Bad Country: A Novel Page 5

  The name “Samuel Rocha” also achieved one hit from the Web site of SandScript the Journal of Creative Writing from Pima Community College where his poem, “Burn What Will Burn,” had achieved publication. But otherwise he didn’t learn anything Luis hadn’t already told him.

  Rodeo paid his bill, exited Denny’s and continued west on Valencia.

  * * *

  Rodeo passed several strip malls, a trailer park, scattered San Carlos Indian Reservation housing and then pulled his truck to a stop in front of the Circle K on Mark Street a half mile from Casino del Sol and less than a quarter mile from the house in which his mother had killed herself. A blue-and-yellow on white Chevy Tahoe tribal cop car occupied the handicap spot. Rodeo parked between two pickups in worse shape than his and stepped into the convenience store. The big, flat-faced Indian clerk behind the counter looked aslant at him.

  Is Mark Street around here pretty close? Rodeo wanted to start a conversation but the clerk was not interested.

  There’s Tucson city maps for sale right over there. The clerk pointed at a magazine rack. We’re not supposed to give out directions. Management’s orders.

  Rodeo glanced around the convenience store. A Bud man stocked beer into a cooler and two men in work clothes assembled their breakfasts of burritos and coffee. A big cop walked out of a room behind the counter marked PRIVATE with a men’s magazine in his hand.

  What’s up, Gilbert? the cop said. This guy giving you some grief or something?

  The clerk shrugged as if that might be a possibility. The cop brushed past Rodeo to reinsert the Maxim into the periodical rack near the door, turned back to glare at him.

  You looking for something around here, guy?

  Katherine Rocha? asked Rodeo. Samuel Rocha?

  You got some ID or something, guy?

  Rodeo pulled out his huge billfold and extracted his Arizona driver’s license and handed it over. The cop flipped the card back to front.

  This is what you got, guy? A ten-year-old driving license?

  It’s good for another fifteen years, said Rodeo. Do you need a passport in Arizona now?

  The big cop slipped the license into a flap pocket of his shirt.

  Why don’t we step outside and have a talk, guy? the cop asked. And let Gilbert get back to his business.

  Rodeo followed the cop out of the store to stand near the phone kiosk. The cop stood very large on widespread feet as if ready to deliver or repel a blow.

  So, what’s up, guy? You a comedian or something?

  I’m a PI hired to investigate the murder of the kid that got killed over on Starr Pass Road near A-Mountain a little while back, said Rodeo. The victim’s name was Samuel Rocha.

  I know who the kid was, the policeman said.

  How do you know him? You related?

  His dad is Alonzo Rocha, a cousin. What’s it to you, guy?

  You know his abuela, Katherine Rocha? She lives nearby here on Mark Street.

  What do you think you’re investigating around here, guy?

  Just to see what’s up with Samuel Rocha’s death, said Rodeo.

  Drive-by is what’s up, the cop said. Open and shut. The punk’s gang name was Smoke so what do you expect? The lowlife probably pissed somebody off on a bad drug deal and got shot for it. Happens every day, doesn’t it, guy.

  Just looking for some local information, Officer.… Rodeo glanced at the name tag badge of the tribal policeman. The tag simply read MONJANO. Rodeo asked, do you have a first name, Officer Monjano?

  I probably do and you probably don’t want to know it, guy. The policeman pulled the driver’s license out of his shirt pocket and tapped it against Rodeo’s chest. Rodeo stood very still. I heard about you but I don’t know you, guy, said the tribal cop. So watch yourself around here on my Res.

  The policeman let go of the license which fell to the ground, went to his SUV, entered the vehicle and spoke for a minute on his cell phone. He jerked his head at Rodeo then drove off. After the cop drove off in the direction of Casino del Sol, Rodeo picked up his driver’s license and returned into the Circle K and selected from a freezer a “Giannormous Gigantor” and placed the burrito supremo in the extra-dirty microwave. He pressed a button on the stove, and while he was waiting poured and drank an extra-large cup of Colombian coffee and then tossed the Styrofoam cup into a trash can and used his credit card to pay for only the burrito. The clerk processed the purchase but said nothing.

