Bad Country: A Novel (7 page)

The old woman turned from the TV image to the man nearby her and stared at his face for several long seconds then looked back at the screen.

But your mother wanted you to be White, didn’t she? That’s the only reason why she married your father, because Buck passed as White. Claimed he was Irish. Black Irish, he said. That was a load of … Katherine Rocha stopped herself from cursing by taking another drink. That little man was Mexican as the day is long.

Rodeo nodded very slightly at this truth.

I remember when he left her she moved into town so you could go to high school with the Anglo kids. Thought maybe it would rub off on you, I guess.

My mother wanted me to go to the best high school in Tucson, Mrs. Rocha. She thought that was Tucson High, so that’s where I went.

The old woman sniffed and said nothing for a while. When her head nodded onto her chest, Rodeo shifted in his aluminum chair and cleared his throat.

You’re looking to hire somebody like me, a private investigator to look into your grandson’s death, Mrs. Rocha? Rodeo asked. Is that the case?

I wanted you, the woman said. She gulped coffee and stared at Rodeo as if at beef on sale. Her voice quavered. Another drink steadied her and she sat up straighter and changed her tone of voice. They said you could find out things. Is that the truth?

Mostly it is, Mrs. Rocha. Though I get paid the same whether I find out something or not. I never gyp anybody that hires me but I don’t always get results my employers care for, Rodeo said. Sometimes I don’t get results much at all. Just depends on the case.

That’d be fine that way, the old woman said. If you didn’t find out anything, I mean. If that’s the case.

Rodeo shifted in the flimsy lawn chair and leaned forward to ease the pressure on his herniated discs.

Is there something about your grandson’s death in particular you’re interested in finding out about, Mrs. Rocha? Rodeo asked.

Who’s that?

Your grandson Samuel. The boy who got killed on the bridge.

He was probably killed by one of those dope friends of his, the grandmother said. She waved a hand in Rodeo’s face. I know how my husband was and so I know how my children are. And I know how my grandchildren are and now even my great-grandchildren probably. All but the one of them. She paused. But I’m at the point now that I don’t really give a damn what people think about me, my family included. What do you think of that?

I think it’s still a free country, Mrs. Rocha. More or less.

What did you say your Christian name was again?

Rodeo.

That’s right. Buck always did want you to be a cowboy, didn’t he? she said. A little Indian cowboy.

I guess you knew my daddy, Mrs. Rocha.

The woman looked sideways at Rodeo. You don’t look much like him. He was little. And handsome.

No offense, Mrs. Rocha, but I just came here to see about a piece of work on offer. Did you mean to hire me to investigate your grandson’s death? Rodeo tried to keep his voice level. Because it seems like your grandson died in a bad way, so maybe you’re like some people who want to hire me just in order to pay respects to someone who’s died, to do the right thing by their dead but don’t expect to find out too much about how they died or why?

I’m not paying respects to anybody. Why should I?

The old lady rocked herself out of her chair and stalked away. When she did not return in several minutes, Rodeo followed her into the kitchen where she was leaning against the sink having a glass of brandy in plain view. The room was neat but it had a stench of old grease, propane gas, wet pipes and dry rot.

You drink? the woman asked.

Not to speak of lately, said Rodeo.

Your parents were both drunks. Your mother was a Bad Drunk. Katherine Rocha poured another shot of Christian Brothers into a jelly jar, tossed it back and set the jelly glass down. Buck and her deserved each other.

The old woman looked at Rodeo then rubbed knuckles the size of golf balls into her eyesockets. She poured coffee from an antique percolator and spooned sugar and nondairy creamer into her coffee cup, stirred.

I can hire you if I want to, can’t I? the woman asked.

If you got three hundred dollars a day plus expenses you can, Mrs. Rocha. Even though Rodeo had given her the family and friends rate, she still coughed and put her hand over her mouth, clearly shocked by this number.

I usually stay at Arizona Motel when I work in Tucson and that’s as cheap as it gets, said the PI. Plus three meals a day and gasoline. And if you want to get your money’s worth it would help to know a few things that I can’t get from the papers or off the Internet, Mrs. Rocha.

Things like what?

Like who Samuel hung out with. And why he was living here instead of with his parents.

