The Perk (44 page)

"Who?"

Again they conversed.

"He does not know who."

Beck looked at Ignacio Perez and felt his heart
turn hard. To Inez he said, "Tell him this: I gave him a break, but he
made me look like a fool. I can live with that, but I can't live with his
bringing meth into our town. No more breaks."

Inez repeated his words in Spanish to Ignacio.
He started to cry. But today Beck had no sympathy.

"Bail is denied. Flight risk."

The deputy led Ignacio Perez away. The D.A.
started to turn away, but Beck said, "What happened to Jesús Ramirez, the
'assault with a burrito' guy?"

The D.A. stared at his shoes a moment then said,
"Deported."

"His wife and kids?"

"Macarena was deported, too. The Catholic
church, the old one that says Mass in Spanish for the illegals, they took in
their kids. Plus about two hundred others."

"Jesus Christ."

"Exactly." The D.A. turned away, then
turned back. "I didn't want that … the raid."

He walked out of the courtroom.

Beck put his elbows on the bench and his face in
his hands. He had failed all those children. He felt like crying and he felt
like hitting something at the same time. The anger won out; his blood pressure
built until he thought he would explode. He needed fresh air. He raised his
head and found himself staring at Mary Jo and Stanley Jobst.

"Mary Jo … Stanley … What's
up?"

They looked down and shuffled in place. Two
lawyers book-ended them. Mavis tapped Beck on the arm with a case file. A
gold case file. A divorce file.
Mary Jo Jobst vs. Stanley Jobst.

"What's this?
Divorce?
"

Their heads turned up. Mary Jo was crying. Stanley was fighting not to cry; he said, "She went on a diet."

"You're getting divorced because she went
on a diet?"

" 'Cause of you."

"You're getting divorced because of
me?"

"She went on a diet because of you."

"What have I got to do with how much Mary
Jo eats?"

"She wants … she wants to be slim again.
For you."

"For
me?
"

That did it. Beck stood.

"No! This is
not
happening! I won't do it!"

He threw the gold case file over their heads and
almost to the spectator section. He pointed a finger at Mary Jo Jobst.

"Mary Jo, I don't love you. I love a dead
woman. You've got four children who need you and a man right there who loves
you. Go home and take care of them. Get over your problems, get over yourself,
get counseling. But get out of my courtroom!" They stood there frozen.
Beck pointed the way. "Get out!"

Beck walked off the bench, ducked through the
window, and sat in his lawn chair on the back balcony. He sat there until the
sun dropped behind the courthouse and the shadows stretched out in front of him
to the Eagle Tree and then until the shadows reached Main Street. He sat there
until he had worked through his five weeks as judge of this small Texas county and each of his failures. He sat there until Jodie ducked through the window
and sat next to him.

"Mavis called me. You okay, Beck?"

"No."

They sat quietly until Beck said, "We were
eighteen. It was just a few days before I was to leave for Notre Dame and he
was to leave for UT. We both had football scholarships. But I was mad at the
world and drinking beer … and driving my old truck. I didn't make a curve
on Ranch Road 16, went off the road, hit a tree. On his side. I walked away.
Aubrey almost lost his leg. He could never play again. I took all his dreams
away—college, maybe the pros. He was good enough. But I took all that away
from him."

"Did they charge you?"

Beck shook his head. "They gave me a
break."

"And you figured on making things right by
finding the guy that killed Heidi?"

"I figured on coming back and making a lot
of things right. But all I've done is make things worse, for my kids and those
Latino kids. I don't belong here anymore."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find this guy, for Aubrey. I'm
going to find him in the next fifty-four days and bring him to justice. Then
I'm going to take my children back to Chicago. That's where I belong."

"Annie wanted y'all here."

"She's dead."

A week later, a FedEx package arrived
for Judge Beck Hardin. Inside was a plastic baggie with a cigarette butt and a
note that read:
Beck, we went to the film shoot every day, but Zeke didn't
show for a week. When he finally did, we screamed for him to come over. He
was smoking. When he tossed his cigarette on the ground, I picked it up (with
the tongs). That's Zeke's butt! I could probably sell it for $1000 on eBay,
so you owe me. Ruth.

