Bad Country: A Novel (20 page)

*   *   *

Rodeo drove to Santa Cruz River Park and parked nearby the indigenous plants nursery. He walked to the public restrooms and then to the fountain but didn’t see Billy. He sat on Billy’s bench for a few minutes and then strolled to the nursery, where he talked to four plant workers who were just finishing their lunch break. Though Billy was a familiar local character none of them knew the homeless man. None of them had been interviewed by TPD about the death of Samuel Rocha.

How about a late 1960’s model Chevrolet Impala, bright green with spinning rims and copper Historic Vehicle plates? Rodeo asked.

There was some hesitation on this question since lowriders were common in the area, but none of the nursery employees admitted they had ever seen any sour-apple-colored Chevy Impala in the vicinity of the nursery on a particular day in late July.

Rodeo drove to nearby Parade Liquor.

*   *   *

The human crows again were all aligned on the guardrail across the street from the convenience store, this time with the addition of the Zander Jone. Rodeo parked in front of the store, went in and bought a twelve pack of Milwaukee Ice and a box of Black & Mild little cigars on his credit card and carried his purchases out of the store and across the road where he sat down next to the pool hustler, popped the tab on a beer and drank it down like he needed it. The regulars just stared at him.

Fella, it’s cops all around here, idn’t it, the Indian woman said. You gonna get us all in trouble, fella.

Rodeo ignored the warning.

Y’all know that homeless fella named Billy? he asked. Stays sometimes down by the river, at the jogging path park near the water fountain by the bathrooms?

Yeah, said Zander. I seen him around here for a long time. He’s from El Paso. Used to be a singer with some band over there he says. His sister’s a nun or something.

Yeah, fella, the Indian woman said. Billy he’s always talking about El Paso. El Paso, El Paso. She shook her head. He really wants to go back to El Paso.

Anybody seen him today?

Billy’s gone, fella, the Indian woman said. He’s not at Armory Park. And he ain’t in the River. I been all over today, fella, and Billy he’s gone.

Y’all know where he sleeps at? Rodeo asked the group.

One of the Indian men waved a hand over his shoulder toward a drainage ditch. He stays on a ledge over there. But I don’t sleep around him because he stinks so bad, so I don’t know if he was there last night or not.

Rodeo nodded and said nothing more. The crows started shifting on the rail.

Fella, what are you going to do with all that beer? the Indian woman asked.

What I don’t drink right now I’m going to give to y’all if you all will keep an eye out for Billy and give me a call if you see him.

We’ll do it, fella! The woman pulled a welfare cell phone out of her shirt front and waited, finger poised for Rodeo’s number. He gave it to her and she dutifully punched it in and repeated it back to him.

I’ll give these cigars to somebody if they’ll show me specifically where Billy stays nights, Rodeo said.

I would show you, fella, for sure, the fat woman said. But if I left for the smokes I wouldn’t get no beer, not one can.

I’ll go with you, Rodeo, Zander said. I don’t need no bribe to do another rodeo cowboy a favor.

Zander stood and hitched up his belt and his cronies stared at him with respect.

We ain’t going no place, fella, said the fat Indian woman. So you can give me the cigars and I’ll hold them for Zander.

Rodeo gave the woman the cigars and Zander shook his head as if he had just missed an easy layup shot in a high stakes pool game. He led Rodeo the hundred yards to the concrete culvert and showed him where Billy kept his night camp. The place was a riot of junk.

Whew … Zander made a show of putting his forearm over his mouth. It really stinks down in there. Rodeo reached into his pocket, thumbed out four of Katherine Rocha’s dollar bills from his wallet and slipped the money to Zander in full view of the other Parade Liquor crowd.

I appreciate you, Zander, said Rodeo. You know how to do another rodeo man a favor and I won’t forget that. See you back at the barn.

Zander tipped his dime-store straw, pocketed the money with a flourish and headed jauntily back to his companions. Rodeo scrambled into Billy’s den kicking carefully through his stuff, cautious of needles, snakes, scorpions. When he uncovered a bundle of envelopes he picked it up and examined it.

