Bad Country: A Novel (2 page)

Sa’p a’i masma, Luis. This simple greeting was the only phrase in Tohono O’odham Rodeo had memorized for the owner of the trading post, Luis Azul Encarnacion.

Rodeo took his usual seat on his usual barstool at the glass-topped counter that served both as display for wares and elbow space for regulars. His dog insinuated himself around his master’s legs and took his place in the spot under the bar rubbed shiny by his occupation over the past six years. The storekeep reached his good hand back to lift a cowboy coffee pot from an electric burner ring, poured coffee into a speckled mug and slid it toward the only customer in the store.

Glad you made it back to El Hoyo, Brother Rodeo, Luis said. I always think you’ll go away one day and won’t come back no more and then I won’t have nobody intelligent left to talk to in this hole in the world.

Where’s your Locals at? asked Rodeo.

They found a dead man at the Boulder Turn-Out this morning, so I think the Locals they are laying low in their trailers today.

There’s a dead man out at my place too, Luis.

This is bad country down here, brother. Luis made this statement without affect. People die here all the time. Especially us Indians. Luis held up a fifth of Patrón Silver. You need something stronger, brother?

Just coffee, Luis. You got any fresh?

That’s fresh in front of you from just two days ago.

Luis poured a swig of tequila into his own mug. Rodeo drank his old coffee. The pair shared a silence for a few minutes. As if suspended on strings, bottle flies bounced in the uneven flow of the swamp cooler. The dog snored.

Were you expecting somebody out in The Hole, brother? Some of your Wets coming through?

He’s nobody I know, said Rodeo. And he’s dressed up in new Walmart gear with no pack or trash bag, no candy bars, no water bottle even. So I don’t think he’s an Undocumented that came through La Entrada from the Sonora side. He was brought to my place from the American side.

Why would he be? asked Luis.

I don’t know, Luis.

Sheriff coming by here?

Ray said he was coming this way after he attended to the dead man at the Boulder Turn-Out, said Rodeo. He rubbed at his eyes. Who found that dead man?

The Bread Man came by here this morning and bought an Olde English so I guess he was having an early Forty at the Turn-Out and when he went to take a piss there was this dead man in the ditch behind the Boulder pretty rotted up. And there was another murder while you was gone on your vacation to the Whites, Luis said. Last week some Hand from Slash/M Rancho found a guy up under the overpass with his head half blowed off.

You keeping track of these on the wall?

Luis had painted a mural on the interior adobe wall behind the counter and labeled the map “AMexica”—West Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, SoCal, Chihuahua, Sinaloa, Sonora. The map was now mostly covered by newspaper clippings dealing with crime or Indian Affairs or Border Issues.

Nobody’s interested in nothing I got to say, said Luis.

You talked to Police lately?

Apache Ray, he’s high most the time now on oxy from Old Mexico, Luis said. You should run for sheriff, Rodeo. You got some connections with Statewide Law Enforcement and a certain sort of good reputation when you killed Charlie Constance. Ray, he’s having heart troubles I heard so he might not last long in his current position anyhow. And Sheriff Sideways likes you so he might even support you if you run.

Ray dropped me from his radar when Sirena dumped me and he’s had heart troubles for thirty years, said Rodeo. You should run for sheriff on the “Free Beer Tomorrow” slogan, Luis.

That slogan does play good with the Locals, Luis said.

The store was quiet then save for the steady thump of the swamp cooler cylinder and the asthmatic mumbling of the overworked refrigerator cooling down sweaty tallboys of malt liquor and broken up six-packs of “Ice” beer and “Drink Very Cold” wine, quart cartons of whole milk, blocks of margarine and Oaxaca cheese, boiled eggs in plastic sandwich bags. Rodeo picked up his coffee cup and took a polite sip, stared out a dirty plate glass window at a dozen thin beeves across the road testing the dust for edible vegetation.

*   *   *

A late model Crown Victoria Special Edition arrived ten minutes later and Sheriff “Apache” Ray Molina labored out of his green-on-white cruiser and moved toward the store. Though in the face he still looked like the third lead in a classic Western, the senior lawman had ridden a lot of wild horses, eaten a lot of tough steaks and drunk a lot of hard liquor in his day and so was flat in the ass, fat in the belly and his Southwestern patrician nose was webbed with broken veins. He pushed back the Mexican screen door with some care, and nodded at the entire room as if he might have a large audience even though only Luis and Rodeo were in the place.

