The Final Country by James Crumley Read Free Book Online

the fucking mess myself.”
    “Your ex-partner always said that your favorite problems were your bullheaded refusal to ask for help and your obviously odious choices of womenfolk to lie down among.”
    “He should talk,” I said. “He had to be gut-shot and nailed into a hospital bed before Whitney could get him to date her.”
    “And speaking of the love birds. How’s he handling law school?” he added, asking about my ex-partner and his wife.
    “He’s okay,” I said. “You know, I saw him back in September when they inducted me as an honorary member of the Benewah tribe. Hard to believe that it took more than fifteen years for them to acknowledge the gift of my grandfather’s land. The new bunch running the tribal council seems to have forgiven my family. Of course, they had to fight the government for the land.”
    “Fucking government,” he said.
    “Fucking government lawyers.”
    “Redundant,” he said. “How’s the madman doing?”
    “She made law review,” I said. “But I think he took a semester off to work on a case before he goes back to school.”
    “Crazy bastard,” Carver D said, then hit the bottle again. “Must be the oldest fucker there.”
    “Almost. The oldest student is a little old postmistress from some pothole in eastern Montana. They closed her post office, so she enrolled in law school thinking she could sue the bastards. She’s at least twenty years older than he is.”
    “What’s he thinking about?”
    “Finding a way to do the right thing. That’s the only thing he said.”
    “Jesus.” Carver D sighed, then stared into the giant live oak in his backyard until he slumped toward a liquid nap. “Stop by Sunday, man,” he murmured. “I’m having people over.”
    “Working,” I said. Carver D looked bored even in his sleep. I promised myself to stop by more often. He was about my only sane friend down here in this crazy place.

THREE
    Everything stayed calm, even the beautiful weather — it might have been called Indian summer, but Texas had destroyed, displaced, or deported almost all of its native tribes — so it was calm and busy until Sunday night. I had a bar to run, woman troubles I didn’t understand, and boredom to battle. I just didn’t have the time or the energy to track down Enos Walker or brace Sissy Duval. But it wasn’t all bad.
    Since I wasn’t exactly in the bar business to be in business, and it was my money, sort of, I had done it my way when I built the place. The gently arching bar had been constructed from pegged oak planks and faced with a black leather pad that matched the ten high-backed stools. Plenty of room to stand at the bar, and a real brass rail whereupon the drinkers could rest their feet. Comfortable black leather chairs circled the nine round tables set on three levels so everybody could have a view of the Hill Country sunsets above the rim of Blue Hollow. Even the three tables in the nonsmoking area, which was shielded by half-wood half-glass walls and provided with a separate ventilation system, had a view. Everything behind the bar was within two easy steps on the hard rubber duckboards.
    Just as important were the things the bar didn’t have: no beer signs and no sports paraphernalia — they attracted the wrong sort of drinker — no jukebox or canned music but a CD system with a collection of classical music and jazz; and no television, except for the small color set above the closed end of the bar where only the bartender and the bar drinkers had a view. For the occasional day drinker and my lonely nights. A small grill in a room behind the bar served only nachos, taquitos, tacos, red and green chili, and cold sandwiches. It was as close to a bartender’s heaven as stolen money could buy. In addition, Petey had inserted a program in the computer system that showed random drink and food orders paid for with cash. All I had to do was match the overage with cash from the floor safe in the kitchen, and suddenly clean