His intern brushed and flossed her teeth after every meal to prevent cavities and gum disease, or so she had advised him. When she returned downstairs, they proceeded through the hotel courtyard, across Texas Street, and south on Highland Avenue past a row of renovated storefronts. The first display window featured a sleek wood desk; stenciled on the window was Evan Hughes, Furniture Design and Fabrication, and below that Marfa, TX Brooklyn, NY. The next storefront sat vacant, but after that was a shop called Stuff that sold stuff. Parked at the curb was an old hea.r.s.e painted in a Wild West motif with horses and cattle and gunslingers; longhorns had been mounted on the grill.

'Odd,' Nadine said.

She abruptly stopped and examined her arm then stuck her hand inside the canvas bag looped over her shoulder and came out with an aerosol can. She sprayed her arms and legs and neck.

'Germs?' Book asked.

She turned the can so he could read the label: OFF!

'Mosquitoes. They carry the West Nile virus. It's an epidemic.'

'In April?'

'You can't be too careful.'

She offered the can to him, but he declined. She was now cleared to continue down the sidewalk. A white two-story adobe-style building with inlaid tile, elaborate wrought iron, and Brite Building 1931 in black print across the front facade occupied the next block. It housed a restaurant called Maiya's behind a red door, the old Marfa National Bank, and the Ayn Foundation gallery. The featured exhibits were by Maria Zerres and Andy Warhol.

'Let's check it out,' Book said.

They entered the gallery. Displayed inside the bare s.p.a.ce were three of Andy Warhol's works based on Da Vinci's The Last Supper. A large black-and-white sketch on one wall depicted Jesus at the Last Supper. On another wall was a color version of Jesus. Another had Jesus next to a bodybuilder with the caption, 'Be a Somebody with a Body.'

'Also odd,' Nadine said.

'What's odd is an Andy Warhol exhibit in Marfa, Texas,' Book said.

'You're doing it again.'

'What?'

'Making up names.'

'I'm not making it up. Andy Warhol's a famous artist.'

'Is he dead?'

'He is.'

They walked outside just as two young men bounced in as if entering a trendy coffee shop in SoHo; they carried iPhones and wore Keds, skinny jeans, white T-shirts-one had WWDJD? stenciled across the front-and porkpie hats like the cop in The French Connection.

'They're gay,' Nadine said when they stepped onto the sidewalk.

They continued south and encountered similar young men engaged in their electronic devices and animated conversations. Book said 'howdy' to the next group and got a look in response. He tried 'hidee' on the next ones and got nothing. They wore black-framed gla.s.ses, mismatched clothing, fedoras and bowler hats, colorful hair that stuck out like porcupine quills, tattoos, and piercings. Boys walked hand in hand, about as common a sight in West Texas as cattle being herded down Fifth Avenue in New York City. The young men acted with the same aloofness the hipster creative types in the SoCo part of Austin displayed, as if trying too hard to appear endowed by G.o.d with genius; which is to say, they acted much the same as law students at UT.

'Also gay,' Nadine said.

'Stop.'

'Just saying.'

'Don't.'

She made a face.

Situated on the north side of the railroad tracks was the old Marfa Wool and Mohair Building. The sandstone-colored building had been converted into an art gallery featuring the works of John Chamberlain. They went inside and were greeted by a young docent wearing a pink T-shirt with Chinati printed across the front. He explained the layout of the exhibit then left them to tour on their own.

'Gay,' Nadine whispered.

Book sighed then turned to his intern.

'Why do you do that?'

A perfectly innocent face.

'What?'

'Your gay or straight game.'

She shrugged. 'It's not a game. It's a basic survival skill in San Francisco. For girls. You know, you get all gooey-eyed over this great-looking guy,turns out he likes boys. It can be pretty embarra.s.sing, especially if you've already taken your clothes off.'

'I would think so.'

'You wouldn't believe how many times that's happened to me.'

'Taking your clothes off?'

'Romancing a gay guy. That ever happened to you?'

'Romancing a gay guy? No.'

'Romancing a lesbian and not knowing it?'

'If I didn't know it, how would I know if it happened?'

'Sounds like a law professor's answer. Of course, the odds of finding a straight guy in San Francisco are about the same as finding a gay guy in West Texas.'

She regarded the gay docent.

'Or not.'

John Chamberlain was not gay. He had four wives and three sons and was a renowned sculptor of automotive steel. b.u.mpers, door panels, fenders-he crushed and twisted the pieces into ma.s.sive modern art. One of his sculptures had sold for $4.7 million just prior to his demise. Twenty-two of his works were displayed in the building in which Book and Nadine now stood. She stared at a mangled steel sculpture t.i.tled Chili Terlingua.

