Bad Country: A Novel by CB McKenzie

motorcycle, Billy? Rodeo persisted. You said “he” comes over here and meets somebody on a motorcycle … Rodeo paused to point over his shoulder toward the public parking lot. You mean Sam comes over here to your side and meets a man back there in the parking lot?
    Inna bathroom sometimes, Billy said. He inserted a filthy index finger into his mouth and pantomimed fellatio. When Rodeo cringed Billy took his finger out of his mouth.
    So, Sam and some man they meet here on this side and then they go on the motorcycle to the other side and go up on the mountain with the “A” on it…?
    Billy nodded.
    And then what, Billy?
    And then they walk down the hill with some suitcase and hide in the bushes and shoot bullets into the sand in the dry water.
    Like target practice? Rodeo asked.
    Billy nodded.
    Who is the fella with Sam, Billy? Is he a real grown man or another teenager like Sam?
    Like you, Billy said. Old. But he’s a soldier Injun. You’re a cowboy Injun.
    Rodeo slid the photo of the elk hunters out of his wallet and held it up for Billy to examine.
    Which one is the soldier Injun? Rodeo asked.
    Without hesitation Billy pointed at the hunter standing beside Luis Encarnacion and Samuel Rocha in the photo from the White Mountains, pointed directly at Ronald Rocha. Rodeo showed Billy the group photos of young people.
    You know any of these other people, Billy?
    They’re not people, said Billy. They’re pictures of people.
    You’re right, Billy. But just take a look at the pictures and see who looks familiar to you.
    The man tapped the picture in the newspaper obituary again. I know Sam. He was my friend, so I saved him.
    That’s why you saved his picture from the newspaper you mean? Rodeo asked.
    Billy’s head sunk into the folds of clothes on his chest and he started to nod and his shoulders shook as if he were crying but he was so dehydrated no tears came forth.
    I’ve got a ride, Rodeo said. Can I take you somewhere, Billy?
    El Paso, Texas, Billy said. Sister said I could come home when I got straightened up but I never did get straightened up.
    Rodeo extracted his wallet and pulled from the bulging tri-fold one of Katherine Rocha’s ten-dollar bills and gave it to Billy.
    You want me to suck your dick?
    No, Billy. This is payment for the information you just gave me, Rodeo said. This is honest work money.
    Billy crammed his money directly into the front of his fouled pants, stood and walked off without another word. Rodeo let him go.
    Rodeo headed with the dog to the top of A-Mountain.
    *   *   *
    Tucson is a buggy wheel, the rust brown rim of which is composed of the Catalina, Rincon, Santa Rita and Tucson mountain ranges which encircle the hub of an urban center. Strip malls and wide streets and avenues like neon and asphalt spokes emanate from this Barrio Historico. The best view of the Old Pueblo and surrounds is from the top of Sentinel Peak where a city-maintained road terminates in a curve of parking lot. Near dusk on any day there are sightseers, mostly local, come to watch electric lights crystallize the valley as it darkened. But in the middle of the day in the middle of the summer the parking lot was empty.
    Rodeo aimed his binoculars toward the only skyscraper in the city and from that point of reference he swung the glasses south to recognize the Tucson Convention Center, a drab collection of industrial buildings whose rise was the demise of many square blocks of Territorial adobes. Rodeo watered the dog and drank some water himself, then paced the length of the parking lot until he found a footpath that would put a hiker in view from Billy’s perspective. When the dog veered off the well-worn track and into mesquite brush, Rodeo followed to a five-foot-high boulder where the dog had stopped to sniff at trash. A hooded sweat shirt had been chewed by pack rats but the graphic image on front was clearly M ETALLICA and part of a symbol for “chaos.” Rodeo whistled the dog back from the