Ruth had been a great office wife.

Beck walked the baggie with the butt over to
Grady's office. Doreen waved Beck back.

"He's eating brunch."

"
Brunch?
"

Beck walked down the hall and into Grady's
office; he stopped short. Gillespie County Sheriff Grady Guenther was eating
all right, but he wasn't eating a messy Kraut dog with his hands. He was
dining with a silver fork off white china on a cloth setting. A white cloth
napkin was tucked under his chin.

"Grady, is that quiche?"

Grady nodded. "I don't know who Lorraine is, but she eats good."

"Where did you get quiche from?"

"The chef."

"The jail's got a chef now?"

Grady nodded again. "For thirty
days." He called out: "Doreen, tell Lester to bring over another
plate of this Lorraine stuff for the judge!" To Beck: "Brings his
own dishes and silverware. Pots and pans, too."

Soon standing in the doorway was a chubby young
man wearing a black-and-white striped GILLESPIE COUNTY INMATE uniform, black
clogs, and a white chef's hat. He was holding a plate of quiche.

"Oui,
monsieur?"

Grady pointed his fork and made introductions
through a mouthful of quiche: "Beck, this here's Lester Fritz. Lester,
meet Judge Hardin."

Lester gave Beck a little nod of his head then
handed the quiche to him. Beck put the plastic baggie on the desk.

"Thanks, Lester."

Grady said, "What's for dinner?"

"Chicken
cordon
bleu
, risotto,
et soufflé au chocolat
."

"Damn, that sounds good. Can we have some
of them beignets tomorrow?"

"Oui,
monsieur."

Lester bowed then left. "He ain't French,"
Grady said, "but he is a little light in his loafers. Owns that French
restaurant—Lester's on Llano. His daddy's a goat rancher, but Lester didn't
exactly fit in with the old Germans over at the auction house, so his daddy
used his mohair money to send Lester to cooking school in New York. He come
back five years ago and opened his place. Packs 'em in, cost you a hundred
bucks to eat there. Lester's kind of gone whole hog, talking French and all,
but the boy can cook. I let him out at night so he don't have to close his
restaurant. Don't tell his parole officer."

"Why's he in jail?"

"Blue warrant."

"What's that?"

"Parole revocation warrant. We call 'em
'blue warrants' 'cause they used to be in blue jackets. Deal is, if the parole
officer charges a parolee with a parole violation, law says we got to arrest
and hold him in the county jail. No bond pending the parole board's
determination whether to revoke parole."

"What did Lester do?"

"Nothing. He's on parole for a drug
offense, but he's in my jail 'cause his parole officer gives him jail therapy
twice a year."

"Jail therapy?"

"Little jail time just to make sure he's
staying straight."

"Is he?"

"I figure so, now that he's got the
restaurant. But if his parole officer jacks him, there ain't nothing I can
do. Parole board won't revoke 'cause he ain't done nothin', but the law says
he's got to spend thirty days in my jail no matter. Upside is, he cooks for
everyone, guards and inmates. He's good about it, gives me a grocery list, I
send one of the deputies over to the H-E-B. We use our Homeland Security fund."

Doreen stuck her head in.

"Sheriff, Maurice Lackey's on the line,
wants to know can he come in and serve his blue warrant. He heard Lester's in."

"Yeah, tell Maurice to come on in."

Doreen disappeared, and Beck said, "You got
guys with outstanding warrants calling to surrender?"

Grady nodded. "Happens every time Lester's
in."

"No one surrenders in Chicago, I don't care
how good the food is."

"Eating Lester's food three times a day for
free, watching the soaps, it don't get any better than that for Maurice. Soon
as word gets out that Lester's in, I'll have a waiting list."

"Surrendering for jail food?"

"Hell, Beck, I'd serve thirty days to eat
Lester's cooking. Damn sight better than my wife's. You ought to come over
tomorrow for his beignets, those suckers are good." Grady pointed his
fork at the baggie. "What you got there?"

"Zeke Adam's butt. Cigarette."

