Bad Country: A Novel by CB McKenzie

into a flap pocket of his shirt.
    Why don’t we step outside and have a talk, guy? the cop asked. And let Gilbert get back to his business.
    Rodeo followed the cop out of the store to stand near the phone kiosk. The cop stood very large on widespread feet as if ready to deliver or repel a blow.
    So, what’s up, guy? You a comedian or something?
    I’m a PI hired to investigate the murder of the kid that got killed over on Starr Pass Road near A-Mountain a little while back, said Rodeo. The victim’s name was Samuel Rocha.
    I know who the kid was, the policeman said.
    How do you know him? You related?
    His dad is Alonzo Rocha, a cousin. What’s it to you, guy?
    You know his abuela, Katherine Rocha? She lives nearby here on Mark Street.
    What do you think you’re investigating around here, guy?
    Just to see what’s up with Samuel Rocha’s death, said Rodeo.
    Drive-by is what’s up, the cop said. Open and shut. The punk’s gang name was Smoke so what do you expect? The lowlife probably pissed somebody off on a bad drug deal and got shot for it. Happens every day, doesn’t it, guy.
    Just looking for some local information, Officer.… Rodeo glanced at the name tag badge of the tribal policeman. The tag simply read MONJANO. Rodeo asked, do you have a first name, Officer Monjano?
    I probably do and you probably don’t want to know it, guy. The policeman pulled the driver’s license out of his shirt pocket and tapped it against Rodeo’s chest. Rodeo stood very still. I heard about you but I don’t know you, guy, said the tribal cop. So watch yourself around here on my Res.
    The policeman let go of the license which fell to the ground, went to his SUV, entered the vehicle and spoke for a minute on his cell phone. He jerked his head at Rodeo then drove off. After the cop drove off in the direction of Casino del Sol, Rodeo picked up his driver’s license and returned into the Circle K and selected from a freezer a “Giannormous Gigantor” and placed the burrito supremo in the extra-dirty microwave. He pressed a button on the stove, and while he was waiting poured and drank an extra-large cup of Colombian coffee and then tossed the Styrofoam cup into a trash can and used his credit card to pay for only the burrito. The clerk processed the purchase but said nothing.
    Rodeo walked out of the store, resettled in his truck, peeled back the wrapper from the burrito and fed his good dog a bad breakfast.
    *   *   *
    Katherine Rocha’s house on Mark Street was a small, red-brick ranch on a single lot.
    Rodeo parked on the hard-packed dirt that served as sidewalk in the neighborhood. He exited the pickup and let the dog out and they both walked to the six-foot-tall adobe fence. Rodeo tipped up on his toes to look over the solid fence. Bright white gravel covered the yard. Attached to the house was a prefab carport. In the shade there was parked a 1980’s-era Buick LeSabre. The car had an incongruous aluminum spoiler bolted amateurishly to the trunk lid and a new paint job. There was nothing alive in the yard but for the old lady who raked the gravel into neat furrows.
    Rodeo moved to the gate, which was composed of lengths of barbed ocotillo branches wrapped in baling wire. As the old woman backed toward the concrete walk that led from the house to the gate, she raked meticulously over her own footprints until they had completely disappeared. She hung the yard broom tines-up on a nail in the front wall of the house, brushed her hands together and disappeared inside the little house. She came back out in three minutes and walked slowly and somewhat unsteadily down the concrete walkway, unlatched the gate and stood aside as the man and his dog entered her space. She closed the gate behind Rodeo. He smelled alcohol vapor around the woman’s head.
    He estado esparandote.
    Yes ma’am, said Rodeo. Thanks for waiting for me.
    You don’t speak Spanish.
    I get it mostly, but don’t speak it much, Rodeo said. My daddy didn’t