Con Law Part 39

'What kind of guns?'

'All kinds. He scares me when he gets drunk and starts playing with them. One night he shot his TV with a shotgun.'

'A shotgun?'

Kenni offered a lame shrug. 'But he pays for everything, so we all hang out there.'

'Did he threaten Nathan?'

'You mean, to shoot him?'

'To out him.'

Kenni picked his fingernails for a time. Then he nodded.

Book stood. 'Where's his studio?'

'West El Paso Street, just past Judd's Block. You can't miss it.'

Book tried to imagine his quiet, studious intern living a secret double life in Marfa, Texas, with Brenda at home and Kenni away from home.

'Was Nathan happy?'

'I think so. With both of his lives. But each life had conflict. He loved her, but he didn't belong here. He loved me, but he couldn't leave her. Maybe that was the way he was supposed to go, a bonfire in the sky.'

'Kenni, he didn't die a romantic death. He burned to death.'

Chapter 28.

Book walked down West El Paso past 'The Block,' Donald Judd's one-square-block compound that housed his personal residence, two airplane hangars he converted into a studio and a library, and a swimming pool and chicken coop designed by Judd himself, all enclosed behind a tall adobe wall. West of the wall was a steel structure that looked like a warehouse. Outside sat six cars ... stacked on top of each other. A big black 44 pickup truck was parked by the entrance door. Book walked around the truck and examined the glossy black paint for any damage or scratches; he found none. He rang the bell and was soon greeted by a big man in his mid-fifties wearing shorts, flip-flops, and no shirt; his hair was uncombed and his beard a week old. He looked like Nick Nolte in that infamous mug shot, only worse. His entire upper body was one big multi-colored tattoo that seemed as if someone had thrown a palette of paint on him. He took a swig from a half-empty whiskey bottle.

'Big Rick?'

'You the reporter from Vanity Fair?'

'I'm the law professor from UT. John Bookman.'

'What do you want?'

'I want to know why Nathan Jones died.'

'What's that got to do with me?'

'I understand he was suing you on behalf of Billy Bob Barnett and you kicked him out of here one night, threatened to out him.'

Big Rick snorted. 'You been talking to that f.u.c.king queer, Kenni with an "i"?'

'Queer? That's a little dated, don't you think?'

'I'm a little dated.'

'Being sued, some folks might consider that a motive for murder.'

'Murder? What, you think Nathan's death wasn't an accident?'

'I think someone ran him off the road.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Someone ran us off the road last night.'

'Professor, I stack cars. I don't run cars off the highway. Saw you checking out my truck-you find any evidence of a hit and run?'

'No.'

''Cause I don't murder people.'

'What about the rumor that you killed someone back East?'

Big Rick howled.

'h.e.l.l, I started that rumor myself. Image sells, Professor.' He finally took a moment to size Book up. 'You get in a fight?'

'I got in a barbed-wire fence.'

'Ouch.'

Big Rick belched and pushed the screen door open.

'Come on in.'

Book stepped inside to rock music blaring on surround sound. The interior s.p.a.ce was a big barnlike structure, a combination home and studio with a kitchen area, a big bed in the far corner, and a living area with a big screen television on the wall with a cable cooking show playing. Big Rick placed the whiskey bottle on a counter, picked up a remote, and pointed it at the stereo; rock was replaced by country, Hank Williams Jr. singing 'Country Boy Can Survive.' He went to the refrigerator, opened it, and retrieved a carton of chocolate milk.

'You want some?'

'No, thanks.'

He poured a gla.s.s. He noticed Book eyeing the whiskey bottle.

'Thought you were a reporter.' He shrugged. 'Like I said, I have an image to maintain.'

'You got that hard-drinking artist thing down.'

'It's a living.'

At that moment, a young girl burst out of the bathroom and hurried out the front door with only a finger wave and, 'Later, Big Rick.' She looked like a high school soph.o.m.ore.

'She part of the image, too?'

'She's Lorraine.'

'She looks a little young for you.'

'At my age, Professor, all the girls are a little young for me.'

'Be careful, Big Rick. I don't imagine the locals would look favorably on a New York artist violating their young girls.'

