Bad Country: A Novel Read online

  Where the Starr Pass Road bridge terminated on the east side was a parking lot. At an edge of the parking lot were two permanent public restrooms, so Rodeo walked to the parking lot and entered the men’s room. On the walls around the toilet were advertised in Sharpie scribbles and knife scratches directive missives, most with dates or days attached—“Blow Jobs Sour Apple Impala Tuesday, Well Hung Hippie Looking for Emo Action 8/11, Me @ Lazy Eight after ten, Big Trucker with $10/11, White Meat looking for Brown Meat, Silver Bell after six, look around and nod, want method? Eat the Rose special at Kettle, not cheap but yng blue eyes. If you need a jump raise hood … “

  Similarly hopeful directions were in the public restroom for women. Rodeo fetched the dog from the truck and walked him down the paved path along the east side of the riverbed. A fat Hispanic man in short shorts and a frayed Tour de Tucson jersey rode by on a Sears Free Spirit ten-speed and yelled, Pura Vida Loco! at the dog who barked.

  Rodeo and his dog walked down a long ramp that led from the riverbank to the riverbed where the sand was soft several inches deep. Under the bridge the temperature was twenty degrees cooler than in the sun. From below, Rodeo aligned himself directly with the edge of the bridge and paced from bank to bank dragging a bootheel. The line in the sand was serpentine but averaged out accurately enough for him to judge more or less where a small man dropped directly off the bridge would land if he did not leap out.

  They headed back up to street level and a quarter mile north on the bike path they met a curved concrete bench surrounding a water fountain. A man sat on the bench, reading an upside-down newspaper. The man’s face was so darkly leathered it was difficult to judge his ethnicity or age. The bags under his eyes appeared filled with fouled blood and he stank of fabric soaked in urine and dried feces and old, spilled booze and a pathological level of cigarette smoke. Rodeo took a seat on the bench near the man, extracted his big wallet and pulled out one of the high school class photos of Samuel Rocha and held it in front of the benchman’s face.

  You know this kid, mister?

  You could ask me my name first.

  What’s your name, mister? Mine’s Rodeo Grace Garnet.

  Billy, said the man. I’m from El Paso, Texas, I have a good memory and I’ll suck your dick for one cigarette if it’s Marlboro Red.

  I’m not interested in that sort of business, Billy. But I am interested in whether you know the kid in this photograph? Rodeo asked.

  Are you Police? Billy asked.

  No, Billy but I can sure go get Police if you got something to tell the cops that you won’t tell me.

  Billy picked up his folded newspaper and handed it to Rodeo. Whether he could read or not, the man did recognize Samuel Rocha because he had found and saved the young man’s obituary in The Tucson Citizen.

  Died to death, Billy said. Right here. That’s why I kept it. The man touched the newspaper.

  You know anything about this kid’s death, Billy? Were you around here on July twenty-seventh?

  What day is it?

  I think the day Samuel died was on a Wednesday.

  No, what is today is?

  Today is Tuesday, Billy.

  I am inna choir practice in El Paso, Texas, onna Wednesday every time. That’s tomorrow.

  Where does this choir meet, Billy?

  Here.

  So you might have seen something on that Wednesday back in July?

  I saw a Chevrolet Impala a lot, Billy said. 1967. Green. With spinny wheels that was driving back and forth and back and forth a lot back then.

  You didn’t see a license plate did you?

  Those copper kind.

  Rodeo studied the man for a moment trying to assess his reliability as a witness. Billy sat calmly on the stone bench but for the slight quiver that seemed to animate his whole body as it searched for alcohol. He stared at the dry river and then his eyes moved to the bridge as a vehicle passed over it. From his side-vision the private investigator watched Billy carefully tracking the car on the bridge, then Rodeo turned to look at his witness in the face. The whites of Billy’s eyes were jaundiced but the pupils were sharp and clear.

  Could you repeat that information for me please, Billy?

  Chevrolet Impala. 1967. Green with copper wheels spinning back and forth and back and forth over the bridge. Billy seemed very confident about this recollection which seemed firmly implanted in his mind. And the repetition of his account was fairly accurate.

  Anything else you remember about that day or around that time when the kid …

  Sam.