  Rodeo walked out of the store, resettled in his truck, peeled back the wrapper from the burrito and fed his good dog a bad breakfast.

  * * *

  Katherine Rocha’s house on Mark Street was a small, red-brick ranch on a single lot.

  Rodeo parked on the hard-packed dirt that served as sidewalk in the neighborhood. He exited the pickup and let the dog out and they both walked to the six-foot-tall adobe fence. Rodeo tipped up on his toes to look over the solid fence. Bright white gravel covered the yard. Attached to the house was a prefab carport. In the shade there was parked a 1980’s-era Buick LeSabre. The car had an incongruous aluminum spoiler bolted amateurishly to the trunk lid and a new paint job. There was nothing alive in the yard but for the old lady who raked the gravel into neat furrows.

  Rodeo moved to the gate, which was composed of lengths of barbed ocotillo branches wrapped in baling wire. As the old woman backed toward the concrete walk that led from the house to the gate, she raked meticulously over her own footprints until they had completely disappeared. She hung the yard broom tines-up on a nail in the front wall of the house, brushed her hands together and disappeared inside the little house. She came back out in three minutes and walked slowly and somewhat unsteadily down the concrete walkway, unlatched the gate and stood aside as the man and his dog entered her space. She closed the gate behind Rodeo. He smelled alcohol vapor around the woman’s head.

  He estado esparandote.

  Yes ma’am, said Rodeo. Thanks for waiting for me.

  You don’t speak Spanish.

  I get it mostly, but don’t speak it much, Rodeo said. My daddy didn’t allow any Spanish at home.

  Buck liked to play at being an Indian and a Mexican when it suited him, but he was White, wasn’t he?

  I’m not really here to talk about my daddy, Mrs. Rocha.

  That’s why your mother married him, you know. She married Buck because she wanted to be White. His potential client appraised Rodeo from top to bottom. You’re taller than I thought you’d be. Take after her, I guess. Your father was pint-sized and mean.

  Rodeo did not comment.

  Katherine Rocha shrugged. Apples don’t fall far from their tree, do they? she asked.

  If you say so, Mrs. Rocha. I don’t know much about apples.

  The woman squinted at him. And I see you still dress up like a cowboy even at your age. But you looked better as a little kid dressed up like that for the Tucson Rodeo Parade than you are as a grown man dressed up like that. Little Indian kids in cowboy outfits are always so cute in parades but then they grow up, don’t they.

  Some do, Mrs. Rocha.

  You don’t remember me, do you? she asked.

  No ma’am.

  But I remember you, the woman said. San Xavier kid. Went to Mission School then Tucson High then got some college scholarship for rodeo later on, didn’t you?

  Yes ma’am. I went up to Highlands in New Mexico for a while and then to Ranger College, out in West Texas.

  But you never graduated, did you?

  No ma’am. Not yet.

  Little late for you to do it now, idn’t it?

  Depends on how you look at it, Mrs. Rocha.

  The old woman looked at Rodeo’s dog. Don’t you dare let that dog off the concrete or in my house, she said. He’s your responsibility to clean up after if he messes. I am tired of cleaning up after dogs. And cleaning up after men with dogs.

  He’s a good dog, Mrs. Rocha.

  Every man in the world says that about his dog. Katherine Rocha shook her head at
the mongrel. That dog looks like every other dog I ever saw or worse.

  The dog circled a spot on the polished concrete porch several times and laid himself down. The old woman entered the house, directed Rodeo into a folding lawn chair in the front room and left. She came back in a little while with a coffee mug in her hand and settled deep down into an ancient Barcalounger that was parked five feet from a giant TV. Rodeo moved his lawn chair sideways in order to be in the woman’s range of vision.

  I knew your mother, Katherine Rocha said. I was in Food Service with her at Mission School. That is your mother, idn’t it? Grace Peña?

  Yes ma’am. Grace Peña Garnet. But she passed six years ago.

  I know all about it. The woman said this surely. She stared at the TV. Rodeo looked at the screen and saw his reflection there beside the woman’s. I always wanted to meet his son grown up and now here he is. The woman said this to herself. Rodeo waited for her to explain this statement but she did not, only stared at the television.

