Bad Country: A Novel by CB McKenzie Page A

scene then searched the area thoroughly. He found a small pile of Kool cigarette butts, three empty Mountain Dew cans, an empty bag of Fritos and half buried in the dirt at the base of the boulder one spent .30 caliber rifle cartridge with clear extraction marks. He left these things in situ, returned to his truck, fetched his point-and-click camera, returned to the sniper’s nest and took a variety of photos then hiked back to the truck again.
    *   *   *
    Rodeo drove a few blocks east of Starr Pass Road bridge to Parade Liquor. Two Indian men and an Indian woman were sitting on a guardrail across the street from the convenience store. Rodeo braked nearby them and leaned toward the alpha male, a Res local he recognized.
    Howdy Isidro, Rodeo said.
    Hey, fella, the man said.
    You seen that fella called Billy? Rodeo asked.
    Been here and gone. Isidro said this as if he knew. You want to leave a message for Billy’s message service?
    Tell him “ten dollars” is looking for him again, said Rodeo.
    Hey, fella, the woman yelled. Her voice was loud and flat. Give me ten dollars. My sister’s sick in the hospital and I need a beer.
    The Locals laughed at this joke as Rodeo pulled into the parking lot of the store and went inside, bought two six-packs of Milwaukee’s Best, paid cash and returned to his truck, backed out and pulled into the middle of the street, held one six-pack out the window.
    Tell your sister to get better, Rodeo said.
    The woman leapt up as if electrocuted and scooted into the street, snatched the beer and started walking away as fast as she could. The men hurried after her. Rodeo cruised slowly through the Barrio Historico where some houses were still occupied by working class Mexican-Americans though most were now owned if not occupied by trial lawyers and cardiologists and real estate moguls.
    Rodeo did not look at the house he had rented with Sirena Rae Molina for six tumultuous months the year before but he stopped a few houses farther down Convent Avenue in front of the house he had shared with his mother, a Territorial era adobe that Grace and her son had moved into after Buck Garnet had deserted his family. The people who had owned the house when Rodeo and his mother were living there still owned it and quite a few of the Dotas continued to occupy the big place judging from the number of cars, disabled and functional, in the driveway.
    A middle-aged Hispanic man sat on a riding lawn mower on the hardpacked dirt that was the narrow front yard of the place and official sidewalk of the neighborhood. An open newspaper was balanced on his thick head of hair, a beer can inserted between his legs with one withered hand resting on top of it to keep out the flies. Rodeo stopped the truck.
    Where’s your dog at? the man asked. He shook his head and the newspaper fluttered in stages to the ground to gather there with other newspapers and beer cans, cigarette butts, car parts. You finally put him down?
    The dog stuck his head out the shotgun-side window, barked hoarsely and lolled his tongue at the man on the tractor.

I’m glad to see you haven’t killed him yet, said the man on the lawn mower. He did not indicate whether he was talking to Rodeo or to Rodeo’s dog.
    Rodeo exited his truck and walked over to the man. When he leaned in for a quick bro hug he could feel the hard muscles bunched under a layer of fat on just one side of the man’s body and the other side slack as bacon, the effects of a drug-induced stroke many years before. The screeching of the TV inside was muted, a curtain fluttered and a chair scraped in the front room as Mother Dota moved closer to the window to eavesdrop.
    How you doing, Tomas?
    Still a D-O-T-A, the lawn-mower man said. Denizen-of-Tucson-Arizona. Still handsome and horny as ever. Still upholding the family traditions. He finished off his crotch beer and crushed the can in his good hand, tossed the empty on the ground, turned expertly and pulled a fresh beer out of