The Perk (14 page)

"Small nonfat latte, please."

She looked up and stared at him. "You
heard?"

"Heard what?"

"About the town lesbians."

"Does it show?"

"Yep. You okay with that?"

Beck shrugged. "Sure. Now I don't have to
worry about you hustling me."

She smiled. "What does J.B. say? 'That'll
be the day'? So, have you decided yet?"

"Decided what?"

"Whether you're running for judge?"

"No."

She walked around the counter. "Come with
me."

"Can I have that coffee first?"

"There's not time." She called to an
older woman in the stacks. "Ella, watch the store!"

She grabbed his hand and yanked him back
outside. She didn't let go until they hit the Main Street sidewalk; he hadn't
held a woman's hand since Annie's last night. Jodie turned west and walked
fast; Beck followed her red hair and boots across Llano Street and down to the biergarten
where back in high school Beck had often listened to live country-western music.
She stopped so he stopped. She pointed inside.

The biergarten was open to the street, and the
smell of sausage and sauerkraut wafted out. Just inside customers sat at small
wood tables and ate German food and drank German beer. A long wooden bar
stretched down one side of the room. On the back wall hung a big sign that
read WEISSBIER. Below the beer sign stood a young man. He had blond hair and wore
a suit. He was addressing the crowd of locals in for lunch.

"If you commit the crime, you will do the
time. Criminals belong in state prison in Huntsville, not on our streets in Fredericksburg. Our streets are for tourists, not criminals!"

The crowd applauded and whistled.

"Who's that?"

"Niels Eichman, the D.A."

"Junior?"

"Yep."

Niels Eichman, Sr., had been the Gillespie
County District Attorney back when Beck had lived here. In keeping with the long-standing
local tradition, he had apparently handed down his public office father to son,
German to German.

"He's running for judge," she said. "Unopposed
… unless you run."

"The old Germans backing him?"

"Of course."

"He'll be tough to beat then."

Inside, the D.A. was saying, "I'm not going
to stand by while the criminal element destroys this town!"

Beck turned to Jodie. "What criminal
element? Crime of the week was a Porta-Potty drive-by."

Inside, the D.A.: "Our town is being
inundated by illegal Mexicans and their illegal drugs …"

Beck, to Jodie: "Is there a drug problem
here?"

She shrugged. "Not much, but more than
there used to be."

Back inside, the D.A.: "And we all know
who killed the coach's daughter with drugs—an illegal Mexican! And he's still
walking our streets!"

"Is he talking about Heidi?"

"How'd you know about her?"

"Her dad, we were buddies back in high school."

She nodded inside. "That's why people like
him, promising to keep drugs out of our town. Like their kids aren't using."

"What do you know about her?"

"Heidi? Just what I read in the
paper."

"Can I get the papers from back then at the
library?"

"You can get them from me."

"You keep old newspapers?"

"One a week, fifty-two a year. One box for
each year."

Back inside, the D.A. was saying, "We are a
God-fearing, law-abiding people, but illegal Mexicans are criminals. They
commit a crime when they step across that border and they commit a crime when
they smuggle drugs into our town …"

"Praise the Lord and blame the Mexicans,"
Jodie said.

"It's worked for Texas politicians since
the Alamo."

Jodie shook her head and sighed. "You
know, I like living in a small town, being able to walk down Main Street after
dark and not having to look over my shoulder, not having gangs and drive-by
shootings and murders every day and police cars running up and down the streets
at all hours—"

A shrill siren went off down the street.

"Grass fire, calling
in the volunteers. I like all that, but I still believe in civil rights. See,
the Main Street business owners, we fled the big city … the crime, the
lousy schools, Rainbow Clubs … we moved out here to the country but we
didn't move to
another
country."

"Locals lived here all their lives, they
don't appreciate diversity."

"Diversity to an old German is eating
Mexican food at Mamacita's on Saturday night."

Beck laughed.

