The Final Country

  “We ain’t open,” he mumbled. I showed him a fifty-dollar bill, remembering the good old days when a twenty would have done the trick. “But we could be, man, if you had a cold six-pack, too.”

  “Don’t go away,” I said, then headed for the glowing beer signs of a pool hall just down the street.

  During the years I had lived in Texas, I’d had almost no cocaine, not many tokes of marijuana, and damn few hangovers. But in the two days since I had the misfortune to run into Enos Walker, it seemed I had been servicing other people’s addictions with my own shaky character: Sissy Duval’s Hooverized nose, Capt. Gannon’s lust for an easy retirement, and now Albert Homer’s hangover. Anything for justice, I thought as I crossed the unmown lot, and the faint chance that I might be able to extend Enos Walker’s wasted life. They say a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. But there is no folk wisdom covering a PI who is his own client. Perhaps because it doesn’t happen often enough to rate a cliché to cover it.

  Five minutes later, I watched Homer suck down the first can of Lone Star and crack another one. From the photographs framed on his studio wall, the rack of Frederick’s of Hollywood plus-sized lingerie, and the fake satin bedspread covering the round bed, I assumed that Homer specialized in sexy photos of fat women. It was sort of creepy, but I had to admit he wasn’t a bad photographer, and I couldn’t think of any good reason why fat women couldn’t have as much fun as emaciated models with artificial breasts.

  “I’m just guessing here,” I said as I pulled the publicity photo out of a manila envelope, “but you probably didn’t take this picture.”

  “Looks like one of my Daddy’s,” Homer said, barely glancing up from his beer. “He passed over seven years ago.”

  “You didn’t keep his files, did you?”

  “They’re in a storage locker out in Pflugerville,” he mumbled. “About the only thing besides this shithole that survived the divorce. But that fifty won’t buy you shit.”

  “What would?”

  “Maybe a hundred,” he said, smiling broadly enough to crack the gray matter at the corners of his mouth. “Make it two, if I help.”

  “That’s pretty stiff,” I suggested.

  But Homer just smiled.

  * * *

  Three hours later I understood why. We had been through another six-pack of beer and dozens of boxes of the ugliest pornography I had ever seen. The storage unit was as steamy as a sauna. The only good news was that Junior had showered and dressed in clean clothes before we drove out. The bad news was that the sleek blond was a woman named Sharon Timmons. Who had done unspeakable things with snakes when her singing career had gone south. And Amanda Rae Quarrels had no folder at all.

  “Who buys this shit?” I wondered.

  “You’d be surprised,” Homer said. “Mostly people who find the new stuff too buffed and tidy for their tastes.”

  “This is it, right? Your ex-wife didn’t take anything?”

  “Shit, man,” he moaned. “She took everything. House, both cars, and all the money my Daddy brought back from Vegas.”

  “Vegas?”

  “Yeah, he hit one of those hundred-thousand-dollar slots at the Nugget,” Junior said, “and got home with it before he blew it. First time for that.”

  “He gambled?”

  “Does the Pope wear red shoes when he shits in the woods?”

  “I don’t know, I’m not Catholic.”

  Junior just looked at me.

  “You don’t remember a woman named Mandy Rae Quarrels?” I asked.

  “Not offhand,” Homer said, shrugging. “But you know how it is. You remember the tits longer than the names.”

  “What happened to your father?” I asked, just to be polite.

  “Ah, shit,” he said, “he was fishing up at Lake Travis a couple of years ago, got drunk, and fell out of the boat.”

  Somehow I couldn’t imagine Homer’s father fishing, not after seeing the sort of pictures he liked to snap. “What happened to your marriage?” That was the only thing I could think to ask as I handed Homer the rest of his money.

  “Weight Watchers,” he said sadly.

