

  ‘You taking her home?’

  ‘After I prove that Billy Bob hurt her. And killed Nathan. I’m going to get that son of a bitch.’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘Wow, the cool law professor gets mad. I like that side of you.’

  ‘Good. Because you’re going to see more of it.’

  She was the connection between Nathan’s death and everything else. She knew something. So he needed to know her.

  ‘Ms. Kent, I’m ready to work together.’

  ‘Carla. We can start now.’

  ‘I’ve got to clean up first, and then see a deputy about a Harley.’

  A frown.

  ‘Not Deputy Shirley?’

  Deputy Shirley blew strands of blond hair from her face then wiped sweat from her brow. She was driving Book in the Sheriff’s Department pickup truck with the Harley in the back to the repair shop. He had cleaned up and changed his shirt.

  ‘Pedro,’ she said, ‘he used to have a gas station and garage in town, but the artists drove him out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They ran up rents in downtown, drove the local businesses out. Artists converted Pedro’s old garage into a studio. So now he works out of his own garage, on the Mexican side of town.’

  ‘There’s a Mexican side of town?’

  ‘This is Marfa, Professor, but it’s still Texas. North side of the railroad tracks, that’s always been the Anglo side. Now it’s the Yankee side, big homes behind walled compounds. South side, that’s the Mexican side. Trailers mostly, little homes, crumbling adobes.’

  The hot wind blew through the cab. Deputy Shirley blew hair from her face again.

  ‘You know what I like to do on hot days like this?’ she said.

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘Get a big ol’ snow cone—I like root beer, with cream—and drive up into the mountains where it’s cooler, find a nice little spot and spread out a soft blanket …’

  ‘Sounds nice.’

  ‘… and screw.’

  She turned to Book and arched her eyebrows.

  ‘What do you say, Professor?’

  She offered a country girl’s natural beauty and unabashed sexuality, an excellent combination in Book’s experience. But now was neither the time nor the place.

  ‘Well, Deputy—’

  ‘Shirley.’

  ‘Deputy Shirley, I appreciate the offer, but—’

  ‘I’ve got handcuffs.’

  Pedro’s Repair Shop was a garage to the side of his house on East Galveston Street past the crumbling adobes with the Fuck U ChiNazis graffiti. Latino music played on a small radio and Pedro Martinez sat on a stool on the dirt ground in front of the garage, wearing reading glasses and pondering an engine part. They got out and walked over. Brown-skinned children played barefooted in the street. The voice of a woman singing a Mexican ballad and the smell of Mexican food drifted over from the house.

  ‘Pedro’s wife, she makes the best tamales in Marfa,’ Deputy Shirley said. ‘You can get your car fixed and pick up dinner in one stop.’

  Pedro watched them over his glasses as they came toward him.

  ‘Deputy Shirley,’ he said.

  ‘Pedro, this is Professor Bookman. He needs his Harley fixed.’

  Pedro smiled. ‘Ah, the karate professor. I have heard of you.’

  ‘On the public radio?’

  ‘No. We do not listen to that. It is not for us. It is for the rich Anglos from the north. I have heard of you from word of mouth.’ He stood. ‘Let us look at the bike.’

  ‘I’m gonna get some tamales,’ Deputy Shirley said. ‘Have a little girl talk with Juanita.’

  She headed to the house. Book and Pedro walked to the truck, leaned on the sideboard, and studied the twisted motorcycle. Pedro pondered for a time then nodded.

  ‘I can fix that.’

  ‘You repair Harleys?’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘Have you ever repaired a Harley?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t know. I restored this Harley by hand.’

  His father had taught Book how to restore Harleys. It was his dad’s hobby. He restored them and then sold them—‘Adopted them out,’ as he said—to worthy Harleyites.

  ‘And I will repair it by hand,’ Pedro said. He was a white-haired man in his sixties, perhaps seventies. He removed his reading glasses. ‘Señor, I am Pedro Martinez. I am known all over Presidio County as the hombre who repairs the vehicles. I can do this.’

  Pedro returned to his stool and sat. He replaced the glasses on his face, turned up the radio, and picked up a wrench.

  ‘So, Señor, do you want that I fix your Harley?’

  Book pulled out his pocket notebook and began jotting down the terms of this repair contract. First, the price.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Oh, mucho dinero.’

  Book sighed. Mucho dinero was a bit vague. He put the notebook back in his pocket. Perhaps he would rely on an oral contract.

  ‘I need it soon.’

  ‘Okay. I will do that.’

