The Perk (24 page)

"Twenty-four years."

"Well, things have changed around here. Considerably.
Before you left, this place was all German all the time. But we got what they
call 'competing interests' these days."

"What kind of competing interests?"

Grady held up a finger.

"There's the Germans, of course, and since
their great-granddaddies settled this town they figure they still own it and everyone
else are just renters. They still hold every seat on the county commission,
city council, school board—employee directory over at city hall reads like the Berlin phone book. And they'll fight to their last kolache to keep control over this town."

"Well, that hasn't changed."

"No, but their town has, and they don't
like it."

Grady pointed at an old map on the wall.

"That's what this place looked like in
1846, when the Baron laid out the town. For the next hundred years, the
Germans lived out here, surviving off the land, isolated from the outside
world—Austin was a week away by horseback. Then LBJ gave them the mohair money
back in the fifties. Next forty years, they were fat and happy, raising their
goats and getting government checks every year. Hell, life don't get no better
than that."

"That's the way it was when I left."

"It ain't that way no more. When Clinton cut the mohair money back in ninety-six, people 'round here figured it was the end
of the world. Goat ranchers my age and older, they went their whole lives
getting those government checks. Then one day they go out to the mailbox and
it ain't there. It was like someone died. Killed off goat ranching and all
the Main Street businesses with it."

"So what happened? Downtown's
booming."

"Well, about
that time, city folk had gotten real tired of the crime and congestion, gangs and
drugs, wanted a simpler life, so they started moving out here—Austin's only an
hour away by Volvo. Yuppies, hippies, artists, folks with tattoos and money,
they all came out here. Bought land, fixed up old homes, rented the Main Street buildings, started all those businesses and wineries and restaurants—we got
two
French restaurants now. Land values shot through the roof, and all of a
sudden, the old Germans are making more money selling their land and renting
their buildings than they ever did off mohair."

"So why aren't they happy?"

"Because those newcomers brought the
outside world here with them. And the old Germans, they don't like their town
anymore—too many Democrats and Mexicans."

"Liberals and Latinos."

Grady nodded. "They want to go back to the
days when Main Street businesses were owned by Germans talking German eating
German and drinking German—and the government was sending them checks. They go
over to the goat auction and talk German and pretend their world ain't
changing. But it is. It already has."

"So why don't they just stop selling their
land and renting their buildings to people they don't want here?"

" 'Cause they
want the money. I heard one old boy complaining about
Ausländers
in
town so I says to him, 'Didn't you sell your land to a Californian?' And he
says, 'Yep, but I was forced to sell—the bastard paid me five million. Cash!' "

Grady chuckled.

"Grady, you're German."

"Full-blooded, but I ain't like that. Fact
is, Beck, most Germans here ain't like that. Most are good people, just
working hard to make a living, keep this a safe place for their kids, don't
believe God made them better just 'cause they got white skin and a German name.
But every town's got a few folks figure they're entitled to run the show. Ours
just happen to be German."

"So what's all that got to do with
Slade?"

"Hold your water, I'm getting there."

The second finger.

"Then there's those
newcomers opened those tourist businesses—Spunky Monkey, Zertz, Dogologie. How
you figure you can make a living on a store selling stuff just for dogs? And we
got spas where they'll wrap your whole body in seaweed—what's that all about?"
He shook his head. "Anyway, the Main Street business owners, they're
white but they don't
sprechen Deutsch,
if you know what I mean. They
just wanted to get out of the big city, move to a better place to raise their
kids, make a good living."

The third finger.

"And then
there's the Mexicans. The old Germans figure the Main Street business owners
for renters and Mexicans for trespassers. They're a third of the population
now, not that you'd know it walking down Main Street. Some legal, more not, so
they stay out of sight over in the barrio, working at the turkey plant. But we
got a few Mexicans looking for a cause. Heard they're trying to start up a
La
Raza Unida
chapter."

