Under the cottonwoods surrounding the Independence Court House, Frank sat at a picnic table warped and bleached from the desert sun. It didn’t take long for man-made things to melt away into the grays and browns of the Mojave and the Owens River Valley.
He felt like a man emerging from a nightmare. People like the Millers lived in a world of careless violence, and somehow he had been caught up in it. He had killed deliberately and felt little remorse, at least not for the dead man, although maybe for himself, for having had to take a life. Two if you counted Jason Miller. Frank did; he had caused the fall. Everything had become cluttered. He needed time to sort things out, and time was running short.
Right now, catching the poacher didn’t seem so very important. Of course, there was the picture Linda had taken of the arrogant bastard, rifle in hand, but the picture of the poacher standing near a downed bighorn wasn’t the same thing as catching him with one in possession. He couldn’t testify that he’d seen Sorensen shoot the ram, because he hadn’t. Neither had Linda. So all they had was a solid accusation. Great. And that damned Eddie had evidently skipped out. He shook his head in acknowledgment of his fruitless efforts to make things come out right. So much for being a good guy.
The light was autumn soft, the air still and warm. Indian summer. He smiled unconsciously. A couple of ravens hopped across the scruffy lawn, looking for a handout. Their bright black eyes gleamed with intelligence. Frank fished around in his shirt pocket and found a peanut. He held it up for the birds to see. The bolder of
the pair hopped up on the opposite end of the table, its bill partially open, head cocked to one side. They watched each other intently, man and bird.
Ravens possessed an uncanny awareness of things; more than clever, they were alert to their surroundings, to human beings and their actions. Biologists thought they hunted with wolves in symbiotic harmony, dipping down with folded wing and calling out when they spotted game, then feasting after the kill. Some of the older Paiute and Shoshone said they did the same in the days when the people of the desert depended on finding game to live, following hunting parties into the desert, acting as eyes for the hunters. Frank pushed the peanut to a position halfway between them. The bird took two quick steps toward it, its glossy black feathers reflecting bits of rainbow. It looked directly into Frank’s face, then took the peanut in its beak and swept away from the table in a low glide, followed by its mate. He wished he had more peanuts.
The sound of his cell phone startled him from his reverie. Meecham had made it more than clear that he was never to be without it, off or on duty. Always available. Crap.
“Flynn.”
“Hey, Frank. Great party. How’s your hangover?”
It was Jimmy Tecopa. By the time Frank had reached the Joshua Tree Athletic Club after his sojourn in Surprise Canyon, everyone was half in the bag. He’d drunk too much himself, but not as much as the rest, surely not as much as Jan and Jimmy, who had been on watch since late that afternoon, when Linda began trying to locate him.
“Frank?”
“My head’s fine. Better than yours, I’ll bet. You should stay away from the firewater, Jimmy. Nobody likes a drunken Indian.”
“The pot calling the kettle black, or brown, I guess. And my head’s fine. Been drinking Alka-Seltzer and Coronas. And oh my God, Frank, that first beer.”
“Yeah, almost worth the hangover.” He paused. “So why’re you calling? Not just to bullshit.”
“Talking to you is always a treat, Frank. On the other hand, thought you’d like to know that while we were celebrating your
escape from the bad guys, old Eddie Laguna drops into the Paiute Palace and drops more than a thousand bucks playing poker.”
“What?”
“More than a thousand. Susan tried to steer him in another direction, but he had a head of steam up.”
“Yeah?”
“Aren’t you going to ask where the money came from?”
“I think I have an idea.”
“Oh.” Jimmy sounded disappointed. “Well anyhow, he drops a bundle, then tries to cash a check for fifteen thousand dollars. Hell, we wouldn’t cash a banknote for fifteen thousand. Truth is, we rarely have that much on hand. The Paiute Palace isn’t Vegas. So Susan tells him she can’t cash the check. He wants to know why not, and she explains it’s a two-party check and that it’s too big. She said he seemed kind of crestfallen, and maybe relieved, maybe glad he couldn’t get his hands on the cash, I guess.”
“He just can’t get it right, Jimmy. I’m not even sure he knows how it goes wrong.”
“Like the rest of us, Frank. Easier to see how others screw it up.”