"But it's not just them, Beck. We have friends—white
friends—from the city, they come out here for the first time and walk Main
Street and they start to realize something's different, but they can't put
their finger on it. But you can see it on their faces when it hits them:
there aren't any black or brown people here. And this funny little smile comes
over their faces, right before they say, 'We want to move here.' They want to
live here because everyone's white."

"Like joining a private country club."

"Without the dues."

"But there were Latinos here when I was
growing up. Did they all get deported?"

"No, but they don't want trouble, so they stay
off Main Street, away from the tourists. Only time you see Latinos on Main Street is after closing, when they clean up. They got in trouble, Stutz threw them in
prison. Now he's finally gone after forty years, but his clone wants his job."

Back inside, the D.A. shouted, "Elect me
your judge and I'll guarantee you that illegal Mexicans who come to our town won't
be in our town for long!"

Jodie leaned in close and grabbed Beck's arm
tightly. Her eyes were green and her face was now as red as her hair. She
pointed a long finger inside.

"And, Beck, if you don't run, that little
prick's gonna be our judge for the next forty years!"

BECK'S BACK; WANTS TO BE JUDGE
the headline of that week's newspaper read. The article detailed his life
from quarterback of the Gillespie County Gallopin' Goats to quarterback of the Notre
Dame Fighting Irish to top law student to partner at a big Chicago law firm.
Honors, awards, important cases, his Supreme Court appearances, his children.
Annie's death. His return home. Beck turned to his father. They were in the
rockers on the back porch.

"J.B., how'd you know all this?"

"I kept up."

"Annie?"

"She filled in the blanks."

"So you took it on yourself to go to the
paper?"

"Someone's got to do the campaigning."

"What campaigning?"

J.B. nodded at the paper. "That … and
the bumper stickers. Janelle designed them, got 'em printed up."

"You been putting that bumper sticker on
cars?"

"A few."

"Did you ask the owners if it was okay
first?"

"A few."

"J.B… ."

"Jodie put up a big campaign sign on her door.
Janelle hand-painted it."

"I saw it. Stopped in to get the books I'd
ordered. Jodie dragged me down to the biergarten to hear the D.A.'s stump
speech. The crowd liked him."

"Too much like his daddy."

"He'll be hard to beat."

"You could beat him."

"Maybe."

"You want Meggie and Luke to grow up in a
town with Niels Eichman as their judge?"

"No."

"Then do something about it." J.B.
flipped through the paper and said, "Meggie says you bought 'em school
clothes today."

"Over at the Wal-Mart."

"Why didn't you say something? I would've
gone with you."

"J.B., I can do a few things on my
own."

"You know their sizes?"

"No, but we figured it out."

"Mary Jo figured it out, way I heard
it."

"Meggie can't keep a secret."

"Neither can lesbians. So how'd it go with
Mary Jo?"

"Good. She's happy. Got four kids."

J.B. grunted and returned to the classifieds.
Beck went back to the newspapers Jodie had given him. He started with the paper
dated January 8, 2003, one week after Heidi's death; color images of her covered
a big portion of the front page, one of her in a cheerleader uniform and another
of her lying in the ditch with a white sheet over her body; the sheet did not
cover her bare feet. She had been spotted by a trucker heading east out of
town early on New Year's Day. He called 911. The sheriff came, the Texas
Department of Public Safety mobile crime scene van came, and the justice of the
peace came and pronounced her dead.

The lack of murders in Gillespie County made a medical examiner an unnecessary county expense. So the county hired out autopsies
to the Travis County Medical Examiner in Austin. The M.E. ruled that the cause
of Heidi's death was cardiovascular failure due to acute cocaine intoxication.
No mention was made of the semen sample obtained from her body.

The sheriff requested that all males age fifteen
to sixty-five provide a confidential DNA sample. All cleared samples would be
destroyed; results would not be submitted to the FBI's DNA database. He
assured Mexican nationals that he would not check their immigration status. He
confirmed that a DNA sample had been recovered from Heidi's body, but he refused
to elaborate.

