The Final Country

'Yeah, hell, she put up the money for it when I incorporated.'

Well, it wasn't the first time I'd been involved with a woman who lived her life as if it were a closely guarded secret. But that didn't make me feel any less foolish.

'Any idea how long you might keep that woman locked in my corn crib?' he asked.

'Probably not long,' I said. 'I'm not going to give her to the Lomax woman and I don't seem to be very good at this warden shit. She's already got me fetching and carrying like a house slave. Next thing you know she'll be sending me downtown to buy her underwear.'

Tom Ben smiled as if he didn't think it was such a bad idea.

'You stay out of that barn, you old bastard,' I said, but the old man's smile grew even larger. 'Can I borrow your pickup? I got some chores in town, and my ride is too visible. But I'll be back.'

'Keys are in it,' he said, still grinning.

I carried the foot locker over to the barn, set it inside the door. Molly was asleep, though, so I took off to do my chores.

Albert Homer still hadn't cut the dead grass in front of his studio-cum-house. I parked on the street because a pink Cadillac was in the dirt driveway. The burglar bars on the front door had been left unlocked and even outside I could smell the burnt rope stink of marijuana, so I didn't bother with the buzzer, just put my shoulder to the door until the inside frame splintered.

A chubby woman in heavy makeup with tiny feet and hands, dressed in a complicated leather bra-less and crotch-less teddy and garter belt arrangement, lay across the velvet bedspread beneath the warm glow of the raised light stands, all a-titter as she scrambled for a wrap. Homer turned quickly, his eyes wild and wide open like a man who had seen more than one husband advancing from the front door, then whirled back as if to flee.

Before he could take a step, I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the floor. 'You lying son of a bitch,' I said. Then I dropped him. Or perhaps threw him down. 'Excuse me, ma'am, this won't take a moment.' But she ignored me. I noticed that she had stopped looking for something to cover her naked body parts, and was digging through her purse. I nudged Homer in the ribs with my boot, and he curled up like a sow-bug, then I stepped over to the chubby little woman just as she pulled a small semi-automatic pistol out of her purse. 'Give me that, you fucking idiot,' I said as I jerked it out of her hand. I wanted to slap the makeup off her tiny face. Instead I fired the pistol into Homer's round bed, emptied the magazine, broke the slide off, then threw the two pieces out opposite windows. The woman jumped more at the sound of breaking glass than she had at the shots. 'Does everybody in this fucking state have a gun?'

'My husband gave it to me,' she whined.

'He give you that outfit, too?' I asked. She blushed, covered her breasts, shook her oddly small, well-formed head, then sat, weeping among the bits of charred cotton stuffing I'd blown out of the mattress. I handed her the purse. 'Why don't you put some clothes on and head into the bathroom and fix your face?' She nodded slowly, then fled toward the back of the house.

I walked back to Homer, picked him up by his ear. 'You shouldn't have told me the Vegas lie,' I said. 'And perhaps you should have suggested to the law that they might look a little closer into your father's death.'

'I'm sorry,' Homer blubbered, tears pouring down his face.

'Stop crying,' I said, 'and tell me what happened. He ask them for more money?' Homer nodded. 'And they killed him?' I wondered how many kinds of drugs it took for Homer to gather up the courage to follow in his father's footsteps. 'Let me guess. You've got one picture of Amanda Rae Quarrels in a safe-deposit box? One in the house? And another with a lawyer?'

'Becky's husband,' he stammered.

'And I assume that's Becky in the John?' He nodded as he scrubbed at his slobbery face. 'How much money do you get?'

'Five hundred a month. That's all.'

'Cheaper than killing you, I guess,' I said.

'That's what they said. They gave my Daddy a hundred grand,' he said. 'Then when he asked for more, he went fishing for the last time. They said they killed him for lying to them.'

'Who said?'

'The voice on the telephone.' Then he rattled off a local number.

'How do they pay?'

'Cash in the mailbox.'

'Outside?'

'Yeah.'

'When?'

'First Saturday night of the month.'

'Always.'

'As regular as clockwork.'

'How long's this been going on?'

'I don't know,' he said. 'Seven years or so.'

'Get me the picture you've got here,' I said. He hesitated. 'I'll tear your fucking ear out by the roots, kid,' I said, giving it a tug. Homer scrambled around, unscrewing a light stand, then pulling a rolled 8x10 photograph out of it. He handed it to me. 'If I were you, son, I'd find another way to supplement my income.' He nodded. 'Are you going to be all right?' He nodded again, snuffling. 'Be nice to Becky. She looks like a good woman, if a bit overdressed,' I said on my way to the broken door.

'I'll do that, sir,' Homer said.

'And fix your goddamned door, man,' I said before I left. 'I think I've already paid for it.'

'Yes, sir,' he said sadly.

I didn't know what I was looking for as I sat in the car and unrolled the photo of Amanda Rae Quarrels. She had long, straight silver-blond hair, mischievous green eyes, and a cocked, smart-ass smile on her wide mouth, high cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, and long beaded earrings. Trouble was the first word that came to mind. Outrageous fun, the second and third. But she didn't remind me of anybody I knew. Maybe that's what I was hoping to find.

I wrote the telephone number Homer had recited on the back of the photo, then checked it against the number wrapped around the chewing gum from Sissy's BMW. They were the same. When I dialed it, a disembodied voice answered by repeating the number and suggesting that if I had any business, I could leave my name and number. I did neither.

Leonard Wilbur wasn't any more happy to see me than Albert Homer had been. At least he didn't run. Over the Line was almost empty just after lunch. Wilbur was still behind the bar, but today he carried a clipboard as he filled out a liquor order and he wore a nice gray suit, a white shirt, and an expensive silk tie, plus a new toupee as thick and stiff as combed porcupine quills. His smile was as phony as his hair. The lame Chicano kid with the flattened nose seemed to be the bartender now. Several other Latinos, who probably had more words of English between them than Green Cards, seemed to be remodeling Long's office. Wilbur flinched as if I was going to tear his snotty lip off when I held my hand across the bar to shake his hand. I introduced myself as politely as I could, showed him my license, and gave him my card.

'Yeah, I remember you,' he grumped. 'Let me buy you a drink, then you can be on your way. Crown Royal, wasn't it?'

'Actually a can of Coors would be fine,' I said. 'You mind taking a look at this picture?'

Wilbur glanced at it, shook his head, then handed me the beer. 'I can probably guess who she is,' he said, 'Mandy Rae Quarrels, but I ain't seen the woman in years and I didn't know her name when I saw her.'

'You sure?'

'Partner, a man doesn't forget a woman like that.'

'So how do you know her name?'

'Hell, man, she's a legend,' Wilbur said. 'Word was, she came to town, fucked everybody worth knowing from Willie to the Governor, his wife, and his pet bullfrog…'