Bad Country: A Novel by CB McKenzie Read Free Book Online Page B

loaded the dog in the truck, checked the Ford’s oil, topped off the radiator with coolant and slammed the hood of the pickup closed. He checked the load in his 9mm and slipped the Glock under the driver’s side of the bench seat, inserted an eight-track cassette of Bill Monroe into the tape player and drove to Tucson, arriving there just in time to encounter the second wave of morning work traffic.
    To strains of “Y’all Come!” Rodeo pulled off I-19 and drove east on Valencia Road, steered the pickup into the parking lot of Denny’s, settled the dog, grabbed up his saddlebags and then went into the restaurant, ordered a Grand Slam and an “endless-cup-o’” coffee and for most of the next hour used Denny’s free Wi-Fi to double check Luis’s research.
    *   *   *
    He found stories about the death of Samuel Rocha in the archived Web editions of The Tucson Citizen and The Arizona Daily Star but these were the same reportage as in the file Luis had assembled for him. Carillo’s Funeral Home had provided the memorial services for Samuel Rocha but no next of kin for the young man were listed. In a minor way Samuel Rocha’s death had also figured in a larger piece in the local liberal rag, The Tucson Weekly, which article also came up in a Boolean search for “gangs and Tucson.” In this extended report, Samuel Rocha’s death was only mentioned as “another recent victim of South Tucson gang-related violence,” a violence that, according to the Weekly writer, “had become a chronic epidemic stealthily creeping north of Twenty-second Street, the historic demarcation of South Tucson from Tucson Proper” and that was indicative of “the spread of the Drug Wars from the lawless borderlands of Sonora, Mexico, into the very heart of middle-class America that is downtown Tucson, Arizona.”
    The name “Samuel Rocha” also achieved one hit from the Web site of SandScript the Journal of Creative Writing from Pima Community College where his poem, “Burn What Will Burn,” had achieved publication. But otherwise he didn’t learn anything Luis hadn’t already told him.
    Rodeo paid his bill, exited Denny’s and continued west on Valencia.
    *   *   *
    Rodeo passed several strip malls, a trailer park, scattered San Carlos Indian Reservation housing and then pulled his truck to a stop in front of the Circle K on Mark Street a half mile from Casino del Sol and less than a quarter mile from the house in which his mother had killed herself. A blue-and-yellow on white Chevy Tahoe tribal cop car occupied the handicap spot. Rodeo parked between two pickups in worse shape than his and stepped into the convenience store. The big, flat-faced Indian clerk behind the counter looked aslant at him.
    Is Mark Street around here pretty close? Rodeo wanted to start a conversation but the clerk was not interested.
    There’s Tucson city maps for sale right over there. The clerk pointed at a magazine rack. We’re not supposed to give out directions. Management’s orders.
    Rodeo glanced around the convenience store. A Bud man stocked beer into a cooler and two men in work clothes assembled their breakfasts of burritos and coffee. A big cop walked out of a room behind the counter marked PRIVATE with a men’s magazine in his hand.
    What’s up, Gilbert? the cop said. This guy giving you some grief or something?
    The clerk shrugged as if that might be a possibility. The cop brushed past Rodeo to reinsert the Maxim into the periodical rack near the door, turned back to glare at him.
    You looking for something around here, guy?
    Katherine Rocha? asked Rodeo. Samuel Rocha?
    You got some ID or something, guy?
    Rodeo pulled out his huge billfold and extracted his Arizona driver’s license and handed it over. The cop flipped the card back to front.
    This is what you got, guy? A ten-year-old driving license?
    It’s good for another fifteen years, said Rodeo. Do you need a passport in Arizona now?
    The big cop slipped the license