  Deputy Shirley returned with a brown bag. She reached inside and came out with a tamale. She handed it to Book. He hadn’t eaten that morning, so he was hungry. He ate the tamale.

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Sí.’

  They rolled the Harley down from the truck bed and into Pedro’s garage. Book felt as if he were leaving his only chil
d at college. Of course, he didn’t have a child and would never have a child; he would not pass the mutant gene on to another generation of Bookmans. He hoped Joanie had not.

  ‘Pedro, you sure you can do this?’

  ‘Señor, I can repair motorcycles of all makes and models.’

  ‘What kind of bikes have you repaired?’

  ‘Why, just two weeks ago, I repaired a Vespa.’

  ‘A Vespa? That’s not exactly the same as a vintage Harley softtail classic.’

  Pedro shrugged. ‘It had only the two wheels, just as your Harley.’

  ‘Two wheels?’

  Book knew he was leaving his child at the wrong college.

  ‘Vespas, they’re for—’

  ‘La mariposa,’ Pedro said.

  ‘Means homosexual,’ Deputy Shirley said.

  Pedro smiled. ‘The boy, he was the artista. And the Vespa, it was purple, and it had the Chinati sticker. And he had the purple hair and that tattoo, on his fingers: WWDJD.’

  ‘Kenni with an “i.” We met him at the pizza joint.’

  ‘Yes, that was him. Kenni. He wrote his check in the purple ink.’

  Book took one last look at the Harley.

  ‘Take care of my Harley, Pedro.’

  ‘His friend sent him to me,’ Pedro said. ‘Nice boy. He was the—’

  Book took a step away.

  ‘—lawyer.’

  Book stopped. ‘Lawyer? What lawyer?’

  ‘The lawyer who died, in the accident. His picture was in the paper. He brought the mariposa over to pick up the Vespa.’

  ‘Wait. Nathan Jones was here? With Kenni?’

  ‘Sí. That was his name. Nathan. I thought he was also the mariposa, but the paper said he had a wife and she is pregnant.’

  They got back into the pickup truck. Book tried to process the information about Nathan and Kenni, but his thoughts were interrupted when Deputy Shirley leaned his way and revealed a significant portion of her soft breasts.

  ‘How ’bout that snow cone, Professor?’

  Chapter 27

  Book took a rain check on the snow cone, so Deputy Shirley dropped him at the Pizza Foundation. The purple Vespa was parked outside; inside, Kenni with an ‘i’ was serving pizzas to a table of roughnecks wearing red Barnett Oil and Gas jumpsuits. Kenni waved at Book; the roughnecks gave him hard looks. Book took a table and waited for him. He pulled out the funeral photo and searched the faces. He found Kenni’s face near the back.

  ‘The famous professor.’ Kenni had arrived wearing a Don’t Frack the Planet T-shirt. ‘I heard you on the radio. You sure got the town talking. What would you like today?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Not what. Whom. Nathan Jones.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Book gestured at the other chair. ‘Sit down, Kenni.’

  The waiter looked around as if to escape, then he accepted his fate. He sat.

  ‘Talk.’

  Kenni picked purple paint from his fingernails. He shrugged.

  ‘Nathan wanted to be an artist. He had talent. Did you see his photos?’

  Book nodded. ‘At his house.’

  ‘He loved the art scene. He wanted to move to New York, but his wife didn’t. Her folks are ranchers, so she had the locals’ attitude toward us.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At the bookstore. That’s like our clubhouse. The artists. We all congregate there. He started coming to the art events. He loved art … even Chamberlain’s car wrecks … Then he died in a car wreck.’

  ‘Was he gay?’

  Kenni picked paint; he finally nodded.

  ‘He had a wife,’ Book said.

  ‘He had a double life.’

  ‘Lot of that going on out here.’

  ‘Nathan the lawyer, husband, and father-to-be … and Nathan the gay artist. He said he hoped his son didn’t turn out gay, too.’

  ‘Were you two in a relationship?’

  ‘We were friends … with benefits. God, he was gorgeous. He loved that movie, Giant, I don’t know why, combed his hair like James Dean … See?’

  Kenni held up his iPhone to show Book a photo of Nathan Jones with his hair standing tall.

  ‘I guess he was trying to figure out who he was, you know, like when I went through my Madonna stage.’

  ‘Did his wife know?’

  ‘I don’t think so … Maybe. Not about me, but about him.’

  ‘Does she need to be tested?’

  Kenni shook his head. ‘Nathan protected her. He loved her. I’m HIV negative, so was he.’

  ‘Did Jimmy John know?’

  ‘Oh, God, no. They were friends, but Nathan would never have told him about us. He calls us queers, Jimmy John. He hates us.’