Beck found the next week's paper, dated January
15, 2003. It was still all about Heidi. Over five hundred males had given DNA samples in the preceding week. The samples had been sent to the DPS crime lab in Austin. Test results were expected back in eight weeks.

By the third week, over one thousand males had
given samples. The sheriff acknowledged that few Mexicans had come forward to
provide DNA samples and that given the number of illegals in town, the
perpetrator might be a Mexican—who might have returned to Mexico.

With each passing week, there were fewer
mentions of Heidi in the papers. By the tenth week, all samples had been
tested; there was no match. The sheriff concluded that an outsider had dumped
Heidi in that ditch and left town. He vowed to continue his investigation as
long as there was any hope of finding the perpetrator. That was four and a
half years ago.

Beck stared again at the image of Heidi Geisel,
all-American cheerleader. How did that beautiful girl end up in a ditch?

Beck threw up in the gutter.

It was the tenth day of August, and the dog days
of summer had descended on the Hill Country. The temperature sign on the bank
building read 97 degrees—at eight in the morning. His feet hurt, his knees ached,
and his body was drenched in sweat. He had picked that day to start running
again.

He had fixed breakfast for the kids and walked
them down to the winery. Then he had run the three miles into town. When he
hit Main Street, he had crossed over to the north side and ran east on the
sidewalk. The shops didn't open until ten so the sidewalks had been empty
except for the customers lined up out the door at Dietz Bakery, waiting for
fresh sausage rolls. He ran around them and crossed over to the south side of Main at the light fronting the Nimitz.

He ran west past the Ausländer Biergarten and
the vacant Crenwelge Buick & Olds building. It was Friday, but the weekend
tourists didn't start arriving until noon; so pickup trucks instead of Lexuses
were parked at the curb, and tractors, farm equipment, and eighteen-wheelers
rolled down Main Street past the expensive restaurants and fancy boutiques.
When Beck hit the Llano Street intersection, he had to stop for a rig pulling a
cattle trailer. The breeze brought the smell straight to Beck—and he threw up.

"I think that's illegal. Littering on Main Street."

Beck's hands were on his knees. He looked up to
a red Jeep Wrangler 4x4 pulled alongside the curb; it had no doors and a roll
bar instead of a top. Jodie Lee was sitting behind the wheel wearing
sunglasses and a smile. Her red hair blew in the breeze.

"Careful you don't get run over by a
local. They don't brake for joggers."

"Why not?"

"They figure if God wanted folks to run everywhere He wouldn't
have invented the pickup truck. You run up here from the ranch?"

He nodded.

"You won't make it back. Climb in."

She was right. He climbed in. Jodie reached
back to a cooler behind them and handed a cold bottled water to Beck.

"This hot, you've got to hydrate."

Jodie shifted the Jeep into gear and turned west
on Main. Beck drank half the bottle.

"Thanks."

The wind was the only air-conditioning the Jeep
offered, but Beck's body soon cooled down.

"I haven't run since Annie … I've got
to get back in shape."

"Tough in this heat. Try the Athletic
Club, out 290 East across from the Wal-Mart."

Jodie worked the stick shift again, and Beck
drank more water.

"Have you decided?" she said.

"On the gym?"

"On running for judge."

"No."

"Beck—people here are afraid."

"Of what? This is Disneyland."

She gestured at the Main Street shops. "This
is a façade town, Beck. It's all fake, like a movie set … like Disneyland. That's all show for the tourists. But the people who live here, they're
afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"The law. This town is ruled with an iron
first, Beck. Old Germans, they're big on law and order, more order than law. You
stay in line or leave town … or get shipped off to Huntsville."

"You mean the Latinos?"

"This is Texas, so they take the brunt of
it. But it's also Fredericksburg, so anyone who's not from an old-line German
family with money from mohair, they get in the way, they get run over. If
you're brown or poor, there's no justice in Gillespie County."

They turned south off Main and onto Adams Street. They drove past the Gillespie County Courthouse. Beck looked up to the
second floor, where the courtroom was located. And he remembered that day
twenty-five years before when he had witnessed justice dispensed by Judge Bruno
Stutz.