Con Law (22 page)

‘French, Ms. Honeywell?’

‘The finest private school education available in San Francisco.’

The mayor spit out the bad taste of French and put his other prized articles away.

‘Anyway, we’ve been written up in
GQ
,
Vogue
,
Vanity Fair
,
Wall Street Journal
,
Texas Monthly
, papers and magazines from California clear to New York City. Before Judd, all we had was the Marfa Mystery Lights. After Judd, we got art. And that’s a marketable concept.’

‘A concept?’

‘You know, a promotional gimmick.’

‘Judd’s art is a gimmick?’

The mayor shrugged. ‘Disneyland has Mickey Mouse.’

Kenni brought a glass of iced tea for the mayor. He grabbed the sugar dispenser and turned it up. And left it there, dispensing a load of sugar into the tea.

‘You
like a little tea with your sugar?’ Book said.

‘What? Oh, I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth.’

‘Lucky you still have teeth.’

‘Don’t pay him any mind, Mayor,’ Nadine said. ‘He doesn’t know anything about the sweeter things in life. Like sweet tea and chocolate-covered donuts and … pizza!’

Kenni had returned with their pizzas, which kept Nadine quiet.

‘See,’ the mayor said, ‘when you think of Dallas, you think of J. R. Ewing and the Cowboys. Austin, you think of music and hippies. Houston, you think of … mosquitoes. We want you to think of art when you think of Marfa. And let me tell you, Professor, art is a promotional gimmick that works.’

He drank his sugar with tea then continued.

‘I mean, we’re an airplane flight and a four-hour drive from anywhere, but ten thousand art tourists make the pilgrimage every year. And that’s what it is for those folks, a religious experience, like Judd was a god and Marfa’s a shrine. I don’t get it myself—hell, they’re just boxes—but they come and they see and they spend. We got a bookstore, fourteen art galleries’—the mayor pointed out the window—‘right over there, that’s the inde/jacobs gallery, two homosexuals from Minnesota moved down here and opened it—and nine restaurants. Got a French place called Cochineal, gay couple owns it, they had a place in New York called États-Unis, cost you a hundred bucks to eat there, place is packed—homosexuals, they can cook. We got Italian, Mediterranean—that’s the Food Shark. Serves falafel, hummus, fatoush salad … folks like the stuff, but it gives me gas.’

‘Good to know.’

‘But it gives the town a bit of flavor. And they buy real estate. Home values, they’ve skyrocketed.’

‘Taxes, too, which I’ve heard is forcing locals to sell and move out of town.’

The mayor
shrugged away any such concern. ‘Price of progress. I’ve got a house listed for half a million dollars. Ten years ago, you could buy all the houses in town for less than that. That’s progress.’

‘You’re a real-estate broker?’

The mayor nodded. ‘I was an accountant, but never much money in Marfa to count, so I got my real-estate license. And business is booming, all the newcomers buying up homes and land. The Ryan Ranch, where they filmed
Giant
, it’s up for sale—for twenty-seven million.’

‘Is it a big ranch?’

‘Nah. Only about thirty-four thousand acres. But I read it’s half as big again as Manhattan Island, and only the son lives on it now. Maybe he’ll get his price. New Yorkers, they think our prices are cheap. Homosexuals, they’ve got beaucoup bucks, I guess because they don’t got children. Kids are expensive.’

He shook his head as if in wonderment at the world around him.

‘Art and homosexuals on the plains of West Texas. Is life funny or what?’

‘Or what.’

The mayor looked around, leaned in, and lowered his voice.

‘These homosexuals, they’re the best thing to ever happen to Marfa, even if they are abominations in the Lord’s eyes.’

‘Good of you to look past their human faults.’

‘I’m a Christian man.’

‘And a real-estate broker.’

‘That, too.’ He leaned back. ‘Before the artists, don’t believe we had a homosexual in town … well, there was the Johnson boy, everyone wondered about him. But he moved over to Alpine. They got a university there.’

As if that explained the Johnson boy’s change of venue.

‘During the Chinati Open House in October, we’ll have more homosexuals per square foot in Marfa than in San Francisco’—Nadine gave Book an ‘I told you so’ look—‘and most of them are Jewish to boot. Got me to thinking about a motto for Marfa, you know, like “Muslims to Mecca.”’

‘That’s
Mecca’s motto?’

The mayor had the look of a man about to make a big announcement.

