Bad Country: A Novel (10 page)

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The Santa Cruz had been a running river until the end of the nineteenth century, but after multiple diversions and many decades of drought the river was bone dry except for when the monsoon rains flashflooded the riverbed. Now a place for homeless men and women to camp, kids to smoke dope and horse people and ATVers to ride, it was not unusual to see a bobcat wandering down the streambed right through the middle of Tucson.

There was a pedestrian walkway on the south side of the Starr Pass Road bridge with a sidewalk and five-foot-high walls and high chain-link fencing separating walkers from both traffic on one side and a fall on the other. But on the north side of the bridge there was no pedestrian sidewalk or protective walls, only a narrow ledge of concrete beside a low concrete bank topped by a six-inch-diameter metal pipe running the length of the bridge. The newspapers had reported that Samuel Rocha had fallen off the northside of the bridge, the unguarded side. Where he would have most likely fallen there were small clusters of random trash but no permanent bushes or brush or large accumulations of monsoon, rushriver trash large enough to hide him from general view.

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 M
ETALLICA
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.