"How pathetic is that?" Jim Bob said.
The next morning at nine, Bode, Jim Bob, Mandy, Ranger Hank, and the thirteen Mexican children stood just inside the front entrance at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport and stared at the mass of humanity waiting in line at the security checkpoint to be scanned, searched, patted down, felt up, and otherwise subjected to personal humiliation by employees of the Transportation Security Administration.
"Like sheep lining up to be slaughtered," Jim Bob said. "American citizens letting a government employee violate them, just because they're scared."
"This is bullshit," Bode said.
" Caca de toro, " Miguel said from behind Bode.
Not an exact translation, but close enough.
"It is indeed," Jim Bob said. "All a president has to do is promise to make these sheep safe and secure, and they'll hand over their constitutional rights. Just to fly on a plane."
"Not that," Bode said. "That I've got to fly commercial, go through security like everyone else."
"Oh. Yes, you do."
"Why can't we take the state jet?"
"I told you, Bode, you can fly the Gulfstream all over Texas because Texans don't care. You're Republican, they're Republican, they're gonna vote for you no matter what. Democrats and Independents are irrelevant in Texas."
His phone rang. He checked the caller ID-"MSNBC… as if"-then muted the ringer.
"But if you want to play politics on a national stage, we've got to change your game for a national audience. It's a different market. For some reason-mental illness, lack of education, bad parenting-not everyone in the other forty-nine states is Republican. So things that wouldn't raise an eyebrow in Texas go viral in other states."
"What's that got to do with flying commercial?"
"Because that national audience got mad as hell when they saw Pelosi flying around the country on private jets at taxpayer expense and Boehner skirting the security lines at Reagan Airport. But Pelosi and Boehner did it anyway, because they're tone deaf to the people. Because they think they're better than the people. Bode Bonner doesn't."
"I don't?"
"No. You don't. Bode Bonner is a populist, a man of the people. He flies commercial, he stands in the security line like everyone else, he goes through the scanner like everyone else, he gets felt up like everyone else…"
"He does?"
"He does."
Bode sighed. "Jim Bob, you sure about this?"
The Professor pointed at the security line.
"The path to the White House starts at the back of that line."
"Are we at least flying first class?"
The Professor now regarded Bode as he would a D student.
"Hell, yes, we're flying first class. You and me. Mandy and the kids and Hank are back in coach. We'll go through security with this rabble, but we're sure as hell not sitting back in coach with them for four hours."
But it was a long journey from where he now stood to a safe seat in first class. He had to go through security, walk down the terminal to the gate, loiter among the citizens for an hour, subject himself to possible verbal abuse-a Republican governor out among Democratic voters-and otherwise expose himself to enemy fire. This was his first public appearance since he had shot three Mexicans dead. How would the public react? More specifically, how would the liberals in Austin react? Would he again be greeted with "You're a fucking Nazi!"? Would they toss the f-word and perhaps fast food at him? Would they shoot angry glares and middle fingers at him? And he couldn't exactly hide; he stood six-feet-four-inches tall, and everyone in Texas knew Bode Bonner on sight.
"Jim Bob, you really think this is a good idea? This ain't Lubbock."
"Trust me."
Bode felt as if he were taking the field against Oklahoma-in Oklahoma. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
"Let's do it."
As soon as they took their place at the back of the security line, Bode knew why the Professor had earned a Ph. D. in politics. An obese woman smelling like McDonald's and wearing a stretch sweat suit-why do they do that? — just in front turned to Bode, stared up at him as if in disbelief, and then cried out in a shrill voice.
"Oh, my God! You're Bode Bonner!" She held up her cell phone. "I'm one of your followers!"
The man in front of her turned and stared at Bode. His eyes got wide, and he cried out, "Bode Bonner!" The woman in front of him turned and shrieked, "Bode Bonner-in line with us!" Word ran up and down the serpentine security line and people turned to him like dominoes dropping "Bode Bonner!"
"He's in line with us!"
"Can you believe it?"
— until every person standing in line was staring at him and pointing at him and grinning at him with faces as bright as Becca's when he had surprised her with a pony for her fifth birthday. Their hands instinctively came up armed with cell phones. Hundreds of little lights flashed like machine-gun fire and voices called out to him.
"You the man, Bode!"
"Way to go, Governor!"
"We got your back!"
"Send all them Mexicans home in body bags!"
And then the chant rose up from the crowd.
"Bo-de! Bo-de! Bo-de!"
