Con Law (17 page)

Book gestured with his fingers for him to come closer. He shook his head. Book gestured again. The man’s eyes turned from Book to behind Book. He spun around just in time to see Nadine slam a beer bottle over the bald head of another roughneck holding a pool cue as if he were about to clock Book in the head. The roughneck’s eyes rolled back,
and he crumpled to the floor. Nadine held the broken beer bottle in one hand and the chocolate soda in the other. She sucked from the straw.

‘Can we go home now?’

Carla’s eyes went from Book to the roughnecks groaning and holding various parts of their bodies and then back to Book.

‘I thought you’re a law professor?’

‘I said I had other skills.’

Her eyes twinkled. ‘Are those all your physical skills?’

They shared a long gaze, which was not interrupted when a meaty hand clamped down on Book’s right arm and a gruff voice said, ‘Time for you to leave, buddy.’

Book maintained his gaze with Carla but grabbed the man’s hand and turned his wrist counterclockwise and dug his fingers into the man’s palm pressure point until his knees buckled and he went down to the floor.

‘I’ll leave when I damn well please.’

He broke eye contact with Carla, released the man, and then turned to Nadine.

‘Let’s leave, Ms. Honeywell.’

‘Town?’

‘This bar.’

They headed to the door, but he heard Carla’s voice from behind.

‘I’ll take a rain check on that dance, Professor.’

From across the bar, Jimmy John shook his head. He hated to be an ‘I told you so,’ but Sonny and Mitch never listened. The girl named Nadine was kind of cute and good with a beer bottle to boot.

‘Is it unconstitutional under the Fourth Amendment’s prohibition against unreasonable searches and seizures for the police to draw a suspect’s blood without consent?’

Nadine Honeywell typed on the laptop,
but she couldn’t focus on the Welch brief because her body still tingled with fear and excitement and adrenaline—she had actually smashed a beer bottle over that big brute’s bald head! OMG! She had never done anything like that in her entire life! Normally, when faced with such a physical conflict, she would have grabbed the moon pie and chocolate soda and dove under the table and hidden from the danger. But the professor’s kung fu butt-kicking had shifted her adrenal glands into high gear, and she had just acted out all her fantasies—well, not the one with that tall guy at the fish shop in San Francisco, where she’s at home cooking in her apron and nothing else and he delivers a big salmon and one thing leads to another and soon their bodies are covered in extra virgin olive oil and … she blew out a breath … God, that’s a great fantasy … but the one where she wasn’t a timid law student afraid of life who cowered before conflict and ran from … okay, okay, we’ve been through that too many times, just let it go … Where was she? Oh, yeah, she hadn’t even made a conscious decision to do it; she had just done it. She saw him advance on the professor from behind with the pool cue and knew he was going to hit the professor. He could have been killed. Her future flashed before her eyes: the professor is dead; she’s stuck in Marfa; no one to call but her father; he flies in from San Francisco; he is not happy with his daughter. That dire prospect gave her the incentive to grab the bottle and swing it as hard as she could at the guy’s head. She still couldn’t believe she had knocked him unconscious. But she was always strong for her size.

It felt really good. Not to be afraid.

She sat propped up in Elizabeth Taylor’s bed. The professor had put her to work on the Welch brief then gone next door to Rock Hudson’s room to return phone calls. Cell phone reception was better on the outdoor patio.

*   *   *

Joanie had left three messages for Book
at the Paisano. He called his sister back from the rooftop patio. The sky was dark and the stars bright. And a young lawyer was dead. Did he fall asleep at the wheel or was he run off the road? Was his death an accident or a murder? Was it just a coincidence that he died the same day he mailed the letter? And the most perplexing question of all: how do you find a dead man’s truth?

At dawn, Book exited the courtyard at the
Paisano and ran south on Highland Avenue past the Andy Warhol and John Chamberlain exhibits and the railroad tracks just before the crossing arms came down and a train roared through town and the yellow corrugated buildings at the Border Patrol sector headquarters and the sign that read ‘Chinati Foundation’ and the teepees at El Cosmico—

Carla Kent stood under the shower and let the water wash over her body. The air was cold, but the water was hot. The open-air community bathhouse had a roof and partial wood sides that provided some modesty if one were modest, but it offered a majestic view of the mountain ranges that surrounded the Marfa Plateau and Cathedral Rock to the east, a mountain peak shaped like the Great Sphinx. She loved dawn in the desert. An unspoiled land she would fight to protect from fracking. It was her mission in life. That and to see Billy Bob Barnett in prison or dead. Preferably dead. She rinsed the shampoo from her hair; when she opened her eyes, she saw a lone
runner heading south on Highway 67 that fronted El Cosmico.

