The Governor's Wife (29 page)

"Governor, you've got to run for president. Business needs you. The country needs you." He lowered his voice and leaned in. "We need a white man in the White House."

Bode Bonner had played football with black guys, showered with black guys, roomed with black guys, and chased white girls with black guys. Many had been his friends back then and some still were today. They always greeted each other with man-hugs at team reunions. When you fought together on a football field, you didn't give a damn what color your teammates were, only that they wanted to win as much as you did. So Bode Bonner didn't take kindly to anyone assuming he was a racist just because he was a Republican. He got in the guy's face.

"Hey, bud, I don't like that racist crap. So you best get your butt back in your seat before I stick my boot up your first-class ass."

First-class passengers departed first at L.A. International Airport. Bode hoped to avoid more commingling with the coach class at the baggage claim so he grabbed his carry-on baggage and hurried up the jet way and into the terminal and—

A flash of bright light momentarily blinded him.

He blinked hard and saw black spots. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the lights—the bright lights of news cameras. Someone screamed, "Bode Bonner!" and thunderous applause broke out. The crowd—
Californians!
—gave the governor of Texas a standing ovation. Bode recovered quickly and smiled broadly. He pushed forward; hands reached out to touch him. He signed autographs while men and women leaned close and took self-photos with cell phones. Voices called out to him from the crowd.

"You're the man, Bode!"

"Bode, you're our hero!"

"Run for president! Please!"

He felt as if he were in Lubbock instead of L.A. Jim Bob caught up with him.

"How'd they know we were coming today?"

"I tweeted. This'll be on the local news tonight, national in the morning."

"You're good."

"This is what I do."

On the PA system, a deep voice announced: "Governor Bode Bonner, arriving at Gate 4, your ground transportation is waiting outside baggage claim."

Which had almost the same effect on the terminal as an announcement that George Clooney was standing buck naked at Gate 4. The crowd surged toward them. Mandy herded the kids off the plane, and they took a victory lap through LAX. Ranger Hank took point and cleared a path through the gauntlet of cell phone cameras. As they passed each gate, waiting passengers picked up on the applause that was washing through the terminal like a tidal wave and continued all the way to the baggage claim. They waited for their luggage—one bag for each kid, Hank, Bode, and Jim Bob, and four for Mandy—with his new fans who followed him outside to a waiting—

"Limo?" Jim Bob stood on the sidewalk as if horrified at the sight of the long black limousine. "Mandy, you got us a limo?"

"For all the kids. We couldn't take five cabs."

"You should've gotten a hotel van. Okay, let's get in before they take too many pictures."

They all jumped into the limousine, safe from the cameras behind blacked-out windows. Hank rode shotgun, and the kids took seats down both sides; Mandy made sure they were buckled in, then joined Jim Bob and Bode on the rear seat. She squeezed tight and said, "Gosh, honey, you're almost as popular as Kim Kardashian."

It was eighty degrees in L.A., so they stopped on Rodeo Drive—Alejandro was disappointed; he thought they were going to a real rodeo—and bought swimsuits for the boys at Brooks Brothers and the girls at Ralph Lauren. While Bode signed autographs and took photos with the cute clerk and shoppers, he noticed Josefina staring at a yellow dress and touching it as if it were gold. The "Bode Bonner Reelection Campaign" bought the $600 dress for her.

They were now poolside at the hotel in Beverly Hills. Jim Bob's pale flesh glowed in the sun, so they found lounge chairs in a shady corner and ordered sodas and strawberry daiquiris. Ranger Hank stood guard, as if Bode Bonner were a movie star, Mandy stood by the pool, looking stunning in her new black bikini, and the kids stood at water's edge, as if they had never before swum in a pool.

"They haven't," Mandy said.

Bode dove into the pool then coaxed the children in. The boys finally jumped in, but Josefina sat on the ledge and dangled her feet in the water. Mandy sat next to her, and they shared a little girl talk. Jim Bob fiddled with his phone. Bode tossed Carlos into the deep end. He came up sputtering and splashing wildly—

"They can't swim!" Mandy cried.

—so Bode plucked him out of the water and carried him to the shallow end.

"Sorry about that, Carlos."

"Bode!"

Mandy pointed at Filiberto. He had climbed the steps and was unzipping his swimsuit, apparently to pee in the pool.

"No, no, Filiberto!"

Bode waded through the water and over to the boy.

"No peeing in the pool."

"
¿Que pasa?
"

"Mandy, what's the word for peeing?"

"I don't know."

Bode motioned to the cabana with restrooms.

"Toilet."

"Ah."

Filiberto trotted over to the restroom. A Latino waiter approached their position; Hank blocked his path. He had been as jumpy as Jim Bob since the shooting.

"Hank, he's just bringing our daiquiris."

Bode got out of the pool and grabbed a daiquiri and the lounge next to Jim Bob. But he noticed a group of women on the far side who didn't seem pleased to see brown-skinned kids in the pool, especially in light of the fact that they were probably peeing in the pristine water at that very moment. The Professor opened his black notebook.

"We had a good overnight. Your Twitter followers topped a million, and the CNN poll puts you at twenty percent among Republicans. The shooting went down 'approve' with Independents, 'strongly approve' with Republicans, and 'holy shit, shoot some more Mexicans' with the tea partiers. It even polled positive with thirty percent of Democrats."

"Good."

"Except now you're in the cross hairs. Any Republican who looks like he could challenge Obama, the liberal media goes gunning for him, hard, because they want Romney. They know Americans will never elect a Mormon president."

"Which means …?"

"They'll try to make you look stupid, like they did with Bush and Palin."

"It worked."

"Difference is, you're sneaky smart."

"Sneaky smart?"

"You're a lot smarter than folks figure."

"Thanks … I think."

