Con Law (31 page)

‘You want some?’

‘No, thanks.’

He poured a glass. He noticed Book eyeing the whiskey bottle.

‘Thought you were a reporter.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I said, I have an image to maintain.’

‘You got that hard-drinking artist thing down.’

‘It’s a living.’

At that moment, a young girl burst out of the bathroom and hurried out the front door with only a finger wave and, ‘Later, Big Rick.’ She looked like a high school sophomore.

‘She part of the image, too?’

‘She’s Lorraine.’

‘She looks a little young for you.’

‘At my age, Professor, all the girls are a little young for me.’

‘Be careful, Big Rick. I don’t imagine the locals would look favorably on a New York artist violating their young girls.’

He laughed. ‘Lorraine? Hell, she’s laid more cowboys than a Mexican whore in Boys’ Town. It’s legal down there, prostitution. Man, I’ve burned up the highway between here and Ojinaga. They got some cute girls down there, young ones. But, hell, fourteen is middle-aged for a Mexican girl.’

‘You do know you’re a disgusting individual.’

Big Rick shrugged, as if he had heard it before. ‘What can I say? I like young girls. We can’t all be perfect, Professor.’

‘You could try.’

Big Rick downed the chocolate milk then pulled out a joint, lit it, and took a long drag. He held it for a long moment then exhaled. Book tried to stay upwind.

‘Medicinal,’ Big Rick said.

‘Illegal,’ Book said.

‘You’re a law
professor, not a cop.’

‘So you threatened to out Nathan?’

‘Aw, hell, I tend to be a mean drunk. I’m nicer when I’m stoned, like now. Nathan was a nice boy, married with a pregnant wife. His life was fucked up enough, gay and married, no need for me to add to his troubles. I wouldn’t ruin his life over a lawsuit. I was mad at Billy Bob, but I took it out on Nathan.’ He shook his head. ‘Billy Bob Barnett, I’d ruin that bastard’s life in a New York minute, trying to fuck up my land.’

‘How much do you own?’

‘Just a little. Twenty thousand acres.’

‘You sound like a real Texan.’

‘I wasn’t born here, but I got here as soon as I could. I love Texas. Been here twenty years. Started buying land as soon as I got in town. I’m like Judd—I don’t want all the land in the county, just what I have, what adjoins me, and what I can see from my land. And I don’t want a goddamn gas pipeline under it. God, I’d love to kick Billy Bob’s ass. Might could, too. I boxed in college.’

‘Where?’

‘Princeton.’ He waved a hand at his studio. ‘Trust fund pays for all this. And my land.’

‘Your art doesn’t support you?’

‘Shit, when I first moved here, early nineties, right before Judd died, I couldn’t give my art away. Then this art dealer from Dallas, good-looking woman, she comes down here to check out Judd’s boxes. She ended up in my bed. So we made a deal: fifty–fifty on anything she sold. Well, she shipped everything I had back to Dallas and talked it up in Highland Park as the next big thing, and damned if she doesn’t sell it all to rich folks like her husband. He made a fortune in asbestos.’

‘Mining it?’

‘Suing over it. Plaintiffs’ lawyer. They’ve got a fifth or sixth home here, fly down in their Gulfstream. He’s sixty, she’s forty now. Apparently Viagra didn’t do the trick for him. Anyway, they brought other rich lawyers to town—’

‘Attorneys, artists, and assholes.’

Big Rick grinned. ‘I’m an artist and an
asshole. Anyway, most of these lawyers wouldn’t know art if it dropped on their fucking heads, but they buy my stuff, so I make nice at dinner parties.’

‘Must be hard.’

‘Very.’

Big Rick finished off the chocolate milk and went back to the refrigerator for a refill. This time he offered Spam. Book again declined.

‘I love this stuff. I don’t know why.’

‘I don’t either.’

Big Rick opened the can and took a big bite of Spam.

‘You know what you’re putting into your body?’

‘Do I look like I care?’

He did not.

‘Comes in all kinds of flavors: black pepper, hickory smoked, jalapeño, with cheese, with bacon, hot and spicy … this is classic, my favorite.’

He let out a loud fart.

‘Whoa. Sorry. Stuff does give me gas.’

Book eased back a step.

‘I understand there’s quite a bit of drug use among the artists?’

‘True enough. Part of the culture. Cutting-edge art. Drugs just seem to be a natural part of all that.’

He laughed.