"There's a barrio now?"

"Down on South Milam, across the creek. Migrants,
they used to come up here, work a while, make some money and take it home. But
like I said, the Feds clamped down on the border, so now once they get here,
they stay. They just wire the money home."

"The law of unintended consequences."

"The law of dumb-asses in Washington don't
got a clue."

"That's three groups—Germans, Main Street business owners, and Latinos. What about African-Americans?"

Grady chuckled. "You only been gone twenty-four years, Beck, place
ain't changed that much. Best I know, Gil's the only black person living in
the county."

"Grady, this is real interesting, but what's
it got to do with Slade?"

"Competing interests, Beck. Like I said, the
Main Street business owners, they just want to make a living. And they make
most of their living between now and Christmas."

"Let me guess: White football player beats
up a Latino, Main Street's worried those activists might make it a political cause,
generate bad publicity, and that'll hurt the tourist trade?"

Grady nodded. "That's all this town's got
now, Beck. A million tourists are gonna come here to shop in the next three
months. Holiday shopping. You kill that, you kill this town. City hall protects
this town's image like the old-timers protect their daughters' virginity."
That amused him. "Y'all got homeless people in downtown Chicago?"

Beck shrugged. "Yeah."

"You see any homeless people on our Main Street?"

"No."

"They show up here, city cops pick them up,
drive them down to San Antonio, and dump them out."

"You're joking?"

"Nope."

"How do they get away with that? If Chicago cops did that, the media would be all over it."

"No media here. No local TV or radio, just
a weekly paper that only prints the good news. See, Beck, city hall don't want
nothing in the paper about cheerleaders snorting coke or homeless folks camping
out in the Marktplatz or Mexicans marching down Main Street. They want nice
news. They want white people to come here and be happy and shop. People in
Dallas and Houston, they got homeless people and blacks and Mexicans up in arms
about something all the time. They don't come here for that. They come here to
live life the way it used to be—at least for a weekend."

"The perfect all-American, all-white, crime-free
town."

"With a German festival." He
chuckled. "Remember when the Mexicans marched in the streets all across
the country over that Arizona immigration law? Not here they didn't. City
cops keep a tight lid on this town."

"So the business owners wanted the D.A. to keep
the Latinos happy—"

"At least until after Christmas."

—"by filing charges against Slade?"

"Yep."

"So did he?"

"Yep. But it took some convincing."

"What kind of convincing?"

"Well, Julio's folks are illegals. So
Junior figured he could use that to get Julio to drop his complaint."

"What'd he do, threaten to deport them?"

"Way I hear it, that's exactly what he did. But the
activists, they got Julio a lawyer out of San Antonio, used to be in Congress, name's
Felix Delgado."

"I've heard of him."

"Anyway, Delgado
came up here and jumped on Junior like a
vaquero
giving the spurs to a bronc.
Said he'd file a federal civil rights lawsuit, bring in the national media—white
football star beats up a Mexican and walks, D.A. blackmails Mexican parents …
60 Minutes, Dateline,
they'd eat that up. Said he'd have our little
town on national TV looking like Mississippi back in the sixties, except with
Germans instead of the Klan as the bad guys. And he threatened street protests
on Thanksgiving weekend."

"Why that weekend?"

"His wife comes up here to shop that weekend every year."

"So?"

"So he knows that's the biggest shopping
weekend of the year, make-or-break for Main Street. Mexicans marching down
Main Street, that'd kill the tourist trade, Californians would take their money
somewhere else, property values would plummet, sales tax revenues would
decrease … this place won't be another Santa Fe, it'll be another Odessa
after oil prices crashed."

"So the D.A. backed off Julio's
parents?"

"Yep."

"And took Slade to the grand jury?"

"Nope."

"Grady, you said he filed charges."

"Yep. See, when we arrested Slade, law
requires we take him before a magistrate. Justice of the Peace. Walt
Schmidt. Walt read him his rights then released him. Until the grand jury
hands down an indictment, the case stays in J.P. court."