His worries evaporated like spit on the sidewalk in August. He stood there and took it all in and let the people's admiration wash over him like a star athlete who had just won the big game-or a war hero home with victory in hand. And maybe he was. Maybe this was a war. A culture war. The Second Mexican War. A war the American people wanted desperately to win. Maybe they had found their hero.
"Bo-de! Bo-de! Bo-de!"
Stubby arms suddenly clasped him around his waist and put him in a death grip.
"Take my picture, Earl!"
Aw, shit, the fat woman wanted her photo with him.
Bode cleared security first after enduring the full-body scan; he hoped his manliness made him proud on the screen. He put his boots and belt back on and pushed his wallet and other personal items into his pockets. Jim Bob emerged next, grumbling something about "Russia and the goddamned KGB."
"How'd you know these people would react like that?" Bode said.
"I didn't. I had a hunch. Now all those cell phone photos will be posted online, picked up by the news outlets. Bode Bonner, man of the people."
Two of those people, round white-haired women, waddled over in their bare feet and wrapped their Michelin man arms around Bode and squeezed tight. They released him, and one said, "You're even better looking than Regis Philbin." They turned and went over to the conveyor belt to retrieve their personal items.
"Cat ranchers," Bode said.
"Cat ranchers?"
"You go to their house, I guarantee you they got two dozen cats each."
"You're a cattle rancher. You got what, five thousand head?"
"Yeah, but I can eat a cow."
"Never know with those women."
The kids trickled through next. Then Ranger Hank emerged. Even a Texas Ranger could not carry weapons onto a commercial flight, so he had to empty his holster and pockets. Out from the holster came the nine-millimeter handgun and two spare ammo clips, the Taser, the Mace, the cuffs, the flashlight (actually a sledgehammer with a light on the end), and the sap (an eleven-inch leather strap with a lead weight at one end); from one cowboy boot came a. 22-caliber pistol; from the other boot came a compact serrated knife with a T-type push grip; and from his pants pocket came a rolled-up sleeve of quarters, a substitute for brass knuckles, which were illegal in Texas. Hank walked over in his white socks and carrying his cowboy boots and looking as if he had just undergone a body cavity search.
"Think you got enough weapons there, Hank?" Jim Bob said.
They all gathered around and waited for Josefina and Mandy, who was sticking close to the shy girl now. The TSA screeners waved Mandy through.
But they stopped Josefina.
They pulled her out for a pat-down. Her expression showed her confusion. Mandy stepped over to the screener and said, "She doesn't speak English." A Latino screener spoke to her in Spanish, and little Josefina now understood. She screamed.
"?No, no, no! "
The security line froze. Screeners and armed TSA guards swarmed the scene like a SWAT team, surrounding the little Mexican girl. Her brown eyes turned to Bode. She was crying. He groaned.
"Aw, shit."
Ranger Hank stepped forward, but Bode stopped him.
"I'll handle it, Hank."
Bode hitched up his jeans for the turf battle he knew would ensue. He had fought many such battles in his years as governor, as all governors had, over education standards, air pollution permits, water quality, prison conditions, Medicaid, and taking Mexican kids into custody on a West Texas ranch. The Feds would fight you over anything and everything just because they could. Because they had the power to make your life miserable. To withhold federal funds. The EPA was perennially the worst offender, of course, but the HHS and HUD, DOJ and DOE, ICE and FEMA and OSHA and even the USDA weren't far behind. But since its creation, the DHS-Department of Homeland Security-and its airport storm troopers-the TSA-seemed determined to take federal arrogance to levels never before seen outside the Supreme Court Building, treating airline passengers as suspects and patting down old folks, people in wheelchairs, and even young children.
"She's just a kid!"
Josefina's TSA screener was overweight and wore a United States badge, never a good combination. By the time Bode arrived and stepped between Josefina and the screener, Mandy was in her face.
"She's scared!"
"Ma'am," the screener said in the way that let you know she wasn't saying "ma'am" out of common courtesy but only because her work rules required her to, "she either gets patted down or she don't get on the plane."
" Doesn't," Mandy said.
Correcting a federal employee's grammar was always a mistake, in Bode's experience. The screener leaned her massive body toward Mandy as if to intimidate the oh-so-lithe Mandy, but Bode's gal held her ground. Mandy Morgan was a tough little broad. Bode figured he'd better break this up before blows were exchanged.
"She's with me," he said.
The screener's glare remained fixed on Mandy.
"Then you better get her outta my face so I can do my job."
"Not Mandy… well, she's with me, too, but I mean the girl. Josefina."
