Bad Country: A Novel (21 page)

The mechanic turned and eyeballed Rodeo for a long moment.

You looking for somebody? the mechanic asked.

I didn’t know this was that kind of bar. Rodeo used his regular voice and the mechanic listened to it then blushed.

A bartender appeared and jerked his head up at Rodeo.

A Jack Black and Bud back for me, Rodeo said. He waved rather grandly at the mechanic. You got mechanical knowledge, buddy?

Say what? asked the mechanic.

I said I see by your outfit that you are a mechanic.

Yeah.

Rodeo jerked a thumb at the mechanic and then looked at the bartender.

Give the kid a shot and a beer too, Rodeo said.

The bartender slid the twenty off the bar and set two shots and two draft Budweisers with small change in front of Rodeo and the mechanic and disappeared into the kitchen again.

I know you, mister? asked the mechanic.

I hope not since I don’t know you and so if you know me then I am getting old and losing my memory of people. Rodeo threw back his JD and slammed the shot glass on the bar then turned to the mechanic in a bar buddy way. But I’ll just be straight with you, buddy, Rodeo said. I got an old beat-to-shit Ford 150 that I just need a professional opinion about. And since I see by that patch on your coveralls that you come from C-23, which I heard is a pretty good shop around here, I was wondering since I bought you that round you maybe might give me your professional opinion about whether I should junk my old ride or fix it.

The mechanic stared at Rodeo. He looked around the saloon and looked at his cheap plastic watch and then shrugged.

All right, he said.

Rodeo described his own pickup at great length and then folded his arms.

First off, replace your points and plugs if you been runnin’ on ’em a long time, then replace all your alternator wires, the mechanic said. Could be you’re shortin’ out on occasion just ’cause you got a old wire with a bad casin’ and when the truck jiggles that wire it’s hittin’ up against the block sometimes and that causes you to stall out. Otherwise get a rebuild if you’re so in love with the truck.

It was my mother’s, Rodeo said.

Well then, said the mechanic. Do the right thing by it. Good truck’s never failed if it was put together right and maintained right. Ought to last a man a lifetime if he don’t live too long.

Much obliged, said Rodeo.

Just common sense, said the mechanic.

The pair sat in silence for several minutes. The mechanic glanced around nervously.

Rodeo nodded at the patch on the mechanic’s pocket. How you like C-23? he asked.

It’s all right. We mostly do regular stuff. It’s Bisbee, you know. Small town shit. But I’m good at the work and it’s something I can do. I wadn’t no good at school but I got a good eye and a good hand for bodywork. The owner is a asshole from Arkansas but his wife who runs the place is sweet as pie.

You do much custom work? asked Rodeo. I saw a green-apple Impala on the street in front of your shop that looked like a pretty nice ride.

Yeah, that’s Xavier Monjano’s ride. Sweet idn’t it?

’68? asked Rodeo.

’67.

Rodeo sipped his beer as if he was in no hurry.

“Monjano” sounds familiar to me. Rodeo attempted a casual tone. Is Xavier Monjano a Tucson guy?

Xavier’s got a buncha cousins in Tucson, the mechanic said. The one I know is a Indian cop, I think. Which is funny when you think about it.

Why? Are the Monjanos characters? asked Rodeo.

Monjanos they got a variety of solutions to various problems if that’s what you’re askin’, the mechanic said. Xavier’s supposed to be paying ten cents in Florence but he split back to Chihuahua, what I heard. I don’t know nothing about it. They don’t let me ride with them, so I don’t really know them.

Xavier’s people wanna sell that car for six thousand? Rodeo lowballed the price.

Get real. The mechanic shook his head in an exaggerated way. That ride’s got a cherry hemi in it and them rims alone cost six or seven bucks a piece and that custom paint cost four, so six wouldn’t touch that automobile. The mechanic looked around the room again then turned to his beer and drank some, wiped the foam off his mouth with the back of his dirty hand. Anyway Xavier loves that ride and if somebody sold it out from under him while he was gone that’d be two cut-off balls for somebody.

Who takes care of Xavier’s ride while Xavier’s back in Old Mexico?

One of his cousins, the mechanic said. The Indian cop from Tucson. But he has to keep Xavier’s ride up here in Bisbee. That’s the deal, I guess.

You got a name for the cousin? asked Rodeo. Maybe I could negotiate with him on price?

