Con Law

by Mark Gimenez

  ‘Did he show any proof to you?’

  Kenni shook his head. ‘Said he’d be breaking the lawyer code of conduct. But I pushed him to go public, to take his proof to the media, change the world. That’s what artists do.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But Brenda told him to keep quiet about it. That’s what wives do. She was scared. So was he.’

  ‘Of losing his law license?’

  ‘Of Billy Bob. And his beasts. We talked about what he could do. That’s when he decided to write that letter to you.’

  ‘Did he show it to you? The letter?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘But not to his wife.’

  Kenni shrugged.

  ‘So Nathan sued this Big Rick on behalf of Billy Bob.’

  ‘Billy Bob wants to put a pipeline under the land, but Big Rick says that would mess up his art. So he said no. Billy Bob is condemning part of it for a pipeline.’

  ‘And Nathan represents Billy Bob. Did he and Big Rick have words?’

  ‘Big Rick has words with everyone—most begin with an “f.” He’s not gay. Mostly, he’s a drunken bully—he’s big and he’s mean … rumor is, he killed someone back East, that’s why he moved here. He has guns.’

  ‘What kind of guns?’

  ‘All kinds. He scares me when he gets drunk and starts playing with them. One night he shot his TV with a shotgun.’

  ‘A shotgun?’

  Kenni offered a lame shrug. ‘But he pays for everything, so we all hang out there.’

  ‘Did he threaten Nathan?’

  ‘You mean, to shoot him?’

  ‘To out him.’

  Kenni picked his fingernails for a time. Then he nodded.

  Book stood. ‘Where’s his studio?’

  ‘West El Paso Street, just past Judd’s Block. You can’t miss it.’

  Book tried to imagine his quiet, studious intern living a secret double life in Marfa, Texas, with Brenda at home and Kenni away from home.

  ‘Was Nathan happy?’

  ‘I think so. With both of his lives. But each life had conflict. He loved her, but he didn’t belong here. He loved me, but he couldn’t leave her. Maybe that was the way he was supposed to go, a bonfire in the sky.’

  ‘Kenni, he didn’t die a romantic death. He burned to death.’

  Chapter 28

  Book walked down West El Paso past ‘The Block,’ Donald Judd’s one-square-block compound that housed his personal residence, two airplane hangars he converted into a studio and a library, and a swimming pool and chicken coop designed by Judd himself, all enclosed behind a tall adobe wall. West of the wall was a steel structure that looked like a warehouse. Outside sat six cars … stacked on top of each other. A big black 4×4 pickup truck was parked by the entrance door. Book walked around the truck and examined the glossy black paint for any damage or scratches; he found none. He rang the bell and was soon greeted by a big man in his mid-fifties wearing shorts, flip-flops, and no shirt; his hair was uncombed and his beard a week old. He looked like Nick Nolte in that infamous mug shot, only worse. His entire upper body was one big multi-colored tattoo that seemed as if someone had thrown a palette of paint on him. He took a swig from a half-empty whiskey bottle.

  ‘Big Rick?’

  ‘You the reporter from Vanity Fair?’

  ‘I’m the law professor from UT. John Bookman.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know why Nathan Jones died.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘I understand he was suing you on behalf of Billy Bob Barnett and you kicked him out of here one night, threatened to out him.’

  Big Rick snorted. ‘You been talking to that fucking queer, Kenni with an “i”?’

  ‘Queer? That’s a little dated, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m a little dated.’

  ‘Being sued, some folks might consider that a motive for murder.’

  ‘Murder? What, you think Nathan’s death wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘I think someone ran him off the road.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Someone ran us off the road last night.’

  ‘Professor, I stack cars. I don’t run cars off the highway. Saw you checking out my truck—you find any evidence of a hit and run?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘’Cause I don’t murder people.’

  ‘What about the rumor that you killed someone back East?’

  Big Rick howled.

  ‘Hell, I started that rumor myself. Image sells, Professor.’ He finally took a moment to size Book up. ‘You get in a fight?’

  ‘I got in a barbed-wire fence.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  Big Rick belched and pushed the screen door open.