The screener now pivoted like a politician after a bad poll and faced Bode. The realization of who was standing in front of her came across her face, but not in a good way. Her expression changed from a woman itching for a cat fight to a Democrat still angry because four years ago her candidate had lost to the man standing before her.
"Governor, she can be with God Himself, but she's gonna get patted down."
Great, a federal employee with attitude. But then, he was being redundant.
"Look, the girl suffered a traumatic experience, I'm sure you saw the story on TV."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Where have you been the last three days?"
"Here. Working overtime. People got the flu."
That's the thing about disease that always frustrated Bode: those who should get it never did.
"Well, she's in a very delicate state right now, and your patting her down would not be good for her."
"Wouldn't be good for the passengers on that plane if she's carrying a bomb."
"A bomb? " Bode moved just enough to reveal Josefina hiding behind him. "Does she look like a terrorist?"
"We're not allowed to engage in profiling."
"Just in stupidity?"
That really didn't help matters.
"Step aside, Governor."
"No."
The armed guards stepped closer. The crowd in the security line had grown restless and vocal.
"You tell 'em, Governor!"
"They're supposed to be working for us!"
"This ain't Russia!"
"Don't worry, Governor-we got your back!"
As much as Bode enjoyed the thought of decking a federal employee, having the governor of Texas wrestled to the ground by the armed guards on national TV-cell phone cameras rose above the crowd to record the moment-might not be the best political move, so he tried to defuse the situation.
"Would you please call your supervisor?"
She gave him a "proceed straight to hell without passing GO" look then said into her shoulder-mounted microphone: "Supervisor, gate eight security. A-S-A-P."
It didn't take long for an older man to arrive in a golf cart. He stepped out with a two-way radio in his left hand and walked over with a slight limp. He assessed the situation then stuck his right hand out to Bode.
"Governor-what's the problem?"
Bode shook hands and checked the supervisor's nameplate-"Ted Jenkins"-then motioned Ted away a few steps. Josefina stuck close to him.
"Ted, you been watching the news, what happened this past weekend out in West Texas? The shooting?"
"Yes, sir. Good job."
Thank God-a Republican.
"Used to work Border Patrol," Ted said, "till some border bandits shot me in the leg. Couldn't foot chase no more, so I transferred to TSA."
"So you heard about the children being held captive-"
"Yes, sir."
— "and that a girl was held as a sex slave for over a year?"
"Yes, sir."
Bode leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Well, Ted, this little girl behind me-that's her."
Ted's face registered his shock. He peeked around Bode at Josefina.
"She's just a kid."
"Yes, Ted, she is just a kid. Who's terrified of being touched by anyone, especially strangers. If your screener pats her down, she's likely to have a psychotic episode, fall down to the floor screaming, probably start foaming at the mouth. Right here in your airport."
"A psychotic episode?"
"And it'll all be caught on those cell phone cameras"-Ted glanced back at the crowd aiming cell phones their way-"and shown on national TV tonight. A TSA screener touching a little girl's private parts, a little girl who was raped daily for a year by three men who worked for a Mexican drug cartel, a little girl I saved from being killed by those same men just three days ago. And this is how she's treated by the American government?"
"Shit."
"Shit is right, Ted. And you and I both know that in politics shit rolls downhill. Fast. The press will jump all over the president and that ball of shit is gonna start rolling downhill from Washington and by the time it arrives at this airport in Austin and drops on your head, it's gonna be one big pile of shit, Ted."
Ted considered the situation: he had his screener-with-attitude standing with her fists embedded in her wide hips and a scowl on her face; he had the governor of Texas offering him advice, man to man; he had little Josefina, terrified with tears running down her puffy cheeks, hiding behind the aforesaid governor; he had a crowd of angry citizens armed with cell phone cameras; and he had his government career.
He chose his career.
"Fuck it," Ted said in a barely audible voice. He turned to his screener. "LaShawna, the girl's good."
LaShawna glared at her boss a long moment then pointed a fat finger at Bode.
"Then I wanna pat him down!"
Ted sighed heavily. "Give it up, LaShawna." To Bode, in a low voice: "She washed out at the police academy, but we hired her. Go figure. Have a good trip, Governor. You got my vote if you run for president."
Ted twirled a finger above his head as if to say, Move out! The crowd cheered.
"You the man, Governor!"
Bode nudged Josefina away from the checkpoint-"Let's go, honey." When she realized she was free to go, the fear drained from her face. Her brown eyes lifted to him, and she tugged on his shirt. He leaned down to her. She tapped a finger on his chest and said through tears, " El hombre."