He lived with me because his parents kicked him out and he had no place else to live but with that girlfriend of his and I don’t think she wanted him around either.

What girlfriend was that? Rodeo asked.

Just some trashy girl, she said. Anglo, I guess. How can you tell these days? Rings in her nose and tattoos or whatever you call it all over her. Pink hair.

You know who this girl was?

I don’t know anything about her, said the woman. Except she came by here one time to pick him up when I wouldn’t let him have the car. But it’s my car. I paid for it.

Where did this girl live or work or go to school?

She was just nasty trash that kid brought around to bother me with, the grandmother said. I never trusted that kid. He was just as worthless as Alonzo.

And Alonzo is your son? And Samuel’s father?

Yeah. We know whose padre was that kid’s at least. Since they are both of no account.

What do you mean by that, Mrs. Rocha?

The old woman drank her coffee to keep her mouth shut. Rodeo proceeded.

So Samuel was living with you because his parents kicked him out. Why did they kick him out, Mrs. Rocha?

That kid was bad, she said. Her eyes got misty. But his mother had another child. A good child … The voice of the old woman trailed off. Rodeo waited, but no more words from her seemed forthcoming.

I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Mrs. Rocha … said Rodeo. But you don’t seem all that cut up about your grandson, so I’m curious why you are even interested in me investigating Samuel’s death.

Katherine Rocha stared at Rodeo. Her eyes were obsidian, almost unnaturally dark from iris to eyelid. Rodeo had to look away from the old woman’s gaze.

You sound like Buck, she said. But you don’t look like him.

Rodeo nodded because he did sound as his father did, exactly. Their voices were the same, father and son, though they were different men.

Do you have children? the woman asked.

No ma’am. I don’t. Rodeo said this with some hesitation, but the woman did not notice.

Well, you’re lucky then, because I had nine children with my husband but not one of them pretty or smart or good in rodeo or Indian dancing or sports or school or married good … And then we had her, a perfect little child finally. That was the saddest day of my life …

The woman stopped and took in a deep breath as if she had run out of oxygen, then put a fist on her breastbone as if to calm her heart. She pointed to her refrigerator, where there was Scotch-taped a studio photo in a cardboard frame of a little girl with obviously dyed blond hair and fake blue eyes staring in an animated way into the camera, her baby teeth like little white spikes. R
EST
I
N
P
EACE—
F
ARRAH
K
ATHERINE
R
OCHA
was printed in Gothic script above the dates of the child’s birth and death. The child had lived less than six years. This mass-produced copy of a studio photograph was a souvenir handed out at Farrah’s funeral. The funeral home was C
ARILLO’S,
which was the same as Samuel’s.

That’s a granddaughter of yours, Mrs. Rocha? Rodeo asked.

The old woman lowered her chin to her chest.

Is Farrah related to Samuel?

Sister.

Did Farrah and Samuel have other siblings?

Katherine Rocha shook her head.

You’ve had a lot of troubles, Mrs. Rocha.

This should be Indian Country. By rights it should be. The woman said this as if it explained something in the world, maybe everything to her. But instead it’s mostly Mexicans who want everything and Anglos who own everything. The woman shrugged and shook her head in scarcely controlled anger. My husband was Mexican. And he made me have all those kids but never had any money or talents for them or me either.

Rodeo had spent much of his early life on San Xavier Reservation and was Native-American, Mexican-American and Irish-American, so he understood this common domestic dilemma.

Can I trust you? The woman said this abruptly, as if it had just occurred to her.

Rodeo presented his regular sales pitch to a reluctant client.

Mrs. Rocha, hiring a private investigator is something of a trust issue in general. There’s just no way around that. But you pay me, so I am a professional. And because I am a professional you can trust me to do my work. I investigate to the best of my abilities and then I report to you honestly what I find out. It’s just a business deal. Rodeo tried to smile in a winning way but his teeth had always been bad.

The woman took a seat at the kitchen table and looked into her coffee cup as if divining in the dregs of nondairy creamer floating in Folgers some portent.

So you will tell me everything you find out? she asked.

