'Well, Deputy-'

'Shirley.'

'Deputy Shirley, I appreciate the offer, but-'

'I've got handcuffs.'

Pedro's Repair Shop was a garage to the side of his house on East Galveston Street past the crumbling adobes with the f.u.c.k U Chin.a.z.is graffiti. Latino music played on a small radio and Pedro Martinez sat on a stool on the dirt ground in front of the garage, wearing reading gla.s.ses and pondering an engine part. They got out and walked over. Brown-skinned children played barefooted in the street. The voice of a woman singing a Mexican ballad and the smell of Mexican food drifted over from the house.

'Pedro's wife, she makes the best tamales in Marfa,' Deputy Shirley said. 'You can get your car fixed and pick up dinner in one stop.'

Pedro watched them over his gla.s.ses as they came toward him.

'Deputy Shirley,' he said.

'Pedro, this is Professor Bookman. He needs his Harley fixed.'

Pedro smiled. 'Ah, the karate professor. I have heard of you.'

'On the public radio?'

'No. We do not listen to that. It is not for us. It is for the rich Anglos from the north. I have heard of you from word of mouth.' He stood. 'Let us look at the bike.'

'I'm gonna get some tamales,' Deputy Shirley said. 'Have a little girl talk with Juanita.'

She headed to the house. Book and Pedro walked to the truck, leaned on the sideboard, and studied the twisted motorcycle. Pedro pondered for a time then nodded.

'I can fix that.'

'You repair Harleys?'

'Si.'

'Have you ever repaired a Harley?'

'No.'

'I don't know. I restored this Harley by hand.'

His father had taught Book how to restore Harleys. It was his dad's hobby. He restored them and then sold them-'Adopted them out,' as he said-to worthy Harleyites.

'And I will repair it by hand,' Pedro said. He was a white-haired man in his sixties, perhaps seventies. He removed his reading gla.s.ses. 'Senor, I am Pedro Martinez. I am known all over Presidio County as the hombre who repairs the vehicles. I can do this.'

Pedro returned to his stool and sat. He replaced the gla.s.ses on his face, turned up the radio, and picked up a wrench.

'So, Senor, do you want that I fix your Harley?'

Book pulled out his pocket notebook and began jotting down the terms of this repair contract. First, the price.

'How much?'

'Oh, mucho dinero.'

Book sighed. Mucho dinero was a bit vague. He put the notebook back in his pocket. Perhaps he would rely on an oral contract.

'I need it soon.'

'Okay. I will do that.'

Deputy Shirley returned with a brown bag. She reached inside and came out with a tamale. She handed it to Book. He hadn't eaten that morning, so he was hungry. He ate the tamale.

'That's good.'

'Si.'

They rolled the Harley down from the truck bed and into Pedro's garage. Book felt as if he were leaving his only child at college. Of course, he didn't have a child and would never have a child; he would not pa.s.s the mutant gene on to another generation of Bookmans. He hoped Joanie had not.

'Pedro, you sure you can do this?'

'Senor, I can repair motorcycles of all makes and models.'

'What kind of bikes have you repaired?'

'Why, just two weeks ago, I repaired a Vespa.'

'A Vespa? That's not exactly the same as a vintage Harley softtail cla.s.sic.'

Pedro shrugged. 'It had only the two wheels, just as your Harley.'

'Two wheels?'

Book knew he was leaving his child at the wrong college.

'Vespas, they're for-'

'La mariposa,' Pedro said.

'Means h.o.m.os.e.xual,' Deputy Shirley said.

Pedro smiled. 'The boy, he was the artista. And the Vespa, it was purple, and it had the Chinati sticker. And he had the purple hair and that tattoo, on his fingers: WWDJD.'

'Kenni with an "i." We met him at the pizza joint.'

'Yes, that was him. Kenni. He wrote his check in the purple ink.'

Book took one last look at the Harley.

'Take care of my Harley, Pedro.'

'His friend sent him to me,' Pedro said. 'Nice boy. He was the-'

Book took a step away.

'-lawyer.'

Book stopped. 'Lawyer? What lawyer?'

'The lawyer who died, in the accident. His picture was in the paper. He brought the mariposa over to pick up the Vespa.'

'Wait. Nathan Jones was here? With Kenni?'

'Si. That was his name. Nathan. I thought he was also the mariposa, but the paper said he had a wife and she is pregnant.'

They got back into the pickup truck. Book tried to process the information about Nathan and Kenni, but his thoughts were interrupted when Deputy Shirley leaned his way and revealed a significant portion of her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

'How 'bout that snow cone, Professor?'

Chapter 27.

Book took a rain check on the snow cone, so Deputy Shirley dropped him at the Pizza Foundation. The purple Vespa was parked outside; inside, Kenni with an 'i' was serving pizzas to a table of roughnecks wearing red Barnett Oil and Gas jumpsuits. Kenni waved at Book; the roughnecks gave him hard looks. Book took a table and waited for him. He pulled out the funeral photo and searched the faces. He found Kenni's face near the back.

'The famous professor.' Kenni had arrived wearing a Don't Frack the Planet T-shirt. 'I heard you on the radio. You sure got the town talking. What would you like today?'

'Information.'

'About what?'

'Not what. Whom. Nathan Jones.'

'Oh.'

Book gestured at the other chair. 'Sit down, Kenni.'

The waiter looked around as if to escape, then he accepted his fate. He sat.

'Talk.'

Kenni picked purple paint from his fingernails. He shrugged.

'Nathan wanted to be an artist. He had talent. Did you see his photos?'

Book nodded. 'At his house.'

'He loved the art scene. He wanted to move to New York, but his wife didn't. Her folks are ranchers, so she had the locals' att.i.tude toward us.'

'How did you meet?'

'At the bookstore. That's like our clubhouse. The artists. We all congregate there. He started coming to the art events. He loved art ... even Chamberlain's car wrecks ... Then he died in a car wreck.'

'Was he gay?'

Kenni picked paint; he finally nodded.

'He had a wife,' Book said.

'He had a double life.'

'Lot of that going on out here.'

'Nathan the lawyer, husband, and father-to-be ... and Nathan the gay artist. He said he hoped his son didn't turn out gay, too.'

'Were you two in a relationship?'

'We were friends ... with benefits. G.o.d, he was gorgeous. He loved that movie, Giant, I don't know why, combed his hair like James Dean ... See?'

Kenni held up his iPhone to show Book a photo of Nathan Jones with his hair standing tall.

'I guess he was trying to figure out who he was, you know, like when I went through my Madonna stage.'

'Did his wife know?'

'I don't think so ... Maybe. Not about me, but about him.'

'Does she need to be tested?'

Kenni shook his head. 'Nathan protected her. He loved her. I'm HIV negative, so was he.'

'Did Jimmy John know?'

'Oh, G.o.d, no. They were friends, but Nathan would never have told him about us. He calls us queers, Jimmy John. He hates us.'

'Maybe he'd be more tolerant if the artists weren't threatening his job. Trying to stop fracking.'

Kenni shrugged. 'Fracking's ruining our environment.'

'How long have you been here?'

'Eight months.'

'How'd you keep it a secret? Marfa's a small town.'