“For sure, amigo.” It seemed like the conversation ought to be over, but something was hanging. “Say, do you know who the check was from?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Frank could hear the smile in Jimmy’s voice. “I was beginning to worry that my tax dollars were being squandered on an incompetent.”
“So do you know?”
“Yeah, matter of fact, I do.”
“You gonna tell me, or do I have to go over there and beat on a drum until your head splits?”
“Okay, okay, don’t go badge-heavy on me. Yeah, Susan got a look at the check, and being the smart girl she is, she wrote down the name. It was Michael Sorensen. Check indicated he was a doctor. Mean anything to you?”
“As a matter of fact, a whole lot. Thanks, Jimmy, and thank Susan for me.”
“You’re welcome, but I think Susan would appreciate hearing it from you in person.”
“You’re right. And thanks again. Next beer’s on me.”
“That sounds about right. Gotta go. I’m on at three. Need to clean up, eat, and take a nap.”
Eddie’s old Ford was parked next to the trailer, its nose pushed under the sagging roof cover, the bumper resting against the flaking green paint. Evidently, the driver had just sort of aimed toward the trailer and managed to stop before ramming the side. Frank sincerely hoped Eddie wasn’t too hungover to talk, but if he was, Frank was prepared to perform a radical cure, give the good cop a holiday, be the bad cop.
He banged on the screen door, making it clatter against the aluminum frame. Nothing. He pulled the screen open and pounded on the door, which drifted open, revealing Eddie’s hovel in renewed filth. The stench of vomit filled his nostrils, which didn’t do much for his hangover. Eddie lay on the couch, naked from the waist down, his torso clad in a worn and grubby T-shirt, yellowed at the armpits with layers of dried sweat. Not exactly every young American girl’s dream. Frank went into the kitchen and picked up a pot three-quarters full of greasy water, returned to the couch, and poured it over Eddie’s face. Eddie’s reaction was surprisingly instant. He sat bolt upright, thrashing his hands in front of him.
“Shit.” Eddie wiped his dripping face with his hands, peering up at Frank. “Whatcha do that for, for Christ’s sake?” He mopped at his face with his T-shirt. After poking through the heaped cigarette butts in the ashtray, he selected one that had some length and carefully straightened it out against his bare thigh. Frank couldn’t believe it. Eddie seemed completely relaxed.
Eddie discarded several empty matchbooks until he found one with matches. The first match burned down and went out before he could nurse the flame. The second sputtered to life, and Eddie squinted away from the smoke as he lit the butt. He took a big
drag, held it in his lungs, and blew the nearly transparent smoke over his shoulder, away from Frank’s face.
“Man, that’s better. Uh, sorry, Frank. I know you don’t smoke.”
“Jesus, what difference does it make? This place reeks of stale tobacco and puke.”
Eddie looked unabashed. He absently scratched at his genitals. “Had a rough night.” He grinned. “How about a beer?”
“Pass.” Frank watched in some amazement as Eddie went to the refrigerator, the skin hanging in loose folds on his skinny butt, and withdrew a tall Bud Lite. The man didn’t seem to care that he was clad only in a T-shirt, or that he had a lot of explaining to do. The fact that he was a liar and petty crook, and that he’d lied to Frank, the cop with a heart of gold, clearly didn’t bother him at all. Frank felt his attempt at righteous anger dissipate. Hell, he felt some envy for Eddie’s absence of shame. He’d never known that sort of freedom, wasn’t likely to, either. Eddie returned to the couch and sat at the near end, grinning at Frank.
“So I figured you’d be pissed off, but after I tell you what happened, we’ll do a dance.”
“Not unless you put on some pants. Put some pants on, for Christ’s sake.”
Eddie looked down at himself, as if realizing for the first time he was without the necessary clothing. “Oh yeah, sure.” He picked up a pair of soiled jeans and pulled them up, his penis sticking out of the fly. He tugged one pocket inside out. “Hey, Frank, ever see a one-eared elephant?”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You think you’re back in high school?” Eddie looked befuddled. “High school?”
“Forget it. Just put your pecker in your pants and sit down.”
Eddie sat back down and began grubbing through the cigarette butts again.