The professor.

—and a strange configuration of large concrete boxes aligned in an open field parallel to the road; his breath fogged in the morning air. He cleared civilization and ran on the strip of asphalt cutting through the desert; not a single car passed him. He thought of the Comanche when they had roamed this same desert; they accepted it on its own terms with no need to make it something more. Then Hanna’s train had come and changed the desert and their lives. He felt the desert changing him—and he knew it would change him more before he rode the Harley home. He ran several more miles then turned back and headed north. But he stopped to observe the shadows cast onto the yellow prairie grass by the rising sun off the concrete boxes.

It was oddly mesmerizing.

When he arrived back at the hotel, he did not enter the lobby. The Paisano did not serve breakfast, so he continued up the sidewalk past the small Chamber of Commerce office and Consuelo’s Bookkeeping and Tax Service and then turned west on Lincoln Street. Half a block down, he ducked into the small courtyard of SqueezeMarfa, the sheriff’s favorite break-fast spot. He went inside and ordered a Strawberry Banana Cabana smoothie with nonfat vanilla yogurt then sat outside and pondered the life and death of Nathan Jones.

His life was short.

His death was fast.

Was it murder?

Or just an accident?

Book wanted Nathan’s death to be something more than an accident—just as he had wanted his father’s death to be something more than a drug-addicted homeless man grabbing his service gun and shooting him. Perhaps that was the human ego at work: his father had been important in his life;
ergo
, his life should warrant an important ending. Nathan had saved his life; therefore, his life should warrant a more important ending than a car accident.

But
that was not life.

Life seemed to be one continuous accident. Birth—where, when, and to whom—is just an accident of fate, a genetic lottery. Win that lottery, and you’re born in a first-world country with opportunities in life and a life expectancy of seventy-eight years or more. Lose, and you’re born in a third-world country with no opportunities and a life expectancy of forty-eight years or less. Death—early, late, natural, violent—no matter your station in life, death would come to you. Would it come at age five, thirty-five, or seventy-five? Would it come by crime or disease or old age? Was that destiny or luck? God’s will or man’s mistake? In the end, it didn’t really matter. It is what happens between birth and death that matters. That makes us matter. As Ms. Roberts had said in class, ‘Do we matter? Or are we just matter?’ And so Book was left to wonder:

Had Nathan Jones’s life mattered?

Had Ben Bookman’s life mattered?

Would his own life matter?

Book entered the hotel and stopped at the front desk.

‘Another night, please.’

‘Yes, sir, Professor,’ the desk clerk said. ‘But Miss Honeywell won’t be happy.’

He took breakfast back to Nadine—a large coffee, sandwich baguette (scrambled eggs, Swiss cheese, and ham on a toasted demi-baguette), and a waffle with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. He figured that would hold her until lunch. He had granola and more yogurt.

But she wasn’t in her room.

Fear
shot through him like a bullet. Perhaps the bald guy she had clocked at Padre’s had come looking for her. Book had promised to protect her. He ran back downstairs and checked the
Giant
museum; she wasn’t there. Or in Jett’s Grill. Or in the small library. Or in the ballroom. Or in the—

She was in the pool.

It had been built just off the ballroom where an outdoor patio had once stood, surrounded by thick adobe walls but open to the sky. The sun was now shut out by a plastic corrugated cover, which created a sauna-like atmosphere at pool level. Steam rose off the water; it was a heated pool. The space smelled of chlorine. Nadine Honeywell was alone in the pool, swimming laps. He breathed a sigh of relief. When she swam back his way, she saw him and stood. Her skin looked like a sheet of white paper against the blue water.

‘Ms. Honeywell, has your skin ever seen the sun?’

‘I don’t think so. I use sunblock with a two hundred SPF rating.’

‘They go that high?’

