The Perk (40 page)

Instead, she died.

Beck tried to think it through. Why would a
star who picked Heidi up in Austin have driven her back to Fredericksburg and
then dumped her in that ditch? What could have happened that night?

Maybe Heidi had passed out in the limo. Maybe
he discovered that she was underage. He couldn't just throw her out, someone
might have seen her with him or gotten the limo's plates. Maybe he decided to take
her home. Maybe they drove to Fredericksburg, and when he tried to wake her,
she wouldn't wake. Maybe the driver pulled the limo over in front of the
courthouse and tried to revive her with CPR, just as Carlotta had seen that
night.

But maybe it was too late.

Maybe they turned the limo around and headed toward
Austin on Highway 290 East. Maybe they pulled over and dumped her in the
ditch. Maybe they drove on but discovered her shoes and purse were still in
the limo. Maybe they pulled over at the bridge and threw her shoes and purse into
the Pedernales River.

Maybe Kim was lying.

Kim was crying.

"I picked her up at her house and we went
back to mine and changed. She kept all her sexy clothes here."

"What was she wearing that night?"

She got up and went inside. She returned with
the laptop. They were sitting on the front porch of the little house behind
the gas station. She tossed her cigarette into the yard then tapped on the
keyboard and opened a photo of Heidi dressed in a white see-through blouse with
the tail tied under her breasts, black miniskirt, and black stiletto heels. Hanging
over her shoulder was a little black purse.

"That was her that night."

She tapped again. "Here's me that
night."

She was wearing a similar outfit. She had
gained weight since that night.

"I know, we looked like hookers. Curb
appeal."

"So what did y'all do?"

"We drove over to Austin, to Sixth Street. Stalking stars, we called it. Whenever we saw a limo, we'd pose on the
sidewalk with the other girls. The guys inside the limos, they always tried to
pick up Heidi. But when they rolled the window down, they'd be old guys,
directors and producers and even writers—like any girl is gonna screw a
writer."

"What big stars were there?"

"Eddie Steele, Joe Raines, Teddy Bodeman, Chase
Connelly, Zeke Adams."

"And Heidi knew they were there?"

"That's why we went—she figured on hooking
up with one of them, to get an audition."

"So she was specifically looking for one of
these stars?"

"Yeah. We went into some bar 'cause everyone
was saying Teddy Bodeman was in there. He was, but he was with his wife and
some other people. But Heidi sat down next to him in a booth."

"Nobody checked your ID?"

That "old guy" look again. "Not
girls who looked like us."

"What happened in the bar?"

She shrugged. "I was talking to some guy
at the bar, next thing I know Heidi says, 'Teddy Bodeman's an asshole.' We
left."

"Did she give Teddy oral sex in the
bar?"

"She didn't say anything."

"And then what did y'all do?"

"Stalked stars, like I said. About ten, ten-thirty,
this limo stops right where we're at, so we give it our best pose. The window
rolls down just a bit and a finger sticks out and points at Heidi. So she walks
over real sexy-like and all and peeks in. The door opens and she jumps in. But
she gave me a look like she'd hit it big."

"You didn't see who was in the limo?"

She shook her head. "The windows were all
blacked out. But it had to be a big star, or she wouldn't have gotten in. No
way."

"And you never saw Heidi again?"

Another shake of her head. "I tried to
call her—"

"On a cell phone?"

She nodded. "My other phone."

"You had two phones?"

"Coach wouldn't let her have a phone, so I got two and gave
her one. Family plan."

"How'd you get cell phones when you were
only sixteen?"

"Through the gas station. I sign all the
checks for my dad, he never knew."

"Okay, you tried to call her and …?"

"She didn't answer."

"So what did you do that night?"

"I stayed with some guy in Austin."

"A star?"

"A guy. The next morning, I got up and
called Heidi again. She still didn't answer, so I drove home. When I got into
town and saw the police by the highway and the body on the ground and the
blonde hair, I knew it was Heidi."

"Your father's statement said you were home
all night."

