Cholo's funeral was held three days later in a white stucco church with a red tile roof and a small neat yard next to the elementary school he had once attended, the only well-maintained buildings in a neighborhood of dilapidated one-story, flat-roofed homes that could have been machine-gun bunkers. His fellow gangbangers tried to turn the funeral into a statement about themselves, dressing out in black cloaks with scarlet linings, posting somber-faced, narrowed-eyed lookouts in the church vestibule and parking lot. But basically it was a pathetic affair. The back pews were empty; the gangbangers sweated inside their cloaks and smelled themselves; obese women in black wept with such histrionics that the other mourners took deep breaths and raised their eyebrows wearily; and Cholo lay in a cheap wood casket, dressed in a shiny suit that looked like it had been rented for a graduation ceremony, a rose in the lapel, his hair stiff with grease against the rayon pillow, a rosary wrapped around fingers that still had dirt under the nails.
If there were two people there who seemed genuinely saddened, it was Ronnie Cruise and Esmeralda Ramirez. They sat on opposite sides of the church. Neither looked at the other, nor at anyone around them.
I caught Ronnie on the church steps after the service.
"You're the man," I said.
"You're always talking in code. I don't understand what you're saying. I think you got shit for brains being here," he replied.
He got in his car and drove away. I followed him to the graveside service, then to the rural slum neighborhood where he lived. He turned into his dirt driveway, staring in the rearview mirror when I turned in behind him. But he went inside as though I were not there.
The house had probably been built from a double-wide trailer and modified and added on to over the years. There was a picture window in front, a carport on the side, and the bottom portion of the walls was covered with a half-brick shell, to affect a suburban 1950s home. A solitary mimosa grew like a huge green fan in the dirt yard, and in back, beyond the carport, I could see banana trees bending in the wind along a drainage ditch.
A woman with breasts like watermelons and black hair wrapped in a bun on her head opened the front door and looked at me with a neutral expression, then closed it again. A moment later Ronnie came from around back, barefoot now, in a pair of beltless jeans and a T-shirt, a bird dog pup trailing behind him.
"Why'd you say I was the man?" he asked.
"Cholo's dead. That means you're going on the stand."
"For what?"
"To tell everyone about Earl Deitrich's dealings with Cholo."
"That's called hearsay. Even I know that much."
"It's called a subpoena. You'll be in court of your own accord or you'll be there in handcuffs, Ronnie."
"I've heard it before. I'm gonna be picking up the soap in the county bag. It don't flush."
"Cholo was murdered," I said.
"You mean the guy busted a vein in Cholo's head?"
"I've got a friend named Doc Voss. He's buds with the pathologist who did the postmortem on Cholo. The pathologist thinks a toxic substance of some kind was rubbed in Cholo's face. Something that acts like cyanide."
"Thinks?"
"This ex-con, Johnny Krause, the guy who got Cholo into the ring? He loaded up a vice snitch with angle iron and put him in the San Jacinto River for Sammy Mace."
Ronnie pulled on an earlobe, then picked up a soft cloth off a workbench under the carport and rubbed it on the hood of his T-Bird.
"Sammy Mace's dead. He got blown away by a cop a year or so back," he said.
"I think Johnny Krause found a new employer. I'd like to ask him that, but nobody can find him. You have the same information on Earl Deitrich that Cholo did. Where's that leave you, Ronnie? You want Johnny Krause looking you up?"
He held up one palm and ticked at a callus with his thumb, staring at it as though it held special meaning for him. He hooked his thumbs inside the pockets of his jeans and looked at a spot six inches to the right of my head and sucked in his cheeks, then cleared his throat before he spoke.
"Your boy, the one sleeping with Esmeralda? He don't run scared. But you think I do. Is it 'cause I'm Mexican and you think I'm dumb or 'cause I got a sheet and I ain't as good as other people and you can work my stick? I think you better go, Mr. Holland. I don't want you coming around my mother's house no more."
Later that afternoon I looked out my back porch and saw Pete sitting on the top rail of Beau's fence. I picked up a glass of iced tea and took a can of Pepsi from the icebox and walked out to the lot. The breeze smelled of rain out in the hills and the windmill had turned north, its blades ginning furiously.
