The Perk (33 page)

"D.A.'s already signed off on the deal.
He'll dismiss the charges if Julio accepts the settlement."

"The D.A. can't dismiss without the court's
approval."

"That's why I'm here."

"Be careful—bribery of a public official is
a felony."

McQuade smiled. "At the capitol in Austin we call it lobbying. But I'm not offering you anything, Judge. I'm offering to
settle with the Mexican boy so my boy can get on with his football career."

"How? After this morning, the whole world
is going to know Slade's on steroids."

"No, it won't. That's not gonna leave that
courtroom."

"Nikki testified under oath in open court.
The Austin and San Antonio papers—"

"Weren't in the courtroom."

"But the local paper was and they—"

"Won't do a damn thing."

"Why not?"

"Because Stutz already threatened to sue
them for libel if they print anything about steroids and Slade."

"You can't win that case."

"You and I and Stutz know that, Judge, but
they don't. And they can't afford to take a chance. Small-town paper, they'd
go broke just defending the case. So they caved."

"Your money buys just about anything you
want, doesn't it?"

Quentin McQuade smiled. "Pretty much.
Imagine what a million bucks can buy for the Mexican boy and his family."

"Well, Mr. McQuade, like I said, that's
civil. It has nothing to do with Slade's criminal case."

"Judge, if the criminal case isn't
dismissed, there won't be a civil settlement."

"Julio can still sue."

"He can sue Slade, not me. Slade owns a
Hummer, and a Hummer won't pay the boy's college tuition."

McQuade stood and walked to the door; he turned
back.

"Judge, you don't want to find out what
else my money can buy."

Beck entered the athletic club for the second time that
week. He didn't notice that no one smiled at him or waved at him or greeted
him with a hearty "Hi, Judge Hardin" because his mind was focused on
one thing, the same thing most nineteen-year-old boys' minds are focused on
24/7.

His eyes were searching the circuit training
room for the blue butterfly. He found it. He walked toward it. The butterfly
was floating up and down and up and down in a slow rhythmic motion, its wings
seeming to move gracefully above … that bottom. Gretchen Young was doing
standing squats on a rack fronting a wall mirror. Each time she squatted, the
black shorts stretched almost to the breaking point. He broke a sweat.

"Hi, Gretchen."

Their eyes met in the mirror in front of her;
she didn't smile at him. She was holding a barbell balanced on her shoulders
behind her neck; a fifty-pound iron plate was locked on each end of the
barbell. She hefted the barbell onto the rack and ducked under the bar. She adjusted
the weights and whispered to him without looking at him.

"Go away."

"Why?"

"I can't be seen talking to you."

"Why not?"

She jabbed her head toward the cardio room.

"See those two old men on the ellipticals?
They're on the school board. They see me talking to you, I'll get fired. They
fired the principal for saying the Pledge in Spanish—they'll probably arrest me."

"They fired Ms. Rodriguez?"

"Yes. Now go away before you get me fired."

"Why would I get you fired?"

"Because they say you're going to ruin their
football season. One of the teachers, her husband works at the courthouse. I
told her we were going out Saturday—she said to stay away from you."

"They won't fire you. You're dating the
judge."

"No, I'm not. Beck, I'm sorry, but I need
my job."

"But you have needs."

Her face softened, and she sighed. "Tell
me about it."

Then she, her butterfly, and her bottom walked
away. Beck stood there, staring and stunned.

"Fickle, aren't they?"

Jodie again.

"Who?"

She nodded toward Gretchen. "Children."

The sounds of Oma & The Oompahs
filled the Marktplatz in downtown Fredericksburg. The town was celebrating Oktoberfest,
the granddaddy of all German festivals. The grounds were crowded with white
tents and tourists. Authentic German beer, food, music, crafts, and costumes
harked back to the old country. The autumn air was crisp and cool, the
tourists were drinking and buying, and the locals were speaking German and
making money. All was well in Fredericksburg, Texas, that Saturday morning.

But not with Beck.