‘No. I put on two coats of a hundred.’

‘Why?’

She gave him a puzzled look. ‘
Hel-lo?
Melanoma?’

Book pointed up. ‘The pool is covered. And it’s still morning. The sun’s not overhead yet.’

‘Can’t be too careful.’

She climbed out of the pool.

‘I found this suit in the gift shop.’

The snug one-piece suit revealed a lean body he hadn’t noticed before with her baggy clothes. She caught him appraising her.

‘I have a swimmer’s body. Might be why lesbians are attracted to me.’

She wrapped a green-and-white striped towel around herself. They sat in patio chairs around a small table. She dug her sanitizing materials out of her canvas bag and went through her standard routine. Then they ate breakfast.

‘You’re
a good swimmer.’

‘I trained when I was a teenager.’

‘Is that why you eat so much, your swim training?’

‘You should’ve seen what I used to eat. Four hours a day in the pool burns some calories. And I have a high metabolism.’

‘Did you compete?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Afraid.’

‘Of drowning?’

‘Losing.’

‘So you never won?’

‘Story of my life.’

She finished the last of the waffle and drank the coffee.

‘Thanks for last night,’ Book said. ‘That pool cue wouldn’t have done my head much good.’

‘I guess that means if I ever get into trouble, you’ll have to help me.’

‘Ms. Honeywell, you’ve earned a lifetime pass.’

She pondered that prospect a moment then smiled.

‘Okay,’ Book said, ‘what have we learned since the last quiz?’

‘A, I know you can protect me now, that kung fu fighting.’

‘Taekwondo.’

‘B, I like to hit bad guys with beer bottles.’

‘Do you now?’

‘I do. And C, Nathan didn’t show his proof to that Carla girl either. Which makes me question if there ever was any actual proof. Maybe Nathan just wanted there to be proof.’

‘Very good, Ms. Honeywell. You’re questioning every assumption and every supposed fact. You’ll make a good lawyer.’

‘Chef.’

She sipped her coffee.

‘Professor,
can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘So far you’ve shown Nathan’s letter to everyone we’ve met in town except the desk clerk. Why?’

‘Bait.’

‘Bait?’

‘See if anyone bites.’

‘Fish. You told Carla you were here to fish. Funny. So who do you want to catch?’

‘Whoever killed Nathan.’

‘What if no one bites?’

‘Then it was just an accident.’

She considered that through several sips of coffee. Then she said, ‘You’re kind of sneaky, aren’t you?’

‘Comanche.’

‘Professor,
I’ve heard “fracking this” and “fracking that” ever since we rode into town, but I don’t even know what fracking is.’

‘You’re about to find out.’

‘From whom?’

Book unfolded the funeral photo and pointed at the big man with the bald head.

‘The big fish.’

A four-wheel-drive maroon Cadillac pickup truck with a
Gig ’em, Aggies
decal on the back window sat parked at the curb outside the Barnett Oil and Gas Company Building on Highland Avenue just down from the hotel. They walked inside. On the floor was maroon carpet; on the walls were photos of the Texas A&M University football field, the foot-ball team, and the male cheerleaders. The school’s colors were maroon and white. Book stepped over to the receptionist—a broad-shouldered young woman who looked a bit manly—and asked to see Billy Bob Barnett.

‘And you are?’

‘Professor John Bookman, from UT.’

‘A professor?’

‘Is
that a problem?’

‘The UT might be. Billy Bob hates the Longhorns.’

‘The cattle or the people?’

‘Funny. What do you teach?’

‘Constitutional law,’ a deep male voice behind them said.

Book turned to the same big man in the funeral photo. He had a bald head—not bald with fuzz on the sides but shaved-to-the-bare-skin bald, as if a white bowling ball sat atop his shoulders—and a black goatee streaked with gray. He wore jeans, a maroon cowboy belt with a fancy silver buckle, maroon boots, and a maroon A&M golf shirt. He looked to be in his late forties, stood six-two, and weighed two-fifty or more.

‘He’s the famous law professor, Earlene. He’s on TV damn near every Sunday morning, making those senators look stupid. Course, that ain’t exactly man’s work.’

He sniffled and swiped the back of his hand across his nose then walked over, stuck out the same hand to Book, and flashed a big smile.