Con Law (8 page)

‘Pizza!’

‘Let’s talk to Nathan Jones first. Maybe he’ll have lunch with us, tell us his story.’

‘What time’s your appointment?’

‘Didn’t make one.’

‘Why not?’

‘Better to arrive unannounced. Nathan was always given to drama, probably read too many Grisham novels.’

‘Just so you know, if he made me ride six hours on this motorcycle for nothing, I’m going to beat him like a redheaded stepchild.’

In the rearview mirror, Book saw a green-and-white Border Patrol SUV pull up behind the Harley and hit its lights. He cut the engine and kicked the stand down; he noticed Hispanics on nearby sidewalks scurrying away. Two agents wearing green uniforms and packing holstered weapons got out of the SUV and sauntered over. Both were young men; one was Anglo and looked like a thug, the other Hispanic and an altar boy. The thug eyed the Harley.

‘What’s that, an eighty-nine softtail classic?’

‘Eighty-eight.’

‘You restore it yourself?’

‘I did.’

‘Turquoise and black, I like that. And the black leather saddlebags with the silver studs. Cool. What engine is that?’

‘Evo V-2.’

‘Damn, that’s a fine ride.’

The thug admired the bike then Nadine perched high in the back seat and finally turned his attention to Book.

‘You Mexican?’

Book glared at the agent.

‘Do I look Mexican?’

‘You look like an Injun, but we don’t get Injuns around here no more, just Mexicans.’

The Hispanic
agent’s expression seemed pained. He took a step slightly in front of the thug. He was either the good cop in a good cop/bad cop routine or genuinely embarrassed by his partner.

‘You look familiar. Where have I seen you?’

‘On national TV, you dopes,’ Nadine said from behind. ‘He’s famous.’

‘Who you calling dopes?’ the thug said. Then he turned to Book and said, ‘Were you the bachelor?’

A look of recognition came across the Hispanic agent’s face; he smiled broadly.

‘No, he’s the professor. Bookman. I watch you every Sunday morning. It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m Agent Angel’—
AHN-hell
—‘Acosta.’

‘John Bookman.’ They shook hands then Book aimed a thumb at the back seat. ‘My intern, Nadine Honeywell.’

‘And this is my partner, Wesley Crum. Please excuse his bad manners, Professor, he was raised by the scorpions in the desert.’

‘Funny,’ the thug named Wesley said.

‘Did you come to Marfa to see the art?’ Agent Acosta said. ‘Judd’s boxes? Chamberlain’s crushed cars? Flavin’s fluorescent lights?’

‘Uh, yes,’ Book said. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

Agent Crum’s eyes loitered on Book’s back-seat passenger. ‘I got fluorescent lights in my trailer,’ he said with a grin, ‘if you want to see them.’

Nadine sighed. ‘Dope.’

Agent Crum’s grin turned into a frown.

‘Enjoy your stay, Professor,’ Agent Acosta said. ‘
Bienvenidos
.’

Book fired up the engine and gunned the Harley through the light and turned north on Highland Avenue. He saw in the rearview the two agents engaged in an animated conversation.

‘Dopes, Ms. Honeywell?’

‘I call them as I see them, Professor.’

They cruised
slowly up Highland, apparently the main street in town. It dead-ended at the courthouse that loomed large above the low-slung buildings. They rode past the Marfa City Hall on the right and then a row of refurbished storefronts occupied by the Marfa Public Radio station, the Marfa Book Company, and a shop called Tiend M that sold handmade jewelry. On the very visible side exterior wall of one building graffiti had been painted in large strokes like a billboard:
The Real Axis of Evil is the US, UK, and Israel
. A city crew with brushes prepared to paint over the message, no doubt unappreciated in West Texas. They crossed El Paso Street, and Nadine pointed again.

‘Food Shark!’

Parked under a large shed with picnic tables was a silver food truck with ‘Food Shark’ stenciled across the side and a few customers at the service window. A sign read
Marfa Lights Up My Judd
. Bicycles were parked under the shed and foreign-made hybrids at the curb; one had a bumper sticker that read
WWDJD?
On the north side of the shed ran railroad tracks; Book hit the brakes hard as the crossing arms came down. The red lights flashed, and a train whistle sounded; a cargo train soon roared through downtown Marfa on its way west to El Paso. Hanna’s train still came through town, but it was now the Union Pacific.