"What you doing out here by yourself, bud?" I asked.
"You said we was gonna look for arrowheads." He ignored the can of Pepsi I balanced on the rail.
"Sorry, I forgot. Let's hitch the trailer on the truck and get Beau in."
But his face remained preoccupied. He kept squeezing a half dollar in his palm and looking at the red lines it made in his skin.
"I seen Ms. Deitrich in town," he said.
"Oh yeah, Ms. Deitrich."
"She was coming out of the grocery. She had two big sacks in her arms. One was fixing to split. I tried to take it from her before the milk bottle broke on the cement."
He stopped and watched Beau walking from the pasture toward the lot.
"Go on," I said.
"She said I was gonna make her drop it. She said, 'You're in the way. Take your hands off the bag.'"
"She didn't mean anything by it."
"You weren't there. She was mad. The bag split all over her hood. She said, 'See what you made me do?'"
"I guess she was having a bad day, Pete."
"After she got her stuff in the car, she dug a half dollar out of her purse and said, 'Go buy yourself some ice cream or something. Go on, now. Next time just let big people work out their problems. You're a little too nosy sometimes.'"
He climbed down from the fence and looked at the late sun as though it contained an insult.
"I don't want her durn money. I stopped to hep 'cause she was having trouble," he said.
"I don't see her, Pete, so I don't know what to tell you."
He ringed the edge of the half dollar with his index finger and flung it toward the tank. He watched it arch out of the light into the grass. His face was hot and dusty and there were moist lines that had dried on his cheeks.
"Where you goin'?" I said.
"Home."
"Beau's going to be disappointed if we don't take him out."
"How come she acted like that? I thought she was nice. She ain't no different from the people my mother hangs with up at the beer joint. They're nice long as somebody is watching them."
The answer to his question was not one I wanted to think about.
It was almost sunset when Pete and I rode up a creek-bed between two steep-sided hills that were deep in shadow and moist with springs that leached out of the rocks. Beau's hooves scraped on the flat plates of stone along the creekbank and I could feel Pete's weight swaying back and forth behind the saddle.
"You don't think these was Apaches living along here?" he said.
"Too far east," I replied.
"Maybe they was Comanches."
"Too far south."
"Then what was they?"
"Probably Tonkawas."
"The ones that let the Texans run them up into Oklahoma?"
"That's the bunch."
"They don't sound too interesting," he said.
We got down from Beau and I unhooked the strap of my rucksack from his pommel and we walked through heavy brush to a faint trail that angled up the hillside through pine trees and soft ground that was green from the moisture in the drainage. Scrub brush and redbud trees grew close into the cliff wall, and if you looked carefully you could see a ragged opening behind the foliage.
"I heard some people in town say Wilbur Pickett's wife is crazy," he said.
"You believe that?" I asked.
"No. I feel sorry for her."
"Because she's blind?"
"No. 'Cause they're scared of her. Scared people hurt you."
"You're a smart kid, Pete."
"I wish we could stay up here all the time. It's a perfect place. There ain't nobody around but just us."
The trail leveled out on a bench and we walked between the scrub brush and the cliff wall to an opening in the rock, close to the ground, no more than three feet in diameter, that looked like it had been gouged out of prehistoric clay by a huge thumb. It was black inside and we could feel the coolness of the air puffing against our faces and smell the wetness of the stone and the odor of field mice that nested on the ledges where the cave's ceiling rose much higher than the entrance.
The sun's last rays were pink on the crests of the ravine and I could hear Beau blowing down below. I untied the rucksack and opened my pocketknife and began slicing a red onion and a roll of salami and a loaf of French bread on a rock. Pete pulled my flashlight out of the sack and played with the switch, clicking it off and on, then squatted down and shined the beam back into the cave.
"Somebody's living here, Billy Bob," he said.
I stooped down beside him and looked through the entrance. Vinyl garbage bags had been split open and spread on the silt floor of the cave and a large sheet of canvas flattened on top of them in what looked like a sleeping area. A firepit had been dug close to the entrance, and smoke had blackened one wall and part of the overhang. Venison bones protruded like teeth from the ash in the center of the pit and there was a glycerin shine from meat drippings on the firestones.