  * * *

  On the way back to Austin, I kicked myself several times. I couldn’t believe I had let anyone as drunk and high as Sissy Duval lie to me. But clearly she had, and if I went back, I didn’t think I had enough cocaine to whip the truth out of her. Maybe I should turn my license in, go back to being a retired gentleman as Betty suggested. But that seemed too easy. I called Carver D on the cell phone, but nobody answered, so I stopped by his unlocked, rambling house in Travis Heights before I headed back out to relieve the daytime bartender. Diabetes and liberal doses of Tennessee whiskey had limited Carver D’s mobility. He was alone, which was unusual, in an antique wheelchair on the screened back porch. Petey, my silent partner in the washing of my bad cash, usually took care of Carver D when he wasn’t pursuing his degree in computer science and accounting at UT. When he was in class, Carver D’s driver, a tough ex-marine master sergeant named Hangas, took over the chores.

  “Where the hell is everybody?” I asked.

  “They’ve abandoned me, Milo,” Carver D said, then tipped the bottle. Then he laughed, his rolling fat jiggling like a bad Jell-O salad, his tiny black eyes shining like watermelon seeds. “Petey ran to the store,” he said, still choking with laughter. “Although Quarrels is not an uncommon name in this part of the world, I can promise you that your Amanda Rae Quarrels doesn’t exist as any sort of person, singer, songwriter, or actress. No record of birth, marriage, death, taxes, telephone, or utilities. Nothing under that name. Enos Walker, on the other hand, his life is an open book. Born December 7th, 1960, in Hominy, Oklahoma. His mother was a registered member of the Osage tribe; his father a staff sergeant at Fort Sill who shows up on various records as either black, white, or Seminole and who was listed MIA in Vietnam, presumed dead. Walker’s criminal record is longer than my dick, but mostly minor stuff — misdemeanor possession, disturbing the peace in bar fights — that sort of shit. Lots of rumors but no official interest in his dealing down here. Until that last bust. Smuggling cocaine. Got popped with two other guys outside of Tulsa. A sweet setup but they had some bad luck.”

  “Bad luck?”

  “The private plane would file a flight plan out of Jamaica to Tulsa,” he said, “and when they dropped down for the airport approach — Christ, who’d suspect Tulsa — they’d kick the coke out into a pasture. Great pilot, too. Hit the fucking mark. Dropped twenty keys wrapped inside an inflated tractor tire tube right on the pickup’s hood. Fucking near killed them. Did kill the pickup and the driver. Made it hard to run away when the cops showed up.”

  “What happened to the two other guys?”

  “Both died in the joint. One killed with a shovel,” he said, “the other died of AIDS. Bad luck all around. Except for Walker. There was a rumor that somebody dropped a dime on him and some strong but inadmissible evidence that this wasn’t the first time they had pulled this number. He was lucky to only do state time and only twelve years at that. Hell, it took five years to finally convict and sentence him. And it was another piece of bad luck when he jumped bail and got swept up in a random check at the Miami Airport. He was not exactly a model prisoner, but still he managed to stay out of serious trouble.”

  “No probation officer, huh?”

  “Nope. Walker did the full jolt,” Carver D said. “For the moment, he’s a free man. Until they catch him again. Or perhaps you make the collar.”

  “It feels a little bit like a lost cause. I just don’t know enough criminals down here,” I complained.

  “Hell, this is Texas, man, you don’t know nothin’ but criminals down here,” Carver D said. “All great fortunes start with a small crime.”

  “Who said that?” I said.

  “As far as you know, buddy, I did.”

  “Maybe I’ll just have to take the heat.”

  “Well, you got a good lawyer in Phi
l Thursby,” Carver D said, “and don’t forget that your girlfriend’s uncle is the Gov.” Then he laughed so hard his tiny dark eyes disappeared. “You can surely pick ‘em, partner.”

  “Guess I’d better handle the fucking mess myself.”

  “Your ex-partner always said that your favorite problems were your bullheaded refusal to ask for help and your obviously odious choices of womenfolk to lie down among.”

  “He should talk,” I said. “He had to be gut-shot and nailed into a hospital bed before Whitney could get him to date her.”

  “And speaking of the love birds. How’s he handling law school?” he added, asking about my ex-partner and his wife.