I sent Deputy Buenjose over to your place to have a look-out, Garnet, the sheriff said. But I doubt he’s even got out of his car.

Where’s the medical examiner?

Doc Boxer’s at the Turn-Out with some State Patrol and CSI from Special Investigations Unit who are down here to help us out while we’re shorthanded.

Follow me out to my place then, Ray, said Rodeo. And have a look at the new addition to your troubles.

The sheriff tipped his hat at an invisible crowd and walked back to the county cruiser.

*   *   *

Rodeo pulled out a hip wallet thick with calling cards and IDs and scrimps of paper and old receipts. There was not much fungible in the wallet, but Rodeo thumbed through the various pockets and crevices in the trifold and managed to find an assortment of hideaway money, which he laid out on the countertop. Luis flattened the bills with his good hand.

With the price of gas these days this cash money won’t half fill one tank of that old horse you’re riding, said the storekeep. Luis tapped the glass countertop under which were assorted valuables, many of them from Rodeo, including several of his smaller firearms and rodeo prize buckles, much of Rodeo’s mother’s old turquoise and his diamond wedding ring. Pawn Shop is always open, brother.

I need some work, Luis.

I got something for you over on Tuxson Res, your home turf, Luis said. An old woman she wants you to look out about her grandson’s killing. Familia name’s Rocha.

I don’t know her, Rodeo said. She know me?

She knows about you at least.

All the Indians I ever known on the Res are poor, said Rodeo.

You got anything better to do, brother?

Rodeo shook his head. The 800 numbers attached to his listings for “Private Investigator” in the Yellow Pages of Tucson, Casa Grande, Phoenix, Scottsdale, Tempe, Nogales, Los Cruces, Silver City and El Paso had not rung in weeks though his renewal payments for these advertisements were past due.

What’s the job, Luis?

This kid’s death, it’s probably just a drive-by and not much you can do about it anyway, Luis said. But it should be a day or two cash wages.

What killed him?

It’s a mystery, Luis said. Some cowboy found the Rocha kid up under some brush in the Santa Cruz riverbed near the Res. The kid might have been shot off the Starr Pass Road bridge or just fell off.

Rodeo shook his head.

For ten dollars I can get you a folder together on the whole thing if you’ll come by tomorrow? Give you something to do.

Rodeo sat for a moment staring at his hocked objects under the glass top of the counter.

I’ll have to owe you the ten for the contact, he said.

I’ll put it on your tab, little brother. Luis pulled a pencil stub from behind a cauliflower ear and scribbled on a notepad. You staying out at the Estates then? Even with a dead man in your yard?

They’ll move him eventually, said Rodeo.

The sheriff’s car horn honked and Rodeo whistled up the dog who stirred himself with great effort.

That old dog he’s driving you to financial ruin, Luis said. For ten dollars I could shoot him dead for you. Be painless for you both.

I’ll shoot my own dog and save the ten dollars when it comes to that, Rodeo said. He scooped up the dog in two arms and carried him out of the trading post. The sky was clear but for one small, silvery cloud suspended over El Hoyo like a weather balloon. Rodeo established the dog in his regular depression on the bench seat of the pickup. The dog went immediately back to sleep as he always did when he was tired or bored.

Rodeo moved to the double gas tanks of his pickup, uncapped one and plugged in the unleaded nozzle, set the pump on automatic. He added a quart of Dollar Store forty weight to the crankcase of the F-150 without even checking the dipstick. When he looked at the tally on the pump he did not fail to notice that Luis Azul Encarnacion had allowed him twice what he had paid for. He recapped the rear gas tank, hopped in the truck, rubbed his dog’s head for luck and aimed his pickup at the county road. It took fifteen minutes to get back to the murder site where vultures and crows feasted on and fought over the corpse dressed in a shirt of blue, white and mostly red.

*   *   *

Rodeo parked his truck well behind a black-on-black Los Jarros County SUV that was parked very near the corpse. Ray Molina parked in front of Rodeo and unfolded out of his county cruiser as if he were measuring the number of moves he made and could not go beyond a certain allowance for the day. Rodeo stayed in his vehicle. The dog stayed where he was in the shotgun seat, whining still about the scent of blood. Deputy Buenjose Contreras did not exit his black 4 × 4 but talked on his cell phone and smoked a cigarette. There was no crime scene tape in sight nor had the deputy made any attempt to fend off the carrion fowl.