"Is Schmidt a lawyer?"

Grady shook his head. "Goat rancher. Ran
for J.P. when his mohair checks stopped coming, finally had to work for a
living. If you call being J.P. working."

"So when is the D.A. taking the case to the
grand jury?"

"He ain't."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause if Slade's indicted, he's
suspended from school, his football season is over and so is any chance of
winning state, and he'll lose his scholarship at UT."

"So?"

"So his daddy don't want that to happen. He
wants Slade at UT and then in the pros."

"Slade committed a crime. He's got to
answer for that."

"Not if Quentin McQuade has anything to say
about that. You heard about him, his big development out west?"

"Some."

"Well, whatever you heard, it's worse. Day
after the arrest, he came out to the house. Tried to get me to drop the
charges, wipe the arrest off the books. Quentin don't want his boy to lose his
football career just for beating up a wetback. At least that's what he told me
when he made me an offer."

"A bribe?"

"Couldn't prosecute on what he said, he's
too smart for that, but that was the deal."

"What'd you tell him?"

"I told him I don't need his money. He
laughed."

"Do you? Need his money?"

Grady shook his head. "Year ago, I sold a
hundred acres of the homestead to a Californian with more money than sense. He
paid two million. I'm what you call 'independently wealthy' now."

"A millionaire sheriff?"

"Yep."

"Why do you still do it, the job?"

"For Dee Dee Birck and Heidi and kids like them.
That Californian made me immune to politics, but Quentin's got most of the
politicians in the county—including Junior—in his pocket, one way or the
other."

"So why are the old Germans siding with
McQuade?"

"Well, that's another competing interest—two,
actually. First one is, they want that state championship bad. Ain't had one since
you played. That was a helluva game, Beck."

"Football can't be that important."

"It can and it is." He chuckled. "You been in Chicago too long, Beck. You forgot the way it is here, football."

"What's the other competing interest?"

"What else? Money.

"Where's the money?"

"Building those two hundred homes in Quentin's development. That's
two, three hundred million in new construction, more than this town sees in
twenty years. Old Germans stand to make a lot of money building those homes, but
they gotta keep Quentin happy 'cause he decides who shares in that pot. That's
why he thinks his balls clank when he walks down Main Street."

"So Quentin bought himself a German name?"

"So to speak."

"But how can the D.A. not take this case to
the grand jury? Slade put Julio in the hospital, you've got witnesses."

"Well, Slade's lawyer, ol' Judge Stutz—"

"
Stutz?
I thought he had a heart problem?"

"Yep, problem is, he don't have a heart. Meanest
bastard I've ever met. I figure it's 'cause he never got married, couldn't
find a woman desperate enough, not even here." Grady sighed. "But he
was the judge for damn near fifty years, so he knows everyone's secrets. No
one screws with Stutz."

"So he's representing Slade?"

Grady nodded. "Demanded an examining trial—magistrate
determines if there's probable cause to send the case to the grand jury. I've
never seen one in thirty years 'cause the D.A. always takes felony cases
straight to the grand jury."

"So why isn't he doing that?"

"Because this ain't a criminal case … it's
a political case. Quentin don't want Slade indicted, so Junior and Stutz cooked
up this little end run to keep the case in a friendly J.P. court. J.P. don't find
probable cause, the case don't ever get to the grand jury. No grand jury, no indictment."

"But how does that keep that time bomb from
going off?"

"I'll tell you how, least the way they
figure it: First, Junior filed charges against Slade to keep the Mexicans and Delgado
happy, at least for now. Second, he kept the case in J.P. court and set the
examining trial for January, after the playoffs and the holiday shopping season
when there ain't no tourists in town—that made the football fans and Main Street happy. And third, it keeps the lid on this thing long enough to buy some time, maybe
let this ruckus die down."