He laughed. 'Lorraine? h.e.l.l, she's laid more cowboys than a Mexican wh.o.r.e in Boys' Town. It's legal down there, prost.i.tution. Man, I've burned up the highway between here and Ojinaga. They got some cute girls down there, young ones. But, h.e.l.l, fourteen is middle-aged for a Mexican girl.'

'You do know you're a disgusting individual.'

Big Rick shrugged, as if he had heard it before. 'What can I say? I like young girls. We can't all be perfect, Professor.'

'You could try.'

Big Rick downed the chocolate milk then pulled out a joint, lit it, and took a long drag. He held it for a long moment then exhaled. Book tried to stay upwind.

'Medicinal,' Big Rick said.

'Illegal,' Book said.

'You're a law professor, not a cop.'

'So you threatened to out Nathan?'

'Aw, h.e.l.l, I tend to be a mean drunk. I'm nicer when I'm stoned, like now. Nathan was a nice boy, married with a pregnant wife. His life was f.u.c.ked up enough, gay and married, no need for me to add to his troubles. I wouldn't ruin his life over a lawsuit. I was mad at Billy Bob, but I took it out on Nathan.' He shook his head. 'Billy Bob Barnett, I'd ruin that b.a.s.t.a.r.d's life in a New York minute, trying to f.u.c.k up my land.'

'How much do you own?'

'Just a little. Twenty thousand acres.'

'You sound like a real Texan.'

'I wasn't born here, but I got here as soon as I could. I love Texas. Been here twenty years. Started buying land as soon as I got in town. I'm like Judd-I don't want all the land in the county, just what I have, what adjoins me, and what I can see from my land. And I don't want a G.o.dd.a.m.n gas pipeline under it. G.o.d, I'd love to kick Billy Bob's a.s.s. Might could, too. I boxed in college.'

'Where?'

'Princeton.' He waved a hand at his studio. 'Trust fund pays for all this. And my land.'

'Your art doesn't support you?'

's.h.i.t, when I first moved here, early nineties, right before Judd died, I couldn't give my art away. Then this art dealer from Dallas, good-looking woman, she comes down here to check out Judd's boxes. She ended up in my bed. So we made a deal: fiftyfifty on anything she sold. Well, she shipped everything I had back to Dallas and talked it up in Highland Park as the next big thing, and d.a.m.ned if she doesn't sell it all to rich folks like her husband. He made a fortune in asbestos.'

'Mining it?'

'Suing over it. Plaintiffs' lawyer. They've got a fifth or sixth home here, fly down in their Gulfstream. He's sixty, she's forty now. Apparently v.i.a.g.r.a didn't do the trick for him. Anyway, they brought other rich lawyers to town-'

'Attorneys, artists, and a.s.sholes.'

Big Rick grinned. 'I'm an artist and an a.s.shole. Anyway, most of these lawyers wouldn't know art if it dropped on their f.u.c.king heads, but they buy my stuff, so I make nice at dinner parties.'

'Must be hard.'

'Very.'

Big Rick finished off the chocolate milk and went back to the refrigerator for a refill. This time he offered Spam. Book again declined.

'I love this stuff. I don't know why.'

'I don't either.'

Big Rick opened the can and took a big bite of Spam.

'You know what you're putting into your body?'

'Do I look like I care?'

He did not.

'Comes in all kinds of flavors: black pepper, hickory smoked, jalapeno, with cheese, with bacon, hot and spicy ... this is cla.s.sic, my favorite.'

He let out a loud fart.

'Whoa. Sorry. Stuff does give me gas.'

Book eased back a step.

'I understand there's quite a bit of drug use among the artists?'

'True enough. Part of the culture. Cutting-edge art. Drugs just seem to be a natural part of all that.'

He laughed.

'A Vanity Fair article, I've got it somewhere'-he shuffled through a stack of magazines on the table-'reporter wrote that Marfa's an "art cruise ship where you just hope the last stop is a Betty Ford Center." Boy, they got that right.'

He paused.

'Course, we're not the only Marfans partaking in rec reational narcotics.'

'What's that mean?'