Billy Bob and Hackberry Holland Ebook Boxed Set Page 12

  “I’m glad you got reservations,” Darrel said.

  “You have to. On Saturday night university types take over everything,” she said.

  “It’s that kind of town, all right,” he said.

  She ordered wine and he a glass of seltzer with a slice of lime.

  “You don’t drink?” she said.

  “Not too often. But I can if I want to,” he replied.

  “When do you want to?” she said, and smiled when she said it.

  “When I feel like it. I just never had the taste for it.”

  “Give me the sirloin, well done, sour cream and chives on the baked potato. No butter,” she told the waiter.

  “Yeah, same for me,” Darrel said.

  During dinner he realized she spoke to no one at the other tables, although her eyes seemed to take note, without personal interest, of everyone in the room. She had firm arms, square shoulders, a small cleft in her chin, and medium-size hands with clipped, pink nails. She ate with a good appetite and midway through the meal ordered another glass of wine. “Sure you won’t join me?” she said.

  “Why not?” he said, nodding to the waiter.

  Later, she had Bavarian cake for dessert, and when the waiter brought coffee, she looked sated, happy, her face a bit flushed. She didn’t order anything else to drink and he knew she wasn’t a real boozer. “I always like the food here,” she said.

  “I’ve been looking into that guy Dixon’s background. You know, the rodeo guy?” he said casually.

  She picked up her spoon from her coffee saucer and looked at it and put it back down. “I think I already told you I strayed into a dalliance with Wyatt. It was my fault, not his. But I’m not really interested in hearing any more about him,” she said.

  “The Feds say he writes letters to the President. He’s a definite head case.”

  He looked out the window, waiting for her reaction. “Is this why you asked me out?” she said.

  “I shouldn’t have brought this guy up. Cops have a hard time getting off the clock. That’s why they hang out together. Lot of times in late night bars. I’m glad you wanted to go to dinner tonight.”

  She let her eyes rove around the dining room, her thoughts veiled. “Ever been married?” she asked.

  “For a little while. I was in the Army, moving around from place to place.”

  “You seem like a frank man. What do you think of me?”

  “You’re a classy lady. I got a feeling we’re a lot alike,” Darrel said.

  “Who knows?” she said.

  “Want to take a walk down by the river? There’s a concert in the park tonight. Actually, my apartment is across the river from the park. Sometimes I listen to the music on my balcony,” he said.

  “You saying you want to go to the concert or to your apartment?”

  “Whatever,” he replied.

  She rested her chin on her fist and looked directly into his face again. “You go to Vegas or Reno very much?” she said.

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “Because I go there, too. Know why?” she said.

  “ ’Cause you never know what’s going to happen next. Twenty-four hours a day, you can have any kind of adventure you want,” he replied.

  She kept her eyes on his and kissed the air with her lips.

  A FEW MINUTES later, he and Greta were sitting on a grass embankment by the river and listening to a band pound out “The Eight-Thirty Blues.” The park was crowded with college kids, young couples with children, Frisbee throwers, skateboarders, hobos who slept in the willows along the riverbank, and punked-out street people who dealt drugs in the shadows by the public restrooms and looked as if they had been shot out of a cannon.

  But Darrel had little interest in street dealers or the strips of maroon cloud on the mountains in the west or the yellow light that filled the sky or the breeze that blew off the water and smelled of fern and wet stone. Instead, his entire attentions were now focused on two people dancing on the clipped lawn in front of the bandstand—Amber Finley and Johnny American Horse.

  Amber wore a knee-length black spaghetti-strap dress and Mexican cowboy boots, and danced with her fists held in the air, swinging her hips from side to side, kicking one booted foot when she made a turn, totally indifferent to the impression she made on anyone else. By contrast, Johnny American Horse looked like a post, his face shaded by a light-colored Stetson, his skin dark, his black jeans and tight-fitting silver shirt stretched to splitting on the leanness of his body.