You can have it that way if you want it that way, Mrs. Rocha. Or if you think I might find out something you really don’t want to know and you don’t want me to tell you about it, then I won’t tell you about it. Unless it’s something to do with Law Enforcement, then you have that option. Rodeo paused. The woman just stared into her coffee cup. Like I said, Mrs. Rocha, some people just hire me because they feel like it’s the right thing to do. And often it is. Because an objective investigation into a suspicious death demonstrates respect for the dead by trying to find out what killed them.

But you can’t just turn your ideas over to the police, can you?

Honestly, Mrs. Rocha, there’s not much likelihood that I’ll find anything the police didn’t find anyway. Not in the short period of time you could probably hire me for.

I don’t want the police involved, she said.

Rodeo rubbed the back of his neck and tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. Within common sense and the law of the land, I do what you want me to do, Mrs. Rocha, for as long as you got three hundred a day plus expenses.

A day, the woman said.

Rodeo sighed very quietly. We’ll just need to fill in a contract and sign it then, Mrs. Rocha. You can get a witness if you want. A relative or somebody.

There’s nobody, the old woman said.

Rodeo filled in a standard contract and under “services contracted” wrote “Investigate death of Samuel Rocha for one day and relay information accumulated to Mrs. Katherine Rocha.” Rodeo put a Bic pen on the kitchen table beside the contract. His new client attempted to read the contract but was obviously losing focus. Rodeo guided her pen to the signature line and she signed in a shaky hand. Rodeo folded the contract into his pocket and slid a sheet of clean note paper in front of her.

If you would give me the full name and address of Samuel’s parents that would help me get started, Rodeo said.

The old woman scratched violently on the paper and then thrust it away from her and slammed the pen down on top of it. Alonzo and her rented a house close to here, she said. But I don’t know if they are even there. And I don’t know anything about their business or that kid’s business.

Can I get in Samuel’s room, Mrs. Rocha?

The woman gestured toward the darkened hallway of the little house. Down there on the right. The police were in there but I don’t think they took much out.

So I need my day rate plus fifty up front for expenses right now, Mrs. Rocha. That’s the deal.

How do I know you won’t just take my money?

Because I am a professional, Mrs. Rocha. Like I said. I always do my job.

I’ll pay you the fifty for expenses then, she said.

It’s not going to work that way, Mrs. Rocha. I need three hundred and fifty dollars.

A hundred.

When Rodeo shook his head, the old woman put her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes with her big knuckles, pressed a hard little fist against her chest then rose so abruptly she knocked over her chair. She moved on swerving slippers to a kitchen drawer and pulled out a plastic shopping bag from Food City and carefully counted out from it one hundred dollars in small bills, her swollen hands sure with the cash. She seemed now totally drained, spent completely. She held out the partial payment in a clenched fist.

Rodeo shrugged and shook his head but accepted the partial payment and put the money into his big billfold. That’s one hundred, he said.

Katherine Rocha pressed a hand against her breastbone again.

Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Rocha?

Whoever cared about how I feel. This was a rhetorical question as she intoned it.

Why don’t you go lay down while I look over Samuel’s room, said Rodeo. If I take anything from Samuel’s room I’ll leave a receipt for that.

There’s nothing in that pack rat’s nest I want, the old woman said. Take it all. Cart all that kid’s junk off in the back of that trashy brown truck of yours. That’d be a way to earn all that money you’re charging me at least.

Have a rest now, Mrs. Rocha.

She did not resist as Rodeo took her elbow and steered her back into the living room, reestablished her in her Barcalounger. Rodeo stood stock still behind her chair and out of her sight. The old woman started snoring in less than three minutes. He went to work.

*   *   *

The carpet in Katherine Rocha’s house was a mixture of browns and reds that partly camouflaged many stains. The walls were painted and overpainted several shades of tan except for the ones in the bathroom that were faded rose, and in that room most objects were either pink or fuzzy or both. The walls of the short hallway seemed sagged by the weight of framed photographs, many of which were faded beyond recognition with but few recent, as if the promise of Katherine Rocha’s past had been unfulfilled by later generations. Dominating one wall of the hallway was an eight-by-ten studio glossy of Farrah, framed in faux weathered wood that was washed with pink paint. The child had regular features but was not especially pretty. Her eyes were cerulean and bright yellow hair was piled up on her head so high it could not be contained by the picture frame.