Part 7 (2/2)

'Is she that blonde movie star who used to date Clinton then committed suicide a long time ago?'

'That'd be Marilyn Monroe. She dated Kennedy. Overdosed on pills.'

'Never heard of her.'

'She's dead, too.'

'How am I supposed to know about dead people?'

'How about Donald Judd?'

'You're making these names up, right?'

'No.'

'Who did he play in Giant?'

'No one. He was an artist here in Marfa.'

'Let me guess: he's dead, too?'

'He is.'

'Is there anyone in this town who's not dead?'

Book turned right at the shuttered Palace Theater onto Lincoln Street and parked in front of a one-story building facing the courthouse. A small sign on the stucco facade read: THE DUNN LAW FIRM with MIDLAND-LUBBOCK-AMARILLO-MARFA in smaller letters below. They got off the Harley. Book removed his sungla.s.ses and doo-rag and knocked the dust off his T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans. Nadine removed the crash helmet and goggles and smoothed back her hair. They entered the law firm offices and stepped into a well-appointed reception area. Hallways extended off both sides. In the center along the back wall sat a receptionist behind a desk. Her head was down. They walked over to her. She wore a black dress. She wiped tears from her red face with a white tissue then blew her nose. She finally looked up at Book.

'You okay?' he asked.

'Funeral.' She wiped tears again. 'This afternoon.'

'I'm sorry for your loss.'

She nodded then forced a professional expression.

'Can I help you?'

'I'm John Bookman, to see Nathan Jones.'

Her professional expression evaporated; she frowned and appeared confused.

'Nathan? But ... it's his funeral.'

Chapter 5.

'Rock Hudson, James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, Donald Judd, Nathan Jones ... does everyone in Marfa die?' Nadine Honeywell asked.

'Eventually.'

On the western edge of town, out on San Antonio Street past the Thunderbird Motel and the Pueblo Market, across the street from a junkyard and adjacent to a mobile home park, was the Marfa Cemetery. A chain link fence ran down the center of the cemetery. West of the fence were the graves of the deceased of Mexican descent; some of the gravesites would qualify as religious shrines. East of the fence were the graves of Anglos; small American flags fluttering in the wind marked many of the gravesites. A dirt road crisscrossed the cemetery. They had ridden the Harley in and now leaned against the bike a respectful distance from the burial of Nathan Jones.

'A car accident,' Book said. 'Same day he mailed the letter.'

Through tears, the receptionist had provided the basics of Nathan's death.

'Coincidence.' Nadine turned to him. 'Can we go home now?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I don't believe in coincidences.'

'I was afraid you were going to say that.'

Book hadn't been to a funeral in twenty-one years. Five hundred police officers from around the state of Texas had turned out in full uniform for Ben Bookman's funeral; they do that for a fellow officer killed in the line of duty. Not so much for lawyers. Only a few dozen people were gathered at the gravesite. Some were dressed like lawyers, most like cowboys in jeans and boots and plaid s.h.i.+rts. A young woman wearing jeans and a black T-s.h.i.+rt stood alone off to one side; she looked their way for a moment then looked away. Book spotted the receptionist in her black dress; she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. An older couple seemed distraught; probably Nathan's parents. A young, very pregnant woman stood next to them; she stepped forward and placed a red rose on the casket. No doubt Nathan's wife. Next to her stood one of those locals, a large young man with blond curly hair; he put an arm around her shoulders. Family or family friend. A white-haired man snapped photographs from the perimeter. After the service ended and the crowd began to disperse, Book approached the pregnant woman.

'Ms. Jones?'

'Yes.'

'I'm Professor Bookman. From UT. Nathan wrote to me.'

Her eyes darted around then she stepped close and lowered her voice.

'Not here. They're watching. Come to my house. Tonight. I'm in the book.'

'I'm not sleeping in a teepee.'

El Cosmico occupied eighteen acres just south of town and adjacent to the Border Patrol station. Its website touted a 'unique communal outpost in West Texas,' but Nadine wasn't convinced. Accommodations ranged from refurbished Airstream trailers to safari tents and authentic Sioux teepees. A community bathhouse with a tub and toilet came with the price. Dubbed a 'hippie campground' by the locals, El Cosmico was the latest venture of the woman behind the Hotel San Jose and Jo's Coffee in Austin. Book was a regular at Jo's, so he had decided to give it a try. But his intern was having none of it.

'And I don't share toilets with strangers.'

She sighed and shook her head as if faced with an impossible task.

'I can't even imagine how many sanitizing wipes I'd go through.'

'Ms. Honeywell, you're a mighty picky traveling companion, you do know that?'

'So sue me.'

'Spoken like a true lawyer.'

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