  Greta’s eyes followed Darrel’s line of vision.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” she said.

  “The country’s turning into a toilet,” he replied.

  “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  He picked a blade of glass off his shoe and flicked it into the breeze. “I guess not,” he said.

  “You want to go?” she asked.

  “I’ll go get us a couple of snow cones, then we’ll see,” he said.

  He worked his way through the crowd to the concession stands that had been set up under a huge canvas awning. The band had stopped playing and he could see Amber and Johnny by the bandstand, talking to the musicians, Johnny’s arm draped across her shoulder. Darrel felt his jaw tighten, the fingernails of his right hand rake across the heel of his palm.

  Then Amber left the lawn area and walked directly toward him, the black fringe on her dress swishing on her knees, the yellow light in the sky reflecting on her shoulders.

  “Your snow cones, sir,” the kid at the concession stand said.

  “What?” Darrel replied.

  “Your snow cones? You want them?”

  Darrel took one in each hand and found himself standing in Amber’s path, awkward, stupid-looking, like a giant clod just arrived from Nebraska, grains of colored ice sliding down his hands and wrists. Why was she bearing down on him? What had he done wrong this time? “Hi, Amber,” he said.

  She turned, her blue eyes searching for the voice that had called her name. Then he realized she had been completely unaware of his presence in the crowd.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “Checking out the music,” he said, trying to smile.

  “What is your problem? Are you following me again?”

  “No.”

  “You peek through my windows, you come to my house uninvited, you beat up my boyfriend with a blackjack, and now you trail your BO into the concert I’m attending. Do you see a pattern here?”

  People were turning to stare now. His face was burning, his armpits sweating inside his coat. He tried to find words to speak but couldn’t. He shoved his way through the crowd back toward the grass embankment where Greta waited for him. Behind him he thought he heard people laughing.

  Greta pulled the snow cones out of his hands. “You look terrible. Sit down. What happened over there?” she said.

  “Senator Finley’s daughter holds a grudge. It’s no big deal,” he said.

  “Who cares? She’s a brat who should have had her butt pounded a long time ago,” Greta said. She got up from the grass and threw the snow cones in a trash barrel. “Come on, big fellow. Show me where you live.”

  She walked a few steps toward the parking lot, then turned and waited for him to follow.

  THEY DROVE ACROSS the bridge and turned into a shady side street that bordered the river. But he couldn’t concentrate. He had started out the evening convinced he was investigating both ecoterrorists and a rogue intelligence operation. Now he’d been made a public fool and he was in the company of a woman whose complexities and motivations he couldn’t begin to guess at. He felt like a man being pushed into a fistfight after his arms had been torn off.

  His apartment was located in a century-old refurbished brick building with a grand view of the river and the city. He walked out on the balcony and looked back toward the bridge and the park on the opposite side of the river where the dance was still in progress. Why care what those people thought? he asked himse
lf. The civilian world was a joke, a giant self-delusion that had little connection to the realities of nations in conflict.

  He remembered a moment of revelation in El Salvador back in the 1980s. A photographer had taken pictures of U.S. advisers carrying weapons in the field and several congressmen had threatened an investigation. The irony was that the El Salvadoran helicopters raking leftist villages with Gatling guns were receiving their coordinates from U.S. AWACS planes high overhead and no media knew anything about it.

  Darrel wondered if Amber and her liberal friends at the dance had any idea what was done for them and in their name on the ragged green edges of the American Empire.

  But moments of reverie like these were not entirely comforting to Darrel. He also remembered seeing a helicopter gunship coming in low over a rain forest, a molten sun behind it, the downdraft whipping the canopy into a frenzy, then the Gatling guns blowing a series of huts into a pinkish-brown cloud laced with dried thatch. There had been children as well as adult civilians in those huts, and sometimes in the middle of the night he heard the sounds they made before they died.

  Greta was making a pitcher of sangria at his bar, although he had not asked her to.