The mechanic looked Rodeo over from head to toe and shook his head. I’ll tell you the fella’s name is Carlos Monjano but they call him Caps and if you want to talk to him about Xavier’s ride Caps comes up here almost every week since Xavier’s run off and takes the ride out. The mechanic finished his beer. But you’re wasting your time on that Impala, mister. They ain’t gonna sell it for any price. The mechanic nursed his shot of liquor as if he meant to make it last. He turned abruptly toward Rodeo. I got a ride for sale though, mister. The young man pointed out the window at the Pontiac. That Firebird out there. It’s clean as a whistle and runs like a top.

Rodeo shook his head. Sorry to disappoint, buddy, but you know how it is with old guys and their old pickups. We ain’t looking to lay down no serious rubber no more. Just trying to keep running what we already got.

The mechanic nodded glumly.

Where you from, buddy?

I’m from Vail right down the road a bit. You?

Tucson, born and bred. Rodeo took a sip of his Bud. You get much Tucson business at C-23? he asked.

Sometimes we do but mostly it’s just Locals. Too far to drive over here.

I think an old friend of mine did bring her car over here though. Rodeo said this as if he were just recalling it. She said there was a good place over here to get quality work done cheaper than Tucson prices.

The young man raised his eyebrows. I did do a front fender and panel job with paint a couple of months ago, he said. Some dumbass tacked a spoiler on a classic Le Sabre and that was a pain in the ass to deal with during paint. The mechanic frowned. Waste of brain space for whoever did that.

That might have been the ride, Rodeo said. I think it was in May or June she brought it over here. Old lady though and batty as hell, so she probably wouldn’t recall right. I think her car was for shit anyway. Nothing a skilled technician like you would probably work on.

I do as good a job on a shitty car as on a fine ride, mister, the mechanic said. And charge the same too, more or less. That’s the mark of a professional. The young man pulled on an earlobe. And I do remember that car, now you say it. A Buick LeSabre, ’84, I think. Nice ride, actually. Clean insides and real low miles, I remember. But I don’t remember it was a old lady’s.

Whose was it? Rodeo rotated his shot glass on the bar and stared at it.

Some kid’s I think and he probably had put the spoiler on hisself which is plain stupid. Got to let a professional do professional work or it’s just gonna be a mess, you know?

I agree, said Rodeo. Amateurs should let professionals just do the work for them. Did you say anything to the kid about ruining the ride?

I don’t say shit to nobody about nothing, mister, the mechanic said. I clock in, I clock out and I just do my job every day. That’s the American Way. The mechanic looked at Rodeo again very carefully as if he had just realized he had betrayed his own code of conduct. You 5-0, Mister?

I am much worse than 5-0 because Police is nine-to-five, five days a week but me and my people are twenty-four hours a day three hundred and sixty-five days a year, Rodeo said. He smiled at the mechanic and then leaned over and pulled out his big wallet and slid a school photo of Samuel Rocha in front of him.

The mechanic squinted at the small photo.

This the kid who brought that LeSabre in? asked Rodeo. I’ll give you three seconds to answer. Yes or no are your only options on this question.

Yes.

Is this kid related to the Monjanos somehow? asked Rodeo.

Yes. The mechanic’s eyelids fluttered and his upper lip beaded with sweat. No. I mean I don’t know if he is or he isn’t.

I worded that question badly, Rodeo said. So relax and just tell me what you know about this kid in the photograph and tell me quick. When Rodeo shifted his eyes from the mechanic the young man lurched off his barstool to make a run for the door. But Rodeo grabbed the mechanic’s hand and folded his thumb down until the man coughed and his eyes turned ruby and ran. Rodeo looked quickly around the bar. No one seemed interested in them, so he guided the young man back onto the barstool.

The pain will stop if you’re straight with me and there probably won’t be much damage, Rodeo said. Otherwise I break your thumb and you pay the hospital bill and lose six weeks of work.

The mechanic’s face was sheened with sweat. All I know is that maybe this kid that brought in the old Buick was related to the Monjanos, he said. But I wouldn’t know how, mister. Serious. I wouldn’t know how he was related even if he was. I swear that to you, mister.

You don’t have to swear to me, buddy, said Rodeo. But you do need to make sure to tell the Indian cop—Carlos Monjano, the one they call Caps—that Rodeo Grace Garnet saw that shiny green Impala on Starr Pass Road the day Samuel Rocha got shot. Can you remember those three names and keep them together?

