by Mark Gimenez
Grady nodded again. "For thirty days." He called out: "Doreen, tell Lester to bring over another plate of this Lorraine stuff for the judge!" To Beck: "Brings his own dishes and silverware. Pots and pans, too."
Soon standing in the doorway was a chubby young man wearing a black-and-white striped GILLESPIE COUNTY INMATE uniform, black clogs, and a white chef's hat. He was holding a plate of quiche.
"Oui, monsieur?"
Grady pointed his fork and made introductions through a mouthful of quiche: "Beck, this here's Lester Fritz. Lester, meet Judge Hardin."
Lester gave Beck a little nod of his head then handed the quiche to him. Beck put the plastic baggie on the desk.
"Thanks, Lester."
Grady said, "What's for dinner?"
"Chicken cordon bleu, risotto, et soufflé au chocolat."
"Damn, that sounds good. Can we have some of them beignets tomorrow?"
"Oui, monsieur."
Lester bowed then left. "He ain't French," Grady said, "but he is a little light in his loafers. Owns that French restaurant—Lester's on Llano. His daddy's a goat rancher, but Lester didn't exactly fit in with the old Germans over at the auction house, so his daddy used his mohair money to send Lester to cooking school in New York. He come back five years ago and opened his place. Packs 'em in, cost you a hundred bucks to eat there. Lester's kind of gone whole hog, talking French and all, but the boy can cook. I let him out at night so he don't have to close his restaurant. Don't tell his parole officer."
"Why's he in jail?"
"Blue warrant."
"What's that?"
"Parole revocation warrant. We call 'em 'blue warrants' 'cause they used to be in blue jackets. Deal is, if the parole officer charges a parolee with a parole violation, law says we got to arrest and hold him in the county jail. No bond pending the parole board's determination whether to revoke parole."
"What did Lester do?"
"Nothing. He's on parole for a drug offense, but he's in my jail 'cause his parole officer gives him jail therapy twice a year."
"Jail therapy?"
"Little jail time just to make sure he's staying straight."
"Is he?"
"I figure so, now that he's got the restaurant. But if his parole officer jacks him, there ain't nothing I can do. Parole board won't revoke 'cause he ain't done nothin', but the law says he's got to spend thirty days in my jail no matter. Upside is, he cooks for everyone, guards and inmates. He's good about it, gives me a grocery list, I send one of the deputies over to the H-E-B. We use our Homeland Security fund."
Doreen stuck her head in.
"Sheriff, Maurice Lackey's on the line, wants to know can he come in and serve his blue warrant. He heard Lester's in."
"Yeah, tell Maurice to come on in."
Doreen disappeared, and Beck said, "You got guys with outstanding warrants calling to surrender?"
Grady nodded. "Happens every time Lester's in."
"No one surrenders in Chicago, I don't care how good the food is."
"Eating Lester's food three times a day for free, watching the soaps, it don't get any better than that for Maurice. Soon as word gets out that Lester's in, I'll have a waiting list."
"Surrendering for jail food?"
"Hell, Beck, I'd serve thirty days to eat Lester's cooking. Damn sight better than my wife's. You ought to come over tomorrow for his beignets, those suckers are good." Grady pointed his fork at the baggie. "What you got there?"
"Zeke Adam's butt. Cigarette."
On the drive to San Antonio after the raid at the turkey plant, Beck had given Grady the complete story about Heidi and Kim stalking movie stars at the film festival in Austin and his efforts to obtain DNA samples.
"I want a DNA test on the saliva on that butt to see if it matches up with the DNA samples from Heidi."
"You're serious about tracking this guy down."
"Yeah, I'm serious."
"Okay. You're the judge." Then: "Lester'll be back in a minute with fresh coffee. French roast."
Wes was drinking a Starbucks on a Malibu beach.
Wes Wagner was the dirt man. His specialty was digging for dirt. He would dive into dumpsters and sift through trash bags. He would wait outside hotel rooms and cheap rent houses with a camera. He would pose as a repairman or a telephone lineman or the dogcatcher searching for a stray. He would follow cheap hookers all night, and he would catch a husband or CEO with his pecker in the wrong place. He would do whatever it took, but he would always get his dirt.