'That's art?'

'Well ...'

'Exactly. Does this Chamberlain guy live here?'

'He's dead.'

'Figures.'

'Marfa sits at the same alt.i.tude as Denver,' Book said. 'Hence, the cooler air.'

'But Denver has a Starbucks,' his intern said. 'Hence, I'd rather be in Denver.'

They proceeded along Highland Avenue until they arrived at a storefront with The Times of Marfa stenciled across the front plate gla.s.s window. Taped to the window was a 'Burn Ban in Effect' notice.

'Small-town publishers, they know everything about everyone-and they trade in information. You give them a little, they'll give you a lot.'

'Like my aunt.'

'Is she in the newspaper business?'

'The gossip business. If I want my mother to know something, I tell my aunt. Faster that way.'

'Well, if you want to know what's going on in a small town, you read the local paper. And if you want to stir the pot in a small town, you put a story in the paper.'

'And do we?'

'Do we what?'

'Want to stir the pot?'

'Yes, Ms. Honeywell, we do.'

'That sounds dangerous.'

'It can be.'

They opened the screen door-the inside door was propped open with a large rock-and stepped into a small office. An older man sat at a desk behind a waist-high counter with his head c.o.c.ked back slightly, apparently so he could focus on the computer screen in front of him through his reading gla.s.ses. He glanced at them over his gla.s.ses then went back to his typing. After a moment, he stood and walked over. He looked like one of the Beach Boys on their fiftieth reunion tour; his hair was white, his eyes blue, and his shirt Hawaiian. He wore a red 'MARFA' cap. A toothpick dangled from his lips like a cigarette. He was the photographer at Nathan Jones's funeral. He stuck a weathered hand across the counter.

'Professor Bookman, I presume.'

They shook hands.

'Sam Walker ... owner, publisher, reporter, typesetter, printer, and delivery boy. I write the paper up front and print it out back. That's what you're smelling, the ink.'

'John Bookman. And Nadine Honeywell, my intern.'

'Welcome to Marfa.' Sam Walker chuckled. 'Boy, you really lit into McConnell and Schumer last Sunday. I like that-you don't play favorites.'

'I don't have favorites.'

'I expect not.'

'How'd you know I was in town?'

'Word travels fast from the Paisano. We know who's in town before they get up to their rooms. We get all kinds of celebrities these days. Robert Redford was in town last week, flew in to see the art. And that Quaid boy-not the one that was in G.I. Joe-'

'G.I. Joe?'

'No, the other one. He and his wife moved here, bought a storefront on Highland next to Evan Hughes's furniture shop, figured on fixin' it up for their home, but then Hollywood hit men came gunning for them so they hightailed it up to Canada.'

'Hollywood hit men?'

'That's what they said. Course, I'm not sure all the lights are on. Anyway, he defaulted on the purchase note, the owner foreclosed, and they had a sheriff's auction on the sidewalk, sold all his stuff.'

'Sounds like you know everything going on in your town.'

'I've lived seventy-two years now, Professor, all but my four college years right here in Marfa and the last fifty right in this spot, observing and reporting. So I keep up with things. Course, it ain't that hard, not when there's only two folks per square mile in all of Presidio County. Only so much news those few folks can create.'

'Is Marfa a better place now than when you started the paper?'

'It's different. Better is a point of view, not a fact.'

'You sound like an old-style newsman.'

'Well, I am old.'

'This the only newspaper in town?'

'In the county. Weekly. Next edition comes out tomorrow.'

Sam held up two mock front pages.

'Slow news week, so I'm trying to decide on the lead story. I got one story about the roller derby returning to Marfa and another about a ton of marijuana found by the Border Patrol in a bulldozer blade. What do you think, Professor?'

'Roller derby.'

'That's what I figured.'

'Mr. Walker-'

'Sam. So you folks come out to see Judd's boxes and Flavin's fluorescent lights?'

'And a former student. Nathan Jones.'

Sam grimaced. 'Boy, that was a d.a.m.n shame. Married, about to be a daddy.'

'Did you know him?'

'Never heard of him till he died last week. Must've been low profile, for me not to know him. Bad accident out on Sixty-seven. Folks out here drive too d.a.m.n fast. Course, when you drive a hundred miles for lunch, hard to drive the speed limit, even if it is eighty.'

'Did you write an article about the accident or an obituary?'