  “He’s okay,” I said. “You know, I saw him back in September when they inducted me as an honorary member of the Benewah tribe. Hard to believe that it took more than fifteen years for them to acknowledge the gift of my grandfather’s land. The new bunch running the tribal council seems to have forgiven my family. Of course, they had to fight the government for the land.”

  “Fucking government,” he said.

  “Fucking government lawyers.”

  “Redundant,” he said. “How’s the madman doing?”

  “She made law review,” I said. “But I think he took a semester off to work on a case before he goes back to school.”

  “Crazy bastard,” Carver D said, then hit the bottle again. “Must be the oldest fucker there.”

  “Almost. The oldest student is a little old postmistress from some pothole in eastern Montana. They closed her post office, so she enrolled in law school thinking she could sue the bastards. She’s at least twenty years older than he is.”

  “What’s he thinking about?”

  “Finding a way to do the right thing. That’s the only thing he said.”

  “Jesus.” Carver D sighed, then stared into the giant live oak in his backyard until he slumped toward a liquid nap. “Stop by Sunday, man,” he murmured. “I’m having people over.”

  “Working,” I said. Carver D looked bored even in his sleep. I promised myself to stop by more often. He was about my only sane friend down here in this crazy place.

  THREE

  Everything stayed calm, even the beautiful weather — it might have been called Indian summer, but Texas had destroyed, displaced, or deported almost all of its native tribes — so it was calm and busy until Sunday night. I had a bar to run, woman troubles I didn’t understand, and boredom to battle. I just didn’t have the time or the energy to track down Enos Walker or brace Sissy Duval. But it wasn’t all bad.

  Since I wasn’t exactly in the bar business to be in business, and it was my money, sort of, I had done it my way when I built the place. The gently arching bar had been constructed from pegged oak planks and faced with a black leather pad that matched the ten high-backed stools. Plenty of room to stand at the bar, and a real brass rail whereupon the drinkers could rest their feet. Comfortable black leather chairs circled the nine round tables set on three levels so everybody could have a view of the Hill Country sunsets above the rim of Blue Hollow. Even the three tables in the nonsmoking area, which was shielded by half-wood half-glass walls and provided with a separate ventilation system, had a view. Everything behind the bar was within two easy steps on the hard rubber duckboards.

  Just as important were the things the bar didn’t have: no beer signs and no sports paraphernalia — they attracted the wrong sort of drinker — no jukebox or canned music but a CD system with a collection of classical music and jazz; and no television, except for the small color set above the closed end of the bar where only the bartender and the bar drinkers had a view. For the occasional day drinker and my lonely nights. A small grill in a room behind the bar served only nachos, taquitos, tacos, red and green chili, and cold sandwiches. It was as close to a bartender’s heaven as stolen money could buy. In addition, Petey had inserted a program in the computer system that showed random drink and food orders paid for with cash. All I had to do was match the overage with cash from the floor safe in the kitchen, and suddenly clean money appeared. When I first met Petey, he was a skateboard punk with spiked hair and lots of metal in his face. Now he was my silent yuppie partner. He was worth it. I could even turn the program off if one of us wasn’t going to be there to close out the register.

  Most of the people who worked the bar and grill were members of the Herrera family, and Sunday was their day to howl with the familia, so I worked most Sunday nights, but no two were ever the same. Some Sunday nights the bar resembled a fraternity party gone bad. The technocrats and software salesmen visiting the nearby computer companies sometimes drank like spoiled, nervous children, slobbering from rubbery lips onto their pocket computers or loosened silk ties. Then sometimes they didn’t drink at all. The crowd was occasionally leavened by a clot of Japanese, who after their first burst of fun would droop politely like fragile flowers over their martini glasses, or demand karaoke until they passed out. Occasionally the evening would be punctuated by smart professional women hiding their disgust behind brittle smiles. On other Sunday nights, though, the bar resembled an elegant morgue.