Caps Monjano … the mechanic said. He gulped air as tears slid down his pale face. Samuel Rocha … Rodeo Garnet …

Rodeo let go of his fierce grip gently, pulled a calling card from his wallet and placed it on the bar with a ten-dollar bill.

Just convey that message, buddy.

The mechanic rubbed at his sore thumb and wiped at the sweat on his face. They told me in school they always killed the messenger first thing.

Well, like you said, buddy, you didn’t do too good in school did you? said Rodeo. So if I was you I wouldn’t worry too much about those old school lessons.

The mechanic nodded and looked at his damaged hand as if it were a new addition to his body.

I work on necks too, buddy, Rodeo said. Tell Caps Monjano that if you feel like it.

The mechanic shook his head as he watched Rodeo leave. I ain’t telling anybody a word more than I have to ever again, he said.

*   *   *

It was full dark when Rodeo stopped at a pay phone at a Circle K on the outskirts of Tucson and thumbed in some quarters. He found the number stored for the Tohono O’odham Reservation Police in his cell phone and dialed it on the pay phone. He covered the speaker with the front of his shirt and tried to flush out Carlos “Caps” Monjano as the killer of Samuel Rocha.

I’d like to speak with Officer Carlos Monjano, the one they call Caps. He said this in his regular voice but rushed it.

Officer Monjano is not available, sir. How can someone else help you?

Just tell Caps Monjano I’m interested in his cousin’s ride, that Impala over in Bisbee that I just found out about. Tell him I saw that green car going over the Santa Cruz River bridge at Starr Pass Road a couple of months ago and it looked like a good car for a drive-by.

*   *   *

Rodeo skipped the motel lobby when he arrived at the Arizona Motel and went right to #116 where he called Magpies Pizza on the house phone and ordered a large, plain cheese. He turned on the AC full blast. He took a lukewarm shower, got naked in bed and pulled the thinnest sheet in the world over himself. The room phone rang.

Rodeo, my friend, said the motel manager. I need to have some words with you.

Don’t hassle me for money right now, Abi, and don’t make me remind you of what you owe me for finding your sister’s cousin’s son, said Rodeo.

Yes yes, Rodeo, said the motel manager. My family and I are aware continually of all that you have done to keep some Indian Indians safe in Tucson. But I was just wondering if you cared to watch some pornographic movies this evening with me? I just received my new Pornflix Blu-ray DVDs which when watched are supposed to be better than actual sexual relations.

You ever think about having sex with an actual person other than yourself, Abi?

I think of nothing else, my friend.

Well, no thanks on the pornfest, Abi. But thanks for asking. I am just going to watch the news and I got a Magpies incoming, said Rodeo.

Do you want me to pay for your pizza when it is arriving?

Sure Abi. Put it on my tab and bring it over when it gets here. If I’m asleep don’t wake me up and just put the pizza on the table near the door.

Rodeo dialed Summer Skye’s cell phone but got shunted to voice mail and then disconnected. He dialed Tucson Famous Pets and Aquarium Design Center, but got a message machine. He left a message for his dog.

Hang in there, he said. We’ll be on the road again and flush again soon.

*   *   *

Rodeo fell asleep during the first bit of KGUN ten o’clock news on a TV chained to a metal rack mounted on an eroding wall. The whole enterprise seemed ready to collapse under the slightest pressure.

… Randy Miller was running for U.S. Congress on the Tea Party ticket. A major battle between the Sinaloa marijuana growers’ cartel and rival enforcement gangs from Tamaulipas had left downtown Nogales, Mexico with major property damage, two civilians, two Narcos and two Federales dead. Tombstone vigilantes had constructed their own surveillance aircraft to patrol AMexican borders, said aircraft piloted by monkeys released from Arizona State University biomed studies under pressure from PETA. Another murder in Los Jarros County had been discovered on Agua Seco Road. The Tucson Unified School District was under fire from a coalition of evangelical Christians for sponsoring “unchristian” events like yoga and field trips to see the Dalai Lama. At the insistence of his third wife the basketball coach of the University of Arizona was having a second brain scan …

*   *   *

Rodeo woke up with his hands bound to the headboard of the bed with a pair of his own disposable handcuffs. Sirena stood over him pulling apart the snaps on her cowgirl shirt. The woman reeked of alcohol and looked fit to kill.