Carmen nodded, vaguely. Reacher thought she was about to faint.
“What do you suppose happened to him?” she asked.
“How would I know? Some sort of trouble, I expect.”
“But who would make trouble for Al?”
Rusty’s smile thinned to a sneer.
“Well, take your best guess, dear,” she said.
Carmen opened her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“It means, who would want to make trouble for their lawyer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do,” Rusty said. “Somebody who buys them a big old Mercedes Benz and gets sent to jail anyhow, that’s who.”
“Well, who did that?”
Anybody could have. Al Eugene takes anybody for a client. He has no stan-dards. He’s halfway to being plain crooked. Maybe all the way crooked, for all I know. Three quarters of his clients are the wrong sort.”
Carmen was still pale. “The wrong sort?” You know what I mean.” You mean Mexican? Why don’t you just come right out and say it?”
Rusty was still smiling.
Well, tell me different,” she said. “Some Mexican boy gets sent to jail, he doesn’t just stand up and accept his punishment like we do. No, he blames his lawyer, and he gets all his brothers and his cousins all riled up about it, and of course he’s got plenty of those come up here after him, all illegals, all cholos, all of them in gangs, and now you see exactly how that turns out. Just like it is down there in Mexico itself. You of all people should know what it’s like.”
“Why should I of all people? I’ve never even been to Mexico.”
Nobody replied to that. Reacher watched her, standing up shaken and proud and alone like a prisoner in the enemy camp. The room was quiet. Just the thump and click of the old air conditioner running somewhere else.
“You got an opinion here, Mr. Reacher?” Rusty Greer asked.
It felt like a left-field question in a job interview. He wished he could think of something smart to say. Some diversion. But it wouldn’t help any to start some big clumsy fight and get himself thrown off the property inside the first ten minutes.
“I’m just here to work, ma’am,” he said.
“I’d like to know your opinion, all the same.”
Just like a job interview. A character reference. Clearly she wanted exactly the right sort of person shoveling horseshit for her.
“Mr. Reacher was a cop himself,” Carmen said. “In the army.”
Rusty nodded. “So what’s your thinking, ex-army cop?”
Reacher shrugged. “Maybe there’s an innocent explanation. Maybe he had a nervous breakdown and wandered off.”
“Doesn’t sound very likely. Now I see why they made you an ex-cop.”
Silence for a long moment.
“Well, if there was trouble, maybe white folks made it,” Reacher said.
“That’s not going to be a popular view around here, son.”
“It’s not looking to be popular. It’s looking to be right or wrong. And the population of Texas is three-quarters white, therefore I figure there’s a three-in-four chance white folks were involved, assuming people are all the same as each other.”
“That’s a big assumption.”
“Not in my experience.”
Rusty bounced her gaze off the tabletop, back to Carmen.
“Well, no doubt you agree,” she said. “With your new friend here.”
Carmen took a breath.
“I never claim to be better than anyone else,” she said. “So I don’t see why I should agree I’m worse.”
The room stayed quiet.
“Well, time will tell, I guess,” Rusty said. “One or other of us is going to be eating humble pie.”
She said paah. The long syllable trailed into silence.
“Now, where’s Sloop’s little girl?” she asked, with an artificial brightness in her voice, like the conversation had never happened. “You bring her back from school?”
Carmen swallowed and turned to face her. “She’s in the barn, I think. She saw the sheriff and got worried her pony had been stolen.”
“That’s ridiculous. Who would steal her damn pony?”
“She’s only a child,” Carmen said.
“Well, the maid is ready to give the child its supper, so take it to the kitchen, and show Mr. Reacher to the bunkhouse on your way.”
Carmen just nodded, like a servant with new instructions. Reacher followed her out of the parlor, back to the hallway. They went outside into the heat again and paused in the shadows on the porch.