  “Still thinking about that spoiled twat?” she said.

  “You never told me what you were doing over at Senator Finley’s place.”

  “Mine to know,” she said, stirring the ice and red wine with a celery stalk. “But if you insist, I have friends who contribute to his campaign. I suspect you voted for Finley, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t vote. I think politics is a sideshow.”

  She filled two goblets with sangria, fitted orange slices on the rims, and handed him one. “Here’s to all the jerks who take sideshows seriously,” she said, and clinked his goblet.

  “I don’t figure you.”

  “What’s to figure?” she said. She drank from her goblet, then set it down and slipped her arms around his waist. He felt her stomach touch his loins like an electric current.

  Later, after they had made love in his roll-away bed, she put on her panties and walked without her top to the bar and came back to the bed with their drinks. She had few wrinkles in her skin, no stretch marks, and her muscle tone was extraordinary for her age. She drank from her glass, then leaned over him and kissed him wetly on the mouth. “You didn’t say anything,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “How you liked it.”

  “Good. I liked it real good. You’re quite a woman.”

  She tapped him on the lips with a finger and winked. “You’re not bad yourself. Next time, though, give a girl a little compliment. Mind if I use your bathroom?” she said.

  A moment later he heard the toilet flush and the faucet running. The band was still playing across the river, the sound of the music floating thinly above the roar of the current. He put on his boxer shorts and walked to the balcony. Somewhere in the crowd on the clipped lawn Amber Finley was still dancing with Johnny American Horse, the moon rising above the mountains into a turquoise sky, the two of them blessed with youth, the admiration of their peers, the knowledge that the earth and all its gifts had been created especially for them.

  He had never felt so miserable in his life.

  AFTER SUNSET and another pitcher of sangria, Darrel drove Greta back to her bungalow in the Bitterroot Valley. When she unlocked the front door, neither of them could believe what they saw. Every room was a shambles. The furniture was turned upside down, mattresses and upholstery slashed and gutted, drywall torn off the joists, desk and dresser drawers dumped, even all the canned goods in the pantry and frozen food in the icebox raked on the floor.

  The alarm had never sounded because the home invader or invaders had come through the roof, first chopping a hole in it, then smashing a dead-bolted attic door into kindling. The level of violence done to the bungalow created in Darrel’s mind a perpetrator of immense strength and destructive energies, someone with tendons in his arms and hands like steel cable and with absolutely no sense of mercy or restraint at all.

  Greta Lundstrum sat down in a deep chair and wept.

  “When was the last time you saw Wyatt Dixon?” Darrel asked.

  Chapter 10

  SUNDAY MORNING, Amber Finley woke in Johnny’s bed and touched the place where he should have been but felt only the warm, empty space he had occupied. The Jocko Valley was still in shadow, the crest of the hills black-green against the light growing in the sky, the sound of the river loud on the rocks at the foot of the property. She and Johnny had slept with the windows open and the room was cold, and she wished he would come back to bed. In the kitchen she heard pans clanking on the stove and smelled coffee boiling and bacon frying in a skillet.

  She raised herself up on her hands and yawned. “Johnny?” she said.

  But there was no reply. She glanced down at his pillow, and in the indentation where his head had rested was a small blue-felt box. She picked it up and pried the top back on its spring. Inserted in a satin cushion was a gold ring with a tiny diamond mounted on it.

  “I was going to surprise you with some apple flapjacks,” he said from the doorway, an apron tied around his hips, a spatula in his hand.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful, Johnny,” she said.

  “There’s a Methodist minister up at St. Ignatius who says he’ll marry us any day we want to set it up.”

  “Let’s do it this week. Let’s do it tomorrow.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped the ring on her left hand, his eyes lowered so she could not read them. “A couple of things we need to agree on,” he said.

  “What?” she said, her face clouding.

  “Your father has to know about it up front. I need to be there when that happens, too.”