Cans of Spam and sardines and Vienna sausage and boxes of cookies and crackers were stacked along a board shelf someone had wedged into the wall. A shiny gallon molasses can filled with water was covered with a piece of cheesecloth to keep out dust. Two sleeping bags were rolled and snugged tightly with clothesline cord, as though the owners lived in preparation for leaving hurriedly. Propped upside down with sticks against the wall was a pair of scuffed work shoes with leather strings and hook eyelets at the top of the tongues.
"You reckon it's some bums come up from the train track?" Pete asked.
I picked up one of the work shoes and turned it over in my hands. "That's jailhouse-issue, Pete. Let's leave this be."
"You mean these guys might be escaped convicts?"
"Could be."
"We gonna call the sheriff's department?"
"I don't figure it's our business."
"They're in our cave. They're messing it up. They probably go to the bathroom anyplace they feel like. I bet they got B.O."
"Pete?"
"What?"
"Don't say any more. Let's get Beau and leave quietly. Forget what we saw here."
He looked at me quizzically, one eye squinted partly shut.
We rode Beau up the ravine, out of the shadows into the sun's last yellow glow against the sky. Then we crossed a glade full of wildflowers and looked out on the valley owned by Peggy Jean and Earl Deitrich and, directly down below, their white home couched like a giant gold-streaked molar in the hillside.
I heard the sound of an engine grinding down a two-track road from the pines above us. Then I saw the black roll-bar Jeep turn out of the road and head toward us through the glade, the grass and wildflowers pressing flat into the soil under the Jeep's cleated tires.
Four young men sat in the Jeep, wearing shades and T-shirts and camouflage pants, their arms and foreheads red with fresh sunburn, bolt-action scoped rifles propped next to them. I felt Pete's hands tighten involuntarily on my waist.
The driver, Jeff Deitrich, pulled the Jeep in front of us and put the transmission in neutral. He grinned lazily at me, his eyes hidden by his shades.
"How you doin', Billy Bob?" he said.
"Not bad. Y'all aren't hunting out of season, are you?" I said, smiling back at him.
"The cops haven't been able to find your friend Doolittle. We thought we'd help out," he said.
"Let's see if I have your friends' names right. You're Hammie, you're Warren, and you're Chug," I said, moving my finger from one to the next.
"Pretty good," Jeff said. "What are you doing on our property, Billy Bob?"
"This isn't yours. The state has an easement through here."
"Don't argue with a lawyer," he said.
"Skyler Doolittle is for the most part a harmless man," I said.
"He's gonna be a lot more harmless if we find him," Chug said. He drank out of a quart bottle of milk, his face round and flushed with heat, his throat working steadily.
I flipped the ends of Beau's reins idly on the back of my wrist.
"Jessie is another matter, though. He's half white trash and half Comanche Indian. He'll tie you down in your bed and put a sock in your mouth and skin you like a deer. Ask the sheriff, Chug," I said.
The three passengers in the Jeep looked at one another. The one named Warren stuck an unlit cigarette in his mouth, then pulled it out and rolled the barrel of the cigarette back and forth between his fingers.
"The people at the state mental hospital thought they'd blow out his aggressions with electroshock. He bit through the rubber gag, then got a hand free and chewed a technician's finger off," I said.
"My uncle used to hire Jessie Stump to clean gum off the seats at the Rialto. He got stuck in the chimney when he tried to rob the hardware store. The county jail in Llano wouldn't take him because he's not toilet trained. Good try, counselor," Jeff said, and laughed, then drove back on the two-track road. But his passengers were silent, their expressions dull with either fatigue or reconsideration about the wisdom of hunting Jessie Stump.
The wind dented the grass and flowers in the glade and a drop of rain stung me in the eye like a BB.
"The guys they're looking for are living in our cave, ain't they?" Pete said.
"That'd be my guess."
"Are those stories true about Jessie Stump?"
I wet my lips. "I kind of made those up," I said.
"I don't like to hear about stuff like that, Billy Bob. I don't want to come up here for a while. Don't lie to me about Jessie Stump, neither. It means you don't respect me."
I turned around in the saddle and looked at him. But his eyes stared at the ground as it moved past us, as though our shadows knew each other in ways we did not. He removed his hands from my waist and rested them on the can tie.