  Did you know him, Billy? Did you know Samuel, Sam Rocha?

  Billy nodded. My friend, the man said.

  So when Sam got killed did you see this green Impala? Did somebody shoot a gun around here that day?

  Sometimes he comes to this side and meets a man on a Kawasaki 125 and they go over there and park under the letter A.

  Rodeo frowned.

  Who does this, Billy? Sam, the kid who fell off the bridge?

  Yes, Billy said. In 1969 when I was born in El Paso, Texas.

  Rodeo nodded. So the kid in the newspaper you showed me …

  Sam. He’s the girl and the other man he’s the boy. Billy interrupted Rodeo with this information and then shifted gears again to point across the dry river at the small mountain with the big pile of organized rocks that created the letter “A” for Arizona on its flank. This symbol of the University was fading after a year in the sun but would be refurbished by fraternity boys once autumn arrived as part of their dedicated and necessary service to the local community. I don’t know where the rest of the letters are, said Billy.

  What letters are those? asked Rodeo.

  The alphabets letters. The man pointed at A-Mountain. It’s just the “A” so far.

  Rodeo looked at the defaced mountain Indians still called Sentinel Peak. I don’t know, Billy.

  They might be on the other side, said the man. But I never go over there to that side. That’s not my side.

  Who is on the motorcycle, Billy? Rodeo persisted. You said “he” comes over here and meets somebody on a motorcycle … Rodeo paused to point over his shoulder toward the public parking lot. You mean Sam comes over here to your side and meets a man back there in the parking lot?

  Inna bathroom sometimes, Billy said. He inserted a filthy index finger into his mouth and pantomimed fellatio. When Rodeo cringed Billy took his finger out of his mouth.

  So, Sam and some man they meet here on this side and then they go on the motorcycle to the other side and go up on the mountain with the “A” on it…?

  Billy nodded.

  And then what, Billy?

  And then they walk down the hill with some suitcase and hide in the bushes and shoot bullets into the sand in the dry water.

  Like target practice? Rodeo asked.

  Billy nodded.

  Who is the fella with Sam, Billy? Is he a real grown man or another teenager like Sam?

  Like you, Billy said. Old. But he’s a soldier Injun. You’re a cowboy Injun.

  Rodeo slid the photo of the elk hunters out of his wallet and held it up for Billy to examine.

  Which one is the soldier Injun? Rodeo asked.

  Without hesitation Billy pointed at the hunter standing beside Luis Encarnacion and Samuel Rocha in the photo from the White Mountains, pointed directly at Ronald Rocha. Rodeo showed Billy the group photos of young people.

  You know any of these other people, Billy?

  They’re not people, said Billy. They’re pictures of people.

  You’re right, Billy. But just take a look at the pictures and see who looks familiar to you.

  The man tapped the picture in the newspaper obituary again. I know Sam. He was my friend, so I saved him.

  That’s why you saved his picture from the newspaper you mean? Rodeo asked.

  Billy’s head sunk into the folds of clothes on his chest and he started to nod and his shoulders shook as if he were crying but he was so dehydrated
no tears came forth.

  I’ve got a ride, Rodeo said. Can I take you somewhere, Billy?

  El Paso, Texas, Billy said. Sister said I could come home when I got straightened up but I never did get straightened up.

  Rodeo extracted his wallet and pulled from the bulging tri-fold one of Katherine Rocha’s ten-dollar bills and gave it to Billy.

  You want me to suck your dick?

  No, Billy. This is payment for the information you just gave me, Rodeo said. This is honest work money.

  Billy crammed his money directly into the front of his fouled pants, stood and walked off without another word. Rodeo let him go.

  Rodeo headed with the dog to the top of A-Mountain.

  * * *

  Tucson is a buggy wheel, the rust brown rim of which is composed of the Catalina, Rincon, Santa Rita and Tucson mountain ranges which encircle the hub of an urban center. Strip malls and wide streets and avenues like neon and asphalt spokes emanate from this Barrio Historico. The best view of the Old Pueblo and surrounds is from the top of Sentinel Peak where a city-maintained road terminates in a curve of parking lot. Near dusk on any day there are sightseers, mostly local, come to watch electric lights crystallize the valley as it darkened. But in the middle of the day in the middle of the summer the parking lot was empty.