Not but one envelope was addressed to anyone named “Billy” or “William” so they had been stolen or found by the homeless man. Some of it seemed the type of thing he would steal or keep if found, things that seemed to have value and yet did not—fake checks from fast loan businesses, fake credit and ID cards from AARP or Citibank and the like. Only one bit of mail stood out as personal. The envelope was pliable from folding and yellowed as old newsprint and smelled of Billy or of something equally pungent and human. The USPS cancellation mark was indecipherable but the stamp was clearly from the 23rd Summer Olympic Games at Los Angeles. The return address was partially smudged but legible as “Mrs. Thomas O’Neal, 726 South Ambrose Street, El Paso, Texas.” The addressee was W
ILLIAM
O’N
EAL: C/O
C
ROSSROADS
M
ISSION:
N
OGALES,
A
RIZONA
. Rodeo read the letter.

Dear Billy Boy,

You are my Darling Dear Boy, always, always. I wish you would come Home to me. Your father is gone now for almost ten years and you know that. We miss you so.

Our Jane is working hard at Saint Ignacio. Sister enjoys her duties and prays for you daily. We both miss you so. Sister sends her Best Regards.

I can send you A Ticket Home, Dear Billy. You know I cannot send you plain money because you might use it for drugs and alcohol and only aid That Devil’s Work.

But I can send you a bus ticket for Home.

You know how much we love you, both Sister and I. Your father loved you too as your Father in Heaven loves you. You must forgive your earthly father or in the End Times Our Father in Heaven will not forgive you.

Your loving Mother in Christ,

Mrs. Thomas O’Neal

Rodeo stared at this mother’s missive for a while. He then refolded Billy’s letter and slipped it back into the envelope that had long contained it. He hesitated but slipped the envelope into his shirt pocket. He sorted through the rest of Billy’s mail stash and trash and found a small sheet of lined notebook paper from a spiral notebook.

     You will never know how much I know

     You miss your El Paso. But lost is where we go,

     When we look for Home. If home is just a poem

     Then I hope there’s a sky-lit word dome

     Behind your wasted eyes flared with death

     And vision quest poems clouded on your beer breath.

     My homes are drunks that crushed and betrayed

     Our sibling dreams. But I still dream her golden hair

     Floating across the sky, then landing, twining,

     Her golden braid wrapped around me where I am standing,

     But the bitchwitch is saying in her wasted slur

     You are worthless, how did this occur.

     And I say, you.

     I saw, you.

To: Billy

From: Samuel Rocha, Poet

Rodeo folded up Samuel’s poem to Billy and tucked it into his pocket. There was a variety of third class mail coming from several different sources and aimed at different destinations, offices and residences. Two envelopes were addressed to Erica Hernandez, the sitting U.S. Congressperson from Arizona District 7 who lived in South Tucson very near Starr Pass Road, one addressed to her home and one to her office. These envelopes were unopened but the addresses were circled with a Sharpie as if these locations were the object of the theft of them.

There was also a folded flier advertising an upcoming dedication ceremony for the new West Wing of the Juvenile Detention Center, a ceremony that would feature Representative Hernandez as keynote speaker and Former Arizona House Speaker Judge Randy Miller as Master of Ceremonies.

Three envelopes seemed cleaner, more recent and official. One was from C-23 Auto Paint and Body Shop, “In Bisbee Since 1982.” Another was from American Country Home and Auto Insurance Company and another from Verizon. These envelopes were held together with a rusty paper clip and all were addressed to Mrs. Katherine Rocha at 72602 Mark Street, Tucson, Arizona.

*   *   *

Rodeo sat his truck and reread the letter from Billy’s mother, then reexamined the rest of the mail he had lifted from the homeless man’s nesting place. The phone bill addressed to Katherine Rocha indicated that an overdue payment for cell phone service had been received. The letter from American Country Home and Auto Insurance was a reminder that she only carried liability coverage on her vehicle and so was not entitled to reimbursement for any repairs. The bill from the auto repair shop in Bisbee was dated May 6 of that year and showed six hours of labor at $270.00 plus $425.00 for parts, including a used front panel and one new headlight set. There was a separate bill from the same company in the same envelope for a paint job in the amount of $607.37.

Rodeo called the C-23 Auto Paint and Body Shop in Bisbee and introduced himself as Bill Early, Insurance Claims Adjustor from American Country Home and Auto Insurance Company.