He knew his job.
He also knew his DNA: you can get DNA from blood (liquid or dried), skin, saliva (spit, licked envelopes, cigarette and cigar butts), semen (liquid or dried), hair (with follicle attached), fingernails, bone, teeth, urine, and anal swabs (Wes didn't go there); you cannot get DNA from hair without follicle attached, blood without white blood cells, or dried urine.
He would get Joe Raines' DNA that morning.
He was standing behind a rope stretched between barricades. They were shooting a big-budget motion picture, so Wes wasn't alone. Standing there with him were a hundred barely-dressed groupies hoping to catch Joe's eye as he walked from the set to his air-conditioned trailer after the shoot wrapped. Gorgeous girls hoping to become Joe's latest lay. All he had to do was wink or point or send his personal bodyguard after a girl. Female voices rose above his thoughts.
"Joe! Joe!"
Joe Raines was walking their way. He was dressed only in swim trunks. Best Wes could tell, he was playing a lifeguard in the movie. He was only thirty and his body was tanned and had been shaped by a personal trainer. He slowed as he approached the groupie gauntlet. His eyes scanned the crowd; the girls pushed to the front where they could be seen and their bodies appreciated. Wes noticed Joe's eyes pause on a redhead. Funny, but there could be a hundred gorgeous blondes and one redhead, and the stars would always go for the redhead. Why is that?
Joe walked to the trailer and climbed the few steps and entered. His bodyguard followed him in, but didn't shut the door. The bodyguard backed down the steps and came over to the chorus line. He walked straight to the redhead.
Wes shook his head: told you.
The redhead ducked under the rope and followed the bodyguard to the trailer. She was an incredible specimen: long lean legs, a miniskirt, and a tank top; a perfect body; and that mane of red hair. Wes once had a one-night stand with a girl who looked like her; she had cost a thousand dollars.
The redhead disappeared into the trailer, and the groupie gauntlet sighed as one. They had struck out today. Even Joe Raines couldn't keep that up after every take.
The other girls slowly scattered, muttering about trying again tomorrow. Wes waited. If he knew his movie-making business, and he did, Joe had only a thirty-minute break before the next take. Once the director and crew had set the scene with a double for camera distance and angle, Joe would be called back to the set to say his lines. Which lines he was supposed to be studying at that moment instead of some red-haired pussy. But Joe Raines was a star. He could do whatever he wanted to do.
Sure enough, thirty minutes later the bodyguard reappeared and knocked on the trailer door. Joe soon appeared; he walked down the steps and over to the set. The bodyguard held the door open. Wes heard him say, "Hurry up."
Some thanks.
The redhead appeared in the doorway; her hair was a mess, and she was adjusting her top. The bodyguard locked the trailer door behind her. She walked toward the barricades. Wes stepped over and lifted the rope for her. He said, "I'll give you a hundred dollars for your panties."
She stopped and stared at him like he was a pervert.
"You're sick. Besides, I'm wearing a thong."
"I'll give you a hundred dollars for your thong."
She started to walk on.
"Two hundred."
She stopped.
"Cash?"
Wes reached into his pocket and pulled out two crisp hundred-dollar bills.
"Did Joe wear a rubber?"
She laughed. "Stars never wear rubbers."
"Jump up and down," Wes said.
"What?"
Wes motioned with his hand. "Jump up and down. So gravity can do its work. I want those little Joes."
"You really are sick."
"Three hundred."
She jumped up and down.
He timed her for fifteen seconds, then said, "That'll do."
He pulled out another hundred and held the three bills out to her. She snatched them out of his hands. He reached to his back pocket and removed the plastic baggie. Freezer-sized. He didn't want to touch that thing. Thong.
"Give it up."
She reached under her skirt and pulled down her thong, then stepped out of it. Wes held out the baggie.
"In the bag."
She dropped the thong into the bag like she was making a donation to the Salvation Army Santa at Christmas, then she walked away. He sealed the baggie and went over to his Mustang up on the street. He placed the baggie in the FedEx overnight box with Beck Hardin's address on it, wrote Joe Raines and $500 on the back of his business card, and dropped the card into the box. He then drove to the nearest FedEx drop-off and sent Joe's DNA to Texas.