“Damn it, Eddie, let that go. Why the hell are you here and not under arrest? And don’t tell me they released you on your own recognizance or some such bullshit. I already took some heat for not turning you in. I tried to give you a break, Eddie, and now you’ve made a problem for me. I look like a dumb ass among my peers.”
Eddie studied his feet. Finally, some shame. Maybe the little shit wasn’t beyond redemption.
“Look, Frank, I had a chance to collect the money I had coming, set up Mr. Big Shot, and still keep my word to you—only that sort of got delayed. Sorry about that.” He gave Frank a practiced sorrowful look.
Frank returned his best hard-cop look, but he knew it wasn’t really there on his face, in his eyes.
“Eddie, you almost got me killed, you know that?”
“What?”
“It’s a long story. Later. Right now, I want to know what the hell you were doing instead of meeting Sorensen in Surprise Canyon. I figure you met him, but sure as hell not in Surprise Canyon. So tell me the whole thing. And Eddie, not one zig or zag from the truth, not one. Just tell it the way it happened.”
Eddie managed to light another cigarette butt, this one so short that he had to tip his face away to keep from burning his nose. He took a long swallow of beer and sighed with satisfaction. Frank thought he looked particularly smug.
“Yeah, I met him, the son of a bitch, only Saturday evening at six o’clock, not Sunday morning like I let you think.”
“Like you told me. Like you told me the ram’s head and the rifle were in the mine.”
“Well, I already had the head and rifle, and I figured Mr. Big would pay me the money he owed me, but I also figured he’d try and cheat me. But I was ready for him.” Eddie grinned.
Eddie recounted how he got the drop on Sorensen, seeming particularly pleased about backing him off with his fast draw. His eyes gleamed with pleasure. “You should’ve seen the look on his face when I whipped out the old equalizer. Didn’t look so damn big then. And just in case the puke got up the nerve to take a shot at me, I filed the firing pin on his rifle.”
“The rifle stashed in the mine?” Frank looked stricken.
“Yeah. Hell, I wasn’t going to give him a way to take me out.”
“Shit. Eddie, the firing pin matched the indentations on the spent shells.” It didn’t register. “Like fingerprints. It was evidence.”
Then Frank pictured Eddie’s beat-up truck disappearing into the night, Eddie in possession of Sorensen’s money. He felt a grudging admiration. Not so dumb after all. Sorensen had been outclassed by a trailer-court Indian. Eddie’d been sorely tempted, a chance to win one for the Indians and make the big score. He wondered if Eddie would actually have shot Sorensen if he’d tried something. Frank came to the conclusion that he probably would have. There was a toughness at Eddie’s core he’d overlooked.
“So the money you dropped at the Paiute Palace was what you got from Sorensen?”
“Yeah.” Eddie looked suddenly woebegone. Then he brightened. “But I’ve got his check for fifteen thousand dollars.”
Frank slowly shook his head. “Yup, you’ve got his check, but you’ll never get the cash.”
Eddie leaned forward, his expression earnest. “He won’t stop payment, Frank. I’ve got the goods on him.”
“Yes, he will, Eddie, ’cause he’s got the goods on you.”
“Like hell. I’m turning myself in.”
“Right. That’s right. And Sorensen goes down.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So what’s going to happen to the evidence, Eddie? The check is evidence. Even if you found somewhere to cash it, which I very much doubt, any money paid to you for illegal activities will be seized by the court.”
Frank’s words clicked into place. Eddie’s face fell, as if he’d been gripped by a wave of nausea. The dawning of an inescapable truth: He’d never see the money. He sagged back into the couch.
“Shit—shit, shit, shit.”
Despite the trouble this sad little man had brought down on him, Frank felt for Eddie, for his broken dream. That was the hard part, losing hope.
Suddenly, Eddie grinned, exposing the blackened stumps where teeth should have been. “Well, they can’t get the twelve hundred back. Man, that’s gone. Wish I’d cashed in when I was six hundred to the good. For a while, I was on a roll.” He shook his head. “Hell of a game, Frank. That fat asshole with the bolo ties and Roy Rogers
shirts dropped more than I did. Whatizname, Monty Sessions, thinks he’s a high roller.” Eddie blew on the end of the cigarette butt. “Guess being a high roller means you can afford to lose.”
