'Oh?' I said.
'The guy you drug up and down, man, I been following him six months. He's gonna be gone now,' the Mexican said.
'Maybe you should have taken him down six months ago. He hurt a little boy this morning.'
'Yeah, man, but maybe you don't see the big picture. We take one guy down, we roll him over, then we take another guy down. See, patience is, how you call it, the virtue here.'
'The guy I pulled out of that bar isn't the Medellin Cartel North. What is this stuff, sheriff?' I said.
The sheriff rolled his cigar in the center of his mouth and looked at the Mexican drug agent.
'Billy Bob used to be a Texas Ranger, so he looks down on the ordinary pissant work most of us have to do,' he said.
'That's a bad fucking attitude, man,' Felix Ringo said.
'Get out your fingerprint pad or I'm gone, sheriff,' I said.
He dropped his cigar hissing into the spittoon.
'There's the door. Don't mistake my gesture. Stay the hell out of what don't concern you,' he said.
Felix Ringo followed me outside. The light was hard and bright on the stone buildings in the square, the trees a violent green against the sky. I could see Mary Beth Sweeney outside her cruiser, writing on a clipboard in the shade. She stopped and stared across the lawn at me and the man named Felix Ringo.
'You want something?' I asked him.
'I seen you somewhere before. You was a Ranger?' he said.
'What about it?'
'You guys did stuff at night, maybe killed some people that was fruit pickers crossing the river, that didn't have nothing to do with dope.'
'You're full of shit, too, bud,' I said, and walked toward the cab stand across the street.
I stepped off the curb and waited for a car to pass.
Then I heard her voice behind me.
'Hey, Billy Bob,' she said.
'Yeah?'
She gave me the thumbs-up sign and smiled.
The next morning I drove along the fence line of my property to a section by the river where Lucas and Vernon Smothers were hoeing out the rows in a melon patch. I walked out into the field, into the heat bouncing off the ground, into Vernon's beaded stare under the brim of his straw hat.
'I want to borrow Lucas for a couple of hours,' I said.
'What for?' he asked.
'Take a guess,' I said.
He propped his forearm on his hoe handle and smelled himself. He looked out over the bluff and the milky green flatness of the river and the willows on the far side.
'I don't want to lose my melons to coons this year. I aim to put steel traps along that ditch yonder. That's where they're coming out of,' he said.
'I need Lucas to help me with the case, Vernon. You're not putting any steel traps on my property, and you can forget about poisons, too.'
'You ever see how a coon eats a melon? He punches a little hole, no bigger than a quarter. Then he sticks his paw in and cleans the whole insides out. All he needs to do is get his paw in the hole and he don't leave nothing but an empty shell for anybody else.'
His mouth was small and angry, down-turned on the corners, his stare jaundiced with second meaning.
'Let's go to the movies, Lucas,' I said.
Lucas sat on the back steps and pulled off his boots.
'You don't have to do that,' I said.
'I'll track your house.'
We went into the library and I switched on the VCR that contained the videotape of Roseanne Hazlitt dancing. Lucas's face went gray when he realized what he was being shown.
'Mr Holland, I ain't up to this,' he said.
'Who are the other kids in that woods?'
'East End kids messin' around. I don't know them too good.'
'I don't believe you.'
'Why you talk to me like that?'
'Because none of this will go away of its accord. You played in the band at Shorty's. You knew the same people Roseanne knew. But you don't give me any help.'
He swallowed. His palms were cupped on his knees.
'I grew up in the West End. I don't like those kind of guys.'
'Good. So give me the names of the other boys she went out with.'
He fingered the denim on top of his thigh, his knees jiggling up and down, his eyes fixed on the floor.
'Anybody. When she was loaded. It didn't matter to her. Three or four guys at once. Same guys who'd write her name on the washroom wall,' he said. He blinked and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.
We drove into Deaf Smith and parked on the square and walked down a side street toward a brick church with a white steeple and a green lawn and a glassed-in sign announcing Sunday and Wednesday night services.
'Why we going to the Baptist church?' Lucas asked.
'We're not,' I replied.
Next door to the church was the church's secondhand store. An alley ran along one wall of the store, and at the end of the alley was an overflowing donation bin. The pavement around it was littered with pieces of mattresses and mildewed clothing that had been run over by automobile tires. As soon as the store closed at night, street people sorted through the bin and the overflow like a collection of rag pickers.
Lucas's eyes fixed on a waxed, cherry-red chopped-down 1932 Ford with a white rolled leather interior and an exposed chromed engine parked in front of the store.
'You know the owner of that car?' I asked.
'It's Darl Vanzandt's.'
'That's right,' I said, and pointed through the glass.
Darl was sorting a box of donated books by pitching them one at a time onto a display table. When the box was empty, he opened the back door and flung it end over end into the alley.
'We need to have a talk with him,' I said.
'What for? I ain't got no interest in Darl.' The rims of his nostrils whitened as though the temperature had dropped seventy degrees.
'It'll just take a minute.'
'Not me. No, sir.'
He backed away from me, then turned and walked back to the car.
I got in beside him.
'What's the problem?' I asked.
'I don't fool with East Enders, that's all.'
He twisted at a callus on his palm.
'All of them, or just Darl?'
'You don't know how it is.'
'I grew up here.'
'They look down on you. Darl knows how to make people feel bad about themselves.'
'Like how?'
'In metal shop, senior year, he was making Chinese stars in the foundry, these martial arts things you can sail at people and put out an eye with. Darl was hogging the sand molds, and this kid says, "I got to pour my mailbox hangers or I won't get my grade," and Darl goes, "You got an S for snarf. Get out of the way."
'The kid says, "What's a snarf?"
'Darl says, "You don't got a mirror at home?"
'After school Darl catches the kid out in front of everybody and says, "Hey, a snarf is a guy who gets off sniffing girls' bicycle seats. But I had you made wrong. You don't get an S. You get an F for frump. That's a guy cuts farts in the bathtub and bites the bubbles."'
Lucas's cheeks were blotched with color.
'Would Darl beat a girl with his fists, Lucas?'
'My father needs me back in the field,' he answered.
That evening I opened up all the windows in the third floor of my house and let the breeze fill the rooms with the smells of alfalfa and distant rain and ozone and dust blowing out of the fields.
The house seemed to resonate with its own emptiness. I stood by the side of the hand-carved tester bed that had been my parents', my fingers resting on the phone, and looked out over the barn roof and windmill and the fields that led down to the clay bluffs over the river. Lightning with no sound quivered on a green hill in the west.
I punched in Mary Beth Sweeney's number.