James Crumley - The Final Country

Five minutes later, I watched Homer suck down the first can of Lone Star and crack another one. From the photographs framed on his studio wall, the rack of Frederick's of Hollywood plus-sized lingerie, and the fake satin bedspread covering the round bed, I assumed that Homer specialized in sexy photos of fat women. It was sort of creepy, but I had to admit he wasn't a bad photographer, and I couldn't think of any good reason why fat women couldn't have as much fun as emaciated models with artificial breasts.

"I'm just guessing here," I said as I pulled the publicity photo out of a manila envelope, "but you probably didn't take this picture."

"Looks like one of my Daddy's," Homer said, barely glancing up from his beer. "He passed over seven years ago."

"You didn't keep his files, did you?"

"They're in a storage locker out in Pflugerville," he mumbled. "About the only thing besides this shithole that survived the divorce. But that fifty won't buy you shit."

"What would?"

"Maybe a hundred," he said, smiling broadly enough to crack the gray matter at the corners of his mouth. "Make it two, if I help."

"That's pretty stiff," I suggested.

But Homer just smiled.

Three hours later I understood why. We had been through another six-pack of beer and dozens of boxes of the ugliest pornography I had ever seen. The storage unit was as steamy as a sauna. The only good news was that Junior had showered and dressed in clean clothes before we drove out. The bad news was that the sleek blond was a woman named Sharon Timmons. Who had done unspeakable things with snakes when her singing career had gone south. And Amanda Rae Quarrels had no folder at all.

"Who buys this shit?" I wondered.

"You'd be surprised," Homer said. "Mostly people who find the new stuff too buffed and tidy for their tastes."

"This is it, right? Your ex-wife didn't take anything?"

"Shit, man," he moaned. "She took everything. House, both cars, and all the money my Daddy brought back from Vegas."

"Vegas?"

"Yeah, he hit one of those hundred-thousand-dollar slots at the Nugget," Junior said, "and got home with it before he blew it. First time for that."

"He gambled?"

"Does the Pope wear red shoes when he shits in the woods?"

"I don't know, I'm not Catholic."

Junior just looked at me.

"You don't remember a woman named Mandy Rae Quarrels?" I asked.

"Not offhand," Homer said, shrugging. "But you know how it is. You remember the tits longer than the names."

"What happened to your father?" I asked, just to be polite.

"Ah, shit," he said, "he was fishing up at Lake Travis a couple of years ago, got drunk, and fell out of the boat."

Somehow I couldn't imagine Homer's father fishing, not after seeing the sort of pictures he liked to snap. "What happened to your marriage?" That was the only thing I could think to ask as I handed Homer the rest of his money.

"Weight Watchers," he said sadly.

On the way back to Austin, I kicked myself several times. I couldn't believe I had let anyone as drunk and high as Sissy Duval lie to me. But clearly she had, and if I went back, I didn't think I had enough cocaine to whip the truth out of her. Maybe I should turn my license in, go back to being a retired gentleman as Betty suggested. But that seemed too easy. I called Carver D on the cell phone, but nobody answered, so I stopped by his unlocked, rambling house in Travis Heights before I headed back out to relieve the daytime bartender. Diabetes and liberal doses of Tennessee whiskey had limited Carver D's mobility. He was alone, which was unusual, in an antique wheelchair on the screened back porch. Petey, my silent partner in the washing of my bad cash, usually took care of Carver D when he wasn't pursuing his degree in computer science and accounting at UT. When he was in class, Carver D's driver, a tough ex-marine master sergeant named Hangas, took over the chores.

"Where the hell is everybody?" I asked.

"They've abandoned me, Milo," Carver D said, then tipped the bottle. Then he laughed, his rolling fat jiggling like a bad Jell-O salad, his tiny black eyes shining like watermelon seeds. "Petey ran to the store," he said, still choking with laughter. "Although Quarrels is not an uncommon name in this part of the world, I can promise you that your Amanda Rae Quarrels doesn't exist as any sort of person, singer, songwriter, or actress. No record of birth, marriage, death, taxes, telephone, or utilities. Nothing under that name. Enos Walker, on the other hand, his life is an open book. Born December 7th, 1960, in Hominy, Oklahoma. His mother was a registered member of the Osage tribe; his father a staff sergeant at Fort Sill who shows up on various records as either black, white, or Seminole and who was listed MIA in Vietnam, presumed dead. Walker's criminal record is longer than my dick, but mostly minor stuff – misdemeanor possession, disturbing the peace in bar fights – that sort of shit. Lots of rumors but no official interest in his dealing down here. Until that last bust. Smuggling cocaine. Got popped with two other guys outside of Tulsa. A sweet setup but they had some bad luck."

"Bad luck?"

"The private plane would file a flight plan out of Jamaica to Tulsa," he said, "and when they dropped down for the airport approach – Christ, who'd suspect Tulsa – they'd kick the coke out into a pasture. Great pilot, too. Hit the fucking mark. Dropped twenty keys wrapped inside an inflated tractor tire tube right on the pickup's hood. Fucking near killed them. Did kill the pickup and the driver. Made it hard to run away when the cops showed up."

"What happened to the two other guys?"

"Both died in the joint. One killed with a shovel," he said, "the other died of AIDS. Bad luck all around. Except for Walker. There was a rumor that somebody dropped a dime on him and some strong but inadmissible evidence that this wasn't the first time they had pulled this number. He was lucky to only do state time and only twelve years at that. Hell, it took five years to finally convict and sentence him. And it was another piece of bad luck when he jumped bail and got swept up in a random check at the Miami Airport. He was not exactly a model prisoner, but still he managed to stay out of serious trouble."

"No probation officer, huh?"

"Nope. Walker did the full jolt," Carver D said. "For the moment, he's a free man. Until they catch him again. Or perhaps you make the collar."

"It feels a little bit like a lost cause. I just don't know enough criminals down here," I complained.

"Hell, this is Texas, man, you don't know nothin' but criminals down here," Carver D said. "All great fortunes start with a small crime."

"Who said that?" I said.

"As far as you know, buddy, I did."

"Maybe I'll just have to take the heat."

"Well, you got a good lawyer in Phil Thursby," Carver D said, "and don't forget that your girlfriend's uncle is the Gov." Then he laughed so hard his tiny dark eyes disappeared. "You can surely pick 'em, partner."

"Guess I'd better handle 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."