  Like that Sunday night. Three nicely buffed executive wives without husbands, down from the large stone houses in the hills to the west, idled over glasses of chardonnay in the nonsmoking section. A large, burly, but aging fellow with a gray crew cut — known as Paper Jack — in a wrinkled suit and a stained tie steadily downed Wild Turkeys on the rocks in the middle of the bar. At the far end a remote and beautiful young woman with a deep tan sipped a Macallan Scotch neat with an Evian back. Everybody left everybody else peacefully alone. The wind softly buffeted the glass walls as dusk rode gently into star-spangled darkness over the Hill Country.

  Two of the grass widows drifted out, seeking either more excitement or the pharmaceutical solace in the medicine cabinets of their large, empty houses. The third one, a tall blond named Sherry, stopped at the bar, as she often did, for an Absolut on the rocks, three of my Dunhill cigarettes, and a gently bored pass at me. I ignored her offer as politely as possible, knowing, of course, that some cold Sunday night I might need the warmth of her bed.

  Once Sherry ambled out, her slim hips as elegant as a glass harp, I watched, smiling sadly, then bought Paper Jack and the lovely young woman a drink, told the cocktail waitress to call it a night, went into the grill to send the cook home early, poured myself a large glass of red wine — Betty had been fairly successful weaning me from double handfuls of single malt Scotch whisky to red wine — and settled in to wait out the evening, leaning against the back bar as I polished glasses and watched Jimmy Stewart tremble and stutter through Bend of the River. So I didn’t exactly notice when Paper Jack started forcing his mumbled attentions on the young lady at the end of the bar.

  Paper Jack, with his seemingly unending supply of hundred-dollar bills, had always been long on cash and short on charm, but he was an old drinking buddy of Travis Lee Wallingford’s and one of Jack’s nephews managed the Blue Hollow Lodge, so I had always cut Jack a large length of slack when he stayed at the Lodge on one of his business trips-cum-binges. But his first clear words got my attention.

  “Hey pretty lady,” Jack said loudly, “where the hell I know you from? I know you from some place?”

  “I beg your pardon,” the young woman said quietly, the arch of a perfect eyebrow raised. “I don’t think so,” she added. She had elegant cheekbones and a generous mouth, and her makeup seemed professionally blended across the smooth planes of her face.

  “I fuckin’ know you, lady,” Jack continued, a crooked smile elastic on his face. “I’ll remember evenschually —”

  “Believe me, sir,” the young woman interrupted calmly, “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” She took a long drink of her whisky and turned as if to leave.

  Then Jack’s drunken face suddenly brightened. “Does this fuckin’ help?” he said, then cast a sheaf of Franklins in front of him and hammered his huge fist on the bar. “That’s what it cost me l
ast time, honey.”

  “Okay, Jack,” I said as I stepped in front of him, “that’s it.” I dumped his drink in the sink, stuffed the bills in his shirt pocket, and told him to get the hell out of my place.

  “She’s a fuckin’ whore, Milo,” he said, “you dumb shit. And gimme my drink back, you cheap bastard.” Then he stood up and reached across the bar to grab my shirt.

  I had seen this act once before and knew that even in his late sixties Jack still had hands like ham hocks, hardened by years in the oil patch, and he was too big, too drunk, and too stubborn for me to handle without hurting him. So it had to be quick and quiet. I waved my hands in front of Jack’s bleary eyes, grabbed his tie with my left hand, then popped him smartly on the forehead with the heel of my right palm. Not hard enough to knock him out. Just hard enough to slosh his whiskey-soaked brain back and forth against his skull bones. Stunned, Jack’s eyes rolled up in his head. I caught him before his nose smashed on the bar, then laid his pudgy cheek gently on the padded front.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the young woman as I went around. “Would you watch the bar for a second, please? I’ll be right back.”

  I hooked the half-conscious bulk of the old man under the arm, grabbed his room key out of his pocket, then steered him out the door and down the hall to his usual room, where I dumped him on the bed. Jack was snoring before I could prop him on his side with pillows so he wouldn’t drown in his own vomit. I loosened his tie and shoelaces, then hurried back to the bar. The young woman was still there.

  “Sorry for the trouble,” I said as I went back behind the bar. “And thanks for watching the bar.”

  “Not the first one I’ve ever watched,” she said. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t come into strange bars if I couldn’t handle drunks,” she added.