“Probably so.” Frank nodded in agreement. If you lived near the bottom of the heap, what was there to lose? Guys like Eddie just grew. Frank had had his mother, his reckless but loving father, and Mrs. Funmaker. He wondered for a minute how Eddie had come up, but he pretty much knew—dirt-poor and ignorant. Somehow, though, he had made his way, learned a craft, and figured out he was being screwed. He shook his head. He couldn’t think about it now.
“Look, Eddie, I want you to go see Jack Mitchell at Fish and Game as soon as you get cleaned up.”
“Aw shit. Man, I hate jail.”
“It could be worse. You’re still a cooperating witness. I don’t think I’ll have to take Prowler home with me. Hey, where is Prowler?”
“He doesn’t like the smell of puke.”
“He’s a smart cat. Maybe you ought to take a hint before he finds a new owner.” Frank rose. It was time to get back to the caboose and talk with Linda. He’d only given her the short version. He needed to think about all this some more. The thing that sat in his stomach like a lead weight was the fact that Roy Miller could be anywhere, any damn place he chose.
“That’s it, huh?” Linda sat next to Frank, her feet propped up on railing at the end of the caboose.
“Hell, he didn’t know Miller was coming by. What was I supposed to do, punch him out?” He sounded irritated, a bit petulant. “Well?”
“That doesn’t require an answer.”
“Okay.” She was missing the point.
“Look, intentions count for something. He was making things come out right; at least that’s what he thought. When the hell does a guy like Eddie have a chance to make real money? He doesn’t.” He turned to face Linda. “He’s never had a real job. Never had a bank account. When someone insists on writing him a check for his
work, he has to take it over to the casino and get Susan to cash it, and if the casino won’t cash it, it’s just paper. The paycheck-cashing leeches in Ridgecrest don’t take personal checks.”
“He was a guide for poachers. They killed bighorns, your bighorns. Maybe you can forgive him for that, but I can’t.”
“So don’t.” His mouth tightened. “You know, ‘You could cut him a little slack.’ Hey, who said that? Now I remember. It was someone talking about her dad.”
Linda sat forward, her feet hitting the metal decking. “We’ll talk later.”
As she rose, Frank laid his hand on her arm. “That was a cheap shot.” Linda stood looking down at him, her face troubled. “I mean it. Your dad’s got nothing to do with it.”
She looked thoughtful. “Maybe he does, in a way.” She squinted into the distance. Haze had blown up the valley from the Los Angeles basin, tingeing everything a drab beige. “If Eddie weren’t Shoshone or Paiute, if he were some creep like Donnie Miller, would you have given him a break?”
Frank shook his head. “Nope, I’d’ve gone after him hard.” He sat with his head bent, stroking the bridge of his nose. He turned toward her, looking up into her face. “The thing is, he’s not some creep—not like one of the Millers, that’s for sure.”
Linda raised her eyebrows.
“Okay, so he cheats the law now and then. Lives on the fringe and looks out for number one. From his point of view, the law was written by white people, the same white people who stole the land and left his people broke. Far as he’s concerned, it’s got nothing to do with him. Just another goddamn impediment.” He looked up into her face. “Hell, you know; you’re a reporter. Unemployment’s better than forty percent in the reservation, and if it hadn’t been for the Paiute Palace providing a few jobs, it would be worse.” He held up his hand. “Eddie lives in two worlds, neither of his making. It’s not a good place to be.”
Linda brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. “I guess you know about that.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “But I’ve come to terms with it. Eddie
called me an apple because he sees me as a Paiute, but I’m no more Paiute than I’m Irish or Mexican.” He frowned. “But he was right about one thing: It ain’t easy not knowing the rules.” He grinned. “The difference is, I had too many; he didn’t have any at all. Like finding your way in the dark.”
She ruffled his hair. “Yeah, we’ve had it sort of easy.” She frowned. “But I wish to God he’d get his teeth fixed.” They both laughed.
“He says that’s the first thing he’s going to do—after he fixes the truck.” Frank frowned. “Goddamn it, I think he held back some cash.”
“Hey, he’s your Indian.”
“Native American. We’re Native Americans.” He laughed. “Too bad we learned so late. If we’d had a few more like Eddie, maybe the westward movement would’ve stopped at Plymouth Rock.”
“Like in your lecture.”
“Yeah, like in my lecture.”