HowcanIhepya? the woman on the other end asked.

I am checking on an invoice that originated from your place of business, Rodeo said.

What can I tell ya about it, sir?

I understood from our client … Rodeo paused and rattled the paper in his hand into his cell phone. One Katherine A. Rocha of Mark Street, Tucson, that she brought in her car on May 4 of this year but the invoice says service by your company was on May 6. He used his Anglo voice and spoke as officiously as he could. Was she mistaken about these dates?

I’m sure the car was brought in when she said, Mr. Early. But we woulda put on the invoice the date the work was completed so that’d be the confusion. We probably just didn’t invoice the job until it was done, the woman said.

Our records are showing this was a front end repair and a full body paint job on a Buick LeSabre but there’s no VIN number for the vehicle on this invoice, Rodeo said.

There was a pause. Wait a moment, Mr. Early, said the receptionist. Rodeo waited long enough to hear several Beatles songs sanitized into Hold Muzak. Then a man’s voice came on the phone.

Who’s this I’m speaking with? The voice was thick and gruff and had a Southern drawl.

Bill Early, Rodeo said. American Country Insurance.

What’s your employee number?

We don’t use employee numbers at American Country, said Rodeo.

I know everybody in American Country, said the garage man. And there’s no such person as you in it.

The garage man hung up. Rodeo headed to Bisbee, Arizona.

*   *   *

Rodeo found a Del Taco in the new section of Bisbee, and took his laptop into the fast food restaurant, ordered a Number Three Combo and ate a very late lunch or early dinner. He accessed their free Wi-Fi and used Google Maps to locate C-23 Auto Paint and Body Shop, which was just on the edge of Old Bisbee. Rodeo finished his meal quickly then drove his old truck to and past the garage on a moving reconnaissance. The office was closed for business but the garage doors were up and work still ongoing at C-23.

In the “show-off” spot in front of the paint and body shop was parked a beautifully restored late 1960’s Chevrolet Impala modified as a lowrider with silver spinning rims and sparkling sour-apple green paint job. The car described by Billy.

Also parked in front of the shop was a well-restored Firebird from the mid 1970s. The Firebird had both F
OR
S
ALE
and L
A
V
ENTA
signs wedged under its windshield wipers.

Rodeo pulled into a parking slot in downtown and unloaded his camera gear, binocs and sighting scope from the lockbox and put this equipment on the front seat, relocked the toolbox. He retraced his route, parking in a fairly protected space in a pull-out a quarter mile from the C-23 shop. He leaned back on the bench seat and aimed the camera out the driver’s side window. He took a dozen photos of the green-apple Impala including close-ups of the copper Arizona license plates. He also wrote down the plate numbers—HTX8—in his notebook. There was no F
OR
S
ALE/
L
A
V
ENTA
sign on the lowrider Impala.

He evaluated the situation for five minutes. There were several men still busy in the work bays. Rodeo focused his lens on the F
OR
S
ALE
and L
A
V
ENTA
signs on the Firebird and dialed the contact phone number listed on both signs.

This is Jessie Storm, wasssssupp?

I’m interested in your Firebird, amigo. Rodeo spoke quickly and in his Mexican voice. If you can get off work you could meet me at the Brewery Lane Saloon in about ten minutes.

You could come by the shop.

Buyers set the scene, man, Rodeo said. You snooze you lose.

Two minutes later a young Anglo man walked alone out of the auto body shop with a spring in his step, pulled the F
OR
S
ALE/
La Venta signs off the windshield of the Firebird and left rubber on the road as he drove to the center of Old Bisbee. Rodeo waited five minutes then drove to Brewery Lane Saloon and parked a few spots from the Firebird. He stored his gear back in the lockbox while he waited long enough for the young mechanic to get impatient but not so long that he would leave. Rodeo moved to the saloon, stood for a few seconds in front of the plate glass window pretending to adjust his hat so he had time to locate his mark. He saw the young mechanic sitting near the server’s station and walked directly to a barstool one removed from the man. He pulled out his wallet, slapped down a twenty, looked around. There were four other customers in the saloon as 4–6 Happy Hour was winding down.