"What'd you do?" Luke said.

Beck had brought Luke and Meggie to Oktoberfest.
They were now eating lunch at a picnic table in the open-air Adelsverein Halle
surrounded by unfriendly locals. Beck felt like Custer at Little Bighorn—but
with dark German glares instead of sharp Sioux arrows being shot his way.

"What do you mean?"

"No one's talking to you. And I heard
people say you're ruining the football season. You did something. What?"

"Slade beat up a boy. I might have to put
him in jail."

Luke dropped his Kraut dog onto his paper plate
and looked up at Beck in disbelief.

"Great. You move me here and put me in
school with a bunch of cowboys and now you do this."

"I'm trying to do the right thing,
Luke."

"I'm trying to survive fifth grade."

"Luke, I …"

"I wish we had stayed in Chicago. I wish Mom was here. I wish you had died instead."

Luke's words cut him, but Beck didn't take his
son's words to heart; he had said the same words to his father when his own
mother had died.

"Mommy's coming back," Meggie said.

Beck patted her and said in a low voice to his
son, "Me, too, Luke. It would have been better that way, for all of us. But
she died, and I'm all you've got."

"I've got J.B."

Beck turned away from his son and saw Aubrey limping
toward their table. He was obviously drunk. He was working the cane with his
right hand and carrying three cans of beer in his left hand. When he arrived,
he placed the cans of beer on the table and sat down next to Beck. He leaned his
cane against the table, popped the top on one can, and drank from it. He
didn't notice that Luke had tears in his eyes.

"You ain't exactly the most popular judge
in town."

"Yeah, but I'm the only judge in
town."

"Didn't see you in the stands last night."

"Figured I might not be welcome."

"We won. Slade threw for seven touchdowns,
ran for two."

"I heard."

"Did Kim know anything about Heidi?"

"Did you know Slade was using steroids?"

Aubrey turned to the bandstand at the other end
of the pavilion and stared at the dancers wearing traditional German costumes
and dancing a polka like pros. He finally turned back.

"Can we talk about Heidi instead?"

"After we talk about Slade. Did you
know?"

Aubrey took a long drink. "Figured."

"You didn't ask him?"

"Like I said, he don't answer to me."

"What about other players? Are they
using?"

"Possibly … probably."

"The school district doesn't test?"

"Yeah, we've had a random drug testing
program for a few years now. But we've never had a positive for
steroids."

"Has Slade ever been tested?"

"Nope."

"What about the other football
players?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause the same boys are picked for every
test—Mexican boys that play soccer."

"Doesn't sound random."

"It ain't. Hundred-thirty-pound Mexican
boy sure as hell ain't juicing, so he gets tested. We tell the parents our
boys tested clean, they're happy. That's what they want to hear. Long as they
don't know the truth, they can still believe it's all good here."

"Who picks the kids that get tested?"

Aubrey looked away.

"I do."

Beck stared at his old friend. Aubrey drank
from his beer.

"Look, Beck, I test a football player, I'm
fired that day. Their daddies, they run this town."

"You should stand up to them."

"Did you stand up to your corporate clients
in Chicago? Beck, no one wants to go there. Easier to look the other
way."

"Aubrey, looking the other way, that's the
same as telling them it's okay to cheat."

"Beck, they don't need me to tell them
that. They see the pros getting paid real good for cheating. Why shouldn't
they?"

"Because it'll harm their long-term
health."

"Long-term is next week for these
boys."

"Then because it's wrong."

"It's only wrong if they get caught."

"That's a hell of a thing to tell your
players, Aubrey."

"I'm not telling them that, Beck, the
world's telling them that. They got TVs, they can read the paper … well,
most of them. They see businessmen, politicians, athletes cheating, breaking
the law and getting rich. Why can't they? That's what the world's telling
them to do—get rich. Do whatever it takes, but get rich." He exhaled.
"The state put in a no-pass, no-play law so kids gotta pass their classes
before they can play. So the school board just exempts a bunch of classes so
the kids can fail and still play. What's that but cheating? Cheating to win.
That's the real world, and these kids ain't stupid. They get it."