"I need a bourbon," Bode said.
They had survived security and economy-fare coach class and were now safely ensconced in full-fare first class. The flight to L.A. would take three and a half hours, with a sexy stew serving them bourbon and steak. When Bode went to the lavatory, she slipped him a card with her phone number. She was based in L.A. Mandy was back in coach.
Bode decided to check on the kids. He ventured into the crowded coach section and was again greeted like a war hero. Hands shot into the air for high-fives and autographs. Passengers stood for cell phone photos with him. The going was slow, so it was twenty minutes later before he arrived at the rear of the plane where Hank, Mandy, and the kids occupied the last three rows. Hank had crammed his six-foot-six, two-hundred-sixty pound body into the coach-class seat; he looked like an unhappy teenager in a baby stroller. The kids were digging into box lunches. They were again decked out in Gap clothes, and their newly cleaned teeth gleamed bright in the cabin light. Alejandro and Vincente wore new glasses; both boys were as blind as bats. They'd all been given clean bills of health by the pediatrician. Josefina was neither pregnant nor infected with a sexually transmitted disease. She would see a therapist when they returned to Austin.
"Those sandwiches okay?"
"Bode, these kids have been eating squirrels cooked over a campfire for the last year," Mandy said. "Ham-and-cheese sandwiches, potato chips, and oatmeal cookies, this is gourmet for them." She took a bite of her sandwich and shrugged. "Actually, it's not that bad."
Little Josefina sat in the window seat and stared out at the blue sky. She hadn't touched her lunch.
"Josefina."
Her eyes turned to him.
"You okay??Bueno? "
She gave him a shy nod.
"Hi, Governor."
The coach-class stew had arrived.
"Hi"-he checked her nameplate-"Carol. I'm Bode Bonner."
She grinned. "Like I don't know? I'm a follower! I got your tweet that you'd be on our flight. The girls haven't been this excited since David Hasselhoff flew with us." She held out a napkin. "Would you autograph this for me?"
He signed the napkin.
"All these kids, they're with me."
Her eyes got wide. "These are the kids you rescued? Oh, my God!"
"I'd appreciate it if you'd take real good care of them."
"Of course, I will-I got your back, Governor."
She held up an open hand for a high-five; he obliged.
"And this is Mandy. She's watching them."
Mandy mumbled a hello through a mouthful of ham and cheese.
"You need anything at all, you let me know," Carol said.
Emilio raised his hand.
"What do you need, Emilio?"
" Yo soy Ernesto."
"Oh, yeah… Ernesto. You need something?"
A blank face.
"?Que necesita? " Mandy said to him.
He made a gesture as if drinking and said, "?Leche de cabra? "
"You want… leche… milk… de… of the…"
"Goat," Mandy said then shrugged. "It's like a Spanish immersion class."
"Uh, we don't have goat's milk, Governor," Carol the stew said. "But we do have cow's milk."
"That'll work. Bring thirteen."
The milk run arranged, Bode returned to first class and his steak lunch. Jim Bob wanted to spend the flight time prepping for the upcoming television appearances, but Bode got the steak and a few bourbons down him and decided to enjoy the attention from the stewardess-her name was "Su, without the e"-and the other passengers in first class asking for his autograph and photos with him. He enjoyed the moment-until a guy dressed like a CEO came up and ruined the moment.
"Governor, you've got to run for president. Business needs you. The country needs you." He lowered his voice and leaned in. "We need a white man in the White House."
Bode Bonner had played football with black guys, showered with black guys, roomed with black guys, and chased white girls with black guys. Many had been his friends back then and some still were today. They always greeted each other with man-hugs at team reunions. When you fought together on a football field, you didn't give a damn what color your teammates were, only that they wanted to win as much as you did. So Bode Bonner didn't take kindly to anyone assuming he was a racist just because he was a Republican. He got in the guy's face.
"Hey, bud, I don't like that racist crap. So you best get your butt back in your seat before I stick my boot up your first-class ass."
First-class passengers departed first at L.A. International Airport. Bode hoped to avoid more commingling with the coach class at the baggage claim so he grabbed his carry-on baggage and hurried up the jet way and into the terminal and A flash of bright light momentarily blinded him.