  ‘Maybe he’d be more tolerant if the artists weren’t threatening his job. Trying to stop fracking.’

  Kenni shrugged. ‘Fracking’s ruining our environment.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Eight months.’

  ‘How’d you keep it a secret? Marfa’s a small town.’

  ‘We don’t talk to the locals, and they don’t talk to us.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’re gay, and they’re not.’

  ‘Have you ever talked to a local?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why? What would they have to say that would interest me? They’re a bunch of homophobic, anti-Semitic, unintellectual racists. They have no appreciation of art. They know nothing about wine. My God, they’d rather eat barbecue than crepes. They get their news from Fox. They have zero sophistication. They should be thanking us for bringing culture to this awful place, but instead they call us “ChiNazis” and act disgusted because of our sexual orientation. I hate everything about Texas.’

  ‘What about the weather?’

  ‘Especially the weather.’

  ‘Anything you like?’

  ‘All the interesting people in town.’

  ‘I take it you don’t mean the locals?’

  Kenni snorted. ‘I mean other artists from New York.’

  ‘Why do you want to live in Marfa?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then why are you living here?’

  ‘Fame and fortune.’

  ‘You’re working at a pizza joint.’

  ‘This is a temp gig.’

  ‘Pizza?’

  ‘Marfa. See, we’re not Marfans or Texans, we’re temps. We’re all just temping here. We come down here, get discovered, then move back to New York rich and famous artists.’

  ‘Like a reality show.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That ever work?’

  ‘Not yet. But the buzz here is incredible. I’ve got a better chance of being discovered in Marfa than in New York. There’s maybe a million artists on the make in New York. Here, maybe a hundred. And with the national media all over Marfa, this place is great for networking—it’s like Facebook with French food.’

  ‘So what kind of art do you do?’

  ‘What else? Installation.’

  ‘What are you going to install?’

  ‘A plane. Half buried in the ground, as if it flew right into the prairie but stayed intact.’

  ‘What kind of plane?’

  ‘Triple-seven.’

  ‘A jumbo jet? Won’t that be expensive?’

  ‘I’m taking donations.’

  ‘How far along are you?’

  ‘Three hundred and sixty-seven dollars.’

  ‘Only forty million to go.’

  ‘I’m not buying a new one.’

  ‘Did Nathan use drugs?’

  ‘No. Never. Just weed at Big Rick’s studio. Part of the creative process.’

  ‘Getting stoned and eating Cheetos?’

  ‘I love Cheetos.’

  ‘Who’s Big Rick?’

  ‘Rick Fusini. He�
��s rich and famous.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Because you live in Texas.’

  ‘Marfa’s in Texas.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s a suburb of New York City now.’

  ‘Tell me about Big Rick.’

  ‘Oh, he’s outrageous. At a gallery opening week before last, he painted “The Real Axis of Evil is the US, UK, and Israel” on the outside wall of the building next door, so everyone would see it.’

  ‘We saw it.’

  ‘The locals went absolutely apeshit! It was fabulous!’

  ‘Did Nathan have any trouble with any of the artists?’

  ‘Trouble? Like what?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘You mean, that would make someone kill him?’

  ‘Like that.’

  Kenni went back to picking paint. ‘Big Rick kicked him out one night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Nathan had sued him. For a pipeline.’

  ‘A condemnation suit?’

  Kenni nodded. ‘Big Rick bought land outside town, for his installation. He’s going to stack automobiles to spell out “Bush Sucks” so people flying overhead on their way to L.A. can see it.’

  ‘There’s a masterpiece.’

  ‘Big Rick hates that bastard Billy Bob Barnett. We all do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s an oil man. Artists hate oil companies. They care only about money while they destroy the planet.’

  As if reading from a script.

  ‘You do know that oil money funded Judd’s art?’

  ‘What? No way.’

  ‘Way.’

  He pondered that a moment. ‘I wonder if an oil company would fund my art?’

  ‘Maybe Billy Bob.’

  Kenni shook his head. ‘He hates us. But we hate him because he’s a fracker.’

  ‘So you’re fighting him?’

  ‘With Carla.’

  ‘You know Carla?’

  ‘Everyone knows Carla. She recruited us to fight the fracking. She hates Billy Bob, too. Gave us these T-shirts. I introduced her to Nathan.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he said Billy Bob was contaminating the ground-water. She got really excited.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Said she finally had an inside man.’

  ‘What did Nathan say?’

  ‘That he almost had the puzzle solved.’

  ‘What puzzle?’

  ‘That would prove the contamination.’