  How you been then, Mrs. Rocha?

  The woman shrugged. I was a lunch lady at Mission School for a long time after your mother was fired for stealing from the library. I never heard from her again even though she lived just a little ways from here. But then we never had anything in common. She always thought she was above the rest of us because she had some sort of schooling. I guess that’s why she killed herself. Just too smart for this life, she thought. But then she didn’t have much real sense at all, did she. I remember she spent all her money on that worthless trailer lot down there in Los Jarros, thought that was a good investment, then died penniless without a soul around. She hung in that cheap trailer house for days and days with nobody to cut her down. It was like an oven in that trailer house they said.

  Rodeo flinched.

  What did you do after Mission School, Mrs. Rocha?

  I went to the casinos and cleaned up after other people until I could retire. Now I go back to the casinos and let people clean up after me.

  I guess all that worked out for you then, Rodeo said.

  Nothing worked out, the woman said. She drank her coffee as if it were bitter. They built those casinos on our land, but you know Yaqui don’t get any cut of the casino money. Just build firehouses and worthless … The old woman stopped and took a long drink from her cup. And I am Yaqui. Pure bred from Sonora on both sides, one of the Fourteen Thousand Registered up here. But your mother never had you registered did she. This was a statement and not a question from her.

  My mother did have me registered, said Rodeo. I am Pascua Yaqui.

  The old woman turned from the TV image to the man nearby her and stared at his face for several long seconds then looked back at the screen.

  But your mother wanted you to be White, didn’t she? That’s the only reason why she married your father, because Buck passed as White. Claimed he was Irish. Black Irish, he said. That was a load of … Katherine Rocha stopped herself from cursing by taking another drink. That little man was Mexican as the day is long.

  Rodeo nodded very slightly at this truth.

  I remember when he left her she moved into town so you could go to high school with the Anglo kids. Thought maybe it would rub off on you, I guess.

  My mother wanted me to go to the best high school in Tucson, Mrs. Rocha. She thought that was Tucson High, so that’s where I went.

  The old woman sniffed and said nothing for a while. When her head nodded onto her chest, Rodeo shifted in his aluminum chair and cleared his throat.

  You’re looking to hire somebody like me, a private investigator to look into your grandson’s death, Mrs. Rocha? Rodeo asked. Is that the case?

  I wanted you, the woman said. She gulped coffee and stared at Rodeo as if at beef on sale. Her voice quavered. Another drink steadied her and she sat up straighter and changed her tone of voice. They said you could find out things. Is that the truth?

  Mostly it is, Mrs. Rocha. Though I get paid the same whether I find out something or not. I never gyp anybody that hires me but I don’t always get results my employers care for, Rodeo said. Sometimes I don’t get results much at all. Just depends on the case.

  That’d be fine that way, the old woman said. If you didn’t find out anything, I mean. If that’s the case.

  Rodeo shifted in the flimsy lawn chair and leaned forward to ease the pressure on his herniated discs.

  Is there something about your grandson’s death in particular you’re interested in finding out about, Mrs. Rocha? Rodeo asked.

  Who’s that?

  Your grandson Samuel. The boy who got killed on the bridge.

  He was probably killed by one of those dope friends of his, the grandmother said. She waved a hand in Rodeo’s face. I know how my husband was and so I know how my children are. And I know how my grandchildren are and now even my great-grandchildren probably. All but the one of them. She paused. But I’m at the point now that I don’t really give a damn what people think about me, my family included. What do you think of that?

  I think it’s still a free country, Mrs. Rocha. More or less.

  What did you say your Christian name was again?

  Rodeo.

  That’s right. Buck always did want you to be a cowboy, didn’t he? she said. A little Indian cowboy.

  I guess you knew my daddy, Mrs. Rocha.

  The woman looked sideways at Rodeo. You don’t look much like him. He was little. And handsome.

  No offense, Mrs. Rocha, but I just came here to see about a piece of work on offer. Did you mean to hire me to investigate your grandson’s death? Rodeo tried to keep his voice level. Because it seems like your grandson died in a bad way, so maybe you’re like some people who want to hire me just in order to pay respects to someone who’s died, to do the right thing by their dead but don’t expect to find out too much about how they died or why?

