Bad Country: A Novel by CB McKenzie Page B

her coffee as if it were bitter. They built those casinos on our land, but you know Yaqui don’t get any cut of the casino money. Just build firehouses and worthless … The old woman stopped and took a long drink from her cup. And I am Yaqui. Pure bred from Sonora on both sides, one of the Fourteen Thousand Registered up here. But your mother never had you registered did she. This was a statement and not a question from her.
    My mother did have me registered, said Rodeo. I am Pascua Yaqui.
    The old woman turned from the TV image to the man nearby her and stared at his face for several long seconds then looked back at the screen.
    But your mother wanted you to be White, didn’t she? That’s the only reason why she married your father, because Buck passed as White. Claimed he was Irish. Black Irish, he said. That was a load of … Katherine Rocha stopped herself from cursing by taking another drink. That little man was Mexican as the day is long.
    Rodeo nodded very slightly at this truth.
    I remember when he left her she moved into town so you could go to high school with the Anglo kids. Thought maybe it would rub off on you, I guess.
    My mother wanted me to go to the best high school in Tucson, Mrs. Rocha. She thought that was Tucson High, so that’s where I went.
    The old woman sniffed and said nothing for a while. When her head nodded onto her chest, Rodeo shifted in his aluminum chair and cleared his throat.
    You’re looking to hire somebody like me, a private investigator to look into your grandson’s death, Mrs. Rocha? Rodeo asked. Is that the case?
    I wanted you, the woman said. She gulped coffee and stared at Rodeo as if at beef on sale. Her voice quavered. Another drink steadied her and she sat up straighter and changed her tone of voice. They said you could find out things. Is that the truth?
    Mostly it is, Mrs. Rocha. Though I get paid the same whether I find out something or not. I never gyp anybody that hires me but I don’t always get results my employers care for, Rodeo said. Sometimes I don’t get results much at all. Just depends on the case.
    That’d be fine that way, the old woman said. If you didn’t find out anything, I mean. If that’s the case.
    Rodeo shifted in the flimsy lawn chair and leaned forward to ease the pressure on his herniated discs.
    Is there something about your grandson’s death in particular you’re interested in finding out about, Mrs. Rocha? Rodeo asked.
    Who’s that?
    Your grandson Samuel. The boy who got killed on the bridge.
    He was probably killed by one of those dope friends of his, the grandmother said. She waved a hand in Rodeo’s face. I know how my husband was and so I know how my children are. And I know how my grandchildren are and now even my great-grandchildren probably. All but the one of them. She paused. But I’m at the point now that I don’t really give a damn what people think about me, my family included. What do you think of that?
    I think it’s still a free country, Mrs. Rocha. More or less.
    What did you say your Christian name was again?
    Rodeo.
    That’s right. Buck always did want you to be a cowboy, didn’t he? she said. A little Indian cowboy.
    I guess you knew my daddy, Mrs. Rocha.
    The woman looked sideways at Rodeo. You don’t look much like him. He was little. And handsome.
    No offense, Mrs. Rocha, but I just came here to see about a piece of work on offer. Did you mean to hire me to investigate your grandson’s death? Rodeo tried to keep his voice level. Because it seems like your grandson died in a bad way, so maybe you’re like some people who want to hire me just in order to pay respects to someone who’s died, to do the right thing by their dead but don’t expect to find out too much about how they died or why?
    I’m not paying respects to anybody. Why should I?
    The old lady rocked herself out of her chair and stalked away. When she did not return in several minutes, Rodeo followed her into the kitchen where she was