‘“Jews to Judd.” What do you think? Kinda catchy, ain’t it?’

The mayor smiled proudly, as if he had just coined another ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ Nadine eyed the mayor as she had the Border Patrol agents that first day; Book hoped she would not express the same evaluation of the mayor.

‘
Jews to Judd?
Are you a dope?’

‘I’m the mayor.’ He turned his hands up as if innocent. ‘I figured we could run an ad in the
New York Times
.’

Book shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t go there, Mayor.’

The mayor seemed perplexed. But he quickly shook it off and continued with his sales pitch.

‘Anyway, we got the largest hydroponic tomato farm in the world, they produce twenty million pounds of tomatoes every year.’

‘Lot of tomatoes.’

‘Damn straight it is. We got that El Cosmico hippie campground. I heard tell folks smoke dope out there.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Nope. And we’re fixin’ to have an art-house drive-in movie theater, designed by the same architects that designed the Museum of Modern Art in New York.’

‘You need a Starbucks,’ Nadine said.

‘We got a Frama’s.’

‘Coffee shop?’

‘Yep.’

‘Fresh ground beans?’

‘Yep.’

‘Real cream?’

‘Yep.’

‘Where?’

‘Block
west of the Paisano.’

‘I’m there.’

‘How much coffee do you drink?’ Book asked his intern.

‘As much as I can.’

The mayor pressed on. ‘Press calls us “Santa Fe South” and “Marfa’s Vineyard.”’

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘Yankees like the sound of it. And it brings the celebrities to town. Robert Redford was just here—’

‘We heard.’

‘—and Michael Nesmith performed here last year.’

‘Who’s he?’ Nadine asked.

‘The Monkees.’

‘He’s a monkey?’

‘
The
Monkees. TV show about a band back in the late sixties.’

‘I wasn’t born until the late eighties. Is he dead, too?’

‘He wasn’t when he sang here.’

‘We heard there’s some conflict between the newcomers and the old-timers?’ Book said.

‘Sounds like you’ve been talking to Sam Walker?’

‘We have.’

‘He tell you about the Triple As?’

‘He did.’

‘Well, those attorneys, artists, and assholes brought a lot of money to Marfa. See, I want this town to grow. Sam wants to write about the dying West. Sometimes I think he’ll only be happy when he’s the last person left in town to read his paper.’ He shook his head. ‘Sam, he’s … he’s just not a big thinker.’

‘Like you?’

The mayor turned his palms up and offered a ‘What can I say?’ expression. ‘Marketing the art, that was my idea.’

‘And “Jews to Judd,”’ Nadine said.

‘I’m trying to get folks interested in making a sequel to
Giant
, like they did with
Dallas
.’

‘But all the stars are dead,’ Nadine said.

‘That
is an obstacle. I was thinking, maybe we could pick up the story after Bick and Jett are dead. Remember at the end they showed Bick’s two grandsons, one was Anglo, the other Mexican? Hollywood loves that multicultural angle. We could even make one of them a homosexual. I was hoping the Quaid boy could star in it, but he had to leave town pretty fast, to escape those assassins.’

‘We heard.’

‘Hell of a deal, Hollywood assassins running around Marfa.’

‘So Sam says there’s conflict in town … other than assassins after old movie stars.’

‘Oh, there’s a little friction, is all.’

‘Friction?’

The mayor nodded. ‘Friction. When you’ve lived your life a certain way among similar people for fifty, sixty years, then new folks come to town who live a different way, they rub each other the wrong way, creates a little friction. Nothing to fret about … long as it don’t slow down the real-estate market.’

‘We wouldn’t want that.’

‘Nope.’

‘Well, glad things are going well in Marfa, Mayor.’

The mayor regarded Book a moment. His civic booster expression turned serious.

‘We got a good thing going, Professor. Don’t screw it up for us.’

‘And how would I do that?’

‘Acting like we got a murder mystery in Marfa.’

Book unfolded the funeral photo on the table. He could not find the mayor’s face among the funeral guests.

‘You didn’t go to Nathan Jones’s funeral?’

‘I didn’t know him. When they said Billy Bob’s lawyer was killed in a car wreck, I said, “Who?” Which is odd since I make it a point to know every voter in town. Can I see it?’

‘What?’

‘The
letter.’

‘You know about the letter?’