"Did you look the other way so you could
win state, get a college job, and get Randi back?"

"Maybe. Not that I could've stopped
them."

"You should've kicked Slade off the
team."

"Tell you what, Beck—I'll kick Slade off
the team the day you put him in jail for beating up that Mexican boy."

"That might happen."

"Not in this life, Beck. And not in this
town."

"I'm not going to roll over for Quentin
McQuade … or the Germans."

"Nope. They're gonna roll over you."

"How?"

"I don't know, Beck. But they will. That's
how they do things around here. That's how they get their way … with
football coaches and judges."

Aubrey pushed himself up and finished off a beer
and threw the can into a trash bin.

"Hell, Beck, I don't know why you're worried
about a bunch of boys taking steroids. Worry about finding Heidi's killer. We
only got eighty-six days left!"

Beck was mad at his old friend, he was mad at
himself, and he was mad at Kim Krause.

"Why would Kim lie to me?"

When Beck drove up to the house, he found Grady Guenther leaning
against the side of his Gillespie County Sheriff's Department SUV and chewing
on a toothpick. The kids jumped out and went running down the caliche road toward
the winery; Frank the goat ran to catch up with Meggie. Beck walked over to
the sheriff.

"I hear Chicago's nice this time of year,"
Grady said.

Beck smiled. "It is."

Grady nodded toward the front gate. "J.B.
really got pit bulls?"

Beck shook his head. "He put up that sign
to run off the real-estate brokers."

"J.B.'s a piece of work, those shirts he
wears, buying a bulldozer."

"What bulldozer?"

The loud roar of a diesel engine sounded like a
tornado rising from back of the house. Grady yelled over the noise: "That
bulldozer! The hell's he gonna do with a dozer?"

Beck yelled back: "Beats me."

They walked down the caliche road so they didn't
have to yell. Grady took in the land.

"Nice place. Never been out here. What's J.B.
got, a thousand acres?"

"Eight hundred. They combined the Hardin
and Dechert places when he married my mom. Peggy Dechert. Did you know
her?"

"Sure. Knew her old man, too. Surprised
he let her marry an outsider. That didn't happen much back then."

"Why not?"

"The land. Germans came to Texas 'cause they could own land here. So the land became the family jewels. The
old-timers, they fought like hell to keep the land in the family."

"You mean, in Germans?"

"I mean, in the family. There was a lot of
intermarrying here, cousins marrying cousins—I'm talking first cousins—to keep
the land in the family."

"I never heard about that."

"It's our little secret. It was pretty
much the deal right until my time. Still happens some. Joke is, nobody can
afford to have a family reunion 'cause you'd have to invite the whole
town." He chuckled. "Hell, my mama and daddy were cousins and so
were their folks. Guess that's why I try hard not to act like an idiot, afraid
I might actually be one."

"I think you escaped that fate."

"Crazy, ain't it?"

"What's that?"

"It was all about the land for our folks and their folks,
keeping it in German hands. Now we're selling out to Californians." He
chuckled. "The Baron's turning over in his grave." He shook his
head, then said, "You were pretty good yesterday, with Nikki."

"She's a kid."

"You're a pro."

"I've crossed pros—politicians and
corporate executives."

"You figure out why Kim's lying?"

"No."

"You figure out what you're gonna do with
Slade?"

"He's going to the grand jury."

"That final?"

"Will be Monday morning when I sign the
order."

"Quentin know that … the Monday
morning?"

"Yeah."

Grady kicked dirt. The white dust covered his
boot.

"Makes sense then."

"What?"

"One of my deputies driving by Quentin's place
this morning, said it looked like a big powwow going on. Recognized Stutz's
truck and the D.A.'s SUV. That's how they do things."

"Who?"

"The old Germans. City hall, that's where
they announce in public what they already decided in private."

"Grady, I've been gone a long time, but
even Texas has an open meetings law."