‘A
Vanity Fair
article, I’ve got it somewhere’—he shuffled through a stack of magazines on the table—‘reporter wrote that Marfa’s an “art cruise ship where you just hope the last stop is a Betty Ford Center.” Boy, they got that right.’

He paused.

‘Course, we’re not the only Marfans partaking in rec reational narcotics.’

‘What’s that mean?’

Big Rick’s expression said he was holding aces. He
made Book wait for it.

‘Billy Bob Barnett is a cokehead.’

Big Rick seemed pleased with himself. That or he really loved Spam.

‘How do you know?’

‘Let’s just say I have it from a reliable source. That head cold, he’s had it for two years now.’ He took another big bite of the Spam. ‘Public company, his board might not be so keen on having a cokehead for a CEO.’

‘Even if you got him fired, that wouldn’t stop the fracking or the condemnation lawsuits.’

‘True. But at least I wouldn’t have to see his fat ass at Maiya’s every time I go there to drink and eat.’

‘Kenni says you have guns.’

Big Rick shrugged, as if feigning modesty.

‘Just a few.’

He stepped over and opened a walk-in closet that housed not clothes but weapons. A lot of weapons mounted on both walls. And military gear—flak jackets, meals-ready-to-eat, night-vision goggles …

‘I like to shoot shit at night.’ He pointed out his collection as if he were pointing out fine art in a museum. ‘Forty-four Magnum, nine-millimeter Glock, AK-Forty-Seven, sniper’s rifle, shotgun …’

‘What gauge?’

‘Twelve.’

‘That’s a coincidence.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Someone shot out my window at the Paisano Thursday night with a twelve-gauge shotgun.’

‘I never heard of you until five minutes ago when you rang my bell.’

‘There was an article in the newspaper.’

‘Which I don’t read.’

‘I was on Marfa Public Radio.’

‘Which I don’t listen to.’

‘So why all the guns?’

‘An avant-garde artist with an arsenal makes for good
copy back East. And I love to go out to my land and shoot the shit out of everything.’

‘Why do you hate Bush?’

‘What? Oh, the “Bush Sucks” installation. Just part of the image. You want a New York art dealer to sell your stuff, you gotta loathe Bush and vote Obama. Hating Bush is always a big part of any art crowd conversation. But I voted for him. Both times.’

‘Kenni said you painted an “Axis of Evil” sign on a building in town.’

‘Nah. Everyone blamed it on me, but that was an asshole from Iceland.’

‘Big Rick … is there any part of you that’s real?’

‘Everything you see is real, Professor. Everything you read is myth. About me, about the other artists, about Marfa … it’s all just a myth. A myth that sells.’

‘Is everyone in Marfa on the make?’

‘Everyone except the cowboys.’

‘Get in, podna.’

Book was walking back to the Paisano when the sheriff pulled alongside in his cruiser. He spat brown tobacco juice out his window. Book got in.

‘You kinda stubborn, ain’t you?’

‘I’m kind of mad.’

‘Often the last words before someone ends up in my jail.’

‘I went to see Billy Bob.’

‘I take it that was a less than cordial meeting, too?’

‘It was.’

‘He didn’t confess?’

‘He did not.’

‘I hate it when that happens.’

‘Nathan Jones was gay.’

The sheriff hit the brakes. He slowly turned to
Book. He grunted.

‘You want to get a cup of coffee?’

Tumbleweeds on Austin Street one block west of Highland Avenue offers washers and dryers by the load and a walk-through to Frama’s, which offers home-brewed coffee and Blue Bell ice cream. They walked in just as the mayor of Marfa walked out with a big ice cream cone.

‘Heard about your gal, Professor. She gonna be okay?’

‘Yes. Thanks for ask—’

‘Good. Won’t slow you folks getting back to Austin.’

The mayor nodded at the sheriff—‘Brady’—and walked away.

The sheriff chuckled. ‘The mayor, he’s …’

‘A real-estate broker.’

‘Yep.’

Book ordered a small cup of coffee; the sheriff ordered a medium and one scoop of cookies-and-cream ice cream. They went outside and leaned on the hood of the sheriff’s cruiser.

‘Gay,’ Sheriff Munn said. ‘And married. Living a double life.’ The sheriff grunted then spooned the ice cream past his mustache. ‘Seems like that’d be a complicated life.’

‘His … friend … pushed him to go public with his proof.’

‘That Billy Bob’s contaminating the groundwater, with his fracking?’

Book nodded.

‘Who’s his friend?’

‘Confidential, Sheriff. Nathan had a wife.’

The sheriff grunted; Book took that for a yes.