  Rodeo aimed his binoculars toward the only skyscraper in the city and from that point of reference he swung the glasses south to recognize the Tucson Convention Center, a drab collection of industrial buildings whose rise was the demise of many square blocks of Territorial adobes. Rodeo watered the dog and drank some water himself, then paced the length of the parking lot until he found a footpath that would put a hiker in view from Billy’s perspective. When the dog veered off the well-worn track and into mesquite brush, Rodeo followed to a five-foot-high boulder where the dog had stopped to sniff at trash. A hooded sweat shirt had been chewed by pack rats but the graphic image on front was clearly METALLICA and part of a symbol for “chaos.” Rodeo whistled the dog back from the scene then searched the area thoroughly. He found a small pile of Kool cigarette butts, three empty Mountain Dew cans, an empty bag of Fritos and half buried in the dirt at the base of the boulder one spent .30 caliber rifle cartridge with clear extraction marks. He left these things in situ, returned to his truck, fetched his point-and-click camera, returned to the sniper’s nest and took a variety of photos then hiked back to the truck again.

  * * *

  Rodeo drove a few blocks east of Starr Pass Road bridge to Parade Liquor. Two Indian men and an Indian woman were sitting on a guardrail across the street from the convenience store. Rodeo braked nearby them and leaned toward the alpha male, a Res local he recognized.

  Howdy Isidro, Rodeo said.

  Hey, fella, the man said.

  You seen that fella called Billy? Rodeo asked.

  Been here and gone. Isidro said this as if he knew. You want to leave a message for Billy’s message service?

  Tell him “ten dollars” is looking for him again, said Rodeo.

  Hey, fella, the woman yelled. Her voice was loud and flat. Give me ten dollars. My sister’s sick in the hospital and I need a beer.

  The Locals laughed at this joke as Rodeo pulled into the parking lot of the store and went inside, bought two six-packs of Milwaukee’s Best, paid cash and returned to his truck, backed out and pulled into the middle of the street, held one six-pack out the window.

  Tell your sister to get better, Rodeo said.

  The woman leapt up as if electrocuted and scooted into the street, snatched the beer and started walking away as fast as she could. The men hurried after her. Rodeo cruised slowly through the Barrio Historico where some houses were still occupied by working class Mexican-Americans though most were now owned if not occupied by trial lawyers and cardiologists and real estate moguls.

  Rodeo did not look at the house he had rented with Sirena Rae Molina for six tumultuous months the year before but he stopped a few houses farther down Convent Avenue in front of the house he had shared with his mother, a Territorial era adobe that Grace and her son had moved into after Buck Garnet had deserted his family. The people who had owned the house when Rodeo and his mother were living there still owned it and quite a few of the Dotas continued to occupy the big place judging from the number of cars, disabled and functional, in the driveway.

  A middle-aged Hispanic man sat on a riding lawn mower on the hardpacked dirt that was the narrow front yard of the place and official sidewalk of the neighborhood. An open newspaper was balanced on his thick head of hair, a beer can inserted between his legs with one withered hand resting on top of it to keep out the flies. Rodeo stopped the truck.

  Where’s your dog at? the man asked. He shook his head and the newspaper fluttered in stages to the ground to gather there with other newspapers and beer cans, cigarette butts, car parts. You finally put him down?

  The dog stuck his head out the shotgun-side window, barked hoarsely and lolled his tongue at the man on the tractor.

  I’m glad to see you haven’t killed him yet, said the man on the lawn mower. He did not indicate whether he was talking to Rodeo or to Rodeo’s dog.

  Rodeo exited his truck and walked over to the man. When he leaned in for a quick bro hug he could feel the hard muscles bunched under a layer of fat on just one side of the man’s body and the other side slack as bacon, the effects of a drug-induced stroke many years before. The screeching of the TV inside was muted, a curtain fluttered and a chair scraped in the front room as Mother Dota moved closer to the window to eavesdrop.

  How you doing, Tomas?

