Free Con Law by Mark Gimenez Page B

tents and authentic Sioux teepees. A community bathhouse with a tub and toilet came with the price. Dubbed a ‘hippie campground’ by the locals, El Cosmico was the latest venture of the woman behind the Hotel San José and Jo’s Coffee in Austin. Book was a regular at Jo’s, so he had decided to give it a try. But his intern was having none of it.
    ‘And I don’t share toilets with strangers.’
    She sighed and shook her head as if faced with an impossible task.
    ‘I can’t even imagine how many sanitizing wipes I’d go through.’
    ‘Ms. Honeywell, you’re a mighty picky traveling companion, you do know that?’
    ‘So sue me.’
    ‘Spoken like a true lawyer.’
    Ten minutes later, they stood at the front desk of the El Paisano Hotel. The lobby of the Spanish baroque, pueblo-deco style hotel featured leather chairs and ottomans, colorful Mexican tiled floors, exposed wood beams, and—
    ‘OMG,’ Nadine said. ‘Is that a buffalo head on the wall?’
    ‘And a longhorn.’ Book turned to the desk clerk. ‘Just one night.’
    Nadine dug her cell phone out of her canvas bag and took a photo of the stuffed heads.
    ‘No one back home will believe this.’
    ‘Your name?’ the clerk said.
    ‘John Bookman.’
    The clerk broke into a big smile. ‘Professor Bookman, welcome to the Paisano. We were expecting you.’
    ‘You were?’
    ‘Your secretary—Myrna?—shecalled ahead and made reservations for you and Miss Honeywell. I have some messages for you.’
    The clerk disappeared behind the counter.
    ‘Where’s the nearest Starbucks?’ Nadine asked. ‘I’m dying for caffeine.’
    The clerk reappeared and said, ‘No Starbucks in Marfa.’
    Nadine stared as if the clerk had said, ‘No oxygen in Marfa.’
    ‘You’re joking?’
    The clerk shrugged at her then handed three message slips to Book: Myrna, his sister, and James Welch. Nadine shook off her Starbucks shock and held her phone up as if trying to gauge the wind in the lobby.
    ‘Why can’t I get through?’
    ‘Cell phone service,’ the clerk said, ‘it’s a bit sketchy out here.’
    Nadine responded with the same look of utter disbelief.
    ‘No Starbucks or texting—are we still in America?’
    ‘You’re still in Texas.’
    The clerk handed room keys to Book.
    ‘Professor, you’re in the Rock Hudson suite, and Miss Honeywell is in the Elizabeth Taylor suite. Rooms two-eleven and two-twelve.’
    ‘Great, now we’re sleeping in dead people’s beds,’ she said.
    ‘They were alive when they slept here. Let’s wash up and get some lunch, figure out where we go from here.’
    ‘Home.’
    ‘Enjoy the art,’ the desk clerk said.
    Book carried their gear up the flight of stairs—there was no elevator—and down the corridor to their rooms.
    James Dean practicedrope tricks in the courtyard of the El Paisano Hotel. Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor partied with the cast and crew in the dining room. Director George Stevens reviewed the ‘dailies’ in the ballroom each evening; locals were welcome. And they came. For six weeks in the summer of 1955, Hollywood lived in the Paisano, and Marfa was Cinderella at the ball.
    But the ball ended, Hollywood went home, and Marfa was left to its old life. The town and the hotel began a steady slide. By 2001, Marfa was the county seat of the poorest county in Texas, and the Paisano was sold at a tax foreclosure auction on the steps of the Presidio County Courthouse. No one imagined that day that there would be a Hollywood ending for both the town and the hotel. But there was—but not because of Hollywood.
    Because of art.
    Book deposited Nadine in Elizabeth Taylor’s room then went next door to his room. Rock Hudson had been comfortable: living room, full kitchen, bedroom, and private rooftop balcony. Book dropped his bag then looked for the room phone. There wasn’t one. So he dialed Myrna on his cell then stepped out onto the balcony. Myrna’s voice soon came over, a bit scratchy but audible.
    ‘You