  ‘Come on in.’

  Book stepped inside to rock music blaring on surround sound. The interior space was a big barnlike structure, a combination home and studio with a kitchen area, a big bed in the far corner, and a living area with a big screen television on the wall with a cable cooking show playing. Big Rick placed the whiskey bottle on a counter, picked up a remote, and pointed it at the stereo; rock was replaced by country, Hank Williams Jr. singing ‘Country Boy Can Survive.’ He went to the refrigerator, opened it, and retrieved a carton of chocolate milk.

  ‘You want some?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He poured a glass. He noticed Book eyeing the whiskey bottle.

  ‘Thought you were a reporter.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I said, I have an image to maintain.’

  ‘You got that hard-drinking artist thing down.’

  ‘It’s a living.’

  At that moment, a young girl burst out of the bathroom and hurried out the front door with only a finger wave and, ‘Later, Big Rick.’ She looked like a high school sophomore.

  ‘She part of the image, too?’

  ‘She’s Lorraine.’

  ‘She looks a little young for you.’

  ‘At my age, Professor, all the girls are a little young for me.’

  ‘Be careful, Big Rick. I don’t imagine the locals would look favorably on a New York artist violating their young girls.’

  He laughed. ‘Lorraine? Hell, she’s laid more cowboys than a Mexican whore in Boys’ Town. It’s legal down there, prostitution. Man, I’ve burned up the highway between here and Ojinaga. They got some cute girls down there, young ones. But, hell, fourteen is middle-aged for a Mexican girl.’

  ‘You do know you’re a disgusting individual.’

  Big Rick shrugged, as if he had heard it before. ‘What can I say? I like young girls. We can’t all be perfect, Professor.’

  ‘You could try.’

  Big Rick downed the chocolate milk then pulled out a joint, lit it, and took a long drag. He held it for a long moment then exhaled. Book tried to stay upwind.

  ‘Medicinal,’ Big Rick said.

  ‘Illegal,’ Book said.

  ‘You’re a law professor, not a cop.’

  ‘So you threatened to out Nathan?’

  ‘Aw, hell, I tend to be a mean drunk. I’m nicer when I’m stoned, like now. Nathan was a nice boy, married with a pregnant wife. His life was fucked up enough, gay and married, no need for me to add to his troubles. I wouldn’t ruin his life over a lawsuit. I was mad at Billy Bob, but I took it out on Nathan.’ He shook his head. ‘Billy Bob Barnett, I’d ruin that bastard’s life in a New York minute, trying to fuck up my land.’

  ‘How much do you own?’

  ‘Just a little. Twenty thousand acres.’

  ‘You sound like a real Texan.’

  ‘I wasn’t born here, but I got here as soon as I could. I love Texas. Been here twenty years. Started buying land as soon as I got in town. I’m like Judd—I don’t want all the land in the county, just what I have, what adjoins me, and what I can see from my land. And I don’t want a goddamn gas pipeline under it. God, I’d love to kick Billy Bob’s ass. Might could, too. I boxed in college.’

&nb
sp; ‘Where?’

  ‘Princeton.’ He waved a hand at his studio. ‘Trust fund pays for all this. And my land.’

  ‘Your art doesn’t support you?’

  ‘Shit, when I first moved here, early nineties, right before Judd died, I couldn’t give my art away. Then this art dealer from Dallas, good-looking woman, she comes down here to check out Judd’s boxes. She ended up in my bed. So we made a deal: fifty–fifty on anything she sold. Well, she shipped everything I had back to Dallas and talked it up in Highland Park as the next big thing, and damned if she doesn’t sell it all to rich folks like her husband. He made a fortune in asbestos.’

  ‘Mining it?’

  ‘Suing over it. Plaintiffs’ lawyer. They’ve got a fifth or sixth home here, fly down in their Gulfstream. He’s sixty, she’s forty now. Apparently Viagra didn’t do the trick for him. Anyway, they brought other rich lawyers to town—’

  ‘Attorneys, artists, and assholes.’