  “He doesn’t control my life. He doesn’t have anything to say about it.”

  “He’s still your old man. He believes in what he does. He deserves to be treated with respect, don’t you think?”

  She found his hand again and pressed it hard, then looked admiringly at her ring. “How’d you pay for it?”

  “It’s called ‘credit.’ One other thing. If I go inside, we agree you can divorce me. In fact, I’d insist on it. I don’t want to create a jailhouse widow out of my best friend.” Johnny had small eyes, and they crinkled at the corners when he grinned.

  “Don’t talk like that. Billy Bob is a good lawyer. We have a lot of friends who will stand up for you,” she said.

  He stroked her hair and kissed her brow, then her mouth.

  “I haven’t brushed my teeth,” she said.

  He pressed her down on the pillow and kissed her mouth again, then the tops of her breasts and the long taper of her stomach and two red moles just below her navel. She curled her knees into him and held him across the back and put her face in his hair and bit his neck. She could feel her breath quicken and a flush spread through her thighs.

  He sat up and took both her wrists in his hands. “I have to tell you something else,” he said.

  The register in his voice had dropped, and she studied his eyes now because they, like his words, never lied to her. What she saw there made her ball her fists. “Say it, say it, say it,” she said.

  “My dreams started again. Some of the stuff in them doesn’t make good sense. My uncle said my dreams would always be distorted, not clear like Crazy Horse’s were, because my mother was Salish and I’m only half Lakota.”

  “You tear me apart when you talk like this.”

  His eyes were still looking at her, yet she knew they were not seeing her but instead a vision inside his head. He swallowed and there was a dry click inside his throat. “Someone else is going to be killed, here, at my house. It’s a man. I think it could be me. Maybe making you my wife would be a selfish thing on my part.”

  She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down close to her face. She started to speak, then simply held him as tightly as she could, gripping the hardness of his back, pulling at his apron and h
is belt buckle, aching to have him inside her before he spoke again and her heart burst.

  MONDAY MORNING, Seth Masterson sauntered into my office and sat down in front of my desk, his long legs, as always, a problem, a tan rain hat perched on his knee. “How you doin’, bud?” he asked.

  “I’m just fine, Seth. But Lester Antelope isn’t. He’s dead. My client Johnny American Horse isn’t doing too well, either. Unless I get some help, the D.A. is going to bury him alive.”

  Seth twisted his head and glanced out the window at the maples puffing in the wind on the courthouse lawn, his expression neutral. “We’ve got a high-tech snitch in this area, a hacker we could have sent up but who we decided to leave on a short leash to help us out once in a while,” he said. “The problem with our snitch is he’s a wiseass and thinks he’s smarter than we are, so he’s not always truthful or forthcoming. You with me?”

  “No.”

  “A couple of Indians came to him with a bunch of floppy disks they couldn’t get into. Our snitch says he couldn’t find a way into them, either. We served search warrants on the Indians, but their houses were clean. You recognize the names of these guys?”

  He slid his notebook across the desktop. I looked at the two names written on the top page and shook my head.

  “They were friends of Lester Antelope,” Seth said. “I think they’re part of the bunch who broke into Global Research.”

  “Why is a federal agency interested in a small research lab in the Bitterroot Valley?”

  He hesitated a moment. “Global has some federal defense contracts,” he said.

  “To do what?”

  “It’s agricultural in nature.”

  “I’ve got a problem with the way you do business, Seth,” I said. “Guys like me are allowed to know parts of things. A conversation with you amounts to other people answering your questions.”

  He pulled on his ear. “I didn’t make myself clear. I think our snitch got into those disks. I think what he saw there scared the shit out of him. Listen, Billy Bob, those two killers American Horse waxed, Ruggles and Bumper? Don’t be deceived. There’s more of them out there. If that sounds funny coming from a federal agent, that’s the way it is.” He wrote a number on the back of his business card and flipped the card on my desk. “That’s my number at the Doubletree.”