"He starts drinking beer at noon, drinks
himself to sleep by seven. I told him I was home, so that's what he said. He
trusts me."

"Why did you lie back then?"

"Because it would've been in the paper. Everyone
would've said she was just a slut. I didn't want that for her."

"But maybe they could've found the guy that
killed her."

"How?"

"I don't know. Maybe track down that
limo."

"We saw more limos than you could
count."

"Christ, Kim. Who was in that limo? And what
happened to her purse? And that cell phone?"

Rudy Jaramillo was holding the girl's purse and cell
phone. Sixty-nine days from now, he would be a very rich man.

His criminal career
had begun at twelve, when he and some
amigos
robbed a convenience
store. He quickly graduated to narcotics. On his third arrest, he went up for
two years. But he was big and he knew how to fight, so he had survived in one
piece. When he got out, he went right back to the life and right back to
prison. Two strikes. When he got out, he decided to make money a different
way: extortion.

So he got his chauffeur's license. He hired out
to limo services in L.A., worked short stints for various movie stars and then
lucked into the little man. Theodore Biederman. What a name. Hell, he would
have changed it, too.

First night driving Theodore around, Rudy knew
he had hit pay dirt. He was just too reckless with his dick. Hundreds of
girls got into the back seat of the limo, and then that night in Austin when the blonde girl got in, Rudy's retirement plan was funded. Theodore gave her
alcohol and he gave her cocaine and she died right there in the limo. They
dumped her, and Rudy tossed her shoes into the river. They drove back to Austin, and he dropped Theodore off at the hotel. He parked the limo and checked the back
for incriminating evidence.

He found some.

The girl's purse on the floor and down in the
folds of the seat, her cell phone; and on the cell phone, Theodore's picture
with the girl. What an idiot, letting the girl take their photo together. Proof
that they were together that night. And he didn't even wear a rubber; he left
his DNA inside the girl. Conclusive evidence that Theodore Biederman had had sex
with a minor. That he was guilty of stat rape and maybe murder.

Only problem was, Rudy Jaramillo was an
accomplice-after-the-fact.

So he had to wait until the statute of
limitations ran for both of them. If the law caught up with Theodore and sent
him to prison, his $50-million-a-year income would be history; there would be no
money to extort and no leverage against Theodore. The world would know. And
Rudy might be in an adjacent cell. So he had to wait until midnight on New
Year's Eve.

On January first, Rudy would make his move. He would
show the cell phone photo to Theodore and give him a choice: he could either
pay Rudy a million a year for the rest of his life or Rudy would go public with
the cell phone photo, the girl's family would sue him for wrongful death, get
his DNA, and prove to the world that he had given cocaine to a minor, had sex
with a minor, and murdered a minor. The studios don't pay $20 million per film
to murderers and molesters. Come New Year's Day, Rudy Jaramillo would own
Theodore Biederman like a pimp owned a two-bit street hooker.

He opened the phone and looked at the photo of
Theodore and the girl again. That photo had become Rudy Jaramillo's most
prized possession in life. He treasured it, he protected it, he cradled it to
his bosom like a mother holding her newborn; and he had never shared it with
anyone.

But the girl had.

She had sent the photo to someone that night, to
another cell phone. To someone called "Sis," according to the
phone's log. But Rudy had gotten the girl's obituary; she had been survived
only by her mother and father. She had no sister. And Sis's phone number had
already gone out of service a few weeks after that night when he had called it
from a pay phone in L.A.

So he had been diligent in eavesdropping on
Theodore's phone calls in the limo, sure the photo would eventually surface and
charges and lawsuits would be filed. But nothing happened. Theodore's life
had only gotten better: more fame, more fortune, more girls in the limo. And
Rudy had made his retirement plans.

But that one question still nagged at him always:
Who else had that photo?

Beck snapped a photo of the kids.

Meggie and Josefina were dressed as Munchkins, Luke
as the Scarecrow, Danny as the Tin Man, and Libby as Dorothy down to the Ruby
Slippers. Jodie was Glinda the Good Witch and Janelle the Wicked Witch of the
West. The bookstore was decorated to look like the Emerald City.