  Big Rick grinned. ‘I’m an artist and an asshole. Anyway, most of these lawyers wouldn’t know art if it dropped on their fucking heads, but they buy my stuff, so I make nice at dinner parties.’

  ‘Must be hard.’

  ‘Very.’

  Big Rick finished off the chocolate milk and went back to the refrigerator for a refill. This time he offered Spam. Book again declined.

  ‘I love this stuff. I don’t know why.’

  ‘I don’t either.’

  Big Rick opened the can and took a big bite of Spam.

  ‘You know what you’re putting into your body?’

  ‘Do I look like I care?’

  He did not.

  ‘Comes in all kinds of flavors: black pepper, hickory smoked, jalapeño, with cheese, with bacon, hot and spicy … this is classic, my favorite.’

  He let out a loud fart.

  ‘Whoa. Sorry. Stuff does give me gas.’

  Book eased back a step.

  ‘I understand there’s quite a bit of drug use among the artists?’

  ‘True enough. Part of the culture. Cutting-edge art. Drugs just seem to be a natural part of all that.’

  He laughed.

  ‘A Vanity Fair article, I’ve got it somewhere’—he shuffled through a stack of magazines on the table—‘reporter wrote that Marfa’s an “art cruise ship where you just hope the last stop is a Betty Ford Center.” Boy, they got that right.’

  He paused.

  ‘Course, we’re not the only Marfans partaking in rec reational narcotics.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  Big Rick’s expression said he was holding aces. He made Book wait for it.

  ‘Billy Bob Barnett is a cokehead.’

  Big Rick seemed pleased with himself. That or he really loved Spam.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Let’s just say I have it from a reliable source. That head cold, he’s had it for two years now.’ He took another big bite of the Spam. ‘Public company, his board might not be so keen on having a cokehead for a CEO.’

  ‘Even if you got him fired, that wouldn’t stop the fracking or the condemnation lawsuits.’

  ‘True. But at least I wouldn’t have to see his fat ass at Maiya’s every time I go there to drink and eat.’

  ‘Kenni says you have guns.’

  Big Rick shrugged, as if feigning modesty.

  ‘Just a few.’

  He stepped over and opened a walk-in closet that housed not clothes but weapons. A lot of weapons mounted on both walls. And military gear—flak jackets, meals-ready-to-eat, night-vision goggles …

  ‘I like to shoot shit at night.’ He pointed out his collection as if he were pointing out fine art in a museum. ‘Forty-four Magnum, nine-millimeter Glock, AK-Forty-Seven, sniper’s rifle, shotgun …’

  ‘What gauge?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Someone shot out my window at the Paisano Thursday night with a twelve-gauge shotgun.’

  ‘I never heard of you until five minutes ago when you rang my bell.’

  ‘There was an article in the newspaper.’

  ‘Which I don’t read.’

  ‘I was on Marfa Public Radio.’

  ‘Which I don’t listen to.’

  ‘So why all the guns?’

  ‘An avant-garde artist with an arsenal makes for good copy back East. And I love to go out to my land and shoot the shit out of everything.’

  ‘Why do you hate Bush?’

  ‘What? Oh, the “Bush Sucks” installation. Just part of the image. You want a New York art dealer to sell your stuff, you gotta loathe Bush and vote Obama. Hating Bush is always a big part of any art crowd conversation. But I voted for him. Both times.’

  ‘Kenni said you painted an “Axis of Evil” sign on a building in town.’

  ‘Nah. Everyone blamed it on me, but that was an asshole from Iceland.’

  ‘Big Rick … is there any part of you that’s real?’

  ‘Everything you see is real, Professor. Everything you read is myth. About me, about the other artists, about Marfa … it’s all just a myth. A myth that sells.’

  ‘Is everyone in Marfa on the make?’

  ‘Everyone except the cowboys.’

  ‘Get in, podna.’

  Book was walking back to the Paisano when the sheriff pulled alongside in his cruiser. He spat brown tobacco juice out his window. Book got in.

  ‘You kinda stubborn, ain’t you?’

  ‘I’m kind of mad.’

  ‘Often the last words before someone ends up in my jail.’

  ‘I went to see Billy Bob.’

