Part 39 (1/2)

'What kind of guns?'

'All kinds. He scares me when he gets drunk and starts playing with them. One night he shot his TV with a shotgun.'

'A shotgun?'

Kenni offered a lame shrug. 'But he pays for everything, so we all hang out there.'

'Did he threaten Nathan?'

'You mean, to shoot him?'

'To out him.'

Kenni picked his fingernails for a time. Then he nodded.

Book stood. 'Where's his studio?'

'West El Paso Street, just past Judd's Block. You can't miss it.'

Book tried to imagine his quiet, studious intern living a secret double life in Marfa, Texas, with Brenda at home and Kenni away from home.

'Was Nathan happy?'

'I think so. With both of his lives. But each life had conflict. He loved her, but he didn't belong here. He loved me, but he couldn't leave her. Maybe that was the way he was supposed to go, a bonfire in the sky.'

'Kenni, he didn't die a romantic death. He burned to death.'

Chapter 28.

Book walked down West El Paso past 'The Block,' Donald Judd's one-square-block compound that housed his personal residence, two airplane hangars he converted into a studio and a library, and a swimming pool and chicken coop designed by Judd himself, all enclosed behind a tall adobe wall. West of the wall was a steel structure that looked like a warehouse. Outside sat six cars ... stacked on top of each other. A big black 44 pickup truck was parked by the entrance door. Book walked around the truck and examined the glossy black paint for any damage or scratches; he found none. He rang the bell and was soon greeted by a big man in his mid-fifties wearing shorts, flip-flops, and no s.h.i.+rt; his hair was uncombed and his beard a week old. He looked like Nick Nolte in that infamous mug shot, only worse. His entire upper body was one big multi-colored tattoo that seemed as if someone had thrown a palette of paint on him. He took a swig from a half-empty whiskey bottle.

'Big Rick?'

'You the reporter from Vanity Fair?'

'I'm the law professor from UT. John Bookman.'

'What do you want?'

'I want to know why Nathan Jones died.'

'What's that got to do with me?'

'I understand he was suing you on behalf of Billy Bob Barnett and you kicked him out of here one night, threatened to out him.'

Big Rick snorted. 'You been talking to that f.u.c.king queer, Kenni with an ”i”?'

'Queer? That's a little dated, don't you think?'

'I'm a little dated.'

'Being sued, some folks might consider that a motive for murder.'

'Murder? What, you think Nathan's death wasn't an accident?'

'I think someone ran him off the road.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Someone ran us off the road last night.'

'Professor, I stack cars. I don't run cars off the highway. Saw you checking out my truck-you find any evidence of a hit and run?'

'No.'

''Cause I don't murder people.'

'What about the rumor that you killed someone back East?'

Big Rick howled.

'h.e.l.l, I started that rumor myself. Image sells, Professor.' He finally took a moment to size Book up. 'You get in a fight?'

'I got in a barbed-wire fence.'

'Ouch.'

Big Rick belched and pushed the screen door open.

'Come on in.'

Book stepped inside to rock music blaring on surround sound. The interior s.p.a.ce was a big barnlike structure, a combination home and studio with a kitchen area, a big bed in the far corner, and a living area with a big screen television on the wall with a cable cooking show playing. Big Rick placed the whiskey bottle on a counter, picked up a remote, and pointed it at the stereo; rock was replaced by country, Hank Williams Jr. singing 'Country Boy Can Survive.' He went to the refrigerator, opened it, and retrieved a carton of chocolate milk.

'You want some?'

'No, thanks.'

He poured a gla.s.s. He noticed Book eyeing the whiskey bottle.

'Thought you were a reporter.' He shrugged. 'Like I said, I have an image to maintain.'

'You got that hard-drinking artist thing down.'

'It's a living.'

At that moment, a young girl burst out of the bathroom and hurried out the front door with only a finger wave and, 'Later, Big Rick.' She looked like a high school soph.o.m.ore.