‘Kenni.’

‘With an “i”? Over at the pizza joint?’

Book nodded again.

‘He’s a doper. Damn, sorry the boy got in with that
artist crowd.’

‘He was an artist.’

‘And a doper?’

‘Apparently.’

‘So the weed they found in his office might’ve been his?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Well, that sheds some light on the subject, don’t it?’

‘An artist named Big Rick threatened to out Nathan because he sued to condemn his land for a pipeline easement.’

‘You talk to Big Rick?’

‘You know him?’

‘Of him.’

‘He’s a piece of work.’

‘He’s a pervert. I know about his underage girls. That’s stat rape in the state of Texas. Once I get those girls’ affidavits, he’s gonna be stacking Coke cans in my jail instead of cars.’

‘Big Rick said Billy Bob’s a cokehead.’

‘You getting your information from a pervert?’

‘Anywhere I can.’

‘Fracking and doping don’t add up to murder.’

The sheriff finished off the ice cream then sipped the coffee, which was as good as any coffee in Austin at half the price.

‘You figure out the connection between the boy’s death and art?’

‘I’ve learned that Nathan was Billy Bob’s lawyer and a gay artist living a double life. That art is part of the story.’

The sheriff grunted. ‘Art. Why folks would take a plane trip to Hell Paso then drive four hours to look at a bunch of fluorescent lights, I don’t figure that. Now, Judd’s boxes, I like them. Particularly the concrete ones outside. I go out there and study them from time to time. You know, if you sit on the side of Sixty-seven just south of the boxes, right when the sun’s rising, those boxes create some interesting shadows. I reckon that’s what Judd was up to.’

‘Could be.’

‘Or I don’t have a clue.’

‘Do you have a clue who killed Nathan Jones?’

‘Well, the boy was
Billy Bob’s lawyer, so I figure he had access to incriminating evidence, if there was any. And he talked about it with his … friend … who pressured him to go public with it, that tells me there’s evidence out there, waiting to be found. Which makes Billy Bob Barnett the prime suspect in a murder case. But I got no evidence of murder. Except a dead lawyer.’

‘What do you need to arrest him?’

‘I need that proof, podna.’

‘Kenni introduced Nathan to you.’

Carla glanced over at Book from behind the wheel of
her truck. ‘Yes. He did.’

‘A man inside Billy Bob’s operations.’

‘A lawyer. The best possible inside man. Privy to his client’s secrets.’

‘Did you know you were putting his life in danger?’

‘Fracking is a dangerous business, Professor.’

‘Fighting fracking can be dangerous as well. How’d you get into that business?’

‘My dad was a roughneck. I followed him into the industry. Got an environmental engineering degree at Rice, worked at a major in Houston, thought I’d make the industry greener. But the only green they care about is the kind that folds nicely in a wallet. So I quit and went to the other side, joined an environmental group in Santa Fe. Been fighting the industry ever since. When fracking came on line, I knew it had to be stopped.’

‘Did you know Nathan was gay?’

The sudden change of subjects didn’t throw her.

‘I figured.’

‘Why?’

‘He was friends with Kenni. Gays
and straights don’t pal around together in West Texas.’

‘Did you know Billy Bob is a cokehead?’

‘Heard rumors to that effect. Who’d you hear it from?’

‘Big Rick.’

‘He’s a disgusting prick, all those young girls. But he hates Billy Bob almost as much as I do, and he donates to the cause.’ Her eyes went to the rearview mirror. ‘Aw, fuck.’

Carla had picked Book up at six in an old dark blue Ford pickup with bumper stickers that read
No Fracking Way
and
We Can’t Drink Natural Gas
. A shotgun was mounted in a window rack. Book looked in the side mirror. A Border Patrol SUV had pulled them over. Carla braked and steered the pickup truck to the shoulder of the highway.

‘Billy Bob said you had a roughneck’s vocabulary.’

‘Hang around squirrels long enough, you’ll start hiding nuts. Hell, I’ve been around roughnecks since I was a kid.’

She glanced in the rearview again and gestured back.

‘They harass me every time, make me get out while they search the entire truck. I think Billy Bob puts them up to it.’

‘Maybe that shotgun got their attention.’

‘In West Texas?’

Two agents walked up to their windows, one on either side.

‘What do you assholes want?’ Carla said.

‘Nice to see you too, Carla,’ the agent said.

Book looked up to a familiar face.

‘Whoops,’ the agent named Wesley Crum said.

‘We meet again,’ Book said.