‘Hell, Professor, everyone in town knows about the letter. You been showing it off like it’s a war medal.’

Nadine nodded in agreement. Book handed Nathan’s letter to the mayor. He read it and then exhaled.

‘You see his proof?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You’ve been in town, what, three days, and you haven’t seen his proof?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe there is no proof. You think about that?’

‘I have.’

‘Heard you met Billy Bob this morning.’

‘We did.’

‘He do a yell for you?’

‘He did.’

‘I wish he hadn’t,’ Nadine said.

‘Didn’t he tell you fracking was safe?’

‘He did.’

‘He show you that fracking video?’

‘He did.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

‘In my experience, Mayor, when there’s money at stake, people tend to slant their testimony.’

‘You saying Billy Bob’s a liar?’

‘I’m saying there are two sides to every story.’

‘And you’re getting the other side from Carla?’

‘You know Carla?’

‘Everyone knows Carla. Heard you had a meeting with her at Padre’s last night.’

‘We met. We didn’t have a meeting.’

‘You sure beat up those roughnecks for her.’

‘They were rude.’

‘They’re roughnecks. So what’d you think of their boss?’

‘He’s
a mouth-breathing creep,’ Nadine said through her pizza.

‘Says he’s got sinus problems. And gals tend to think he’s a little creepy, but, hell, he’s an Aggie.’ The mayor chuckled. ‘Look, I’ve known Billy Bob since he moved to town. I’ve seen him sober and I’ve seen him drunk—don’t invite him to your Christmas party, by the way. He’s a skirt-chasing fool, but he ain’t a killer.’

He held up the letter.

‘This is pretty serious stuff.’

‘Enough to get Nathan Jones killed?’

‘Sheriff ruled it an accident, boy driving too fast. You met him, Brady. He seem like he knows what he’s doing?’

‘He did.’

‘He does. If Brady Munn says it was an accident, it was an accident. Case closed. Folks don’t murder each other in Marfa.’

The mayor downed his iced tea like a drunk downing his last shot of whiskey and stood as if to leave. But he hesitated; he had one more question for Book.

‘Why do you care so much about Nathan Jones?’

‘He was my student. I owe it to him to learn the truth.’

‘The truth?’ The mayor seemed amused. ‘I’ve lived sixty years now, Professor, and I’ve learned there’s no such thing as truth. There’s just points of view.’ He paused a moment, as if contemplating his own words, then said, ‘Speaking of students, don’t you still have classes to teach in Austin?’

The mayor walked away. They watched him glad-hand a few folks on their lunch break, then exit the establishment. Book turned to his intern.

‘You get the feeling people want us to leave town?’

‘I know I do.’

‘Henry
, thanks for calling me back.’

‘Just updating my resumé. How’s Marfa?’

‘Different.’

Book sat on Rock Hudson’s rooftop patio. The sky was blue, and the afternoon warm. He had called Henry Lawson at the law school for legal advice. He often consulted Henry because he had worked in the real world. He had dealt with the reality of the law and not just the theory. He provided an objective view of the world. And he was smart.

‘What are you doing in Marfa? You left kind of fast.’

‘A former intern named Nathan Jones wrote me a letter—’

‘Uh-oh, another letter.’

‘—said he was now a lawyer here in Marfa representing an oil and gas client involved in fracking. Said his client was contaminating the groundwater. Said he had proof.’

‘So what’d he have to say?’

‘Nothing. He’s dead. Died in a car accident, same day he mailed the letter to me.’

‘Odd timing.’

‘I thought so.’

‘You
suspect foul play?’

‘I do.’

‘Another quest for justice?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Why do you care so much about Nathan Jones?’

‘He saved my life.’

‘He was the one? Down in South Texas?’

‘He was. His wife’s pregnant, due in a few weeks.’

‘Damn. So you’re playing detective again?’

‘I talked to the sheriff—’

‘What did he have to say?’

‘Accident.’

‘He got a stake in the game?’

‘No.’

‘Go on.’

‘Then we visited the accident scene, talked to Nathan’s senior partner in Midland—’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Tom Dunn.’

‘He’s an important lawyer in West Texas.’

‘Nathan said he took his proof to Dunn, but Dunn denied it.’

‘That’s what lawyers do.’

‘Then we met with his client.’

‘Who?’

‘A fracker named Billy Bob Barnett.’

Henry laughed. ‘You met Billy Bob?’

‘You know him?’