"It's a good thing to be underestimated, Bode, especially in politics. Bush and Palin, they're sneaky stupid—they're both stupider than everyone figured and everyone figured they were pretty stupid. So making them look stupid on national TV was easy. You being a Texan, everyone's going to naturally assume you're just as stupid. But you're not. You're a helluva lot smarter. So they'll underestimate you and—BAMM!—you prove you're smarter than they thought. Which makes you look real smart."

Bode nodded. "It's like sneaky fast. I hated sneaky fast receivers. They look like they should be slow, then—BAMM!—they blow right past you and leave you holding your jockstrap." He sipped his daiquiri. "Sneaky smart. I like it, Professor."

Bode checked on the boys; they were apparently trying a Mexican version of waterboarding on Miguel—"Hey, let him up!"—and then he checked on the women across the way. They waved the pool attendant over.

"Now, so you don't look sneaky stupid, we've got to prep for the talk shows." The Professor launched into his positions … Bode's positions … on the political issues of the day. "Remember, Bode, the federal budget is four trillion dollars, and there's a voter who's vested in every single dollar. You cut a dollar, you lose a vote. The calculation is that simple. And primary states depend on federal spending …"

Bode's attention drifted away from the Professor and over to the women across the pool. The attendant had come over and then departed. He now returned with a man in a suit. The women seemed quite animated. The suit listened, looked over at them, listened again, looked again. He headed Bode's way.

"… The entire state of Iowa is planted in corn to feed the ethanol plants not people, so you go there and tell those corn farmers you're cutting the ethanol subsidy, your presidential campaign ends in Des Moines."

Bode felt his blood pressure ratchet up, and not because of the ethanol subsidy. He knew the hotel suit was going to tell him the kids must vacate the pool.

"So, Bode, your position on the federal budget and spending is, A, you support a balanced budget amendment; B, we need steep cuts in federal spending; and C, we need to secure our border and deport those damn illegal Mexicans."

Bode's eyes were locked on the hotel suit.

"Okay?"

Bode's thoughts returned to the Professor. He didn't want to confess to having checked out on his prep talk, so he said, "You're the boss, Professor."

The hotel suit arrived and stood over him and blocked out the sun. Bode didn't like being talked down to, so he stood and towered over the suit. Those snotty Beverly Hills women weren't going to keep his Mexican kids out of the hotel pool.

"Uh, Governor …"

"Look, bud," Bode said, pointing at the children in the pool, "those kids are guests just like those women over there—I'm paying for them, they're with me—and they're gonna swim in that goddamned pool as long as they want to, you understand? And no one's gonna—"

"Governor"—the suit held out a pen and hotel stationery—"the ladies just wanted me to ask you for your autograph … and if you'd take a photo with them."

"Governor, after you killed those Mexican
hombres
, weren't you afraid there might've been more of them who could've come after you? With guns?"

"Aw, hell, Jay, I still had a hundred rounds of ammo and a fast horse."

Twelve hundred miles away in Laredo, Texas, the governor's wife stared at the television in disbelief. Her husband was on the Leno show. And even more unbelievable, he wasn't wearing Armani and French cuffs, but instead a powder blue Oxford shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. His blond hair wasn't sprayed in place; it fell onto his forehead as if he could care less. He looked liked the man she had fallen in love with in Comfort, not the politician who had cheated on her in Austin. He held a long rifle with the butt embedded in the chair seat next to his leg like a cowboy riding shotgun on a stagecoach through Comanche territory. The California crowd cheered Bode Bonner. But there was no cheer inside Lindsay Bonner.

"Does it get any better?" she said.

"The Leno show?" Jesse said.

"Being a doctor and a nurse in the
colonias
."

The child down by the river had been killed by a stray bullet. She was only four years old. The doctor had explained to his nurse that men in Nuevo Laredo often fired their guns into the air, the same as she had seen men do in news reports from the Middle East, as if the bullets do not come down. But they do, often with great force. Enough force to kill a child. The girl was not the first such victim, and she would not be the last. Twenty-four hours later, they both remained shaken by her death. Holding the child on the riverbank and feeling the life that was no more, it had hurt her in a way she had never before experienced.

"No. It does not get better."

She sighed.

"I wish he wouldn't do that."

"Go on the Leno show?"

"Make jokes about killing those Mexicans. I have a bad feeling about that."

"
¿Está el médico?
"

A young girl had stepped into the clinic but spoke to Lindsay from the door.

"No." Lindsay spoke Spanish. "But he should be back soon. Can I help you?"

The girl dropped her eyes and shook her head. She wore too much make-up and a yellow tube top that revealed her torso and the top of her red lace thong above her low-slung jeans.

"What's your name?"

"Marisol Rivera."

"That's a pretty name. How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"How old is your boyfriend?"

"What boyfriend?"

"The one who got you pregnant."

"I did not say I was pregnant."

"But you are."

The tears came now.

"Why do you come to the doctor?"

"I want an abortion."

Two hundred thirty-five miles north in Austin, Carl Crawford ate his whole grain muffin and drank his fair trade coffee and watched the morning news and thought,
Bode Bonner is the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

The governor's arrival at the L.A. International Airport the day before was the feature segment. The crowd—
Californians, for Christ's sake!
—hailed him like a conquering king home from the crusades against the Mexicans. Sure, they were cartel gunmen, and yes, they were operating a marijuana farm, and true, they had raped the girl and held those kids as slaves, but … Carl sighed. Anyone else, and he might be cheering, too. But Bode Bonner? Carl had spent the last eight years of his professional life chasing down every scent of scandal emanating from the Governor's Mansion: shady land deals, state appointments to cronies and campaign donors, misuse of campaign funds, even the execution of an apparently innocent man. But nothing stuck to the governor of Texas.