The sheriff drew the big Colt revolver from his holster and fired in the air two times quickly and all of the crows and but one of the vultures flew away. The sheriff aimed and fired in the general direction of the remaining vulture and winged the feasting bird, which started flopping and screeching.

Oh for chrissake, the sheriff said. Even the birds out here in The Hole are stupid as shit.

Ray Molina killed the recalcitrant vulture with a headshot from ten yards. Rodeo exited his pickup and leaned a hip on a fender.

You can still shoot, Ray.

The lawman acknowledged this compliment with a nod then turned and pointed the revolver at his deputy in the black SUV. He rolled his wrist and the revolver around and then re-holstered his six-shooter as his underling rolled down his car window and stuck his pale brown face into the world.

Raise Doc Boxer, Buenjose, and call State to see if they got somebody extra to help out around here, said the sheriff. And just keep me informed about the incoming from your air-conditioned perch in the county taxpayers’ vehicle if that suits you all right?

That suits me just fine, Sheriff.

The deputy rolled up his window and picked up his radio receiver.

It suits my deputy just fine to stay in his vehicle during this situation, the sheriff said. After he damned near parked on top of a murder victim and ruined a crime scene to no end. The sheriff sniffed at the foul scent in the air. And that’s the deputy around here who covets my job and wants to be sheriff of Los Jarros County one day. Probably one day soon if he has his way. Sheriff Molina glanced over at Rodeo. What do you think about that, Garnet?

I think good help’s hard to find, Ray.

I think that’s what Jesus said at Gethsemane, the sheriff said. He surveyed the scene again and shook his head. I can see these asshole victims getting killed on the paved roads around here, he said. That would make some sense to me. But there’s not any good reason for a dressed-up man like this to be out here on a dirt road in The Hole, Garnet. You’re the only one ever crazy enough to live out here. The Apaches gave this place up without a fight, the Spanish gave it up without a fight, Mexicans don’t want it, Anglos wouldn’t have it when it was free land grant and even dumbass Snowbirds from Canadia won’t move down here with three hundred and sixty-six days of sunshine a year.

You know your Bible and local history, Ray.

The sheriff looked at the ground as if it were moving under him.

You all right, Ray?

I’m fine, said the sheriff. Old. Tired.

It happens to the best of them, Ray.

You never expect it to happen to you, the sheriff said. Ray Molina rubbed the back of his creased neck as he surveyed the scene again. Did you hear anything when this happened, Garnet? Any piercing screams in the night or random gunfire or like that?

I just got back from my yearly vacation in the Whites, Rodeo said.

What have you got yourself into this time, Garnet?

You know I don’t answer trick questions, Ray.

I know you don’t, said the sheriff. And that’s a sure sign of your intelligence.

The sheriff backed off from the cruiser, made a dramatic turn all around then stared for a while at the dead man.

Well, if he didn’t walk out here then it looks to me like your little man in the U S of A flag shirt was in some vehicle, and if he was in some vehicle with people who might want to kill him he probably wanted out of that vehicle. The sheriff assayed the surrounding area again. And he’d only have the one way to go because on the northside of this so-called Elm Street of yours there’s just a hell’s deep arroyo to fall to death in, so he heads south, trying to get off the road and get to some cover. But your little man wasn’t fast enough to get to cover and got just about exactly as far as he is before he was dropped with some pretty goddamned large buckshot. Ten gauge or twelve?

That seems about right, Rodeo said. Except he’s not my little man because I got nothing to do with him.

The sheriff lifted his nose to the stench and sniffed again. Well, whoever’s he is he’s ripe, idn’t he?

The dog smelled him from a quarter mile away, said Rodeo.

You got any ideas about this rompecabeza? Or does your dog?

Like you say, it’s a puzzler, Ray. But I will say that this man got here after I left for the Whites and before I got back from the Whites, so he’d be killed sometimes this past week.

The sheriff walked over to the corpse and crouched with obvious pain to examine what was left of the dead man. He raised his voice as he spoke over his shoulder.