He blinked hard and saw black spots. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the lights-the bright lights of news cameras. Someone screamed, "Bode Bonner!" and thunderous applause broke out. The crowdCalifornians! — gave the governor of Texas a standing ovation. Bode recovered quickly and smiled broadly. He pushed forward; hands reached out to touch him. He signed autographs while men and women leaned close and took self-photos with cell phones. Voices called out to him from the crowd.
"You're the man, Bode!"
"Bode, you're our hero!"
"Run for president! Please!"
He felt as if he were in Lubbock instead of L.A. Jim Bob caught up with him.
"How'd they know we were coming today?"
"I tweeted. This'll be on the local news tonight, national in the morning."
"You're good."
"This is what I do."
On the PA system, a deep voice announced: "Governor Bode Bonner, arriving at Gate 4, your ground transportation is waiting outside baggage claim."
Which had almost the same effect on the terminal as an announcement that George Clooney was standing buck naked at Gate 4. The crowd surged toward them. Mandy herded the kids off the plane, and they took a victory lap through LAX. Ranger Hank took point and cleared a path through the gauntlet of cell phone cameras. As they passed each gate, waiting passengers picked up on the applause that was washing through the terminal like a tidal wave and continued all the way to the baggage claim. They waited for their luggage-one bag for each kid, Hank, Bode, and Jim Bob, and four for Mandy-with his new fans who followed him outside to a waiting "Limo?" Jim Bob stood on the sidewalk as if horrified at the sight of the long black limousine. "Mandy, you got us a limo?"
"For all the kids. We couldn't take five cabs."
"You should've gotten a hotel van. Okay, let's get in before they take too many pictures."
They all jumped into the limousine, safe from the cameras behind blacked-out windows. Hank rode shotgun, and the kids took seats down both sides; Mandy made sure they were buckled in, then joined Jim Bob and Bode on the rear seat. She squeezed tight and said, "Gosh, honey, you're almost as popular as Kim Kardashian."
It was eighty degrees in L.A., so they stopped on Rodeo Drive-Alejandro was disappointed; he thought they were going to a real rodeo-and bought swimsuits for the boys at Brooks Brothers and the girls at Ralph Lauren. While Bode signed autographs and took photos with the cute clerk and shoppers, he noticed Josefina staring at a yellow dress and touching it as if it were gold. The "Bode Bonner Reelection Campaign" bought the $600 dress for her.
They were now poolside at the hotel in Beverly Hills. Jim Bob's pale flesh glowed in the sun, so they found lounge chairs in a shady corner and ordered sodas and strawberry daiquiris. Ranger Hank stood guard, as if Bode Bonner were a movie star, Mandy stood by the pool, looking stunning in her new black bikini, and the kids stood at water's edge, as if they had never before swum in a pool.
"They haven't," Mandy said.
Bode dove into the pool then coaxed the children in. The boys finally jumped in, but Josefina sat on the ledge and dangled her feet in the water. Mandy sat next to her, and they shared a little girl talk. Jim Bob fiddled with his phone. Bode tossed Carlos into the deep end. He came up sputtering and splashing wildly "They can't swim!" Mandy cried.
— so Bode plucked him out of the water and carried him to the shallow end.
"Sorry about that, Carlos."
"Bode!"
Mandy pointed at Filiberto. He had climbed the steps and was unzipping his swimsuit, apparently to pee in the pool.
"No, no, Filiberto!"
Bode waded through the water and over to the boy.
"No peeing in the pool."
"?Que pasa? "
"Mandy, what's the word for peeing?"
"I don't know."
Bode motioned to the cabana with restrooms.
"Toilet."
"Ah."
Filiberto trotted over to the restroom. A Latino waiter approached their position; Hank blocked his path. He had been as jumpy as Jim Bob since the shooting.
"Hank, he's just bringing our daiquiris."
Bode got out of the pool and grabbed a daiquiri and the lounge next to Jim Bob. But he noticed a group of women on the far side who didn't seem pleased to see brown-skinned kids in the pool, especially in light of the fact that they were probably peeing in the pristine water at that very moment. The Professor opened his black notebook.
"We had a good overnight. Your Twitter followers topped a million, and the CNN poll puts you at twenty percent among Republicans. The shooting went down 'approve' with Independents, 'strongly approve' with Republicans, and 'holy shit, shoot some more Mexicans' with the tea partiers. It even polled positive with thirty percent of Democrats."
"Good."
"Except now you're in the cross hairs. Any Republican who looks like he could challenge Obama, the liberal media goes gunning for him, hard, because they want Romney. They know Americans will never elect a Mormon president."
"Which means…?"
"They'll try to make you look stupid, like they did with Bush and Palin."
