Con Law by Mark Gimenez Page B

photograph that showed cavalry soldiers in formation on horseback.
    ‘That’s the way the fort looked back then. During World War Two, the government built a POW camp out there, brought in a few hundred German prisoners from Rommel’s Afrika Korps. Geneva Convention says prisoners are supposed to be detained in the same climate they were captured in,so it was desert to desert for them. Not sure those Germans might not have opted for California or Colorado if given the choice, but they got Marfa. Apparently they were well behaved, didn’t try to escape. Grew vegetables in a garden and painted murals on their barracks, old Building Ninety-Eight. You can go look at it. And we had the Marfa Army Air Field east of town, brought pilots in for flight training. Can’t see much from the highway, but go on that Google Earth, you can still see the runways. That was our peak time, over five thousand folks lived here.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘We won the war. The army closed up shop, and the Germans went home. Shut down the fort, except for the part used by the Border Patrol to stop bootleg coming across the border. Beer and whiskey, seems kind of quaint now, doesn’t it, compared to cocaine and heroin?’
    He worked the toothpick.
    ‘And then the rain stopped. Seven years it didn’t rain, in the fifties. The great drought. Destroyed cattle ranching and the local economy, such as it was. Old-timers had to sell the herds then the land. Only break from the suffering was when
Giant
came to town. I was fifteen back then. Exciting time. They hired locals for extras, money people damn sure needed. My folks were in the barbecue scene, when Rock brought Liz home to Texas. Cast mingled with the locals between shots, nights at the Paisano—I watched the dailies in the ballroom every night, me and the rest of Marfa. I thought Jimmy Dean was about the coolest guy I’d ever seen, started combing my hair like him. Never knew he was gay. Or Rock Hudson till he died of AIDS.’
    Nadine gasped. ‘OMG—Bick Benedict was gay?’
    Sam eyed her, apparently unsure if she was serious.
    ‘She’s been watching the movie at the Paisano,’ Book said.
    ‘Oh. Well, I’m afraid he was, little lady.’
    ‘Wow. I didn’t see that one coming.’
    ‘Anyway,
Giant
allowed us to forget our troubles for a few months. When they packed up and that train pulled out of town, it was like Marfa’s funeral procession. Population’s been dropping ever since. Kids getout of high school then out of town—last census, we were down to nineteen hundred and eighty-one souls living here full time. This place was damn near a ghost town. Last one to leave, turn out the lights.’
    Sam removed the cap and scratched his head.
    ‘That was before Judd.’
    Sam pointed at a photo of an older bearded man.
    ‘Donald Judd. Big-time artist up in New York City, decided to move his operation to Marfa in nineteen seventy-three. Wanted his art to be set in place permanently. “Installation art,” they call it. Judd bought vacant buildings on Highland—there were many to choose from—the Marfa National Bank Building, the Crews Hotel, the Safeway grocery store, the Wool and Mohair Building … renovated them into studios and galleries.’
    ‘We checked out the Chamberlain exhibit in the Wool and Mohair Building.’
    Sam gestured with the toothpick. ‘I’m an open-minded sort of man. I’ve actually grown fond of Judd’s boxes, and I’m warming up to Flavin’s lights. But crushed car parts? That’s art?’
    ‘See?’ Nadine said to Book. ‘I’m not the only non-believer.’
    ‘Then Judd bought the fort. Three hundred forty acres. Turned the artillery sheds and barracks into galleries, put up outside art—sixty big concrete boxes, damnedest thing you’ve ever seen, right on the field where Patton played polo. He was an interesting man, Judd. Loved bagpipes. I don’t know why.’
    ‘You knew him? Personally?’
    ‘I did. Talked to him many times. Said he moved to