It was the Hardin family's first Halloween
without Annie.

Jodie was sitting on
the floor surrounded by kids; she was reading scary stories. Janelle was
painting the children's faces like Munchkins.
The Wizard of Oz
was
playing on a big-screen TV. Jodie had asked J.B. to dress up as the Wizard,
but he had said, "That'll be the day." So instead he was handing out
candy and wearing another loud Tommy Bahama shirt, which was scary enough for
the kids. Beck was the official photographer.

This was a kid-safe Halloween. The candy was
safe, the place was safe, and the kids were safe. Jodie took a break and
walked over to Beck. He snapped her picture and said over the noise of the
movie and the kids, "You're a sexy witch."

Her mouth fell open. "What did you call
me?"

"I said, you're a sexy witch."

"Oh. I thought you said I was a sexy
bitch." She smiled. "Thanks."

"How's Luke doing, working here?"

"We're talking."

"He'll talk to everyone but me."

"He'll come back to you, Beck. Be patient. But when he does,
be there for him. Hug him. That's what he needs. Is J.B. really building him
a baseball field?"

Beck nodded. "With bleachers, like in that
movie."

"I love J.B."

 
 
My dearest J.B.,

Beck's taking the children
trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. His first time. He's trying to be a
father now, but he's got a lot to learn. He thinks plaintiffs' lawyers are
hard cases, wait till he meets the mothers in the PTA. (Hurts when I laugh.)
Taking care of children 24/7 makes 3000 billable hours seem like a vacation. I
have a pain specialist now. Beck refuses to talk about my
dying.

Maria Espinoza coughed against the
stench of turkey shit.

She reached her hand inside the next cold turkey
and stuck her finger into the hole and pushed out any shit remaining in the
dead bird's bowels. She had pushed shit out of almost fifteen thousand dead
turkeys that day—but more birds kept coming down the line. She did not count.
She knew that was the plant's daily quota during the months before Thanksgiving.
If the quota was not met today, the line would run even faster tomorrow.

Her hands ached as they always ached after
twelve hours on the line, from the work and the cold. They had reduced the
temperature on the line to fifty degrees; the colder temperature slowed the
growth of bacteria so they no longer needed to stop the line at mid-shift and wash
the shit off the floor. Now, the line never stopped, more turkeys could be
processed each shift, and Maria was standing in a twelve-hour pile of turkey
shit. She looked at the clock on the wall: 2:47. Her shift ended at 3:00.

This would be Maria Espinoza's final day at the
turkey plant.

Maria had moved with Rafael to Fredericksburg to
work in the turkey plant nineteen years ago, when she was only seventeen.
Representatives from the plant had come to Piedras Negras to recruit workers;
they said the Americans had given illegals amnesty a few years before and
surely would again. They had promised them jobs and good pay and housing.
They showed them pictures of nice little houses and a clean new plant with
smiling employees; it was not their house or this plant or these employees. Their
house was not nice. This plant was not new. The employees did not smile.

But Maria was smiling this day.

With the money
Señor
McQuade had paid to Julio, she would no longer have to work the turkey line. But
she had to finish out the month or she would not be paid for a month of pushing
the shit out of turkeys. She wanted her last paycheck. She had earned it.

Beginning tomorrow, she would be a stay-at-home
mom. They would move out of the barrio and into the country. Rafael would
build a little house with a yard for the children to play in instead of Rose Street where they now played. Two new families from Mexico had already joined together
to rent their house from their Anglo landlord when they moved out.

She again looked at the clock on the wall:
2:52.

For nineteen years, she had lived with the smell
of turkey on her; she could never escape the disgusting odor. She wanted the
last eight minutes to hurry past because she wanted to get the smell of turkeys
off her forever.

And because she needed to pee very badly.

The mid-shift wash-down, when the line was
stopped for a short time, had been the workers' only break. They had hurried
to the bathroom and to eat lunch; they had to be back when the wash-down was
done and the line again started. But when the mid-shift wash-down had been
eliminated, so had their only break.