Con Law (30 page)

‘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?’

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.’

‘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.’

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.