When the arms rose, Book accelerated over the tracks and across Oak Street and past Quintana’s Barber Shop, the state Child Protective Services office, and the Iron Heart Gym. Other than the activity under the shed, downtown Marfa sat silent—no car horns, no sirens, no squealing tires, no sounds of the city. There was no traffic and few pedestrians. No joggers, cabs, pedicabs, or panhandling homeless people that one encountered in downtown Austin. It was as if the town were taking a siesta. Across Texas Street was a building with a replica of an oil rig on the roof; on the far side of Highland sat the two-story, white stucco El Paisano Hotel.

‘Back in
the fifties, they filmed
Giant
here,’ Book said. ‘All the stars stayed there.’

‘That was a movie?’

‘You’ve never heard of
Giant
?’

‘Nope.’

‘It’s an epic about Texas’ transformation from a cattle economy to an oil economy.’

‘Sounds exciting.’

‘It’s a classic. Rock Hudson played a cattle baron.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He’s dead. James Dean played a ranch hand turned oil tycoon.’

‘Never heard of him either.’

‘You’ve never heard of James Dean?’

‘Is he on Twitter?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Well, there you go.’

‘What about Elizabeth Taylor? She played the cattle baron’s wife.’

‘Is she that blonde movie star who used to date Clinton then committed suicide a long time ago?’

‘That’d be Marilyn Monroe. She dated Kennedy. Overdosed on pills.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She’s dead, too.’

‘How am I supposed to know about dead people?’

‘How about Donald Judd?’

‘You’re making these names up, right?’

‘No.’

‘Who did he play in
Giant
?’

‘No one. He was an artist here in Marfa.’

‘Let me guess: he’s dead, too?’

‘He is.’

‘Is there anyone in this town who’s not dead?’

Book turned
right at the shuttered Palace Theater onto Lincoln Street and parked in front of a one-story building facing the courthouse. A small sign on the stucco façade read:
THE DUNN LAW FIRM
with
MIDLAND-LUBBOCK-AMARILLO-MARFA
in smaller letters below. They got off the Harley. Book removed his sunglasses and doo-rag and knocked the dust off his T-shirt and jeans. Nadine removed the crash helmet and goggles and smoothed back her hair. They entered the law firm offices and stepped into a well-appointed reception area. Hallways extended off both sides. In the center along the back wall sat a receptionist behind a desk. Her head was down. They walked over to her. She wore a black dress. She wiped tears from her red face with a white tissue then blew her nose. She finally looked up at Book.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Funeral.’ She wiped tears again. ‘This afternoon.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

She nodded then forced a professional expression.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m John Bookman, to see Nathan Jones.’

Her professional expression evaporated; she frowned and appeared confused.

‘
Nathan?
But … it’s his
funeral.’

‘Rock Hudson, James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, Donald Judd, Nathan Jones … does everyone in Marfa die?’ Nadine Honeywell asked.

‘Eventually.’

On the western edge of town, out on San Antonio Street past the Thunderbird Motel and the Pueblo Market, across the street from a junkyard and adjacent to a mobile home park, was the Marfa Cemetery. A chain link fence ran down the center of the cemetery. West of the fence were the graves of the deceased of Mexican descent; some of the gravesites would qualify as religious shrines. East of the fence were the graves of Anglos; small American flags fluttering in the wind marked many of the gravesites. A dirt road crisscrossed the cemetery. They had ridden the Harley in and now leaned against the bike a respectful distance from the burial of Nathan Jones.

‘A car accident,’ Book said. ‘Same day he mailed the letter.’

Through tears, the receptionist had provided the basics of Nathan’s death.

‘Coincidence.’ Nadine
turned to him. ‘Can we go home now?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t believe in coincidences.’

‘I was afraid you were going to say that.’

Book hadn’t been to a funeral in twenty-one years. Five hundred police officers from around the state of Texas had turned out in full uniform for Ben Bookman’s funeral; they do that for a fellow officer killed in the line of duty. Not so much for lawyers. Only a few dozen people were gathered at the gravesite. Some were dressed like lawyers, most like cowboys in jeans and boots and plaid shirts. A young woman wearing jeans and a black T-shirt stood alone off to one side; she looked their way for a moment then looked away. Book spotted the receptionist in her black dress; she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. An older couple seemed distraught; probably Nathan’s parents. A young, very pregnant woman stood next to them; she stepped forward and placed a red rose on the casket. No doubt Nathan’s wife. Next to her stood one of those locals, a large young man with blond curly hair; he put an arm around her shoulders. Family or family friend. A white-haired man snapped photographs from the perimeter. After the service ended and the crowd began to disperse, Book approached the pregnant woman.