  Still a D-O-T-A, the lawn-mower man said. Denizen-of-Tucson-Arizona. Still handsome and horny as ever. Still upholding the family traditions. He finished off his crotch beer and crushed the can in his good hand, tossed the empty on the ground, turned expertly and pulled a fresh beer out of the cooler strapped on the seat behind him, popped the top and took a long swig.

  Just dropped by to see how your mother was, Rodeo said.

  Mama had a stroke herself a few months ago. Took her medicine wrong and the doctor said that would be the last time she did that and if she didn’t straighten up and fly right from now on she wouldn’t last the year out. Tomas shook his head. But she still eats fry bread and carne all day, ice cream sandwiches all night and fights like a cat with anybody that tries to take care of her. She won’t let nobody help her, so I quit trying to help her. It’s too much stress.

  Where’s your wheelchair at? Rodeo asked.

  Got a DUI and Social Services took it back, Tomas said.

  You got a DUI in an electric wheelchair?

  That’s what I get for living next to the police station.

  Where’d you get the lawn mower?

  It’s a garden tractor. Henry got it for me at the Salivating Army where he works at now.

  Henry’s out? Rodeo was asking about the twin of Tomas, an inept but well known local criminal.

  He got out of Florence a few months ago but he don’t do nothing but just go to work every day at the SA Outpost down on Sixth and then he rides a dumbass bicycle all the way out to Holy Hope on Oracle to visit his Miguel, Tomas said. He’s lost forty pounds riding that stupid bicycle to the cemetery every day. But he don’t have nothing else to do except to visit his shot-dead son.

  Miguelito’s been passed now, what, almost a year? asked Rodeo.

  A year in a couple of weeks, Tomas said. You were living with Miss TaTas over here when it happened, so you remember it good don’t you? Miguelito’s gangbangers spray-painted the whole ’hood after his funeral. If Mama hadn’t come out of the house and Eryn Hage hadn’t fired off her shotgun a few times they would have graffitied every house on the block that buncha greaser beaner cholo pachuco assholes.

  Henry still dealing?

  That last time was Strike Two for Henry, Tomas said. And you remember he was in when his kid got popped and that hit him hard. So now he just spends all day going to the cemetery being the good dad to
Miguelito he should have been when the kid was alive. Henry’s a great dad now that his boy is dead. It’s a sad story, brother. Another sad tale in the annals of Denizens of Tuxson Arizona. We’re just snake bit, that’s what it is. Tomas pulled on his beer and belched loudly. I’m glad I’m not in that shit anymore myself. Tomas held up his beer can. Legal beagle, that’s me. Beeraholico no problemo.

  Unless you get caught DUI in your electric wheelchair, Rodeo said.

  There is that, thanks to PUTAs—Police-Upchucks-of-Tuxson-Arizona.

  Tomas finished the beer, crushed the can, dropped it on the ground and again reached back to snag another.

  You need something, brother? he asked. You’re making me nervous.

  You know the Rochas? asked Rodeo. Over near Casino del Sol?

  Yeah, I know them Rochas, Tomas said. I went to school with one of them at Tucson High back in the day before it was a magnet school for yuppy shitheads. The one my age his name was Alonzo. He married some pretty fat chick who can’t keep her pussy to herself and he’s still out there in that Res ’hood near the Casino. His kid got killed a little while ago too. Little guera girl got hit-n-run. Some asshole ran over a blond child and runned away, can you believe it? And Alonzo’s other kid was shot off the Starr Pass Road bridge in a drive-by. Tomas shook his head again. Fucking degenerates around these days, Rodeo. No law or order anywhere. I blame the Colonialists.

  You know any of the rest of the Rochas besides Alonzo?

  Yeah, I know one big asshole for sure. Tomas slurped his warm beer. This Alonzo he’s got a cousin who’s a tribal cop. Name of “Monjano,” first name Carlos but they call that one “Caps”’cause he threatens to put a cap in everybody. Used to be a South Tuxson gangbanger and now he’s a Tribe cop if you can believe it. Total hound dog Caps Monjano is. Screws everything on the Res he can get into the back of his patrol car. If you need to know these assholes I can introduce you for a monetary exchange. You know I still got lots of connections from my days when I worked for the Tribe running that halfway house for drunk Indians.