"It worked."
"Difference is, you're sneaky smart."
"Sneaky smart?"
"You're a lot smarter than folks figure."
"Thanks… I think."
"It's a good thing to be underestimated, Bode, especially in politics. Bush and Palin, they're sneaky stupid-they're both stupider than everyone figured and everyone figured they were pretty stupid. So making them look stupid on national TV was easy. You being a Texan, everyone's going to naturally assume you're just as stupid. But you're not. You're a helluva lot smarter. So they'll underestimate you and-BAMM! — you prove you're smarter than they thought. Which makes you look real smart."
Bode nodded. "It's like sneaky fast. I hated sneaky fast receivers. They look like they should be slow, then-BAMM! — they blow right past you and leave you holding your jockstrap." He sipped his daiquiri. "Sneaky smart. I like it, Professor."
Bode checked on the boys; they were apparently trying a Mexican version of waterboarding on Miguel-"Hey, let him up!" — and then he checked on the women across the way. They waved the pool attendant over.
"Now, so you don't look sneaky stupid, we've got to prep for the talk shows." The Professor launched into his positions… Bode's positions… on the political issues of the day. "Remember, Bode, the federal budget is four trillion dollars, and there's a voter who's vested in every single dollar. You cut a dollar, you lose a vote. The calculation is that simple. And primary states depend on federal spending…"
Bode's attention drifted away from the Professor and over to the women across the pool. The attendant had come over and then departed. He now returned with a man in a suit. The women seemed quite animated. The suit listened, looked over at them, listened again, looked again. He headed Bode's way.
"… The entire state of Iowa is planted in corn to feed the ethanol plants not people, so you go there and tell those corn farmers you're cutting the ethanol subsidy, your presidential campaign ends in Des Moines."
Bode felt his blood pressure ratchet up, and not because of the ethanol subsidy. He knew the hotel suit was going to tell him the kids must vacate the pool.
"So, Bode, your position on the federal budget and spending is, A, you support a balanced budget amendment; B, we need steep cuts in federal spending; and C, we need to secure our border and deport those damn illegal Mexicans."
Bode's eyes were locked on the hotel suit.
"Okay?"
Bode's thoughts returned to the Professor. He didn't want to confess to having checked out on his prep talk, so he said, "You're the boss, Professor."
The hotel suit arrived and stood over him and blocked out the sun. Bode didn't like being talked down to, so he stood and towered over the suit. Those snotty Beverly Hills women weren't going to keep his Mexican kids out of the hotel pool.
"Uh, Governor…"
"Look, bud," Bode said, pointing at the children in the pool, "those kids are guests just like those women over there-I'm paying for them, they're with me-and they're gonna swim in that goddamned pool as long as they want to, you understand? And no one's gonna-"
"Governor"-the suit held out a pen and hotel stationery-"the ladies just wanted me to ask you for your autograph… and if you'd take a photo with them."
"Governor, after you killed those Mexican hombres, weren't you afraid there might've been more of them who could've come after you? With guns?"
"Aw, hell, Jay, I still had a hundred rounds of ammo and a fast horse."
Twelve hundred miles away in Laredo, Texas, the governor's wife stared at the television in disbelief. Her husband was on the Leno show. And even more unbelievable, he wasn't wearing Armani and French cuffs, but instead a powder blue Oxford shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. His blond hair wasn't sprayed in place; it fell onto his forehead as if he could care less. He looked liked the man she had fallen in love with in Comfort, not the politician who had cheated on her in Austin. He held a long rifle with the butt embedded in the chair seat next to his leg like a cowboy riding shotgun on a stagecoach through Comanche territory. The California crowd cheered Bode Bonner. But there was no cheer inside Lindsay Bonner.
"Does it get any better?" she said.
"The Leno show?" Jesse said.
"Being a doctor and a nurse in the colonias."
The child down by the river had been killed by a stray bullet. She was only four years old. The doctor had explained to his nurse that men in Nuevo Laredo often fired their guns into the air, the same as she had seen men do in news reports from the Middle East, as if the bullets do not come down. But they do, often with great force. Enough force to kill a child. The girl was not the first such victim, and she would not be the last. Twenty-four hours later, they both remained shaken by her death. Holding the child on the riverbank and feeling the life that was no more, it had hurt her in a way she had never before experienced.
"No. It does not get better."
She sighed.
"I wish he wouldn't do that."
"Go on the Leno show?"
"Make jokes about killing those Mexicans. I have a bad feeling about that."