Only two weeks before, the Immigration and Customs Enforcement Division of the United States Department of Homeland Security had come into Fredericksburg and conducted a raid, arrested eight hundred thirty-nine Mexican nationals residing in town, and deported them to Mexico. Families had been torn apart, lives disrupted, and businesses shuttered.
But high school football in Texas went on.
When they walked into the Gallopin' Goats Stadium for the final game of the season against arch-rival Kerrville, Beck knew this game was going to be different. A big banner announced the "Nike High School Football Game of the Week." Television cameras were perched on portable towers positioned around the field. The field was lit up like high noon.
High school football on national TV.
From the conversations he overhead on the way to their seats, the national exposure the game would give Fredericksburg was viewed as a major stroke of luck: more shoppers for Thanksgiving weekend. No one spoke of the deported Mexicans.
They took their seats. Judge Hardin was again an accepted member of the community, so he was greeted with smiles and handshakes from nearby spectators. Jodie and Libby swapped seats with a coach's wife and joined them.
The Goats took the opening kickoff. On the first play on offense, Slade ran around right end and didn't stop running until he crossed the goal line seventy-six yards away. He walked over to the sideline and kicked over the Gatorade cooler, then stood alone ten yards away from the rest of his team. Aubrey turned toward Slade; before he turned back to the field, he looked up to where Beck was sitting. He turned his palms up.
With every touchdown Slade scored, four in the first half, his anger escalated and two words haunted Beck: homicidal rage. When Slade scored again in the second half to put the Goats up 35-0, he stood in the end zone and pounded his chest like Tarzan. He was flagged for unsportsmanlike conduct. The game was a rout, so Aubrey tried to remove Slade from the game, but Slade refused to be taken out. He scored again; this time he threw the ball at an opponent. He was ejected from the game. He walked to the sideline and kicked the team bench over. On national TV.
Beck found Quentin McQuade a few rows over. His son had scored five touchdowns, but the look on his face wasn't that of a proud father. Quentin looked like an investor watching the stock market plunge.
THIRTY-ONE
Eddie Steele was thirty-five years old and married with three children. The young blonde sitting at the table next to him, whose lovely right hand was rubbing Eddie's left leg, wasn't his wife or daughter. She was his girlfriend. Eddie lived with his wife in L.A., but he screwed around on her in La Jolla.
A week after collecting Joe Raines' DNA, Wes had followed Eddie Steele down the Pacific Coast highway. Eddie had gone to his girlfriend's condo and taken care of his base desires, so semen would not be the source of his DNA. Wes went to Plan B.
Blood.
The restaurant had open-air seating on the deck overlooking the ocean. It was a small private place where you could dine with your mistress without being mugged by photographers. Wes had taken a table across the deck from Eddie and the girl. He now pulled out a large bill and stood. He walked toward Eddie and the girl and just as he was next to their table he dropped the hundred. It floated to the ground. The girl spotted it and instinctively dove for it. Wes squatted quickly so his face was almost touching hers when they simultaneously grabbed the bill.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "Is this yours?"
"Yes."
Wes waited. The girl waited. Finally Eddie leaned over them, and when his shadow blocked out the light, Wes abruptly rose, driving the top of his head directly into Eddie's surgically perfected nose. Which, combined with his regular cocaine habit, made for a nasty nosebleed.
Eddie cried out—"Shit!"—and cupped his nose. Blood appeared on his fingers. Wes was quick with the new white cotton handkerchief; it was out of his pocket and onto Eddie's nose before Eddie could say "shit" again.
"Man, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
Eddie pushed him away. "Get off me!"
Everyone was looking now, and waiters hurried their way. Wes walked away with Eddie's blood sample and the hundred-dollar bill. He glanced back. The girl was searching both sides of her chair for the bill.
THIRTY-TWO
"Look at these pictures of little kids with big guns and dead animals," Jodie said.