‘Ms. Jones?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Professor Bookman. From UT. Nathan wrote to me.’

Her eyes darted around then she stepped close and lowered her voice.

‘Not here. They’re watching. Come to my house. Tonight. I’m in the book.’

‘I’m not sleeping in a teepee.’

El Cosmico
occupied eighteen acres just south of town and adjacent to the Border Patrol station. Its website touted a ‘unique communal outpost in West Texas,’ but Nadine wasn’t convinced. Accommodations ranged from refurbished Airstream trailers to safari tents and authentic Sioux teepees. A community bathhouse with a tub and toilet came with the price. Dubbed a ‘hippie campground’ by the locals, El Cosmico was the latest venture of the woman behind the Hotel San José and Jo’s Coffee in Austin. Book was a regular at Jo’s, so he had decided to give it a try. But his intern was having none of it.

‘And I don’t share toilets with strangers.’

She sighed and shook her head as if faced with an impossible task.

‘I can’t even imagine how many sanitizing wipes I’d go through.’

‘Ms. Honeywell, you’re a mighty picky traveling companion, you do know that?’

‘So sue me.’

‘Spoken like a true lawyer.’

Ten minutes later, they stood at the front desk of the El Paisano Hotel. The lobby of the Spanish baroque, pueblo-deco style hotel featured leather chairs and ottomans, colorful Mexican tiled floors, exposed wood beams, and—

‘OMG,’ Nadine said. ‘Is that a buffalo head on the wall?’

‘And a longhorn.’ Book turned to the desk clerk. ‘Just one night.’

Nadine dug her cell phone out of her canvas bag and took a photo of the stuffed heads.

‘No one back home will believe this.’

‘Your name?’ the clerk said.

‘John Bookman.’

The clerk broke into a big smile. ‘Professor Bookman, welcome to the Paisano. We were expecting you.’

‘You were?’

‘Your secretary—Myrna?—she
called ahead and made reservations for you and Miss Honeywell. I have some messages for you.’

The clerk disappeared behind the counter.

‘Where’s the nearest Starbucks?’ Nadine asked. ‘I’m dying for caffeine.’

The clerk reappeared and said, ‘No Starbucks in Marfa.’

Nadine stared as if the clerk had said, ‘No oxygen in Marfa.’

‘You’re joking?’

The clerk shrugged at her then handed three message slips to Book: Myrna, his sister, and James Welch. Nadine shook off her Starbucks shock and held her phone up as if trying to gauge the wind in the lobby.

‘Why can’t I get through?’

‘Cell phone service,’ the clerk said, ‘it’s a bit sketchy out here.’

Nadine responded with the same look of utter disbelief.

‘No Starbucks or texting—are we still in America?’

‘You’re still in Texas.’

The clerk handed room keys to Book.

‘Professor, you’re in the Rock Hudson suite, and Miss Honeywell is in the Elizabeth Taylor suite. Rooms two-eleven and two-twelve.’

‘Great, now we’re sleeping in dead people’s beds,’ she said.

‘They were alive when they slept here. Let’s wash up and get some lunch, figure out where we go from here.’

‘Home.’

‘Enjoy the art,’ the desk clerk said.

Book carried their gear up the flight of stairs—there was no elevator—and down the corridor to their rooms.

James Dean practiced
rope tricks in the courtyard of the El Paisano Hotel. Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor partied with the cast and crew in the dining room. Director George Stevens reviewed the ‘dailies’ in the ballroom each evening; locals were welcome. And they came. For six weeks in the summer of 1955, Hollywood lived in the Paisano, and Marfa was Cinderella at the ball.

But the ball ended, Hollywood went home, and Marfa was left to its old life. The town and the hotel began a steady slide. By 2001, Marfa was the county seat of the poorest county in Texas, and the Paisano was sold at a tax foreclosure auction on the steps of the Presidio County Courthouse. No one imagined that day that there would be a Hollywood ending for both the town and the hotel. But there was—but not because of Hollywood.

Because of art.

Book deposited Nadine in Elizabeth Taylor’s room then went next door to his room. Rock Hudson had been comfortable: living room, full kitchen, bedroom, and private rooftop balcony. Book dropped his bag then looked for the room phone. There wasn’t one. So he dialed Myrna on his cell then stepped out onto the balcony. Myrna’s voice soon came over, a bit scratchy but audible.