  I’m not paying respects to anybody. Why should I?

  The old lady rocked herself out of her chair and stalked away. When she did not return in several minutes, Rodeo followed her into the kitchen where she was leaning against the sink having a glass of brandy in plain view. The room was neat but it had a stench of old grease, propane gas, wet pipes and dry rot.

  You drink? the woman asked.

  Not to speak of lately, said Rodeo.

  Your parents were both drunks. Your mother was a Bad Drunk. Katherine Rocha poured another shot of Christian Brothers into a jelly jar, tossed it back and set the jelly glass down. Buck and her deserved each other.

  The old woman looked at Rodeo then rubbed knuckles the size of golf balls into her eyesockets. She poured coffee from an antique percolator and spooned sugar and nondairy creamer into her coffee cup, stirred.

  I can hire you if I want to, can’t I? the woman asked.

  If you got three hundred dollars a day plus expenses you can, Mrs. Rocha. Even though Rodeo had given her the family and friends rate, she still coughed and put her hand over her mouth, clearly shocked by this number.

  I usually stay at Arizona Motel when I work in Tucson and that’s as cheap as it gets, said the PI. Plus three meals a day and gasoline. And if you want to get your money’s worth it would help to know a few things that I can’t get from the papers or off the Internet, Mrs. Rocha.

  Things like what?

  Like who Samuel hung out with. And why he was living here instead of with his parents.

  He lived with me because his parents kicked him out and he had no place else to live but with that girlfriend of his and I don’t think she wanted him around either.

  What girlfriend was that? Rodeo asked.

  Just some trashy girl, she said. Anglo, I guess. How can you tell these days? Rings in her nose and tattoos or whatever you call it all over her. Pink hair.

  You know who this girl was?

  I don’t know anything about her, said the woman. Except she came by here one time to pick him up when I wouldn’t let him have the car. But it’s my car. I paid for it.

  Where did this girl
live or work or go to school?

  She was just nasty trash that kid brought around to bother me with, the grandmother said. I never trusted that kid. He was just as worthless as Alonzo.

  And Alonzo is your son? And Samuel’s father?

  Yeah. We know whose padre was that kid’s at least. Since they are both of no account.

  What do you mean by that, Mrs. Rocha?

  The old woman drank her coffee to keep her mouth shut. Rodeo proceeded.

  So Samuel was living with you because his parents kicked him out. Why did they kick him out, Mrs. Rocha?

  That kid was bad, she said. Her eyes got misty. But his mother had another child. A good child … The voice of the old woman trailed off. Rodeo waited, but no more words from her seemed forthcoming.

  I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Mrs. Rocha … said Rodeo. But you don’t seem all that cut up about your grandson, so I’m curious why you are even interested in me investigating Samuel’s death.

  Katherine Rocha stared at Rodeo. Her eyes were obsidian, almost unnaturally dark from iris to eyelid. Rodeo had to look away from the old woman’s gaze.

  You sound like Buck, she said. But you don’t look like him.

  Rodeo nodded because he did sound as his father did, exactly. Their voices were the same, father and son, though they were different men.

  Do you have children? the woman asked.

  No ma’am. I don’t. Rodeo said this with some hesitation, but the woman did not notice.

  Well, you’re lucky then, because I had nine children with my husband but not one of them pretty or smart or good in rodeo or Indian dancing or sports or school or married good … And then we had her, a perfect little child finally. That was the saddest day of my life …

  The woman stopped and took in a deep breath as if she had run out of oxygen, then put a fist on her breastbone as if to calm her heart. She pointed to her refrigerator, where there was Scotch-taped a studio photo in a cardboard frame of a little girl with obviously dyed blond hair and fake blue eyes staring in an animated way into the camera, her baby teeth like little white spikes. REST IN PEACE—FARRAH KATHERINE ROCHA was printed in Gothic script above the dates of the child’s birth and death. The child had lived less than six years. This mass-produced copy of a studio photograph was a souvenir handed out at Farrah’s funeral. The funeral home was CARILLO’S, which was the same as Samuel’s.