She held the paper up for Beck to see. During hunting season, the local paper printed a special section with photos of kids and the deer they had killed.
"There's actually a program called 'Take a Child Hunting'? Is it just me, or is that kind of creepy?"
"It's just you," Aubrey said.
"That's supposed to teach a kid character? Why don't they call it 'Teach a Kid to Kill'? Maybe they should have 'Take a Child Bar Hopping' or 'Take a Child to a Crack House'. I've seen this every year for ten years and it's still disgusting."
"Jodie," Aubrey said, "hunting's a tradition in the country."
"Praise the Lord and pass the ammo. All those fat guys in camouflage outfits—Main Street looks like an NRA convention. And why do the schools let out for the stock show but not for Martin Luther King Day—it's a national holiday, for Pete's sake."
"Maybe 'cause there's thousands of livestock in the county but no black people … except for Gil."
"Yeah, they're afraid of being deported back to Africa." She shook her head. "I still can't believe all those people are gone, kids still without their parents." Back to the paper: "Oh, look, they printed the bag limits on deer, wild boar, Mexicans …"
Aubrey shook his head. "Girl, you are fired up today."
J.B. called from the kitchen: "All right, boys and girls. Let's eat our Thanksgiving chicken."
The Hardins had always eaten turkey on Thanksgiving. But not that Thanksgiving. Beck had stood in the frozen food department at the grocery store staring at the birds, but he couldn't bring himself to buy one. So J.B. had barbecued chicken instead. Thanksgiving chicken. J.B. said, "Well, it don't make much sense, but it eats good."
Jodie, Janelle, and their kids had brought sweet potato casserole, fruit salad, and pumpkin pie. Aubrey had brought beer.
After lunch, they found spots around the big-screen TV and watched the Cowboys play the Colts. Fredericksburg was geographically closer to Houston than Dallas, but the Cowboys were the overwhelming team of choice among the locals, even though the Cowboys had a Mexican quarterback. Of course, he didn't call the plays in Spanish.
No Spanish was spoken in the Cowboys' huddle or on Main Street in Fredericksburg, Texas, that Thanksgiving weekend. No Mexicans marched in the street or on the sidewalks. Those who had not been deported remained invisible. Only white shoppers from the city crowded Main Street. Sales were booming. All was well in Fredericksburg, Texas. But not with
Aubrey.
"Don't hold back on me, Beck. Tell me what you know."
The sun was orange and low in the sky. They were sitting on the front porch watching the llama named Sue chase the pot-bellied pig down the caliche road. Aubrey turned his head and spat a stream of brown tobacco juice straight through the white porch spindles five feet away.
"I'll tell you one thing I know, Aubrey. If you miss and spit on J.B.'s porch, he's going to take that cane of yours and beat you stupid."
"He'd do that, wouldn't he?"
"You damn right he would."
Aubrey pushed himself up and limped to the railing. He spat out the wad of chewing tobacco then returned to his chair.
"Tell me what you know, Beck."
What did he owe his old friend? Did he owe him the truth about his daughter? Or just his leg? The life he could have had or the life he had had? Beck didn't know.
So he told Aubrey about Heidi's dream of being a star (but not about her nude photos or her abortion); he told him about Heidi going to the film festival and the black limo in Austin and the black limo in Fredericksburg that same night (but not about Heidi's clothes or that she had sex with two men); he told him about the shoe he had found but that no fingerprints had been found (but not about the two different DNA samples that had been found on her body); and he told him that Heidi had been with a movie star that night.
"A movie star killed her?"
Beck nodded.
"Which one?"
"I'm getting DNA samples."
"How?"
"Don't ask."
"We've only got thirty-nine days to find him."
"I know."
And he told Aubrey about Randi's house.
"How could she afford that kind of house?"
"I don't know," Aubrey said. "Hell, she didn't want a dime in the divorce. She just wanted out. But she's a good-looking woman. I didn't figure on her waiting tables." He paused, then said, "Did she ask about me?"
The pig was now chasing the llama named Sue back up the caliche road. Jodie stuck her head out the door. Beck winked at Aubrey and said, "Jodie, did you vote for Reagan in eighty-four?"