On the drive to San Antonio after the raid at
the turkey plant, Beck had given Grady the complete story about Heidi and Kim
stalking movie stars at the film festival in Austin and his efforts to obtain DNA samples.

"I want a DNA test on the saliva on that
butt to see if it matches up with the DNA samples from Heidi."

"You're serious about tracking this guy
down."

"Yeah, I'm serious."

"Okay. You're the judge." Then:
"Lester'll be back in a minute with fresh coffee. French roast."

Wes was drinking a Starbucks on a Malibu beach.

Wes Wagner was the dirt man. His specialty was
digging for dirt. He would dive into dumpsters and sift through trash bags.
He would wait outside hotel rooms and cheap rent houses with a camera. He
would pose as a repairman or a telephone lineman or the dogcatcher searching
for a stray. He would follow cheap hookers all night, and he would catch a
husband or CEO with his pecker in the wrong place. He would do whatever it
took, but he would always get his dirt.

He knew his job.

He also knew his DNA: you can get DNA from blood (liquid or dried), skin, saliva (spit, licked envelopes, cigarette and cigar
butts), semen (liquid or dried), hair (with follicle attached), fingernails,
bone, teeth, urine, and anal swabs (Wes didn't go there); you cannot get DNA from hair without follicle attached, blood without white blood cells, or dried urine.

He would get Joe Raines' DNA that morning.

He was standing behind a rope stretched between
barricades. They were shooting a big-budget motion picture, so Wes wasn't
alone. Standing there with him were a hundred barely-dressed groupies hoping
to catch Joe's eye as he walked from the set to his air-conditioned trailer
after the shoot wrapped. Gorgeous girls hoping to become Joe's latest lay.
All he had to do was wink or point or send his personal bodyguard after a girl.
Female voices rose above his thoughts.

"Joe! Joe!"

Joe Raines was walking their way. He was
dressed only in swim trunks. Best Wes could tell, he was playing a lifeguard
in the movie. He was only thirty and his body was tanned and had been shaped
by a personal trainer. He slowed as he approached the groupie gauntlet. His
eyes scanned the crowd; the girls pushed to the front where they could be seen
and their bodies appreciated. Wes noticed Joe's eyes pause on a redhead.
Funny, but there could be a hundred gorgeous blondes and one redhead, and the
stars would always go for the redhead. Why is that?

Joe walked to the trailer and climbed the few
steps and entered. His bodyguard followed him in, but didn't shut the door.
The bodyguard backed down the steps and came over to the chorus line. He
walked straight to the redhead.

Wes shook his head: told you.

The redhead ducked under the rope and followed
the bodyguard to the trailer. She was an incredible specimen: long lean legs,
a miniskirt, and a tank top; a perfect body; and that mane of red hair. Wes
once had a one-night stand with a girl who looked like her; she had cost a
thousand dollars.

The redhead disappeared into the trailer, and
the groupie gauntlet sighed as one. They had struck out today. Even Joe
Raines couldn't keep that up after every take.

The other girls slowly scattered, muttering
about trying again tomorrow. Wes waited. If he knew his movie-making business,
and he did, Joe had only a thirty-minute break before the next take. Once the
director and crew had set the scene with a double for camera distance and
angle, Joe would be called back to the set to say his lines. Which lines he
was supposed to be studying at that moment instead of some red-haired pussy.
But Joe Raines was a star. He could do whatever he wanted to do.

Sure enough, thirty minutes later the bodyguard
reappeared and knocked on the trailer door. Joe soon appeared; he walked down
the steps and over to the set. The bodyguard held the door open. Wes heard
him say, "Hurry up."

Some thanks.

The redhead appeared in the doorway; her hair
was a mess, and she was adjusting her top. The bodyguard locked the trailer
door behind her. She walked toward the barricades. Wes stepped over and
lifted the rope for her. He said, "I'll give you a hundred dollars for
your panties."

She stopped and stared at him like he was a
pervert.

"You're sick. Besides, I'm wearing a
thong."

"I'll give you a hundred dollars for your
thong."

She started to walk on.

"Two hundred."

She stopped.

"Cash?"

Wes reached into his pocket and pulled out two
crisp hundred-dollar bills.

"Did Joe wear a rubber?"