  ‘I take it that was a less than cordial meeting, too?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘He didn’t confess?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘I hate it when that happens.’

  ‘Nathan Jones was gay.’

  The sheriff hit the brakes. He slowly turned to Book. He grunted.

  ‘You want to get a cup of coffee?’

  Tumbleweeds on Austin Street one block west of Highland Avenue offers washers and dryers by the load and a walk-through to Frama’s, which offers home-brewed coffee and Blue Bell ice cream. They walked in just as the mayor of Marfa walked out with a big ice cream cone.

  ‘Heard about your gal, Professor. She gonna be okay?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks for ask—’

  ‘Good. Won’t slow you folks getting back to Austin.’

  The mayor nodded at the sheriff—‘Brady’—and walked away.

  The sheriff chuckled. ‘The mayor, he’s …’

  ‘A real-estate broker.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Book ordered a small cup of coffee; the sheriff ordered a medium and one scoop of cookies-and-cream ice cream. They went outside and leaned on the hood of the sheriff’s cruiser.

  ‘Gay,’ Sheriff Munn said. ‘And married. Living a double life.’ The sheriff grunted then spooned the ice cream past his mustache. ‘Seems like that’d be a complicated life.’

  ‘His … friend … pushed him to go public with his proof.’

  ‘That Billy Bob’s contaminating the groundwater, with his fracking?’

  Book nodded.

  ‘Who’s his friend?’

  ‘Confidential, Sheriff. Nathan had a wife.’

  The sheriff grunted; Book took that for a yes.

  ‘Kenni.’

  ‘With an “i”? Over at the pizza joint?’

  Book nodded again.

  ‘He’s a doper. Damn, sorry the boy got in with that artist crowd.’

  ‘He was an artist.’

  ‘And a doper?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘So the weed they found in his office might’ve been his?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, that sheds some light on the subject, don’t it?’

  ‘An artist named Big Rick threatened to out Nathan because he sued to condemn his land for a pipeline easement.’r />
  ‘You talk to Big Rick?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Of him.’

  ‘He’s a piece of work.’

  ‘He’s a pervert. I know about his underage girls. That’s stat rape in the state of Texas. Once I get those girls’ affidavits, he’s gonna be stacking Coke cans in my jail instead of cars.’

  ‘Big Rick said Billy Bob’s a cokehead.’

  ‘You getting your information from a pervert?’

  ‘Anywhere I can.’

  ‘Fracking and doping don’t add up to murder.’

  The sheriff finished off the ice cream then sipped the coffee, which was as good as any coffee in Austin at half the price.

  ‘You figure out the connection between the boy’s death and art?’

  ‘I’ve learned that Nathan was Billy Bob’s lawyer and a gay artist living a double life. That art is part of the story.’

  The sheriff grunted. ‘Art. Why folks would take a plane trip to Hell Paso then drive four hours to look at a bunch of fluorescent lights, I don’t figure that. Now, Judd’s boxes, I like them. Particularly the concrete ones outside. I go out there and study them from time to time. You know, if you sit on the side of Sixty-seven just south of the boxes, right when the sun’s rising, those boxes create some interesting shadows. I reckon that’s what Judd was up to.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Or I don’t have a clue.’

  ‘Do you have a clue who killed Nathan Jones?’

  ‘Well, the boy was Billy Bob’s lawyer, so I figure he had access to incriminating evidence, if there was any. And he talked about it with his … friend … who pressured him to go public with it, that tells me there’s evidence out there, waiting to be found. Which makes Billy Bob Barnett the prime suspect in a murder case. But I got no evidence of murder. Except a dead lawyer.’

  ‘What do you need to arrest him?’

  ‘I need that proof, podna.’

  Chapter 29

  ‘Kenni introduced Nathan to you.’

  Carla glanced over at Book from behind the wheel of her truck. ‘Yes. He did.’

  ‘A man inside Billy Bob’s operations.’

  ‘A lawyer. The best possible inside man. Privy to his client’s secrets.’

  ‘Did you know you were putting his life in danger?’

  ‘Fracking is a dangerous business, Professor.’